‘Yes, but …’
‘But not today, eh?’ she says with a smile.
Rex looks down at his hands, sees that they’re still working. They’ve just turned up the heat beneath the frying pan, and are now squeezing lemon juice on the shrimp. As he squeezes the fruit, a few drops of juice end up on the edge of the pan. They look like a string of tiny glass pearls.
‘OK,’ he whispers. His brain keeps repeating the news: the Foreign Minister has died after a short illness.
He was sick, and nothing I did made any difference, Rex thinks as he picks up the bowl of shrimp.
‘The last thing you do is fry the shrimp,’ he says, watching as the hot oil swirls in dreamlike patterns. ‘Are you ready? Um, dois, três …’
The dolly-mounted camera films the big copper pan as he empties the bowl with a theatrical gesture and the shrimp tumble into the oil with a noisy hiss.
‘High heat! Keep watching the colour, and listen … you can hear the moisture evaporating,’ Rex says, turning the shrimp.
The pan sizzles as he sprinkles a pinch of salt over it. The second camera is filming him head-on.
‘Give it a few seconds. Your beloved can stay in bed because the food’s all ready now,’ he smiles, lifting the pink shrimp from the pan.
‘It smells fantastic. I can feel myself going weak at the knees,’ Mia says, leaning over the dish.
Rex drains the pasta, quickly tips it into a bowl, stirs in the garlic butter and peppers, then adds the oiled shrimp, adds a splash of white wine and balsamic vinegar, then plenty of chopped parsley, marjoram and basil.
‘Then you can take the bowls back into the bedroom with you,’ Rex says directly to the camera. ‘Open a bottle of wine if you want to stay under the covers, but otherwise water goes very well.’
22
The Foreign Minister is dead, Rex repeats to himself as he leaves the studio where the guests are eating his pasta dish. He hears them praise the food as he pushes the soundproof door open.
Rex runs along the hallway to his dressing room, locks the door behind him, staggers into the bathroom and throws up in the toilet.
Exhausted, he rinses his mouth and face, lies down on the narrow bed and closes his eyes.
‘Fuck me,’ he whispers, releasing the hazy memories of that night three weeks ago.
He had been at a party at Matbaren, and he had a little too much to drink. He decided that he was in love with a woman who worked for some investment company with a stupid name.
Almost every time he got drunk, the night ended with him in bed with a woman. If he was lucky, she wasn’t a production assistant at TV4 or the ex-wife of a colleague. On this occasion, she was a complete stranger.
They got a taxi back to her villa out in Djursholm. She was divorced and her only child was on an exchange trip to the USA. He kissed the back of her neck as she switched the alarm off and let them in. An old golden retriever came padding through the rooms.
They both knew what they wanted, and didn’t talk much. He selected a bottle of wine from the large wine fridge, and remembers swaying as he tried to open it.
She got out some cheese and crackers which they never touched.
With an air of inevitability, he had followed her through the carpeted hallway towards the master bedroom.
She dimmed the wall lights and disappeared into the bathroom.
When she came back she was wearing a silver nightgown and kimono. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and handed him a condom.
He remembers that she wanted to be taken from behind, maybe because she didn’t want to look at his face. She got on all fours, with her pale backside uncovered, the nightgown pulled up, bunched around her waist, and her mid-length hair hanging over her cheeks.
The antique bed creaked and a framed embroidered angel wobbled on the wall.
They were both too tired, too drunk. She didn’t orgasm, didn’t even pretend to, just muttered that she needed to sleep when he was finished, sank onto her stomach and fell asleep with her legs wide apart.
He had gone back to the kitchen, helped himself to a glass of cognac, and leafed through the morning paper, which had just been delivered. The Foreign Minister had made some stupid comment about how there were extreme feminist forces that wanted to destroy the age-old relationship between men and women.
Rex had swept the paper onto the floor and left the house.
He had one thing in mind. He had walked straight down to Germaniaviken and followed the shore all the way to the Foreign Minister’s villa.
He was too drunk to care about any alarms or security cameras. Driven on by a very clear sense of justice, he clambered over the fence, walked right across the grass and up onto the deck. Anyone could have seen him there. The Foreign Minister’s wife could have been standing at the window, or a neighbour could have driven past. Rex didn’t care. One thought was running through his mind: he had to piss in the Foreign Minister’s floodlit swimming pool. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, and he smiled like a prize-fighter as his urine splashed into the turquoise water.
23
Rex ignores the taxi that’s waiting outside the TV4 building and starts walking instead. He needs space to breathe, needs to collect his thoughts.
A few months ago he would have calmed his nerves with a large glass of whisky, followed by another three.
Now he walks along beside the busy Lidingövägen instead, and is trying to figure out what the cost of his behaviour might be when DJ calls.
‘Did you see me?’
‘Yes, really good,’ DJ says. ‘You looked almost hungover for real.’
‘Sylvia thought so too. She asked if I’d been drinking.’
‘Did she? I can come and swear that you only drank water yesterday … even if a fair bit of it was seawater.’
‘I don’t know … it’s just so ridiculous that I have to pretend to be an alcoholic so I don’t lose my job.’
‘But it can’t be a bad idea for you to take it a bit—’
‘Stop that. I don’t want to hear it,’ Rex interrupts.
‘I didn’t mean it in a bad way,’ DJ says quietly.
Rex sighs and looks through the railing at the entrance to the big sports stadium that was built for the 1912 Olympics.
‘Have you heard that the Foreign Minister is dead?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’
‘We had a complicated relationship,’ Rex says.
‘In what way?’
‘I didn’t like him,’ he replies, and walks through the stadium entrance and out onto the red track.
‘OK, but you shouldn’t talk about that just after his death,’ DJ says calmly.
‘It isn’t just that …’
David Jordan says nothing as Rex admits what he did. He says that he had a little too much to drink three weeks ago and just happened to urinate in the Foreign Minister’s swimming pool.
He concludes the confession by saying that he got all the garden gnomes and threw them into the pool as well.
Rex walks out onto the football field and stops at the centre circle.
The empty stands surround him. He remembers that some of the gnomes floated while others sank onto the bottom, surrounded by little air-bubbles.
‘OK,’ DJ says after a long silence. ‘Does anyone else know what you did?’
‘The security cameras.’
‘If there’s a scandal, the investors will pull out – you know that. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘What should I do?’ Rex asks pathetically.
‘Go to the funeral,’ DJ says slowly. ‘I’ll make sure you get invited. Talk about it on social media, say you lost your best friend. Talk about him and his political achievements with the greatest respect.’
‘That’ll look bad if the security footage gets out,’ Rex says.
‘Yes, I know. But pre-empt it by getting in first and talking about your jokey relationship and the silly pranks you used to play on each other. Say that you sometimes went to
o far, but that was just what you were both like. Don’t admit to anything specific, because with any luck the recording has already been deleted.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What did you have against the Foreign Minister, anyway?’ DJ asks with interest.
‘He was always a slippery bastard, and a bully. I’m going to piss on his grave – one last prank.’
‘As long as no one films you,’ David Jordan laughs, and ends the conversation.
Sammy is sitting on the bed drying his hair with a towel when Rex walks into his hospital room.
‘Nice make-up, Dad,’ he says in a hoarse voice.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Rex says. ‘I came straight from the studio.’
He takes a step towards the bed. Chaotic images of the stomach pump and his own angst at the Foreign Minister’s death fight for space in his head.
He reminds himself the only option right now is to stay calm, not to be judgemental.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks tentatively.
‘OK, I guess,’ Sammy replies. ‘My neck hurts. Like someone pushed a tube down my throat.’
‘I’ll make some soup when we get home,’ Rex says.
‘You just missed the doctor. Apparently I need to talk to a counsellor before I’m allowed to leave.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘She’s coming at one o’clock.’
‘I have time to see DJ before then,’ Rex says when he realises that he has an AA meeting in half an hour. ‘But I’ll come straight back after that … we can get a taxi home.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sammy, we need to talk.’
‘OK,’ his son says, clamming up instantly.
‘I don’t ever want to have to go through this again,’ Rex begins.
‘It can’t have been much fun,’ Sammy says, turning his head away.
‘No,’ Rex replies.
‘Dad’s a celebrity,’ Sammy says with a crooked smile. ‘Dad’s a superstar TV chef, and he doesn’t want a failure for a son, a faggot who wears make-up and …’
‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ Rex interrupts.
‘You don’t have to put up with me for long, just a few weeks,’ his son says.
‘I hope we can still have a reasonable time together – but you have to promise to try.’
Sammy raises his eyebrows.
‘What? How am I supposed to try? Is this about Nico?’
‘This isn’t some kind of moral debate,’ Rex explains. ‘I don’t have an opinion, I believe that love just happens between people.’
‘Who’s talking about love?’ Sammy mutters.
‘Sex, then.’
‘Did you love Mum?’ Sammy asks.
‘I don’t know. I was very immature,’ Rex replies honestly. ‘But now, in hindsight, I can see that she was the person I should have stayed with … I would have liked to have lived my life with the two of you.’
‘Look, Dad, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t get it. What do you want from me?’
‘No more stomach pumps, for a start.’
Sammy gets slowly to his feet and goes to hang the towel up.
‘I thought Nico was counting the pills he was giving me,’ he says when he comes back. ‘But there were too many.’
‘Count for yourself in the future.’
‘I’m weak-willed. And it’s actually OK for me to be weak,’ he replies quickly.
‘Then you won’t make it. There’s no place for weakness in this world.’
‘OK, Dad.’
‘Sammy, it’s not like I’m making this up – that’s just the way it is.’
His son is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. His cheeks are flushed and he swallows hard.
‘Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous,’ Rex says.
‘Why not?’ Sammy whispers.
24
No terrorist organisation has claimed responsibility for the murder, but the Security Police don’t think that’s strange given the specific nature of the attack. The underlying reason for shooting the Foreign Minister is to frighten a small group of high-ranking politicians rather than terrify the general population.
On Sunday they continue evaluating the forensic evidence and the thousands of lab results. Everything points to the fact that they’re dealing with a highly professional killer. He didn’t leave any fingerprints or biological evidence, he didn’t leave any bullets or cartridges, and he doesn’t appear in any security-camera footage.
They have several of his boot imprints, but they’re a type that are sold all over the world, and analysis of the dirt on them hasn’t come up with anything.
Saga is sitting with Janus, who’s the head of the investigation, and a few colleagues in one of the conference rooms of the Security Police Headquarters. Janus is wearing a pale green, tie-dye T-shirt. His almost white eyebrows take on a pinkish tone when he gets agitated.
Security around government buildings has been tightened and key individuals have more bodyguards, but they’re all aware that this might not be enough.
Stress levels in the conference room are high.
Salim has been isolated at Hall Prison in preparation for his transfer to Joona’s unit. No one believes that isolating him will prevent more murders, because even if he can’t give any further orders it’s possible that the first three have already been arranged.
Right now almost all of their hopes are pinned on Joona gaining his confidence inside the prison. If he fails, their only real option is to wait and see what happens on Wednesday.
‘We’re dealing with a meticulous killer. He doesn’t make any mistakes, doesn’t get carried away, doesn’t get scared,’ one of the men says.
‘Then he shouldn’t have left a witness alive,’ Saga says.
‘This is all assuming he isn’t just a pimp who thought the Foreign Minister had gone too far this time,’ Janus smiles, blowing his red hair away from his face.
Jeanette and Saga have conducted three more interviews with the witness, but nothing new has emerged. She’s sticking to her story, and there’s nothing to suggest that she’s lying. But they haven’t been able to verify the fact that she’s a prostitute.
No one else in the business knows Sofia, but the investigators have managed to trace Tamara Jensen, who now appears to be the only person who might be able to confirm her story.
Tamara’s number was in Sofia’s mobile phone, and by using three base-stations to trace her phone they’ve managed to identify an exact location: Tamara’s movements are restricted to a small area just southwest of Nyköping.
She isn’t married, and she hasn’t moved to Gothenburg, as Sofia claimed.
She’s still advertising on a website that says it offers an exclusive escort service in the Stockholm area. The photograph shows a woman in her mid-twenties, with lively eyes and shiny hair. Her presentation promises cultured company for social events and trips, nights and weekend packages.
Saga is navigating while Jeanette drives the dark grey BMW. The two women always enjoy each other’s company even though they’re very different in both personality and appearance. Jeanette’s hair is held in place by a silver clasp, and she’s wearing a light grey skirt and white jacket, thick tights and pumps with a low heel.
They’re talking and eating liquorice from a bag in the centre console.
Saga is telling Jeanette how her ex-boyfriend, Stefan, sent her lots of drunken texts from Copenhagen yesterday, wanting her to go to his hotel.
‘Well, why not?’ Jeanette says, helping herself to another piece of liquorice.
Saga laughs, then looks thoughtfully out of the side-window at the industrial buildings flashing past.
‘He’s an idiot, and I can’t believe I’m still sleeping with him,’ she says quietly.
‘Seriously, though,’ Jeanette says, drumming the steering wheel lightly with one hand. ‘Who cares about principles? This is your life, the only one you’ve got, and you’re not seeing anyone else.?
??
‘Is that your advice as a psychologist?’ Saga smiles.
‘I really believe that,’ she replies, looking at Saga.
It’s late evening by the time they reach Nyköpingsbro, an all-night restaurant situated on a bridge over the highway.
Jeanette drives around the car park until they find Tamara’s old Saab. They block it in with the BMW, then go into the restaurant.
The restaurant is almost empty. Saga and Jeanette walk around the tables anyway, but there’s no sign of Tamara. They pass a deserted ballpit trapped behind a smeared glass screen, next to a green sign with tourist information.
‘OK, let’s go outside,’ Jeanette says in a low voice.
It’s dark in the car park. The air is cold and Saga zips up her leather jacket as they walk past the tables and benches. A few magpies are scrambling around on top of the overflowing dustbins.
Saga and Jeanette walk towards the lorry park as a blue articulated lorry pulls up in front of them. The vehicle’s weight makes the ground shake. It turns and parks wheezily beside the furthest lorry.
There are nineteen lorries parked on this side of the bridge. Beyond them the murky darkness of the forest takes over. The roar of the highway comes in waves, like exhausted surf on a beach.
It’s dark and strangely warm between the vehicles. The smell of diesel mixes with urine and cigarette smoke. The hot metal clicks. Dirty water drips from a mud flap.
Someone tosses a bag of rubbish under a trailer and clambers back up into the cab.
Cigarettes glow in various places in the darkness.
Saga and Jeanette walk around the huge vehicles. The tarmac is covered with oil-stains, empty chewing-tobacco tubs, Burger King wrappers, cigarette butts, and a tatty porn magazine.
Saga crouches down and looks under one of the trailers. She sees people moving around between the lorries further away. One man is peeing against a tyre. They can hear a muted conversation, and somewhere a dog is barking.
One lorry, smeared with dirt, starts up beside them and idles for a while to get the engine warmed up. Its red tail-lights illuminate a pile of empty bottles at the edge of the forest.
Saga crouches down again to look under the rusty vehicle frame, and sees a woman climb out of one of the cabs. Saga’s gaze follows her thin legs as she totters away on platform boots.