Game: A Thriller (15 page)

The psychologist nodded.

“So you’re close to your brother?”

“Not anymore,” slipped out of her mouth.

Shit, the lack of sleep and headache were taking their toll, and Anderberg wasn’t just anyone. Today it was unusually difficult to keep her guard up, mainly because in her mind she was already knocking on Henrik’s door. She had to regroup and try a new tactic.

“Do you feel like talking about it?”

Anderberg had evidently caught a scent of something. She had to tread carefully now.

She shrugged to give herself a couple more seconds to think. What the hell could she say?

No, dear shrink, I don’t feel like telling you about my useless petty-criminal little brother who doesn’t give a shit about anything and wrecks everything he touches, but to whom I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life.

“Things were pretty tough when we were growing up,” she said instead, hoping that a few serious but now harmless confidences would throw him off track.

Anderberg nodded encouragingly, evidently interested.

“Well, to start with it was mainly Dad, I suppose. But after a while he dragged Mom down with him, you could say. Especially after she got ill.”

She took a deep breath before going on.

“Dad was pretty unusual. He was quite a bit older than Mom when they got married. It was his flat and he already had his set routines. Everything had to be exactly the way he wanted, down to the smallest detail, and Dad would get furious about the tiniest things. A set of keys in the wrong place or a mark on the bathroom mirror were enough to set him off. When he was home the rest of us had to tiptoe around so as not to make him angry or upset. Henke, my little brother, is three years younger than me,” she said.

“When things were bad at least we had each other. I used to protect him, comfort him, and take him out so that things could calm down. I suppose you could say we provided each other with a bit of stability.”

She smiled unconsciously.

“I used to take him with me whenever I could, I didn’t
want him to be left at home alone with Dad. You never knew what might happen, and if anything did happen, for some reason my little brother would always get the blame, maybe because he was smallest and weakest. Dad didn’t exactly hold back, especially not after a few drinks, and even if Mom did her best she never really dared to stand up to him and take our side when there was trouble. She probably had to deal with enough of his moods as it was . . . But Dad never laid a finger on me, on the other hand. I was safe, somehow; men of his generation didn’t hit little girls, so maybe that’s why I started trying to protect Henke?” She shrugged her shoulders and caught Anderberg’s nod of encouragement.

He had evidently taken the bait. But to her surprise she also discovered that she actually didn’t mind going on . . .

“Henke was very patient, always tagging along, never complaining, even if he mostly had to play girls’ games. Sometimes he got to be the doll while I and the other girls on the block dressed him up. Mommy, Daddy, baby, and all that . . . All the stuff we weren’t getting at home.”

She smiled again and looked down at her lap thoughtfully.

The psychologist didn’t push her; he was actually looking quite pleased.

It was ironic, really, that everything she had tried to hide so far had turned into the perfect smoke screen now. A new line of defense now that the old one seemed to have crumbled. She hadn’t talked about this for . . . well, it must be thirteen years now, and it actually felt pretty good to let it out.

A quick glance at the time, twenty-five minutes done. Now she just had to round this off and catch the southbound subway train. Get back into the saddle.

“But you’ve had less contact since you grew up?”

His tone was friendly, more supportive than questioning.

She nodded in confirmation.

“Yes, I’m afraid we lost a bit of our connection when I moved out. Dad had died suddenly the previous year and Henke was sixteen by then, so it felt fairly safe to leave him with Mom. She was also quite ill by then and spent most of her time in bed. I’d met a boy and we moved in together. First love and all that.”

She shrugged her shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant.

“I suppose I’d been managing the household pretty much alone, and looking after Mom as well, so I thought it was Henke’s turn to take more responsibility now that Dad was out of the picture . . . My boyfriend and I sorted out a flat for them on Södermalm, near Mariatorget. Less space and closer to the hospital. And visits from home help to make things easier. I was in love and I was in a hurry to get away, let go of the responsibility once and for all. I let myself get caught up in my relationship with Dag instead, and Henke probably felt a bit left out. Like I’d abandoned him. After all, he was used to having me there, the two of us against the world. And he didn’t exactly get on with my boyfriend, so . . .”

She stopped herself. This was dangerous territory, best not to get tangled up in a load of unnecessary lies.

“In any case, it only lasted a couple of years; then Mom died of cancer. Henke’s still living in the flat, but our relationship never really recovered . . . You could say that we’re working on it . . .” she concluded with a settled expression.

Most of what she’d said was actually true. From a purely technical point of view, she hadn’t actually lied, just withheld certain details. The question was whether the story held up?

Anderberg nodded in empathy, evidently happy with the confidences he had managed to elicit.

“So you still see each other, you and Henrik?”

“Of course,” she replied, with a smile of relief. “I’m actually going to see him once we’re done here.”

 . . . and I’m going to wring his bloody neck!
she added silently to herself.

♦  ♦  ♦

Whoever was ringing on his doorbell was a stubborn bastard. He’d tried pulling the pillow over his head, pretending he wasn’t home so the fucker would go away. But oh no. The idiot out there was worse that any Jehovah’s Witness. He or she was pressing the bell at painful, almost tortuous intervals, and had been doing so for at least ten minutes already. HP had had plenty of time to keep track.

First ten seconds of insistent ringing,
rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!

Then ten seconds’ pause.

Then once more,
rrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg!

It was driving him mad. In the end he had no choice but to go and open up.

Red-faced and wearing just a pair of jogging pants that he fished up from a chair on the way, he angrily opened the door to give the bastard a piece of his mind. And a moment later, without him quite understanding what had happened, he was lying flat on his back on the hall rug.

♦  ♦  ♦

Anderberg had bought her new defensive tactic, hook, line, and sinker . . . There was nothing that worked better with
shrinks than a bit of tragic childhood. The psychiatrist had been overjoyed at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had praised her honesty, called her a strong person, and agreed to let her return to duty the following week. A few days of rest would suit her fine, it would give her time to get a few little things sorted out . . .

It took her almost ten minutes to get him out of bed. It had been enough to open the letter box slightly and listen to the sounds in the flat to know that he was at home. Even if the bedroom was at the far end of the flat, the distance wasn’t far enough for anyone to mistake the sound of snoring.

She’d used the tried-and-tested police tactic with the doorbell: ten seconds ringing, ten silence, then more ringing.

No one could put up with that for long.

She heard him come padding out into the hall and moved to the side to escape the peephole. As she had guessed, he was planning to throw the door open, and seeing as she was already holding the handle on the outside, it didn’t take much to let him start to open it, then give it a serious tug from her side and send him lurching into the stairwell. Then, while he was still shocked and trying to regain his balance, all she had to do was shove him gently in the chest to send him flying back onto the hall rug.

A quick stride in and she could pull the door closed behind her.

Basic police tactics, exercise 1A.

♦  ♦  ♦

“What the hell are you doing, Becca?” he whined when he had got to his feet and worked out who the intruder was.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said curtly and gestured toward the kitchen.

“Have you got any coffee in the flat, or do you spend all your money on other plant products?”

She’d already picked up the sweet smell of hash from the flat through the letter box.

He didn’t answer, just walked out into the kitchen ahead of her and started rattling about in the sink.

“Will Nescafé do?” he muttered, waving a brown glass jar.

“Not really, but okay,” she replied, shoving a pile of old
Metro
s off one of the kitchen chairs.

She saw that the flat was a complete mess. Clothes and all sorts of other stuff piled up all over the place. Old newspapers, full ashtrays, and dirty glasses practically everywhere she looked. The walls and ceiling were yellow and greasy with cigarette smoke, and the overflowing plastic washing-up bowl in the sink told her it was at least a week since any dishes had been done. This was actually a couple of degrees worse than Mom’s final days. It looked like a junkie’s squat, with the possible exception of the flat screen television and the computer she had glimpsed in the living room.

How the hell could he live in this sort of filth?

“So . . . how are you, sis?” he asked feebly and considerably less grouchily as he served them instant coffee in mismatched mugs a few minutes later.

“Depends what you mean,” she replied abruptly. “Life in general or my current state of health?”

“Er . . . you know.” He nodded toward the Band-Aids on her head. “After the crash, I mean.”

She sighed.

“Oh, I’m okay, thanks for asking. A bit of a headache, some minor bruising, and a few days off sick, but that’s pretty much it.”

“And your partner?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t miss the embarrassed tone of his question. He certainly seemed concerned, almost for real.

“A bit better, actually, I called this morning and he’s making progress. Looks like he’s going to make it.”

“Thank God!”

Both his body language and tone of voice told her he really meant it.

The question was: Who was he most relieved for? She was pretty sure it wasn’t Kruse.

“Okay, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, maybe you’d like to explain to me what the hell happened yesterday? I called three different custody units for your sake and pretty much got laughed at each time.”

He looked down at once.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Nothing?” she repeated as sharply as she could.

“Just a drunken prank. I’d had a few beers at Kvarnen and then had a smoke round at a friend’s. I saw it all on the news and heard it was you. When the others found out my sister was a cop they got me to call you and say I was the one who threw the stone and all that . . . They probably didn’t think I’d actually do it. And I shouldn’t have done.

“Sorry!” he added, looking up with a silly smile. “It was really stupid and immature, I know.”

He threw his arms out in a disarming gesture.

She didn’t answer, just looked at him for several seconds.

Henke had always been good at stretching the truth, making things up, telling white lies, or just lying through his teeth. First to their parents when they were little, mostly Dad, of
course:
No, Daddy, I’ve got no idea where you left your wallet
. Then to his teachers at school, and eventually to the rest of the world, with one exception. It wasn’t until after everything had happened and he had got out of prison that he started lying to her as well, which probably wasn’t that strange if you thought about it. Most of the time he was very good at it, so good that it usually took her a few days to work out that she’d fallen for one of his lies again. But not today.

Today there was something missing.

To start with, this lie lacked the right details and was far too easy to demolish with a few facts, such as the fact that the Security Police would never release her name to the media, so he couldn’t have known she was involved if he had seen anything about the crash on television. And she seriously doubted that a load of dopeheads would be sitting watching the news . . .

Oddly, his pathetic story only made her more annoyed. As if he were trying to blow her off and declare her an idiot at the same time. But then she realized that the details were of only secondary importance.

The main thing that was missing was his usual convincing smile and the glint in his eye that always made her believe him. His little brother look, she called it. Henke was nowhere near as self-confident as he usually was, she could see that clearly. That wasn’t just morning tiredness visible in his face. He also had a black eye and a Band-Aid over his nose that she had seen but not really picked up on until she started looking at him properly.

He’d been beaten up, her police instincts told her, though the big sister in her hoped that he’d just fallen down some stairs. But whatever the cause was, Henke looked worn-out,
shaken, almost as if he was seriously worried about something, which was unusual for him, to put it mildly. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost say he was . . . frightened?

“Don’t lie to me, Henrik,” she said calmly, trying to catch his wandering gaze.

“What d’you mean? I’m not lying!” He held up his hands and ran through his usual routine. But it still just wasn’t anywhere near as convincing as it usually was.

♦  ♦  ♦

He could hear how unbelievable it all sounded. But what the fuck was he supposed to do? Tell the truth?

He’d broken rule number one once already, and twice in twenty-four hours would definitely not be a good idea.

Besides, what were the odds on her believing him?