Game: A Thriller (20 page)

She read the message over and over again, without really understanding it.

Rebecca,

I and my family have nothing to say to you.

Pernilla

Nilla had replied to her email. And was blowing her off, pretty much as she’d expected. But there was just one problem. She’d never sent the email, just saved it in her Drafts folder to think about it. But when she checked, the email had gone and she found it in the Sent folder, fired off yesterday afternoon apparently, just before they had shooting practice.

Nilla,

There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, something I’ve put off for far too long.

Could we meet for a short chat at a time and place that suits you?

Sincerely,

Rebecca Normén (formerly Pettersson)

Her own words, exactly as she remembered them, down to the last comma.

How the hell had that happened?

She remembered that she had the computer on yesterday,
but could an email really send itself? Was there some sort of automated function that sent drafts after a day or so?

She didn’t think there was, but on the other hand you never knew with the police computer system.

So what should she do now? She didn’t really have much choice. The notes were pretty clear. If she wanted to get to the bottom of everything, she’d have to talk to Nilla, whether Nilla wanted to or not.

Just to be on the safe side she phoned her answering machine to explain to herself why she shouldn’t just back down.

ANOTHER BASTARD BOILING-HOT
day!
Global warming must be on overtime judging by how long this heat wave’s been going on,
HP thought as he tugged his sticky T-shirt away from his chest.

The northbound commuter train, a couple more stations, and then a bus.

But then what?

He had the name of the bus stop on a bit of paper, “
get out and wait
” was the instruction. In the middle of nowhere, you could hardly find it even on Google Maps. HP sighed and rubbed his sweaty neck.

The guy he was going to see didn’t seem to have a complete set of cutlery in his drawer, but on the other hand this was HP’s best and actually only chance of getting somewhere and making any sort of sense of this whole fucking mess.

He got off the train and peered cautiously along the platform. Another three passengers had got off with him. An elderly couple and a fifteen-year-old homeboy with a back-to-front cap and his trousers halfway down. HP waited on one of the benches for them all to leave, then, when he was entirely alone, he wandered off toward the bus station.

He stopped on purpose at the wrong bus stop, saw his bus come, and it was only when it was about to pull away that he sprinted over the road and forced the irate driver to brake hard and let him on. If anyone had been following him, he’d have lost them by now, either here or when he did the platform trick at the South Station half an hour or so before. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

After thirty-five minutes on the bus he was there. But even though he had been counting the bus stops and, just to make sure, had asked the driver, he still wasn’t sure he was in the right place. Because this truly was the middle of fucking nowhere. An isolated bus stop on a narrow seventy-kilometers-per-hour road, open fields in all directions, and hardly a building in sight.

There was a smell of dry earth, straw, and something else natural that HP couldn’t quite identify. And of course there was no one there to meet him . . .

He lit a cigarette and chilled for a while, but the sun was burning the back of his neck and soon his already grimy T-shirt was clinging to his back with sweat.

He must remember to nick a pair of shorts.

A few cows were mooing in the distance, and over on the horizon he watched a little yellow plane come gliding over the treetops. The plane was pulling a long banner and HP couldn’t help smiling.

He hadn’t seen that sort of advertisement since he was little. Hadn’t the Internet and commercial television killed off advertising like this? But, on the other hand, this was the ass end of nowhere and you could probably get away with anything around here.

“Fjärdhundra Market 28–31 July,”
he read on the banner as the plane came closer.

He grinned again. Fjärdhundra Market! Bound to be a load of morons in dungarees trying to guess the weight of a pig, toppling cows over, and trying to get off with their fifteen-year-old cousins. A banjo solo, maybe?
Dingelingdingdingdingsdingding ding
 . . .

How the hell anyone would choose to live like that instead of in the city like a proper Homo sapiens was beyond him.

“Yeehaa, Farthundra!” he yelled, waving at the plane as it passed. But even though the pilot must have seen him as he stood there in the middle of the road among the new-mown fields, HP didn’t get a hint of a response. Not even a little dip of the wings.

“Fuck you, then, shithead,” he muttered with the cigarette dangling from his mouth as he switched to other less friendly gestures instead before the plane disappeared from sight.

When the sound of the engine had died away he heard another, angry-sounding motor coming toward him. It turned out to be a flatbed moped, and the man riding it looked like some sort of UFO.

Long fair hair, a scruffy matching beard, and on top of all that one of those old leather flying helmets with built-in goggles. Blue overalls that had definitely seen better days and a pair of old army boots completed the outfit, and yet again HP had trouble holding back his laughter.

A bit odd
, yeah, right!

Fuck, this was serious
Candid Camera
stuff!

The moped man stopped sharply in front of him and grappled with the gears.

“Are you HP?”

“No, I’m just a tourist who likes cows and fields, what the hell do you think?” HP muttered.

“Whassat?” The moped muppet leaned forward.

“Yes, that’s me. Nice with all these cows and fields you’ve got out here,” HP replied, this time louder so the man could hear him over the noise of the two-stroke engine.

“Erman,” the guy said in reply, and nodded. “Jump on!”

HP hesitated for a moment, then, still grinning, jumped up on the flatbed. Of course, it was the only thing missing really, a little ride on a flatbed moped to reinforce all his prejudices about the countryside. The banjo duel in his head got even louder and he hummed along, safe in the knowledge that his driver couldn’t hear him over the clatter of the engine.

Erman followed the road for a couple of kilometers, then turned off, heading straight across the fields on an almost invisible gravel track.

As they approached the tree line the track got even bumpier, but HP’s chauffeur made no attempt to ease up on the gas, and by the time they pulled up outside the little cottage hidden in among the fir trees, the whole hillbilly thing had almost stopped being fun.

While Erman parked the moped HP stretched and massaged his sore backside.

Where the fuck had he ended up now?

The house was small, maybe just fifty or sixty square meters or so, so not much bigger than Auntie Berit’s allotment cottage. The façade had once been red, but most of the planks were now gray, with just a few hints of pink where the sun and rain hadn’t got to them. The drooping concrete-fiber roof was green with moss and algae and the cottage was surrounded by
meter-high nettles. The whole thing looked ready to collapse at any moment.

“Go on in,” Erman muttered, nodding toward the entrance as he closed the door of the little outhouse. HP did as he was told and discovered that the inside of the shack looked considerably better than he had been expecting.

The kitchen and small living room were clean and tidy; there was a smell of detergent and in one corner there was a cozy crackle from a cast-iron stove. In spite of that the house was cool, probably because it was shaded by the surrounding firs.

“You followed the instructions, I hope?” Erman said abruptly as he came into the kitchen a few seconds later.

“Yep,” HP said. “No cell, paid cash for all tickets, and did a bit of James Bond stuff before catching the train, so your little paradise is safe from discovery.”

Erman grunted and tossed the flying helmet onto a kitchen chair.

To his surprise HP realized that his host wasn’t some old guy like he’d first thought, but at a guess was just a few years older than him.

Erman gestured to him to sit down on the kitchen sofa, then put an old-fashioned coffeepot on the stove and started to get cups out.

“So you’re allergic to electricity, how do you get that?” HP began in an exaggeratedly friendly tone, but got a quick snort in reply.

“Twenty-five years with computers, magnetic fields, radio waves, and all the other shit flying around through the air. Then you wake up one day covered in a rash and can hardly breathe.”

He poured them both coffee and HP took a quick,
scalding sip. Boiled coffee, he hadn’t drunk that since his grandmother had died, he recognized as he managed to swallow the burning liquid and blink a tear from his eye. Apart from the temperature, it was actually pretty good.

The porcelain cup was wafer thin and the handle so finely made that he had to hold it Lidingö style, with his ring and little fingers sticking out. The coffee set had to be at least as old as the house, if not even older.

He swirled the coffee around, blowing on it, then took another cautious sip as he peered at his host.

“So you want to know more about a server I installed?” Erman said, glowering suspiciously at him across the table. “I don’t usually talk to people I don’t know, or with anyone at all these days, come to that.”

No shit!
HP thought, grinning into his coffee cup.

“But an old friend said you were okay and I owe him, big-time you could say. If he says you’re all right, then you’re okay in my book. So what do you want to know, and why?”

HP had worked out his strategy while he was on the bus and made an effort to sound nonchalant.

“Just who you installed the server for and where it is. I’m the art director of a small advertising agency and they’ve got some visual material I’m interested in.”

Erman gave him a long look and HP did his best to look like he thought a hardworking art director would.

Then his host grinned and threw out his arms.

“Well, I never, an art director!”

HP smiled and nodded.

“And there I was thinking that you were a Player who’d fucked up and was desperately trying to work out the identity of the juggernaut that ran over you, and why.”

Erman burst out into a roar of laughter and HP had to cough several times to get the scalding coffee out of his windpipe.

♦  ♦  ♦

Another boiling-hot day! A day in the office at work, which meant a bit of paperwork, reading up on current threat analysis and the preliminary program for the next round of the EU presidency. Plenty of time to clear stuff from her desk.

She got a glass of water from the kitchen, took a deep breath, and tried to shift the tension in her neck and jaw.

Even though it was still early, her shirt was already wet under the arms. The building may have been air-conditioned, but seeing as every reorganization of the police force seemed to require new walls and office partitions, practically all the cool air ended up in a few rooms at the far end of the corridor. To get at least an illusion of coolness, Rebecca had been forced to buy a fan that was now stirring up the hot air in the office she shared with three other bodyguards. She settled down behind her desk and shut her eyes, letting the blast of air cross her face a couple of times as she tried to gather her thoughts.

It had taken a while to dig out the phone number. Nilla wasn’t in the phone book and she wasn’t listed online either.

Ex-directory, of course, just like ninety-five percent of all police employees, whether or not it was actually necessary. But there were ways around that, of course. A call to a girl she knew in personnel was all it took. A white lie about her and Nilla sharing a lift to a course, and in a moment she had her work roster, home number, and cell. Who said female networks didn’t work?

But now she was hesitating again.

How should she start, and what did she really expect to get out of the conversation?
Get it all out in the open, once and for all
, she repeated to herself.
Turn the page at last and put a stop to all those damn notes
 . . .

Not exactly a straightforward aim, and maybe not even possible. Just a few days ago she wouldn’t be bothering with any of this. After all, she’d gone more than a decade without getting bogged down in the past. But after what happened out at Lindhagensplan everything had changed.

Seeing Kruse there in hospital with tubes and wires everywhere, admittedly a bit brighter now than to begin with, had made her think along different lines. It could easily have been her lying there. Should have been, maybe, just like the note implied, seeing as it had been her mistake.

So that’s why she was thinking of trying, properly this time. Clear the air, say what she should have said all that time ago, and get some sort of closure. First with his family, then, after that, with Henke somehow. Get him to forgive her for what she’d done, or, more truthfully, hadn’t done . . . If anything like that was actually possible.

Their conversation the other day hadn’t exactly given her much hope. She’d tried ringing him, but the new number he’d given her had been cut off. Typical Henke.

But what was she actually going to say?

The truth!
a voice inside her head whispered.

In spite of the heat she shivered.

♦  ♦  ♦

“So, tell me what they got you to do, and don’t worry about rule number one. In the forest no one can hear you squeal!”

Erman let out another rumbling belly laugh as he refilled their cups.

“To start with, what number did you have?”

HP was a bit taken aback, to put it mildly. The guy had tricked him, playing the village idiot even though he knew exactly how the land lay. Fucking brilliant, what a laugh, yippee ki-yay mothafucker!