Game: A Thriller (26 page)

It’s all a damn game!
the charred corpse in his head was screaming as he chucked up over the flower bed.

♦  ♦  ♦

Okay, she was seriously worried now. After several days of foolishly thinking that he would get in touch, she had finally gone around to his flat. But the door was covered in plywood and under the smell of paint she could still detect a faint smell of smoke.

The next-door neighbor, an obviously doped-up guy with dreadlocks and a goatee beard, had told her about the fire, that someone had poured lighter fluid through Henke’s letter box and set light to it.

But clearly Henke had survived; a day in hospital, then he was okay.

That at least was a relief.

So where was he now?

The Rasta couldn’t enlighten her, and at this point in the conversation his addled brain seemed to have finally picked up the cop vibe and he quickly slammed the door on her.

After a bit of thought she had at least managed to work out
who was likely to know more. Mange Sandström, of course, Henke’s best friend since primary school.

Didn’t he have a computer shop somewhere near Skanstull?

A quick call to the Regional Communication Center and she had the address and was on her way.

♦  ♦  ♦

Outside the shop she was aware that things weren’t right. A blue-and-white strip of police cordon tape was still dangling from a lamppost, and one of the windows beside the door was still covered, somewhat inadequately, by the security company’s tape. There was no mistaking the smell of smoke here either, as she opened the door and the
Star Wars
theme started to play. To judge by the chaos inside, they were still tidying up after the fire. There were boxes everywhere and half of the shelves and racks toward the front of the shop were empty. She almost stumbled over a bucket full of filthy water that was standing beside the door.

The second complete mess in half an hour, hardly a coincidence, at least not if Henke was involved. The question was, what had he got himself mixed up in this time?

Maybe Mange would be able to give her an answer?

“Hello, Rebecca!” he said in a surprised tone of voice from behind some shelves.

“Hi, Mange, it’s been a while. Have you had visitors, or are you moving out?”

They exchanged a clumsy hug. A nightshirt and an embroidered waistcoat; at least his taste in clothes had changed dramatically since they last met.

“Just some kids,” he muttered, and she could tell at once
that he was lying. “Powder from the extinguisher all over everything, so the insurance company are making a fuss . . .”

But it wasn’t just his feeble explanation that was making him blush.

Mange had always had a bit of a crush on her, which was hardly a disadvantage given the reason for her visit today.

“My name’s Farook Al-Hassan these days,” he added, cheering up a bit. “I converted when I got married two years ago.”

“Oh, you’re married? And there was me thinking we’d end up together.” She laughed, and watched as he turned a fetching shade of bright red.

So that explained the slightly odd clothes. Mange had gone and converted.

Maybe it wasn’t so strange when she thought about it; he’d always seemed to be searching for something.

The last time she saw him he’d been a militant vegan, and before that a local politician, unless it was the other way around . . . ?

Mange was a smart lad, but there’d always been something lost about him. She just hoped he’d found something that worked for him now.

“Have you got children too?” she asked, mainly out of politeness.

“A boy, eight months, Mohammed.”

He pulled out his wallet and she admired the miracle for the ten seconds that form demanded.

“He looks like you, Ma . . . I mean, Farook,” she said, with what she hoped was her friendliest smile.
Get to the point, now, Normén!

“Listen, I wanted to ask if you have any idea where Henke is?”

“Er . . . what do you mean?” Another feeble lie.

“Well, I’ve been trying to call him but none of the numbers I’ve got seem to work, so I thought maybe you might know where he is?”

He shook his head and did his best not to meet her gaze.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen him for a while . . .”

She frowned. Two fires, Henke missing, and now thoroughly decent Mange lying to her face. Something was going on, and it was time that she found out what.

But just as she was about to open her mouth, Mange interrupted her.

“Listen, Rebecca, now that you’re here there’s something I’ve been wanting to say for ages.”

“Okay,” she said warily.

She really didn’t have time for any latter-day declarations of love, but on the other hand she needed his help now.
Patience, Normén!

“Well, Rebecca . . . I’ve always . . . I mean . . . oh, damn . . .”

He took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together.

“You and Dag, all that business that happened with HP . . . well, you know?”

“Mmm,” she replied neutrally.

“Well . . . I’ve sort of always . . . wanted to apologize to you. Dag and I were cousins, of course, and, well, you met him through me, and . . .”

He looked down at the counter. She suddenly felt sick. Probably the heat.

“I mean.” He sighed, making a last attempt. “I-I’ve always felt a b-bit guilty about it all,” he stammered. “That it was sort of my fault, if you know what I mean?”

He shot her a pleading look and she had absolutely no idea how to respond.

“Dag was older than me, of course, and we weren’t exactly close, b-but I knew perfectly well what sort of person he was. I knew there were rumors about him, that he could be violent and . . . that his dad left because Dag beat him up. I mean, there was a lot of talk, but I never dared say anything . . . to you, I mean.”

He was looking down at the counter again.

Rebecca took a deep breath.

What did he expect her to say?

The feeling of nausea was getting worse. The air in the shop was stuffy and her top was starting to stick to her body. She needed to put a stop to this discussion and get the conversation back on track, and fast.

“Listen, Mange,” she said, as calmly as she could. “We all make our own decisions, you, me, Henke, and Dag. Right or wrong, we made our choices and in the end we each have to take the consequences. I was the one who fell in love with Dag, it was my decision to move in with him, and I was the one who didn’t report him when things started to go wrong. It was my responsibility.”

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the bastard painful truth, she thought bitterly. Okay, enough of that!

“Getting back to Henke, I was wondering . . .”

“But you don’t get it!” he interrupted in a shaky voice. “HP told me he was thinking of killing him. That he was thinking of killing Dag! He told me what the bastard had done to you and how much he hated him. And I, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t try to stop him, I didn’t tell anyone, and then it all went to hell. Dag dead, HP in prison, and you . . .”

He stopped and looked at her sadly.

“You didn’t get away scot-free either, Rebecca.”

He fell silent and she gave him a few seconds to pull himself together. Mind you, she needed the pause just as much herself. Waves of nausea were washing over her with full force now and she had to close her eyes for a few seconds to get her gag reflex under control.

“The only person who got out in one piece was me,” he went on. “For me life just carried on almost as if nothing had happened. If I’d just opened my mouth, told s-someone what HP was going on about, then maybe everything would have been different? I could at least have told him to cool it. But I didn’t. I don’t really know why I didn’t. All I know is that I could have done more to stop it happening. Much more!”

He fell silent again and seemed to be studying a random section of the cork matting.

Damn it to hell, this conversation was nothing like what she’d expected.

Suddenly the sounds of all the computers and gadgets combined into one single enervating, piercing note that seemed to penetrate her head and nail her brain to the inside of her skull.

She screwed her eyes up, swallowed a couple of times, and when she’d regained control of her body, pushed her way past Mange and into the little cubbyhole she’d glimpsed behind the bead curtain.

Lukewarm water from a dirty glass. Long, restorative gulps that rinsed all unwelcome thoughts away.
Pull yourself together, for God’s sake, Normén!

Even if Mange seemed to be in desperate need of a confessional, she certainly hadn’t come here for anything like this. Chewing it all over and wallowing in the past. The really sick thing was that she only had to say a few words and she could absolve him from some of his sins. Tell him who the real murderer
was. But something told her that the truth wouldn’t set either of them free, and certainly not her.

Better to return to the present, focus on the task at hand, and get out of here. If she could just get hold of Henke, things would work themselves out, she was convinced of that, without really knowing why.

She refilled the glass and put it on the counter beside Mange. He seemed to have used her absence to pull himself together. His eyes still looked a bit red, but his face was more or less back to its usual color.

He drank in silence.

“I can see the way you’re thinking, Mange, but I honestly don’t think anyone could have stopped things from happening,” she said slowly. “It just turned out the way it did, and we all have to try to move on. At least that’s what I’ve tried to do.”

She could hear how false her words sounded, but Mange nodded in agreement.

“Of course, you’re right,” he said. “It feels good to have got it out, anyway, after all this time. Sorry about the tears.”

He smiled forlornly and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Don’t worry, it’ll stay between us.”

He smiled again, more relaxed this time, and she took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Look, are you really sure you haven’t seen Henke?”

Another shake of the head.

“No, not really . . .”

She fixed him with her cop’s stare, reluctantly, and it worked instantly.

“What do you mean,
not really
, Mange? Have you or haven’t you seen him?”

Her voice had abruptly lost all its previous softness. It felt a bit mean to apply interrogation tactics now, especially after his emotional outburst, but she didn’t actually have any choice. She had to get hold of Henke and didn’t have time for any more distractions.

“Not for a few days,” he muttered morosely, staring at the floor, and as far as she could tell that was probably the truth. She looked around and sniffed at the smell of smoke.

“Listen, those kids who set fire to your shop . . .”

She said it very slowly, fixing him with her stare. He wriggled like a worm on a hook, but she had no intention of letting him get away.

“Is it the same kids who set fire to Henke’s flat?”

“Yes . . . er, I mean no, or rather . . .”

His eyes were flitting about, and he momentarily didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

“Oh, Magnus . . .” she said in her gentlest voice and she leaned over the counter.

She waited until he met her gaze again:

“What’s my idiot brother dragged you into this time?”

OKAY, HE’D JUST
have to accept the truth—he’d got the whole thing on the brain.

Mel Gibson in
Conspiracy Theory
, Gene Hackman’s character, Brill, in
Enemy of the State
, that’s what he was turning into. The obsessive, the lone lunatic, the conspiracy nut who lived his life in discussion forums and saw intrigues around every fucking corner. He might as well get his own home page, a cottage in the woods, and a wall covered in newspaper cuttings; then everything would be perfect!

Okay, that business with the Palme murder was maybe a bit far-fetched, but on the other hand his theory was no crazier or worse than any of the other so-called lines of inquiry. Kurds, the “baseball” police squad, his wife, Lisbet, or a drunk acting on his own?

All aboard the Crazy Train!

Doors closing, next stop Looneyville!

There was a vast flock of weirdo theories out there in cyberspace, like shrieking harpies, each one crazier than the last. So why not his?

Just think about it!

How else could you fuck up the largest police investigation
in the world so spectacularly? Forgetting all common police sense, breaking loads of laws and rules by appointing an amateur to lead both the police work and the preliminary legal investigation? And, as if that wasn’t enough, setting up a Social Democrat political stooge with his own miniature version of the Security Police to run a parallel investigation directly sanctioned by the justice minister . . .

The whole thing was a cascade of peculiarities, and the case threw up loads of questions to which there were no logical solutions, exactly as Erman had warned him. There just weren’t any good explanations, or at least none that were better than the one he was beginning to accept more and more.

Besides, he could think of another political murder where, even though the man had been caught, the case was a good match for the profile “single perpetrator with no good motive.” Not to mention the so-called Laser Man back in the early nineties. There was something methodical about the whole of his criminal progress, something that made you think of computer games. As if he had been working his way through different stages of difficulty, taking greater and greater risks. Almost as if he was clambering up some sort of league table . . .

According to the clips HP found on the Swedish television website, the culprit had blown the money he took from his victims in a German casino, so he evidently liked gambling. Was he actually a player, in two senses of the word? It made perfect sense, but at the same time it sounded completely insane! What about the Kennedy assassination? The sinking of the
Estonia
? Nine eleven?