Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (94 page)

“Palmcrona dies,” Pollock says slowly. “He leaves his entire fortune to his son. Three days later, his son is also dead.”

“Does the inheritance go to the mother, then?” Joona asks.

“Yes.”

In silence they listen to the slow, halting steps in the hallway before Tommy Kofoed comes in.

“I’ve got into Palmcrona’s safe,” he says triumphantly. “Only this inside.”

Kofoed holds up a beautifully bound book.

“What is that?” asks Pollock.

“It’s a summary of his life,” Kofoed says. “Very common among the nobility.”

“So a kind of diary?”

Kofoed shrugs.

“Just a simple memoir not really meant for publication. Like a genealogy, it’s meant to pass along another part of the family history. These pages are handwritten. It starts with a family tree and mentions his father’s career and then a boring recitation of his school years, his diplomas, his military service, and his career … He’d made some bad investments and he needed money, so he sells some property and some other possessions. Everything in a very dry manner.”

“What about his son?”

“At first, his relationship with Siv Bergkvist is described, short and sweet, as an ‘unfortunate event,’?” Tommy Kofoed answers. He takes a deep breath. “Soon, however, he begins to mention Stefan in his memoirs. All the entries for the past eight years are about his son. He follows his son’s developments from a distance. He knows which school he’s attending, what interests him, who he hangs out with. He says he’s going to build up the inheritance again. It appears that he’s saving everything he has for his son. Finally, he’s decided to contact the boy when he turns eighteen. He hopes that his son will forgive him and that they will be able to get to know each other after all these years. That’s the only thing he cares about … and now, they’re both suddenly dead.”

“What a nightmare,” Pollock mutters.

“What did you say?” Joona looks up.

“I just said, I thought it’s a nightmare come true,” Pollock says, wondering why Joona’s face is suddenly alive. “He does everything he can for his son’s future and then it turns out that his son survives him by only three days. His son never even knew who he was.”

Beverly is already in his bed when Axel enters the bedroom. He’s only got two hours of sleep the night before and now feels a little dizzy with fatigue.

“How long does it take for Evert to drive here?” she asks in a small, clear voice.

“It would take about six hours to get here,” he replies succinctly.

She gets up and starts to the door.

“What are you doing?” Axel asks.

She turns around.

“I thought maybe he’s sitting in the car waiting for me.”

“You know that he doesn’t drive to Stockholm,” Axel says.

“I just want to look out the window and make sure.”

“We can give him a call—should we call him?”

“I’ve already tried,” she says.

Axel reaches out and brushes her cheek with his hand and she sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Are you tired?” she asks.

“So tired I’m feeling sick,” he replies.

“Do you want me to sleep in your bed tonight?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“I believe that Pappa would like to talk to me tomorrow,” she says softly.

Axel nods. “I’m sure it’ll go well tomorrow.”

Her large shining eyes make her look younger than ever.

“Come and lie down,” she says. “Lie down so you can sleep, Axel.”

He blinks tiredly at her and then watches her lie down on her side of the bed. Her nightgown smells like freshly washed, pure cotton. As he lies down beside her, he wants to cry. He wants to tell her that he’ll arrange psychiatric help for her. He’ll help her out of this mess. Everything will get better. Everything always gets better.

He slowly clasps one of her upper arms and lays his other arm over her stomach. He hears her squeak as he pulls her closer to him. He presses his face into her neck, breathes moistly against her skin, and holds her tight. After a while, he hears her breathing soften. They lie completely still as their body warmth together brings sweat to their skin, but he does not let go of her.

The next morning Axel is up early. He’s slept for only four hours and his muscles ache. He stands awhile at the window looking out over the dark outlines of the lilac hedge.

When he comes into his new office, he’s still feeling frozen and tired. Yesterday he’d been one second away from signing his name to a dead man’s contract. He would have put his personal honour into the hands of a man who’d hanged himself—trusted the judgment of a suicide and not his own.

He’s glad he decided to wait, but regrets drawing the cartoon on the contract.

He knows he’s obligated to approve the export of ammunition to Kenya in the next few days. He opens the report folder and begins to learn about Sweden’s trade there.

One hour later, the door to Axel Riessen’s office opens and Jörgen Grünlicht comes in. Without a word, he pulls a chair up to the desk and sits down. He opens the folder, takes out the contract, flips to the page where Axel’s signature was supposed to be, and then meets Axel’s eyes.

“Hi,” Axel says quietly.

Jörgen Grünlicht can’t help smiling. The cartoon face with spiky hair does resemble Axel Riessen and in the dialogue bubble from the figure’s mouth the word “Hi!” had been written.

“Hello,” Jörgen says.

“It was just too soon,” Axel explains.

“I understand. I didn’t want to pressure you, even if we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Jörgen says. “The trade minister was on my case again and Silencia Defense is ringing the phone off the hook. Still, I get you, you know. This responsibility is totally new to you and you … want to be especially thorough.”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s a good thing,” he continues. “But you can send the agreement to the government instead if you’re unsure about it.”

“I’m not unsure,” Axel replies. “I’m just not finished. That’s all there is to it.”

“It’s just … from their perspective, things are going unreasonably slowly.”

“I’m putting everything else aside for the moment and so far I can say that everything looks good,” Axel replies. “I’m not telling Silencia Defense to wait before loading the freighter, but I’m just not finished yet.”

“I’ll let all parties involved know you are positive.”

“Go ahead. I mean, if I don’t find anything unusual, it’s just—”

“You won’t. I’ve done all the research myself.”

“Well, then,” Axel says softly.

“I won’t disturb you anymore,” Jörgen says. He gets up from the chair. “Any hint when you think you’ll be ready?”

Axel glances down at the paperwork.

“Count on at least a few days. Maybe I’ll have to look a little more into Kenya first.”

“Of course.” Jörgen Grünlicht smiles as he leaves the room.

Axel leaves the ISP office at ten o’clock in the morning to work from home. He puts all the paperwork needed into his briefcase. He still feels cold from being so tired, and now he’s hungry as well. He drives to the Grand Hotel and picks up brunch for two people.

Axel carries the food into his kitchen. Beverly is sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen table, right in the middle, and she’s flipping through the bridal magazine
Amelia Brud & Bröllop
.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I want to wear white when I get married,” Beverly says. “Maybe light rose …”

“I like white,” Axel mumbles.

Axel prepares a tray and then the two of them ascend the stairs to the drawing room where a red rococo sofa group is placed next to the large windows. As part of the grouping there’s an eight-sided table from the eighteenth century. It shows how much that era appreciated intarsia; this motif shows a garden with peacocks and a musician, a woman playing the
erhu
.

Axel sets the table with the family china. It is imprinted in silver. He sets matching silver-grey napkins and heavy wineglasses beside the plates. He pours Coca-Cola into Beverly’s glass and mineral water with slices of lime into his own.

Beverly’s childish face has a tiny, chiselled chin above a fragile neck. The entire curve of her head is clear under the fuzz of hair. She drinks the entire glass, then stretches her upper body indolently; a beautiful, innocent movement. Axel thinks that she’ll do it exactly that way when she’s an adult, maybe she’ll stretch that way even as an old lady.

“Tell me more about the music,” she asks him.

“Where were we?” Axel directs the remote towards his music system.

Alexander Malter’s incredibly perceptive interpretation of Arvo Pärt’s
Alina
comes out of the speakers. Axel sets his glass down on the table. The bubbles of the mineral water dance. Axel wishes with all his heart that it were champagne in that glass, champagne to go with this food. He wishes for another heart’s desire—sleeping pills to get through the night.

Axel pours more Coke into Beverly’s glass. She looks at him in thanks. He stares right into her large, dark eyes and doesn’t notice that he’s over-pouring until the Coke starts spreading over the table. The entire Chinese landscape darkens as if its sun is covered by a cloud. The liquid film shimmers over the park with its peacocks.

Axel stands up. He sees Beverly’s reflection in the glass of the windows. The curve of her chin is so strong … and then he makes a sudden blinding connection. He realises all at once that she resembles Greta.

How could he not have seen this before?

All he wants to do now is run away, run from this room, run from this house. Instead, he forces himself to get a cloth to wipe up the spill until his heart has a chance to slow and return to its normal rhythm.

It’s not as if the two women would ever be confused one for the other, but now he spots one reminder, one trait after the other that they both share.

Axel stops and wipes his mouth. His hand is trembling.

There is not a single day when he does not think of Greta. And every day he does his best to forget.

The day after the competition still haunts him.

It was thirty-four years ago, but in his mind, everything since has been darkened by that event. His life was so new then; he was just seventeen, but all the bright hopes had come to an end.

The John Fredrik Berwald Competition was northern Europe’s most prestigious competition for young violinists. Many of the world’s young virtuosi had come to be set directly in this blinding spotlight, but after six rounds before a closed jury, the number had been whittled down to just three. Now it was the final round, and the three violinists left would compete in the concert hall as part of a performance conducted by the legendary Herbert Blomstedt, and the music would be broadcast live on television.

In music circles, it was a sensation that two of the finalists, Axel Riessen and Greta Stiernlood, had both studied at the Royal College of Music in Stockholm. The other finalist was Shiro Sasaki from Japan.

For Alice Riessen, an uncelebrated professional musician, her son Axel’s success was an enormous triumph. Especially now. She’d ignored the warnings from the school’s principal about Axel’s absences from classes, sometimes for an entire day, and that he was growing careless, wasn’t concentrating.

Once Axel and Greta had reached the third round, they were granted permission to devote their time to rehearsal. The competition had brought them together, and, amazingly, each was happy about the other’s success. Lately they’d been meeting at Axel’s house for mutual support.

Axel and his younger brother, Robert, had the run of seven rooms on the top floor of the house in Lärkstaden. As a rule, Axel never practised per se. Instead, he would find his way into a piece, exploring its undercurrent of sound as if in a new world. He loved to play and sometimes he was up long into the night playing his violin until even his toughened fingertips burned.

There was one day left before Axel and Greta would compete in the Concert Hall. Axel was sitting on the floor looking at the covers of his LPs spread out in front of his record player. He had three albums by David Bowie:
Space Oddity
,
Aladdin Sane
, and
Hunky Dory
.

His mother knocked on the door and came in with a bottle of Coca-Cola, two glasses with ice, and lemon slices. Axel was surprised to see her, but he thanked her, got up to take the tray, and set it on the coffee table.

“I thought you were practising,” Alice said as she looked round the room.

“Greta needed to go home and eat.”

“You could still use this time for work.”

“I’m waiting for her to get back.”

“You know that the final is tomorrow,” Alice said as she sat down on the floor next to her son. “I devote myself to practice eight hours a day and sometimes ten.”

“I’m not even awake ten hours a day,” Axel joked.

“Axel, you have the gift.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

“You say yes. But you don’t understand. The gift is not enough. It’s not enough for anyone.”

“Mamma, I practise like crazy,” he lied.

“Play for me,” she requested.

“No,” he said.

“I know you don’t want your mother as a teacher, but let me help you just a little bit now when it really counts,” Alice continued patiently. “The last time I heard you was two years ago at the Christmas concert. No one understood what you’d played.”

“It was Bowie’s ‘Cracked Actor.’?”

“A childish selection … but still a very impressive performance for a fifteen-year-old.” She reached out to touch him. “But, see, tomorrow—”

Axel pulled away from his mother’s hand.

“Stop nagging me.”

“Can you at least tell me which piece you’ve chosen?”

“It’s classical.”

“Thank the Lord for that at least.”

Axel shrugged and avoided his mother’s gaze. When the doorbell rang, he raced down the stairs.