‘Where are you searching?’
‘Why?’ Vanja took her eyes off the screen and looked up at him. ‘Do you want to help?’
Billy hesitated. This was a new situation. Vanja wasn’t asking for help. She was asking if he wanted to help. Billy went for the safe option and came back with a question of his own. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No.’
Vanja went back to the computer and started tapping away. Billy stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. She was in a bad mood, there was no doubt about that. Because of him, presumably. With a certain amount of justification. Should he just let it go, hope it would pass? He decided he would be a little nicer than usual to Vanja today. He didn’t like it when they fell out.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ A little puff on the pipe of peace couldn’t do any harm, surely.
‘I’ve got some, thank you.’ She pointed to her cappuccino.
Billy nodded to himself. He should have noticed. One more peace offering left. An outstretched hand that he knew she would take.
‘Her name is Maya.’
‘Whose name is Maya?’
‘The girl. The theatre girl . . . My girlfriend.’
Vanja looked up as if she was expecting more. Billy had nothing to add. He had been prepared for a battery of questions. He had decided to answer them all, except for mentioning what Maya did. After yesterday’s telephone conversation Vanja would immediately put two and two together, and that would be it for Maya. Shit, when did everything get so difficult? Vanja was still looking at him encouragingly. He was beginning to feel a bit stupid. As if he had said it as some kind of boast.
‘It’s just . . . I just thought you might want to know . . .’
‘Okay.’ Vanja went back to her computer. Not interested in his girlfriends. She really was in a foul mood. Perhaps he wasn’t the only reason after all.
‘Right, well, I’m going for a quick shower.’
‘Okay.’
Billy stood there for a couple of seconds, then left the office.
It was going to be a hard day.
Edward was sitting in the library.
For a comparatively small institution, Lövhaga had a big library. There were probably a number of reasons for this. The high level of supervision required by the inmates. The desire to strengthen the patients’ intellectual development, to make them grow as people. The belief that books and knowledge would make them better in some magical way. And of course the thing that lay behind most human buildings: self-interest. The more impressive the library, the more inmates who regularly spent time in there improving themselves, the higher the grade the institution was able to achieve in internal reports. The logic was depressingly simple: an impressive library equals expert and proactive leadership.
Hinde had witnessed the results of such logic after the great cleaning riot. A few months later the library was extended significantly, and acquired an upper floor where the emphasis was on the humanities. As if future riots among inmates from the former Yugoslavia who were suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome and had been convicted of repeated crimes of violence could be prevented by the acquisition of
The History of the Renaissance
in twelve volumes, or writings on philosophy and the history of ideas.
There was a range of both non-fiction and novels, but you had to search hard to find the real treasure. It had taken Edward quite some time, but now he was sitting upstairs as usual reading one of his favourite books. It was a detailed account of Napoleon’s march across the Italian Alps in 1797. At the time Napoleon had just been made a general and had been dispatched with all haste to defend France’s allies against the Habsburg dynasty. It was during these glorious battles that he demonstrated the strategic skill that would take him all the way to the heart of history. Edward had read the book many times before, but not for the descriptions of the troops, the battles, the problems with provisions or the politics behind it all. No, in the middle of the book there was a chapter which was intended to give a deeper insight into Napoleon as a person, and which mainly concerned his relationship with his mother, Letizia Bonaparte.
A strong mother.
A domineering mother.
Hinde felt he had discovered Napoleon’s secret in this chapter. He could see the little boy who wanted to achieve so much for one reason, and one reason alone: Letizia. She must have been a difficult woman to deal with.
Edward left Letizia for a moment and looked around. He knew it was two or three minutes past twelve, and there would soon be a shift change in the library. The guard on the upper floor went down to the small reception desk right next to the entrance on the ground floor; he would leave the library with his colleague as soon as their relief arrived. Their replacement always arrived alone, and stayed downstairs, which was larger and busier. When the second guard arrived ten minutes later, one of them would come upstairs.
Hinde put down the book. Carefully moved his chair closer to the railing so that he could get as clear a view as possible of what was happening down below.
As usual Hinde was alone on the upper floor. The other inmates no longer went up there, at least not while Edward was around. They obediently remained downstairs. That was the way things had been for a long time, and sometimes it felt as if the management had spent millions and built the entire upper floor for the use of just one person.
A wonderful feeling.
It had taken a few weeks of intensive effort after the ostentatious opening before the others fully grasped the unwritten rules. At that time Edward had been helped significantly by his well-built friend Roland Johansson; he missed having Roland by his side. Roland had a unique ability to persuade others. He was completely unafraid, and was never held back by banalities such as empathy or compassion. At the same time he had displayed something of a soldier’s loyalty towards Edward, and had always been there, silently supportive. Roland didn’t say much, but Edward had gently worked on him until he found the way in via his childhood and the series of betrayals that had shaped him. Alcoholic parents. One foster home after another. Disruption and insecurity. An early acquaintance with crime and drugs. The usual sordid mess that applied to ninety per cent of those he was so unhappily forced to live with at the moment. But the difference between Roland and the others was that Roland was intelligent. Extremely intelligent. Hinde had sensed this almost at once, and had tested his IQ with the help of one of the books in the library. Roland scored 172 on the Stanford-Binet scale: 0.0001 per cent of the population came out at higher than 176. Hinde had double-checked using the Wechsler scale, and got roughly the same result. Roland Johansson was unique, and to Edward he was a godsend. A forgotten, gifted boy tempered to steel by a hard life and by people who constantly let him down. Someone who had never been seen for what he really was. Until he met Edward. Mental stimulation replaced the chemical variety, and Edward began coaching him for his future role. Following his release, Roland had kept a low profile. No crime, no drugs. He had waited for the signal. Edward’s treatment had been more effective than twenty years of society’s inept efforts. He gave Roland an identity, a belief in himself. That was better than all the books in the world, however many volumes they came in. Edward was pleased to have such a loyal henchman on the outside, but he missed him in here, partly because their friendship had become important to him, and partly because his position of power in Lövhaga had been weakened without Roland. Instead, Edward had been forced to lean on Igor, the triple murderer. Igor was at least as effective when it came to muscle, but unfortunately he was bipolar, which meant he was unreliable.
Edward saw the relief guard enter the library downstairs; slightly later today, but within the margin of error. He stopped and exchanged a few words with his colleagues. All three of them laughed at something, then with a farewell pat on the shoulder the other two went for lunch. In the doorway they met a cleaner in blue overalls pushing his trolley along, on his way into the library. They nodded to him. The cleaner nodded back. Ralph. Dead on time. As always. Edward saw Ralph pause for a brief chat with the guard who had just settled down behind the desk. Then Hinde slipped over to the lift. He stayed behind the bookshelves to make it look as if he was searching for a particular book, but the guard downstairs took no notice of him. Fourteen years without incident had made them feel safe. Spoiled.
‘I’ll make a start upstairs,’ he heard Ralph say.
‘Start wherever you like,’ the guard replied calmly.
Hinde heard Ralph quickly push his trolley towards the lift and press the button. The doors opened immediately and Ralph got in with his trolley.
They would have approximately nine minutes before the second guard arrived and one of them came upstairs. They very rarely met in this way; it was only in exceptional cases, if they really needed to talk about something. When the internet wouldn’t do. It was a security measure which Edward had introduced. It was of the utmost importance that their meetings didn’t become too regular. They must never follow a pattern that the guards might notice, arousing their suspicions. But today they needed to talk. Ralph had sent a worrying message via fygorh.se. Someone was on to them. A man was dead. A man Hinde knew, at least if the driving licence Ralph had found on him was correct.
Trolle Hermansson.
One of the police officers in that stuffy interview room. An inspector in those days. The most aggressive of the three he saw most often during the intense interrogation.
Not a police officer any longer.
So what was he doing outside Anna Eriksson’s apartment?
It must have something to do with Sebastian. It had been Sebastian, Trolle and Torkel Höglund in the interview room back then. Sometimes they took it in turns. But it was always one of those three. And now one of them was dead. The one who wasn’t a police officer any longer. It must have something to do with Sebastian Bergman. He was the only one who would involve an old ally. He must have been doing his own thing. If the rest of Riksmord had known of Ralph’s existence, they would have sent in the special operations unit. Not an old ex-copper. An old ex-copper all by himself.
Edward positioned himself by the bookshelf closest to the lift. Ralph wheeled out his trolley and placed it in front of the lift doors to prevent them from closing. Then he picked up a brush and went over to the other side of the shelf, opposite Edward. He made a few brisk movements with the brush. He was whispering, but could barely hide his agitation.
‘I put the body in the boot like you said.’
‘Good.’
‘The car is out in Ulvsunda, on the industrial estate. Bryggerivägen. But I can’t work out how he found me.’
Edward shifted two books so that he could look at his disciple. He gazed at him steadily. ‘You must have been careless. Someone followed you.’
Ralph nodded, ashamed of himself. Looked down at the ground.
Hinde went on: ‘Anna Eriksson? What happened to her?’
‘She’s gone.’
Edward shook his head. ‘She was to be the next one, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘What have I always said? Planning. Patience. Determination. Anything else leads to carelessness and defeat. We’re losing right now – you do understand that?’
Ralph didn’t dare look at him. He was so ashamed. The strength he had felt when he touched the newspaper cuttings ebbed away. ‘But why weren’t the police there?’ he asked quietly. ‘I don’t understand. Why some old man?’
‘Because the police don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps someone suspected that you might strike. In that particular spot. But not the police.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Sebastian Bergman?’
Edward nodded. ‘It has to be him. But for some reason he didn’t want to tell his colleagues that Anna Eriksson could be the next victim. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I. Not yet. But we have to find out.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’ Ralph dared to look up at the Master, who met his eyes with an expression of utter contempt.
‘Of course you don’t. But think. You said he’d been following her. For a long time.’
‘Who?’ Ralph was confused.
‘Vanja Lithner. Anna Eriksson’s daughter.’ Edward paused. Ralph still didn’t get it. Obviously. Idiot. But Edward was beginning to understand more and more. The solution to the mystery lay with Vanja. The blonde woman whose breasts he wanted to touch. He hadn’t attached much importance to her visit to Lövhaga the other day. But then he found out that Sebastian had been following her. Why? Why had he been following an officer from Riksmord for weeks, months, before he was brought into the investigation? It had to be relevant. The feeling that it was significant grew stronger when he thought back to the events in the visitors’ room. Sebastian had felt the need to protect her. That wasn’t like Sebastian Bergman. As a general rule he kept his relationships with other people to a minimum. He just didn’t care about them. But he cared about Vanja. Why? Edward had to start digging, exploring. Probing.
Ralph was standing there in silence, looking around nervously.
‘No problem, there’s plenty of time.’ Edward gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I want you to go home and check up on the whole family. When did Anna meet Valdemar? When was Vanja born? I want to know everything. Her friends. Where she went to university. Everything.’
Ralph nodded. He still didn’t really understand, but he was relieved that Edward was no longer exuding contempt.
‘Okay.’
‘Today. Now. Tell them you don’t feel well, and go home.’
Ralph nodded eagerly; he had been so afraid that his failure would mean the end for him. That what he had begun would simply disappear. Come crashing down. It would be the worst thing that could possibly happen. Because he had tasted it. Real life.
‘Then will you give me the next one?’ suddenly came flying out of his mouth.
The unexpected question annoyed Edward. Had he already lost control of the worm standing in front of him? He had given this pathetic weirdo everything. Created him. And now he was standing there trying to negotiate. He would show him. But not yet. He needed him at the moment. Until he knew. Until he was sure. So he smiled warmly instead. ‘You’re so important to me, Ralph. I need you. You can have another if you want. Just as long as you sort this out first.’