She went into the living room, switching off the camera and putting it on the coffee-table. ‘Have you talked to your children today?’ she asked.
He came into the room, pulling his jacket on. ‘Twice. They’ve been swimming out at Camps Bay.’
‘Your girlfriend,’ Annika said. ‘Who is she?’
He stopped in front of her. ‘Tanya? She’s an analyst at the Institute of International Affairs. Why?’
‘Do you live together?’
His face was in shadow so she couldn’t see his eyes. ‘She hasn’t let go of her flat.’
He radiated warmth, like a stove. She stood where she was, even though she was getting burned. ‘Do you love her?’
He stepped aside to get past her, but she followed him and put a hand on his chest. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to stay.’ She put her other hand against his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble, then took a step closer and kissed him. He was standing completely still, but she could feel how fast his heart was beating. She moved closer to him, laid her cheek against his neck and put her arms round his shoulders.
If he pushed her away now she’d die.
But his hands found the base of her spine and he pulled her towards him with one hand, letting the other slide up under her hair and stop at her neck. His arm was broad and hard across her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him again. This time he responded. He tasted of salt and resin and his teeth were sharp. She caught her breath and met his gaze through the shadows, heavy and dark. He brushed her hair from her face. His fingers were dry and warm. She undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled his jacket off. It landed on top of the video-camera.
‘We shouldn’t,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, we should,’ she said.
If there was one thing she was sure of, it was this. She pulled her top off, undid her bra and let them fall to the floor, then put one hand against his cheek as the other caressed the base of his spine. She felt his hand cup one of her breasts. He squeezed her nipple and her vision went black. Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy from Himmelstalundsvägen in Norrköping, the cousin of Roland who always had a picture of her in his wallet. He pulled her jeans off, laid her on the sofa and caressed her thighs and stomach with hard, warm hands, and when he pushed into her she forced herself to relax and breathe through her mouth to stop herself going to pieces. She let herself be rocked by his rhythm until she couldn’t float any longer and she came, she came and came, until her head was singing and the darkness dissolved and disappeared.
The man was arrested in his home on Byälvsvägen in Bagarmossen at six thirty-two a.m. He had just made himself some porridge, with lingonberry jam and semi-skimmed milk, two open sandwiches, with smoked German salami, and a cup of proper coffee with three sugar-lumps when the police rang the doorbell. The arrest was entirely without drama. The man’s only objection to going with them was that his breakfast would be cold by the time he got back.
It’ll have had time to get more than just cold, Anders Schyman thought, as he put down the printout of the article. The
Evening Post
had done a thorough and systematic job, both with the creation of the serial killer and its coverage of his capture. Schyman had already ordered a new edition of the paper’s print version for the city and surrounding area, but the rest of the country would have to enjoy the details about the sandwiches and sugar-lumps online.
He picked up the printout of the picture on the front page: Gustaf Holmerud, forty-eight, being led away by six uniformed and heavily armed police officers. The expression on the serial killer’s face could almost be described as one of surprise. The police officers’ clenched jaws were more likely their response to the
Evening Post
’s photographer than any danger posed by the arrested suspect.
Schyman hadn’t hesitated. They had printed the man’s name, age, where he lived, and complete details about his insignificant life and career (abandoned secondary-school education, back problems, incapacity benefit). Obviously there would be a debate about that as well, that they were identifying someone who hadn’t been convicted, but he could give the counter-argument in his sleep.
If they weren’t allowed to name criminals until they had been found definitively guilty in the eyes of the law, then to this day no one would know the name of the man who had been found guilty in the district court of the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme. Anders Schyman could see Christer Pettersson’s furrowed face before him: the old alcoholic was later released by the Court of Appeal and never served his sentence.
Besides, technological developments had outstripped the established and more responsible media: accusations, rumours and bare-faced lies spread like wildfire across the internet just minutes after people were arrested and taken into custody. At least the
Evening Post
checked its sources before going to print, and there was a publisher who could be held legally accountable for any errors – himself. And the newspaper had been careful to point out several times that the man was still only a suspect.
He examined the (suspected) serial killer’s face and remembered his conversation with the mother of the murdered Lena.
It was Gustaf … He’s been stalking her ever since she finished with him …
He leaned back cautiously in his new office chair. The company nurse had said he could remove the big bandage that afternoon and replace it with a compress. His head still hurt, and he didn’t usually suffer from headaches. He put his hand to the wound and thought he could feel the knots of the stitches beneath the bandage.
His eyes fell on the description of the man who had been seen walking away from the edge of the forest in Sätra: about 1.75 metres tall, average build, dark blond hair, clean-shaven, dark jacket and trousers. If he was honest, that description could apply to something like 80 per cent of all middle-aged men in Sweden. The notion that the paper might be heading into choppy waters drifted into his aching head, stayed long enough for him to dismiss it, then swirled away. The police investigated. The media observed and dramatized.
And while he waited for something to happen in the kidnap story in East Africa he picked up the letter he had written to the board and read the opening once more: ‘I hereby tender my resignation from my position as editor-in-chief of the
Evening Post
newspaper.’
* * *
She was woken by the pale light of dawn and knew at once that they had overslept. Kenya was two hours ahead of Sweden, and anything could have happened during the morning.
It was definitely too late for something, but she didn’t know what.
Her body was still heavy and warm under the duvet. She turned her head and found herself staring at the shock of brown hair on the pillow beside her. She reached out her hand and ran her fingers through it, strangely soft, like a small child’s.
Too late, or possibly far too early. She didn’t know.
She curled up next to him, twining her legs round his and stroking his shoulder. He woke up and kissed her. They lay there quite still, just looking at each other.
‘It’s eight o’clock,’ she whispered.
He pulled her to him, tight, and with a gasp she felt him slip inside her again. She came almost immediately, but it took longer for him – she felt him grow and met his movements until his shoulders tensed and he gasped.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate for a piss.’
She laughed, perhaps out of embarrassment.
They had breakfast together at the kitchen table, yoghurt with walnuts, and fruit-bread with liver pâté, coffee and blood-orange juice. He’d put his jeans and shirt on, but hadn’t buttoned it, and was reading
Dagens Nyheter
as he fumbled for his mug of coffee and dropped crumbs on the floor.
She looked down at her yoghurt. It all felt so fragile, like glass: she didn’t dare touch it because it might break – his hair in the morning light, the hardness of his chest, his total concentration on the editorial, the fact that he was there, that he had held her so close.
He folded the paper and put it on the windowsill. ‘I’d better start things up.’
He stood up and walked past her without touching her.
She took a long shower. Her body felt bigger than before, slower somehow. The drops of water hit her skin like pins.
She took the opportunity to clean the bathroom, scrubbing the vomit stains from the toilet, polishing the mirror, wiping the basin and tiled floor. She could hear Halenius talking English on his mobile.
She got dressed, a clean pair of pale blue jeans and a silk blouse. Halenius ended one call and made another. She went into the children’s room and carried on clearing out their wardrobes.
At ten past nine the landline rang and her heart stopped.
She flew into the bedroom, slipping past Halenius to the unmade bed. His movements were focused and jerky, starting the recording equipment, checking keywords, notes and pens, shutting his eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths. Then he picked up the phone.
‘Hello? Yes, this is Jimmy.’
His lips were bloodless, and his eyes haunted.
‘Yes, we received the message about the hand.’
He fell silent. His shoulders were so tense they seemed to be made of wood.
‘Yes, I know we have to pay, that’s—’
He was interrupted and sat in silence for a few moments. She could hear the kidnapper’s squeaky voice rattling from the receiver.
‘She’s managed to get a ransom together, but it isn’t—’
Another silence.
‘I understand what you’re saying,’ Halenius said, ‘but you have to try to see it from her perspective. She’s scraped together every penny of the insurance money, and borrowed all she can from her family and friends, and now there isn’t any more.’
Silence again, chatter.
‘First we want proof of life … Yes, that’s an absolute condition.’
She noticed that sweat had broken out on his forehead. She hadn’t grasped until now how demanding and unpleasant he found these conversations. She felt a huge, uncontrollable wave of tenderness: he didn’t have to do this but he was doing it anyway. How could she ever repay him?
‘You’ve chopped his hand off. How do I know you haven’t chopped his head off as well?’
Halenius’s voice was neutral, but his fingers were shaking. She heard the kidnapper laugh loudly, then say something in reply.
Halenius looked up at her. ‘Her email? Now?’
He nodded to her, then to his computer. She slid across the mattress towards the desk, turned his computer towards her and logged into the newspaper’s email server, then pressed ‘send/collect’.
Four messages landed in her inbox. The one at the top said
sender unknown
. She felt her pulse quicken as she clicked to open it.
‘It’s empty,’ she whispered.
‘Empty? But …’
‘Hang on, there’s an attachment.’
‘Download it,’ he said quietly.
It was a picture, dark and out of focus. Thomas was lying on his back on something dark, his head was turned to one side showing his chiselled profile, his eyes were closed as if he were asleep. Annika was filled with relief and warmth, and a pang of guilt drifted through her. Then she saw the stump. Where his left hand should have been, his lower arm now seemed to merge with the floor. She pulled back instinctively from the computer.
‘That’s not proof of life,’ Halenius said into the phone. ‘He looks stone-dead.’
The kidnapper laughed, loud and long. His high-pitched twittering seeped into her bedroom. She got up and opened the window to get rid of it.
It was cold outside, but not freezing. Hesitant snowflakes hung on the air, unsure whether to fall or fly. It was darker now than when she had woken up. She turned round, and the cold embraced her from behind.
Halenius was listening intently, leaning forward. ‘She’s managed to scrape together one million, one hundred thousand dollars. That’s right, one point one million.’
Silence. Even the kidnapper seemed to be waiting at the other end.
Then he said something, a light crackle.
Halenius was waiting with his mouth open. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘Stockholm is close to the North Pole and Nairobi is right on the equator … No, we can’t hand over the money today. We … No, we … Yes, we can fly to Nairobi as soon as possible, perhaps this evening … My mobile number?’
He read it out, the kidnapper said something, and the conversation ended. Annika heard the click as he hung up.
‘We’ve got twenty-four hours,’ Halenius said, putting the phone down.
He led her to the sofa, then sat on the armchair facing her and took her hands in his. ‘This is going to be a trial,’ he said.
She nodded, as if she understood.
‘He accepted my offer of one point one million dollars. He wanted the money in Nairobi in two hours, which he knew we wouldn’t be able to do.’
‘Why one point one?’ she asked.
‘It shows that you’ve really tried, that there’s no more to be had. He’s going to be in touch during the day, I don’t know how, with instructions on how to hand over the money.’
She pulled her hands back, but he caught them. ‘We have to fly to Nairobi, this evening at the latest. Can you sort out tickets?’
She nodded again. ‘Sit down next to me,’ she said.
He sat beside her on the sofa, but didn’t touch her.
‘Do you think he’s alive?’
Halenius scratched his head. ‘According to the handbook, he ought to be, because otherwise the kidnappers wouldn’t have sent that picture. But with this man I just don’t know. The Frenchman’s wife paid up even though her husband was dead, so they managed to deceive her.’
‘What happens now?’
He thought for a few moments. ‘According to the rulebook? Commercial kidnappings usually have one of six distinct outcomes. The first is that the hostage dies before the money is paid.’
‘That sounds like poor business,’ Annika said.
‘True. The hostage might have died trying to escape, or in a rescue attempt, or from a heart attack or some other illness. Sometimes kidnap victims have starved to death. The second scenario is that the ransom gets paid but the hostage is still killed.’