The Man Who Watched Women (12 page)

‘Children?'

‘First one on the way.'

‘How lovely. Boy or girl?'

‘We don't know.'

‘So it's going to be a surprise.'

‘Yes.'

‘I've never killed a pregnant woman.'

Haraldsson suddenly felt a little unsure of himself. So far things had gone well. An initial contact, a chat about this and that, getting Hinde to lower his guard before gradually leading the conversation to Riksmord. But Hinde's last comment had confused Haraldsson, and frightened him a little. Was Hinde saying that he couldn't imagine killing a pregnant woman, that this would be a step too far even for him, or was he saying that he'd just never had the opportunity? Haraldsson felt himself shudder. He really didn't want to know. Time to steer things in the direction he wanted.

‘Riksmord want to talk to you,' he said, keeping his tone of voice as normal and noncommittal as possible.

There.

The real point of this visit.

For the first time Edward looked genuinely interested. He straightened up in his chair, and his gaze was alert. Penetrating.

‘Are they here now?'

‘No, but they'll be here in a day or two.'

‘What do they want?'

‘They didn't say. Any ideas?'

Hinde ignored the question. ‘They want to talk to me.'

‘Yes. Why do you think that might be?'

‘Who's coming?'

‘Their names are Vanja Lithner and Billy Rosén.'

‘And they're happy for me to know all this?'

Haraldsson was taken aback; he hesitated, thought about it. Maybe not … His plan had been to tell Hinde that Riksmord were on their way in the hope that Hinde would reveal why they were interested in him. If he knew. So that Haraldsson could be of some help to Riksmord. Once a cop, always a cop. But now he had the feeling that things hadn't quite gone according to plan. Still, there was no need for Riksmord to find out about that.

‘I'm not actually sure,' he replied, looking serious. ‘I thought you had the right to know, but perhaps you don't need to mention it to them when they turn up. I mean, it's not necessary to tell them you knew they were coming. That I told you. After all, you know what cops can be like.' He ended with a broad smile, an us-against-them smile, as if they faced a common enemy.

Edward smiled back. He'd smiled more in the last few minutes than in the past fourteen years. ‘Yes, I know exactly what cops can be like. Don't worry, I won't say a word.'

‘Thanks.'

‘But you owe me a favour.'

Haraldsson couldn't work out whether the shackled man was joking or not. He was still smiling, but something in his eyes suggested that he was deadly serious. Haraldsson shuddered again, unable to hide it this time, and got to his feet.

‘I must go … Nice to meet you.'

‘And you.'

Haraldsson walked over to the door and knocked. He glanced back at Hinde, who was once again gazing at the window. After a few seconds the door was opened from the outside, and Haraldsson left the impersonal visiting room with the feeling that Hinde had got more out of the conversation than he had. Not a good thing, perhaps. But not a disaster either, he persuaded himself. Riksmord would never know that they had spoken.

He would go and buy some ice cream and rent a DVD.

Hinde wouldn't be a problem.

At first Trolle refused to open the door. Sebastian could hear him moving around inside the apartment, but he had to ring the doorbell for more than five minutes before his former colleague eventually opened the door a crack. A bloodshot eye stared out through the narrow gap. The apartment behind the face was dark, and it was difficult to make out any details. A stuffy, dusty smell combined with old rubbish drifted past Trolle and out into the stairwell.

‘What do you want?'

‘Were you asleep?'

‘No. What do you want?'

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘I'm busy.'

Trolle made a big show of trying to close the door, but Sebastian managed to insert the toe of his shoe in the gap just in time. It occurred to him that he had never done this before, tried to stop a door from shutting by using his foot. He had seen it in films hundreds of times, but had never done it himself. Oh well, there was a first time for everything.

‘You're going to like what I have to say.' Sebastian paused briefly before deciding to sweeten the bait a little more. ‘I've got money.'

The gap widened a fraction, and the light from the stairwell illuminated Trolle's face. He really had aged. He had to be just under sixty, but he looked ten years older. His hair was uncombed and peppered with grey, he was unshaven, skinny, and gave off an acrid stench of tobacco and alcohol. Trolle had always drunk, even when he was working, and now, fifteen years later, with neither a job nor a family, alcohol seemed to be his only companion. He was dressed in a scruffy white T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His feet were bare, his toenails yellow, gnarled and too long. He hadn't just aged. He had fallen into a decline.

‘I don't care about money.'

‘Maybe not, but it does no harm to have a little bit.'

‘So how much have you got, then?'

Sebastian dug out his wallet and showed Trolle all the money he had: a few hundred-kronor notes and a twenty.

‘I don't do it for the money,' Trolle proclaimed as soon as the notes were in his hand.

‘I know that.' Sebastian nodded. Unless Trolle had changed completely over the past few years, this was true. He didn't do anything for the money. Admittedly he had never said no to a bit of extra cash on the side, not even when he was a police officer, but the remuneration had never been his driving force.

That had been the pleasure of messing with people's lives.

Ruining things for them.

Planning, waiting, gathering information, directing the course of the action and then finally making their lives hell.

That was Trolle's real driving force. The money was just a bonus.

‘Can I come in?' Sebastian asked, putting his wallet away.

‘So you've changed your mind?' Trolle cackled, his laughter echoing in the stairwell, but he still didn't open the door. Instead he pressed his face against the gap so that it filled the space. ‘You need old Trolle after all …'

Sebastian nodded and leaned forward so that the conversation could be conducted with a little more discretion.

‘Yes, but I don't want to discuss it here.'

‘You never used to be shy. You can stay right where you are.' Trolle fired off a broad, almost challenging wolfish grin. Sebastian looked at him wearily. Trolle had always been difficult, but the years and the alcohol appeared to have made him even worse. For a brief, terrifying second Sebastian saw himself standing there in the doorway. If he had carried on drinking. If he had chosen the mind-numbing drugs, the ones he had tried the year after the tsunami. If he hadn't had Stefan. If he hadn't found Vanja. Suddenly everything became much more important. He was only four ‘ifs' away from being Trolle Hermansson. A man who had nothing left to lose.

‘I want you to go all the way. Find out whatever you can. About the whole family, including the mother. Her name is Anna Eriksson …'

‘I know what her name is,' Trolle interrupted. He took a deep and slightly rattling breath and ran his hand over the stubble on his chin as he appeared to consider Sebastian's offer. ‘Okay. But in that case you have to tell me why.'

‘Why what?' Sebastian suspected that he knew the answer, but hoped he was wrong.

‘What's so special about this family? Why are you following the daughter? She's a bit young, isn't she – even for you?'

‘You wouldn't believe me.'

‘Try me.'

‘No!'

Trolle met Sebastian's determined gaze and realised this was non-negotiable. Oh well, with a bit of luck he would be able to work it out along the way.

‘I used to like you, Sebastian. I was probably the only one who did. When you rang I said yes because I used to like you.' Trolle fixed his bloodshot eyes on Sebastian with what could be interpreted as a hurt, pleading look. ‘Friends tell each other things.'

‘You didn't say yes because it was me. You said yes because you thought you might be able to fuck things up for somebody. Because you get a kick out of doing that. I know you, Trolle, so don't even try. Are you going to do it, or not?'

Trolle laughed out loud, more naturally this time.

‘You don't like me. You're here because you haven't got anyone else.'

‘Same applies to you.'

The two men looked at one another in silence. Then Trolle held out his hand to Sebastian, who took it after a moment's hesitation. It was damp. Cold. But the grip was firm. Strong.

‘Even if I don't do it for the money, I don't work for free.'

‘How much do you want?'

‘A thousand. You can have a discount because you're such a loser.'

With that Trolle slammed the door shut. His voice came from inside the apartment: ‘Call me in a few days.'

Sebastian turned and slowly walked down the two flights of stairs.

Annette Willén loved these evenings. She began to prepare herself mentally as early as three o'clock. Always the same routine. First a long hot shower; she washed her hair, and scrubbed her body with that apricot-scented exfoliating soap she had bought from The Body Shop. Then she allowed herself to dry naturally for a little while in the warm bathroom before applying body lotion to her slightly damp skin. She had read somewhere that this locked in the moisture and had a deeper softening effect. Then she put on her dressing gown and wandered barefoot into the combined living room and bedroom. She could have moved into the apartment's only real bedroom, but it was her son's, and even though he had moved out, she didn't want to make it hers. The room was her last hope that he might come back one day.

Need it again.

Need her again.

Moving his things would make his departure all too definitive and real.

Annette opened the wardrobe and began carefully removing blouses, skirts, dresses and trousers. Once she had even taken out the suit she had bought for that interview she didn't attend. But it stood out like an overdressed and under-confident dinner guest, and after its brief guest appearance long ago, it was always left hanging there alone. She placed the various items of clothing on the bed, and when there was no more room she used the three-seater sofa or the coffee table. Then she positioned herself in the middle of the room and drank in the different colours, styles and fabrics spread out all around her. She was in control. She might be insignificant out there, beyond the confines of the apartment, but here and now she was the one in charge. It was her life that lay in front of her, the life she would soon begin to taste hungrily, to try out.

When she felt ready she went into the hallway, lifted down the mirror, carried it into the living room and propped it up against the wall. Took a couple of steps backwards and looked at herself as she stood there, freshly showered, wearing the pink, slightly too short dressing gown her son had given her on her fortieth birthday. Every time, she was struck by how old she had become. It wasn't just her hair that had grown thinner and duller, it was her entire self. She had given up standing naked in front of the mirror a long time ago. It was too depressing to see herself as time's depredations became too obvious. She wasn't ashamed of her body. She had always had womanly curves, and she had never had a problem with her weight. No, she was still petite; she had good legs, and her breasts were still firm and rounded, but there was something about the way her skin grew paler and less elastic with each passing year. As if it were slowly shrinking, like a peach that has been left in the sun for a little too long, regardless of how many exfoliating, anti-ageing and anti-wrinkle products she used. It frightened her, particularly as she knew that time had barely begun its journey with her. It had much left to do, and one day she would stand there unable to recognise herself. And just when she was about to start living.

Properly. For real.

She started trying on clothes in order to escape from her thoughts. Who did she want to be today?

She could be the carefree girl in jeans with an oversized top, or the artistic type in the short black dress made of slightly too daring lace. Annette loved being that girl, particularly when she was brave enough to wear the darker lipstick. She thought the woman in black would be fantastic if only she had the courage to dye her hair black, but she couldn't do it. And the outfit kind of demanded it. So off it came as usual, to be replaced by the more sedate, businesslike white blouse with the dark skirt. She too was a woman Annette felt comfortable with. Timeless in a way she longed to achieve. But she also demanded too much. Too much hair. A better figure. Better posture. Better everything. In a while, perhaps. Soon. Clothes came off and went on. Annette loved meeting the different identities that had been waiting for her inside the dark recesses of the wardrobe. Women stepped forward in the mirror. New women, better women, exciting women. Never Annette. Always someone else. That was the problem. However much she loved meeting those women standing in front of her, she never dared allow them to take that step out of the mirror. The certainty and the game were gradually replaced by fear and second thoughts. Her choices became more limited, more cowardly. The routine took up half the day, and as usual she went from being overdressed and colourful to diminishing herself and her clothing.

In the end she finished up with the three choices that always remained.

The black blouse. The white blouse. Or the polo-neck sweater.

Always with jeans.

Stefan knew exactly where to look for Sebastian. Outside the police station or Vanja's apartment were the two locations that constantly recurred in their discussion, so he decided to start there. It was after eight, so the police station seemed less likely. A quick call to directory enquiries gave Vanja Lithner's address as Sandhamnsgatan 44, and Stefan allowed the car's sat nav to guide him there. He was running out of time. The group session was due to start at nine, and he was actually going against his own principles at this point. The whole thing was supposed to be based on free will. The person in question should choose to participate. That was important. But Sebastian was different. It was as if the knowledge almost stood in his way. As if he deliberately made the wrong decisions. Stefan had come across this kind of patient before. Usually he had been forced to give up. Let them go. But Sebastian was his friend, in some way. However complex their relationship might be. And if Stefan let him go, who else would try to catch Sebastian when he was in freefall?