The Disciple (38 page)

Yvonne just nodded. For a moment Torkel thought he would like to go into things a little more deeply. Tell her how lonely he sometimes felt. How much he wanted what he had with Ursula to become something more. There weren’t many people he could talk to about this. No one, in fact. But the moment had passed. Yvonne changed the subject and they chatted for a little while longer about everyday matters and the forthcoming trip. Torkel finished his beer. After quarter of an hour he got up, said goodbye to the girls and wished them all a good trip, then set off home.

It was still hot outside even though it was after ten o’clock at night. Torkel enjoyed the walk home to his empty apartment. He took his time. Wondered whether to slip in and have another beer somewhere on the way. Delay his return home. He was lost in his own thoughts when a door suddenly opened out onto the pavement, and he almost crashed into the person who emerged. A person he recognised.

‘Micke! Hi.’

‘Hi. Hello. Hi . . .’ Micke looked surprised. His eyes were darting from side to side, as if he couldn’t quite place the man in front of him, in spite of the fact that he had met Torkel on a number of occasions.

‘So, you’ve found your way to Söder,’ Torkel said in an attempt at humour.

‘I’ve been visiting a friend.’ Micke nodded at the door which had just closed behind him. ‘Watching the match.’

‘Oh yes, which match was that?’

‘Er, it was some . . . I don’t really know, we weren’t paying all that much attention.’

‘Right.’

Silence. Micke was trying to look past Torkel. Anywhere but at him.

‘Well, I’d better be getting home.’

‘Okay. Say hello to Ursula from me.’

‘Will do. Bye.’

Micke walked away. Torkel watched him go; was it his imagination or had Micke seemed a bit strained? He felt his stomach contract.

Did Micke know?

Did he know that Torkel was sleeping with his wife? In that case surely he would have confronted him, Torkel thought. Been furious. Or at least overtly unfriendly. He had seemed uncomfortable more than anything. There must have been another reason why Micke was in such a hurry to get away from him. It had nothing to do with him and Ursula. Convinced he was right, Torkel continued on his way. There was a restaurant on the corner, and the tables outside were busy. He would have that other beer. Maybe something to eat as well. He wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else. After all, no one was waiting for him.

As always Edward worked until one o’clock in the morning. That was his routine. It gave him four whole hours. Two hundred and forty minutes of pure, undisturbed time to himself. The silence in his cell was liberating. The only sound was the hum of his laptop, an older model with a fairly loud little fan, but it had been approved by the powers that be because it had neither a modem nor wi-fi. It was incapable of communicating with the outside world. Was. Imperfect tense. A good idea that had been set out in the policy document relating to the supervision of criminals, but one that had become redundant the day mobile broadband became available everywhere in the form of a small oval plastic device complete with a pay-as-you-go card and a USB port. A twelve-digit code, and suddenly the whole world was accessible.

The day the modem was smuggled in to Edward and he connected with the outside world for the first time was the best day of his life, or at least the best since he had been locked up in Lövhaga. Before he was deprived of his freedom there had been many happy hours. But that was in another era. Before this one. Edward divided his life into before and after. It was a good way of looking at his existence. Before and after the key changes that affect every life.

Before and after Mother.

Before and after Sebastian Bergman.

Before and after Lövhaga.

Before and after the modem.

Once he got the modem, those two hundred and forty minutes each night became extremely productive and enriching. He only used it after lock-up, and then not all the time. Out of habit he always logged on between 21.00 and 01.00. During that period the risk of a sudden cell check was negligible. Hinde just couldn’t understand why this was allowed to happen. The rules actually stated that all unannounced cell inspections should be irregular, unexpected and impossible to predict. And yet they never took place between 21.00 and 06.00. Or at least they hadn’t for the last six years. The reason for this idiotic course of action, he quickly worked out, was the same budget cuts that had led to an earlier lock-up. It used to be 21.00, now it was 19.00. The number of day staff had been cut; there were more of them, and they used to work through until nine o’clock in the evening. Now the night staff came on duty at seven. In order to save even more money, the number of night staff, which was already smaller, had been reduced, which meant that surprise inspections were effectively out of the question. Until the day when some sensible individual spotted this anomaly and reorganised the rota or increased the number of night staff, the situation would remain the same.

Each night he hid the small piece of plastic in the air vent behind his bed. He had managed to unscrew the grille with the handle of a coffee spoon. Using that same spoon he had spent many a long night before the arrival of the modem chipping out a little space inside the vent, in the brick wall just to the left of the opening. Then he had transformed the space into a secret compartment by fashioning a slim cover to match the rest of the bricks, which he could place in front of it. So even if someone opened the air vent, against all expectation, there was nothing to see.

These days it took him on average two minutes to get out his beloved little white modem. This evening it was slightly quicker, because he was feeling so inspired. He connected to the internet and as usual began on what had been his start page for a long time.

fygorh.se.

New material awaited him. He really did love the internet. You could find anything there if you really wanted to. If you knew what or who you were looking for. If you had two hundred and forty minutes every day.

Every week.

Every year.

Outside darkness was falling, but the apartment was filled with light. When Ralph got home from work he had meticulously followed the ritual, and now every light was switched on. He had reported on the evening’s activities, and was now sitting at the big white table in the sparsely furnished living room. The only thing in front of him was the black folder. He had started sorting out his press cuttings once again. He worked calmly and methodically. He was simultaneously exalted and exasperated by his needs. He loved to feel the power of the bold headlines, the appeal of the black and white pictures, but at the same time he was irritated by the fact that they seemed to have an adverse effect on his discipline, to a certain extent. He didn’t usually behave like a child in a sweet shop. He had spent a long time learning to suppress his needs and urges, but the internal pressure was immense. He blamed the fact that he had not yet found the optimum filing system. The perfect ritual.

Cut out, gather up, place the remainder of the newspapers in the recycling sack; that part was quite satisfactory. But the rest – into the envelope, into the drawer – had its flaws. He would have to modify it. Improve it.

He wanted to see them, hold them, touch them.

He had bought a folder. At first he had thought of filing everything purely in date order; each day would have its own pocket. But eventually he had decided that each newspaper should have its own separate section, so that it would be easier to follow the course of events from the point of view of a particular publication. But there was something missing. Something wasn’t right. Tonight he was reorganising the material once more, this time according to size. Full-page spreads first, then three-quarter pages and so on in descending order. He discovered to his delight that there was nothing smaller than a quarter-page. It was clear that he was a major news story.

That he meant something.

That he was being noticed.

He was happy with the new system; it felt right. He closed the folder and got to his feet. It was filling up. More and more newspapers were writing more and more extensive articles. Tomorrow he would buy another folder. Or possibly two. Definitely something more upmarket. It was no longer appropriate to keep his collection of cuttings in ordinary, cheap folders. He needed to upgrade. Demonstrate its value to himself and to the Master.

Be proud.

He went into the bathroom to make his preparations for the night. Flipped over the little timer that was fixed to the wall. He had found it in a little antique shop in the Söder district of the city. The timer itself was attached to a blue piece of wood, and above it were the words: ‘For two whole minutes the sand will run – brush every tooth, and then you’re done!’ The perfect aid to facilitate and maintain the power of the rituals. He brushed his teeth thoroughly until the very last grain of sand had trickled through, and finished off as always with dental floss. He used it morning and night; he liked his mouth to be really clean. He loved the taste of blood from his gums, and pulled the white thread back and forth five times beside each tooth, until he was bleeding in several places. He rinsed his mouth and contemplated the blood-coloured water he spat into the washbasin. Rinsed and spat again. Less blood this time, but still a faint red tinge to the water as it trickled away. He didn’t know if it would have been less red after a third rinse. He had never rinsed his mouth more than twice.

He heard a brief ping from the laptop in his bedroom. Ralph knew at once what it meant. A new message from the Master. The computer alerted him each time a new update was added to fygorh.se. He didn’t really want to rush straight into the bedroom; he wanted to have a wash first.

The Master preached patience. He must remember that, he thought. Cherish the place inside where things were done in the correct order.

The rituals.

The foundation.

He wet his hands under the running water, pressed the soap dispenser twice, worked up a lather by rubbing his hands six times in each direction, then rinsed it off with an equal number of rubs underneath the tap. Then he washed his face with the same degree of thoroughness, dried himself according to the ritual, and finished off with the creamy moisturiser.

Then he was ready for the Master.

The message was brief and concise. A new task.

He was not allowed to choose. But it didn’t really matter. The Master had chosen the same one.

Anna Eriksson.

She was next.

She was number five.

Trolle had slept for only four hours when he was woken by the alarm clock. In spite of this he felt surprisingly alert, and got up from the sofa immediately. It felt strange; he usually slept for at least nine hours a night and still woke up feeling significantly more tired. He opened the blinds and gazed out at the morning sun, which was already warm. It was a long time since he had been up before six. Once he had done it every day. When there was a dog to walk and children to take to nursery and school. A wife to drive to work with. All those things that hadn’t seemed like life at the time, but had in fact been exactly that.

The things you didn’t miss until they were gone.

Trolle didn’t bother with his morning cigarette; he went to look in the fridge instead. It was, as he had suspected, virtually empty. He drank the last of the milk straight from the carton and decided to buy breakfast from the 7-Eleven. He needed to keep in shape now. Be sensible about his diet and his sleep. He had no idea how long his contribution would be needed, but sleep could quickly become a rare commodity. The challenge was to remain alert while fighting off the boredom that went hand in hand with long surveillance operations; it was easy to nod off under those circumstances. And there would be no one to relieve him.

He was completely on his own this time.

That was why he had gone home at one thirty this morning. Up in Anna Eriksson’s apartment all the lights had gone out hours before, and after giving the matter careful thought Trolle had made the judgement that the chances of the murderer striking in the middle of the night when the husband was at home were significantly less than those of an attack after Valdemar had left the following morning. So far all the murders had taken place when the woman was alone, and Trolle could see no reason why that particular element should change. But it was only a risk assessment, not an exact science, and he didn’t inform Sebastian of his decision. Sebastian would never accept the risk; his emotional link to the case was too strong and he would insist on Trolle staying there all the time. But he had to conserve his strength. He would need it today, and he would be forced to make difficult decisions all the time, free from emotional constraints, based on an assessment of acceptable risk.

He also needed to sort out some equipment: a car and a gun. He had rented a car over the internet, and had tried to get hold of a pistol. It had gone very well; Rogge would try to get hold of one during the day. But Trolle didn’t want to be completely unarmed, so he went back to the kitchen, pulled out a chair, opened the cupboard above the fridge and rummaged around behind several old packets of macaroni. Found what he was looking for. A stun gun wrapped in a plastic bag. A black Taser 2 which he had bought online a few years ago. He checked that it was working; there was a flash between the poles and he put it in the pocket of his big coat with a degree of satisfaction, knowing that it was more effective than people suspected. He had tried it out one night on a well-built individual who had gone down like a felled tree as soon as it touched his neck. Trolle decided to buy new lithium batteries as soon as he had the chance, just to be on the safe side, but the ones that were in it would do for now.

He left home. Bought a large coffee and a roll on the way. Took a taxi to the car rental firm which was on the way into town; it opened at six thirty. First of all he was given a white Nissan Micra, but he swapped it for a dark blue one. White was too noticeable. He didn’t want to be seen. He called at a garage and stocked up on cigarettes, dextrose, water and biscuits. It was likely to be a long day, and he wasn’t sure when he would get the opportunity to buy more provisions.