The Disciple (60 page)

Kenneth swore again and pressed the horn. Somebody must own the red Saab that had been so carelessly parked on the left-hand side of the road, making it impossible for them to get past. Just after a bend, too. Idiot. It was sheer luck that his reactions were so quick, otherwise they would have crashed straight into it. Kenneth sounded the horn again. Where was the fucking idiot who owned the fucking car? He couldn’t be too far away. In which case he should have heard the siren. Seen the blue light. Typical. Only two hundred metres until they reached the main road, where he would have been able to edge his way past. There was no chance on this stupid little road. A fence on one side of the Saab. A deep ditch on the other. He sounded the horn yet again.

The man sitting beside him seemed nervous. Kept looking around. His hand resting on some kind of stun gun in his belt.

‘What’s going on?’ Kenneth asked.

‘I don’t know. Can you go back?’

Kenneth shrugged and put the ambulance in reverse. He saw the man next to him unhook the two-way radio from his belt and bring it up to his mouth.

Then the world exploded.

In the back of the ambulance they suddenly heard, above the sirens, the sound of two shots and breaking glass. It seemed as if everything was happening at once. A shadow flew past the frosted window and something splashed all over it. Something dark. Running down the glass. The guard sitting next to Edward leapt to his feet. Fatima screamed, clamped her forearms over her ears, locked her hands behind her neck and bent forward. She’s lived in a war zone, Hinde thought as he saw her reaction. He simply lay there contemplating the chaos that had broken out in just seconds. He heard three loud thuds against the side of the ambulance.

‘What’s happening?’ Fatima yelled. The guard had the Taser in his hand, but nobody to point it at. Edward lay motionless. He had no intention of drawing attention to himself unnecessarily.

Suddenly the sirens stopped. Instead of a constant racket in the background, there was now total silence. A worrying silence. The guard turned his head, listening for noises from outside. Nothing. Fatima slowly straightened up and stared at the guard in shock.

‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.

‘Somebody’s trying to get him out,’ the guard replied, still on full alert.

Almost as if to confirm his statement, the back door was yanked open. Two more shots were fired. The first bullet went straight through the soft tissue immediately below the ribs, came out through the back and shattered the frosted glass. The second went into the middle of the chest. The guard collapsed. Fatima screamed. Roland Johansson pulled open the other door so that he could see her, and aimed his gun at her.

‘No,’ Edward said tersely.

Roland lowered the gun and climbed into the cramped space, which seemed to shrink even further with the huge man in there. In silence he began to unfasten Edward’s restraints. Once Edward was free, he sat up. What he really wanted to do was run outside. Jump in the air. He had to exert every scrap of willpower to avoid losing control. It was so close now. He looked up at the saline drip. Reached up and unhooked it.

‘I’ll take this with me.’

No reaction. Fatima was in shock. She was rocking back and forth, staring into space. Roland held out his arm to offer Edward support as he got off the bed and stepped down from the ambulance. He was still weak from his little performance in the dayroom. Slowly they walked along the side of the ambulance. Stopped halfway.

‘Will you be okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Edward leaned against the vehicle. Roland left him with a pat on the shoulder and went to open the door on the passenger side. Without any apparent effort he pulled out the guard, who was slumped in a motionless heap. A bleeding wound in his throat just below the jawline and one below the collarbone, Edward noticed as Roland dragged the guard past him towards the back doors. Alive, but not for much longer. He heard Fatima scream as Roland more or less threw the dying guard into the back of the ambulance. Edward closed his eyes. Roland went round the other side. When he shot the guard, the driver had tried to make a run for it, but he hadn’t been anywhere near fast enough. Roland had caught up with him, grabbed him, and banged his head three times against the side of the ambulance. Now he seized the unconscious driver, chucked him in the back with the others and climbed in after him. He ignored the guards. One was dead, the other dying. He unhooked the handcuffs from their belts and turned the driver over. Secured his hands behind his back, then turned to Fatima, who was still sitting on her chair beside the trolley.

‘Your turn.’

Fatima shook her head, incapable of movement. Roland stepped over to her, pulled her up from the chair and pushed her down on the floor next to the others. She offered no resistance as he fastened her hands behind her back. He grabbed a blanket, got out and walked past Edward to the passenger door. He began to sweep out the shards of glass that were all over the driver’s compartment. When he had got rid of the majority, he spread the blanket over the passenger seat, then helped Edward settle there with his drip. Before he closed the door he smashed the rest of the glass so that the window looked open rather than broken. With Edward taken care of he went over to the red Saab and took a roll of gaffer tape from the back seat. Returned to the ambulance and the four occupants in the back. Bound the ankles of the driver and the woman, just to be on the safe side . . . Roland finished off by winding the tape twice around their heads, covering their mouths. He jumped out, closed the doors, got into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes. No one had seen them. Nothing was moving. No sirens approaching. Only the sounds of the forest.

They set off. Edward glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the red Saab getting smaller and smaller. They were putting it behind them. Leaving it. Just as he was putting Lövhaga behind him. Leaving it.

Now he could, he would, start looking to the future.

Roland was driving just above the speed limit. Edward was fairly sure that this road wasn’t a high priority when it came to police speed checks, at least not in the case of emergency response vehicles, but it was stupid to take the risk. An encounter with the authorities wouldn’t be the best idea for a number of reasons. They would want to know about the broken window. There were bloodstains in the driver’s compartment. Roland wasn’t wearing the right clothes. An observant police officer would notice all of those things. Oh well, they would cross that bridge if they came to it.

It was a beautiful day. The green shades of summer everywhere. Edward almost felt dizzy as he contemplated the billowing countryside opening out around him. So much space. The last fourteen years seemed even more limited and enclosed now that he had a different perspective. Now that he could see what he had been denied. He relished every fresh view that appeared along the twisting road. The wind tugged at his thin hair through the broken window. He closed his eyes again. Breathed deeply. Allowed himself to relax. The air seemed lighter. Different. Each breath made him stronger. This was how it felt to breathe as a free man.

Roland slowed down. Edward opened his eyes. They had reached the E18. Half an hour, and they would be in Stockholm. He turned to Roland.

‘Have you got a phone?’

Roland reached into his pocket and handed over his mobile. Edward keyed in a number from memory and waited for an answer.

Haraldsson was standing by the bedroom window. He had been standing there ever since he opened the door and found the room empty. He had walked over to the window, past the unmade double bed. What else could he do? Look for Jenny? Where? He had no idea. He was literally paralysed.

The fear, the terror, Jenny, the job.

In the garden the men planting the apple tree had started work. He saw them arrive. Watched them walk around the garden. Pointing and discussing. They agreed on the best spot and began to measure and dig. Fetched bags of compost. Just an ordinary working day. Ordinary lives, just a few metres away from him. A reality that made sense.

It was difficult to think clearly. What could he do? He couldn’t be involved. Mustn’t be involved. Jenny was gone. He was involved. But that didn’t mean anybody else had to find out. Please, let nothing have happened to Jenny. His thoughts jumped and skipped like a needle on a scratchy old vinyl LP.

Hinde was being transferred. Had probably already left Lövhaga. He wanted to be transferred. Something was going to happen. What? Should Haraldsson alert the police?
/skip/

Would that save Jenny? Jenny was gone.
/skip/

What reason could he give for contacting the police? He could hardly say that he had carried out certain errands for Hinde, and that one of them had led to Hinde being allowed to leave the prison. That wouldn’t just be career suicide. That would be a punishable offence.
/skip/

Jenny. Where was she? She just couldn’t be dead. What would he do? How could he live without her?
/skip/
Hinde hadn’t left Lövhaga, and Ralph had already been arrested at the time when Jenny disappeared. What did that mean? That Hinde was in contact with more than one person on the outside?
/skip/

Ingrid Marie couldn’t have a daddy in prison.
/skip/

Should he tell someone? Could he tell someone? What reason would he give for his suspicions? Perhaps Hinde was actually ill. Perhaps he had gone to the hospital. In which case a warning that this might be an attempted escape would seem odd to say the least. And if he thought something like that might be on the cards, why had he given permission for the transfer?
/skip/
‘I’ve never killed a pregnant woman.’ /skip/

What would happen if he contacted the police?

What would happen if he didn’t?

His phone rang again. Haraldsson could feel his heart beating faster with hope as he took it out of his pocket. A number he didn’t recognise. Not Jenny. He answered anyway.

‘Haraldsson.’

‘This is Edward Hinde.’

Haraldsson’s mind went completely blank. It was as if all the thoughts that had been crowding his head before had been blown away.

‘Where are you calling from?’ was the only thing he could come up with.

‘That doesn’t matter. You did what I asked you to do, so you can have your question.’

Haraldsson heard every single word. Heard, but didn’t understand.

‘What?’

‘I keep my promises, Thomas. You said yes, which was what I wanted, and for that I will answer a question.’

‘What have you . . .’

‘Wait, Thomas,’ Edward interrupted him. Haraldsson immediately stopped speaking. ‘I’m not telling you what to do,’ Edward went on softly, ‘but if I were you I would ask: “Where is my wife?”’

Haraldsson closed his eyes and saw flashing lights. He was afraid he might faint. He couldn’t do that. If he passed out he would never know. Silent tears poured down his cheeks.

‘Where is my wife?’

His voice only just held. Hinde began to tell him.

Every single window in the apartment was wide open.

But it was still hot.

Sticky.

Stuffy.

Vanja was sitting on the sofa, channel hopping. It was painfully clear that nobody broadcast their best programmes at this time of day. She switched off the TV, threw the remote control down beside her and picked up the special supplements that had come with both evening papers.
Expressen
had ten pages on the arrest of Ralph Svensson, with an exclusive on the first page adorned with a large picture of him. Unmasked beneath the banner headline:
THE FACE OF THE SUMMER PSYCHO
. At the top of the page it said ‘The police suspect that this is’ in significantly smaller letters. Ralph hadn’t even been charged as far as Vanja knew, but he had already been hung out to dry by the press. Restricting the publication of names and photographs was out of fashion these days. The early identification of suspects was ‘in the public interest’. Which meant that nobody was prepared to pay for a pixellated image. Besides the fact that she herself thought it was unethical, it also made their work more difficult sometimes. Identity parades suddenly became a lot less valuable when the suspect’s face had been staring out from every front page.