The Game Trilogy (47 page)

‘There, Mr Sandström, I think we’re done.’

The little man with the tape-measure still had a couple of pins in the corner of his mouth, but this evidently didn’t stop him from sounding just the right sort of servile for HP.

Mr
Sandström – very nice!

He had just been measured for a suit, as well as a number of matching shirts. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, but this tailor spoke the rather posh, nasal Östermalm
dialect of Swedish, not Thai English. Of course the bills wouldn’t look very similar either, but money was actually the least of his problems right now.

He had transferred more than enough funds from the Cayman Islands, and his first wages were on their way as well.

‘Ready in a week,’ the man concluded, handing him a receipt. ‘Mr Argos’s acquaintances take priority,’ he added when he saw the look of surprise on HP’s face.

‘But I’m afraid we can’t do any better than a week.’

HP left the little shop and waved down a taxi.

He leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. He could definitely get used to this life.

She was woken by the doorbell.

Long, persistent rings, and it took her a while to pull on her jogging trousers and a top.

A delivery of some sort, she thought as she opened the door after checking the peephole.

‘Hi, are you Rebecca Normén?’

‘Yes, what’s this about?’

‘Delivery from Interflora.’

The man handed her what looked like a well-wrapped bouquet of flowers. She took it and nudged the paper aside to get at the card.

Red roses, at least a dozen, if not more.

She read the card. Then she handed the bouquet back.

‘You can take them away again,’ she said.

‘W-what?’

‘The flowers, I don’t want them, so you can take them back.’

‘B-but, er …’

The man seemed confused.

‘They’ve been paid for and everything, I don’t know how …’

‘Not my problem,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to return them to the sender. Then he might finally get the message …’

‘Nice of Frank to loan out his big star for a couple of days. You’re supposed to be Philip’s new golden boy.’

Rilke winked at him and HP found himself blushing against his wishes.

God, he was still such a fucking approval junkie! Even though he was a superhero it was enough to get the slightest little pat on the shoulder from someone he respected or had the hots for, and there he was, wagging his tail like a fucking cocker spaniel …

‘S-so, what exactly do you do over in your corner?’ he muttered, turning his face away.

‘Ah, so Frank hasn’t said anything. You guys down in the mine keep yourselves to yourselves!’

She gave him another teasing smile and HP could feel himself grinning like an idiot in response.

‘The girls and I look after the blogs. Well, I say girls even though we do actually have one bloke in the team – apart from you now, I mean.’

She smiled again but this time he managed to keep up his poker-face.

‘It works pretty much the same way as the trolls, but every handler has a slightly smaller stable. We each look after four to seven different blog personalities. Music, film, technology, fashion, books, food, and politics of course. We cover the whole lot, basically. Some of us work on long-term projects, planting ideas, while others do more short-term work, pushing specific opinions or products. You’ll be sitting with Halil here, she’s my number two.’

Rilke stopped at a desk where a young woman in a tight black outfit and beige headscarf was busy typing in a text.

‘There, all done!’ she said, spinning her chair to face HP and Rilke and holding out her hand.

‘Halil’s the name – blogging’s my game …’

‘Manga,’ HP mumbled.

‘Good to meet you!’

Rilke pulled over a chair for him, then left them to it.

‘Okay,’ Halil began. ‘Hang onto your hat, Manga, because we don’t hang around here.’

She snapped her fingers.

‘I handle mostly fashion and music. Sandy over there looks after the technological blogs. Anders and Rilke deal with politics and the other three pretty much look after the rest. The design and technology team sitting over there make sure that all the sites work and that everything looks kosher. I’ve got seven bloggers in my stable – six girls and one bloke. Half of them have got fronts, the other three are anonymous, a bit like your trolls … Musiklover, Blingdarling, well, you get it …’

Yeah, he got it, even if not quite …

‘Fronts? I mean … what?’

‘Real people fronting the blogs.’

It took him a couple of seconds to catch on.

‘What, so you look after the blog for someone else? Like a sort of ghost-writer?’

‘Bingo! Basically I take care of all the serious writing. The fronts are usually busy talking crap about each other or discussing their shopping habits, which is fine. Their computers and smartphones have an app that links through to me, so I always have the last word before anything gets posted. Most of the time I let them get on with it, but if it’s something important I take over.’

She opened a mini-fridge standing on the corner of her
desk, took out a couple of cans of Coke and offered one to HP, who shook his head.

Halil opened her can and took a couple of deep gulps.

‘But … I mean …’ HP said after a few seconds of confused thought. ‘… what do they get out of it, the fronts?’

‘More like what don’t they get out of it! Apart from a monthly salary from us: attention, free samples, previews, VIP events, you name it … A few of them are now so well known that they get to appear on television and go to gala premieres.’

‘What, like her … what’s her name?… the one who keeps arguing with that other one …?’

HP searched his memory for her name but failed to find it.

Halil drew a tick in the air – and then another one.

‘Yes to her, and to her opponent as well! They’re both ours, and the squabbling only gets them even more readers. Over a million hits per week per blog, and neither of the girls has any idea that they actually work for the same company …

‘You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty damn good!’

Forty-five minutes of interval training on the cross trainer and the sweat was running down her back. She could almost taste the lactic acid on her tongue, but she had no intention of stopping until she’d done an hour. She knew that if she was going to get any sleep at all that night, the only thing that really worked was getting completely exhausted.

It was only since Darfur that MayBey had started mentioning her. And now she was suddenly the number one topic of conversation.

There had been twenty-three comments the last time
she checked. Twenty-three ‘colleagues’ all declaring themselves to know with either total or reasonable certainty that she had slept her way through the force. That she was in the habit of jumping into bed with anyone as long as it benefited her career. No doubt considerably more people who had read it mistook it for the truth – with a grin at home in front of their computers.

How could people, presumably thinking and perfectly logical individuals, take the time to slander and write shit about her and her personal life?

Were they driven by hate, jealousy, envy or bitterness? That would at least have a hint of logic to it. But she suspected that the truth was actually much worse than that.

That what was driving most of the haters out there wasn’t any sort of grand, strong feeling, but just mundane, low-level stuff.

Something they did just because they could. As a way of passing the time.

So why was MayBey suddenly interested in her?

The people he or she heckled usually only popped up once or twice, mostly as passing incidental characters to make a good story even better. MayBey was the storyteller, and although readers were allowed to comment, they were never asked to contribute any information. But it was different with Regina Righteous.

MayBey had first brought up the whole issue of her suspension, then asked others to add what they knew. And now this post, constructed in the same way. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that MayBey knew that she was reading every single word that was being written. And that it was precisely this that had made him or her change behaviour and get more personal. Something else that was deeply bloody unsettling was the
talk of a ‘shag-pad’ on Södermalm. Of course MayBey could have just been making it all up and happened to get it right. But if that wasn’t the case, that meant that someone had been talking. And if that was right, then there was only one candidate. Unless someone had been following her, of course …

A bleep from the cross trainer interrupted her thoughts. The interval session was over and she had a couple of minutes to wind down.

She lowered her chin to her chest, took a few deep breaths, and so didn’t notice when the man came into the room.

‘Listen, Manga, it’s all about setting trends! There are thousands of bloggers out there, and most of them spend the whole time sneaking anxious glances at each other, especially the big names. I usually think of the internet as a huge school playground. Almost everyone wants to hang out with the cool kids, be seen in the right company. So we don’t need to control all of them, just a suitable number of the hip ones with enough cred to be able to steer the buzz in a direction that suits our clients.’

She took another gulp of her Coke.

‘We start with a fronted blog, add a couple of anonymous bloggers in support, and hope someone takes the bait. Obviously not all the bloggers join in, but we don’t need them to either. It’s like there’s a critical mass, a point where so many people are all saying the same thing that their opinion sudden becomes the accepted truth. And somewhere out there, there are thousands upon thousands of people who are so desperate to live a different life to the one they’ve got that they’re only too happy to soak up what the right people serve up to them. Fragments of someone else’s life, which they unconsciously fit into their
own. Products, food trends, trademarks, opinions – you name it! You see how it works, Manga?’

Oh yes, he saw all right, but for once HP was totally speechless. Philip Argos really hadn’t been joking when he talked about control. The trolls were one thing, poking about in a few forums and supporting their clients’ version of a story. Throw in a few made-up blogs that did more or less the same thing, just on a slightly firmer foundation. But this was way bigger than that, and at the same time a fuck of a lot cooler! Only now was he starting to appreciate the full extent of what Philip had been talking about.

Knowledge – Security – Control

That was what it was all about, and the best way to …

Wrong!

Unquestionably
the best way to control the buzz, or whatever name you chose to give the torrent of information out there, wasn’t to adapt to the rumours. It was to start them.

She was just wiping down the cross trainer when he came over to her. Because she had her back to him she didn’t see him at first, and his voice made her jump.

‘Hi, you’re new here, aren’t you?’

It was the man from the running machine.

‘Yes,’ she replied curtly, going back to what she was doing.

He waited a few seconds until she had finished and was obliged to turn and face him.

‘I thought as much,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I’ve been coming here for a couple of years now and usually recognize everyone else. I’d definitely have remembered a beautiful woman like you.’

The man’s smile revealed a row of sparkling white teeth that suited his deep suntan perfectly. She searched her
mind for a suitable comment to get rid of him, but for some reason nothing popped up. Instead she suddenly found herself returning his smile.

There was something about him that made her feel in a slightly better mood. Something he radiated. Something she had been missing for a long time.

‘My name’s Rebecca,’ she said, and to her own surprise held out her hand.

His handshake was dry and firm.

‘Good to meet you, Rebecca! I was wondering if I could be cheeky enough to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me? How about next Saturday?’

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, my friend.’

‘Oh, it’s you. Has the problem been solved?’

‘Not quite, but we’re working hard on it … Very hard …’

‘Hi, how’s it going for our golden boy? Is he behaving himself?’

‘It’s going brilliantly. Manga is a natural! Three days here and he already knows how to do everything.’

Halil slapped him on the shoulder and reluctantly he stopped what he was doing, pushed his chair away from the desk and turned towards Rilke.

‘It’s pretty good, actually,’ he replied. ‘Brilliant fun, but I’ve got a way to go before I reach the blog-queen’s level.’

He winked at his supervisor and Halil gestured as if to wave off the compliment.

‘Great!’ Rilke replied. ‘I thought we could have lunch, if you’re hungry?’

‘Sure,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Hötorget,’ Rilke replied, glancing briefly at the other woman.

‘I was thinking of getting a late lunch, but you go ahead,’ Halil said quickly, then went back to her computer.

‘Looks like it’s just you and me, then, Manga,’ Rilke smiled.

That same feeling again! For the umpteenth time in the past few days she stopped short and looked over her shoulder. But just as on every previous occasion there was no-one there.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true …

There were loads of people there, she was in the city centre after all. People on their way to work, windowshopping, walking their dogs, talking on their mobiles.

Woolly hats, thick coats, gloves – plumes of steam rising from people’s mouths as they trudged on through the December darkness. Each with their own agenda and not a single one of them who looked more suspicious than anyone else.

But she still felt like she was being watched. As if some stranger’s gaze was boring into her back, making her feel … exposed.

Presumably that was because of the text:

When he and Rilke got back from their long lunch something seemed to have happened. There was a feeling of anxiety in the air and the usually quiet office was humming with voices. Philip, Eliza Poole and a woman HP didn’t know were standing and talking in the open area by the
reception desk, and people from the various departments were slowly gathering around them.

For a few seconds HP wondered if this was something to do with him, if his cover really was blown this time and that he was about to be unmasked in front of the whole office. His pulse began to race and he was just glancing at the exit when Rilke gently touched his arm.

‘That’s Monika Gregerson, Anna’s sister,’ she whispered so close to his ear that his paranoia vanished instantly.

‘She worked here for a while but left a year or so back.’

‘Everyone, if you wouldn’t mind coming over here, please. We’ve got something important to tell you …’

Eliza Poole’s voice was so shrill it was almost cracking. The forty or so people in the office slowly formed a circle around the trio. Eliza Poole fished out a well-used handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blew her nose loudly. She looked upset, red-faced and puffy, as if she’d been crying.

Suddenly HP began to guess what was about to happen.

Philip Argos raised one hand and there was immediate silence.

‘For those of you who haven’t met Monika, this is Anna’s sister, and she knows all about our activities here at ArgosEye …’

He gestured towards the woman beside him.

HP had no trouble seeing the family likeness. The fair hair, turned up nose and the alert look in her eyes were pretty much the same, but this woman was either the big sister or else her cosmetic surgeon wasn’t as good as Anna’s. The dark rings under her eyes added a few more years as well. And she was considerably more plainly dressed, in a black skirt and matching blouse, buttoned almost all the way up to the neck. Evidently she was the more restrained of the Argos sisters …

‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news …’

Philip Argos paused, which was completely unnecessary seeing as he had everyone’s full attention.

‘As you know, Anna took a year off from work to travel round the world. Sadly it looks as though she’s been the victim of a tragic accident.’

‘Is she okay?’

This from Rilke, and as far as HP could tell she was genuinely worried.

Philip Argos waited a couple of seconds before answering, and when he did eventually open his mouth, everyone had already guessed what his answer would be.

‘I’m afraid Anna’s dead.’

By now she had been through all the posts on the Pillars of Society. The site had been up and running for about six months so it took her a fair while, but the Word document that she had been using to record her observations actually included quite a lot of useful information.

MayBey had been involved almost from the start. His or her first posts had been made just a week or so after the site had been set up, and the number of comments – and presumably readers – had steadily grown since then.

But MayBey only started threads – that was all. Then he or she sat back and let other people take over with their own comments. Then, when that post began to run out of steam, another one would appear and the whole process would start again.

There was no discernible pattern in the timing and dates of the posts. All days of the week, and most times of day, were represented – something which seemed to fit someone who worked shifts. The events and people described suggested that MayBey had experienced quite a bit, and had probably been in the police force for some time.

It seemed likely that MayBey worked on the front line, but even if Rebecca had been fairly sure of this to start with, it didn’t necessarily have to mean in uniform. The events and arrests that were described certainly seemed to fit the world of the beat officer, but they could equally well have been carried out by other units in the front line – the surveillance, narcotics or licensing units, for instance. Typical police work, basically, although she still had an overwhelming sense that MayBey was anything but a typical police officer.

But she also had something else to think about.

The letter had been lying on the hall mat when she got home.

A long, white envelope, made of the slightly thicker sort of paper that she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Her address was written in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting that was so familiar that for a moment she felt her heart-rate speed up. Even the slightly clipped turn of phrase was the same.

But of course the letter wasn’t from her dad.

He had actually been thinking how odd it was that no-one seemed to know about Anna’s death.

Unless they had all been pretending, of course.

A few of the women, among them Eliza Poole and Rilke, appeared to have genuine tears in their eyes. Others were more composed. As for himself, he tried to adopt a sombre expression whilst trying to observe everyone else’s reactions.

An accident, then – not murder. He wondered where that revised version of the story came from. Had the Dubai police set up yet another smoke-screen, or had Philip simply decided that it was better for both morale and business if he stuck to a more easily digested version of Anna’s demise?

For a few moments HP had the image of those black scavengers circling over their little feast back in his head.
He looked down at the floor and swallowed a couple of times.

When he looked up again he saw Monika Gregerson looking at him. The expression on her face seemed almost one of disgust, as though she too could see the images flickering through his mind.

HP had to fight to suppress a shudder. He looked away and walked off quickly towards the staffroom. A cup of top-quality instant coffee was bound to get his paranoid brain to change track.

In the corridor he bumped into Dejan and Philip, who seemed to be in the middle of a discussion.

‘… Anna’s shares?’ HP managed to catch.

‘Monika will inherit them,’ Philip replied tersely, then stopped and nodded quickly at HP as he passed them and reluctantly walked on.

‘I don’t see that that should be a problem,’ he went on in a low voice just before HP was out of earshot.

Okay, so news of the death and Monika Gregerson’s presence had both been fairly uncomfortable, but at least he had been able to provide Rilke with a shoulder to cry on. He had given her a hug and generously offered her his shoulder, which she had gratefully accepted, before everyone was sent home for the rest of the day.

He found himself sniffing his jacket for any residual scent from her hair. Rilke was without doubt something special. Attractive, smart and funny – fun to work with, and to hang out with. Shit, he’d have to watch it, and make sure he didn’t end up suffering from some sort of inverted Stockholm syndrome.

She could actually be a suspect – theoretically, anyway …

Whatever, at least he had found out a few more things.

One: Anna’s big sister had worked for the company but had left because she didn’t see eye to eye with Philip. Okay,
so no-one had actually said that, but the vibes had been pretty obvious.

Two: his suspicion that Anna’s death had something to do with the business had grown even stronger. Why else would they choose to hide the truth about how she really died?

Three: it looked as if Monika would be inheriting Anna’s shares in ArgosEye. If Philip had planned to get rid of Anna to get control of the company, then obviously he should have done so before the divorce went through, while he was still her principal heir.

Which meant that HP should be looking round for a new prime suspect.

Possibly even a woman …