The Man Who Watched Women (11 page)

In spite of this he hadn't said anything about Maya on the way home from Forskarbacken when Vanja tried to pump him for details. He usually told Vanja everything. Or most things. Sometimes he felt as if they were more like brother and sister than colleagues, but this time he held back, for the simple reason that he was fairly sure Vanja wouldn't like Maya.

She was a life coach.

Vanja had many good points, but she was such a high achiever that she found it difficult to cope with people who didn't make the most of their lives. On their own. It was one thing to improve your education, to go on courses, attend lectures, set goals, but she regarded it as a sign of inherent weakness and spinelessness if someone needed help to find their motivation and achieve results. If you didn't know what you wanted, then you didn't want it enough – that was her mantra. If you had real problems you went to a qualified psychologist, not some half-baked New Age character with a diploma who provided encouragement at a thousand kronor an hour.

No, Vanja wouldn't like Maya.

Not that he needed Vanja's approval, but it was simpler if she didn't know anything. That meant he could avoid the gibes, the ironic little comments. This was particularly important now, when he had actually started making a serious attempt to change his situation within the team.

It had begun with Maya asking him if he was happy in his work. A simple question, a simple answer. Yes, he was. He couldn't imagine a better place to work or better colleagues. As time went by, they had talked more. She was interested in what he did, what his role was. A lot of people just wanted to hear the gory details of an exciting murder enquiry, but Maya wasn't like that. No, she was interested in the job itself. In him. That was something he liked about her, the fact that she could make him talk. So he started to tell her about his work. About what he did each day. He kept it practical and concrete. Afterwards she had looked at him with a slight furrow in her brow.

‘It sounds to me as if you're more of an IT technician than a detective.'

That had hit home. He became more conscious of the tasks he was given. Checking police records. Downloads. Searches.

The more he became aware of it, the more he realised that his role within the investigations was increasingly that of a kind of advanced secretary rather than an investigative police officer. He talked to Maya about it, and she suggested that he should take some time to think about where he was going. And have the courage to listen to the answer. The answer was that he didn't know. He'd never even thought about it.

He went to work.

He enjoyed it.

He went home.

He was able to make use of his ability to create structure by building timelines, and by gathering and collating information from every imaginable source, but was he using his full potential? No, he couldn't say that he was. It was difficult to assert himself within the team. Torkel Höglund was one of the most highly qualified police officers in Sweden, and both Vanja and Ursula were in the top three – if not number one – in their respective fields. But he didn't need to reach that level. He hadn't said so to Maya, but if he were to be perfectly honest he didn't really think he had what it took; however, he could certainly become a more equal member of the team. He had already started working on it.

Maya emerged from the bathroom wearing his dressing gown, with a towel wound around her hair. She sat down beside him on the sofa.

‘Have you decided what we're going to do?' she asked, giving him a kiss and nestling into his shoulder.

‘I'm hungry.'

‘Me too. Then there's a concert in Vitaberg Park tonight. Eight o'clock.'

Vitaberg Park. Concert. Summer's evening. Some folksy troubadour, if he wasn't very much mistaken. Very nice if you were over seventy-five. Billy decided to pretend he hadn't heard her.

‘We could go and see a film,' he suggested instead.

‘It's summer.'

‘That's not an answer.'

‘It's nicer to be outdoors.'

‘It's cooler indoors.'

For a second Maya seemed to be weighing cooler against nicer; eventually she nodded. ‘Okay, but in that case I want to choose the film.'

‘You choose such boring films.'

‘I choose good films.'

‘You choose films that get good reviews. It's not the same thing.'

She raised her head and looked at him. He had given in last week when Cinematek started its summer season of French new wave films. So this time it had better be spaceships or robots or whatever it was he wanted to see.

She shrugged. ‘Okay, you can choose the film, but in that case I'm picking the restaurant.'

‘Deal.'

‘Go on then, book the ticket with your new little toy.' She tapped the iPad on his knee.

‘It's not new and it's not a toy.'

‘If you say so …'

She got up, bent down and kissed him on the mouth before going into his bedroom to get dressed. Billy watched her go with a smile on his face.

She was good for him.

That would do for today.

Thomas Haraldsson switched off the computer. A while ago one of the electricity companies had run an advertising campaign claiming that if everyone switched off their electrical appliances instead of merely leaving them on standby, it would be possible to heat the three largest cities in Sweden with the energy saved. Or maybe it was to do with providing lighting. And it might have been three houses. Three houses in the three largest cities, maybe that was it. No, that sounded a bit complicated. He couldn't really remember, to tell the truth, but anyway it would save electricity, save resources. That was important; the earth's resources were not inexhaustible. He had a child on the way. There had to be something left for him. Or her. So he switched off the computer.

He got up, pushed in his chair and was just getting ready to leave when he noticed the file on Edward Hinde, which was still lying on his desk. He stopped. Riksmord were interested, and they would be back. It wouldn't do any harm to read up on Hinde, but he probably wouldn't have time tonight. He glanced at the clock. Jenny would have dinner ready at eight. Rigatoni with minced lamb. Some celebrity chef had cooked it on TV, and it had been a regular feature at home ever since. The first time Jenny made it Haraldsson had said he liked it, and he didn't have the heart to tell the truth now. Jenny had done the necessary shopping after work, but after she got home she had developed a craving for liquorice ice cream, and had asked Haraldsson to call in at Statoil on the way home. Perhaps he would rent a DVD; they would have time to watch a film before it got too late. But in that case he definitely wouldn't have time to read up on Hinde.

Decisions, decisions.

He looked at the clock again. Forty-five minutes to get home. Fifty-five if he stopped to pick up the ice cream and a film. That gave him half an hour before he needed to set off. It certainly wouldn't do any harm to have some personal knowledge of Hinde by the next time Riksmord turned up. Reports and psychological assessments were all very well, but after all he did know quite a lot about criminals, and would be able to make a valid contribution. Perhaps he could get Hinde to reveal something in a confidential, private conversation that he wouldn't be prepared to give away in a standard interview with Riksmord. After all, Haraldsson wouldn't be there as a police officer, but more as a fellow human being. After one more glance at the clock he decided to make a quick unscheduled visit to the secure wing.

Edward Hinde had been surprised when the guards came to fetch him from his cell just before half past six. As a general rule nothing happened after six, when dinner was served. He had twenty minutes to eat, then the tray was collected, and after that he was alone until the wake-up call at six thirty the following morning. Twelve hours with his books and his thoughts. Every day. Weekdays and weekends. Uneventful hours which over the years had become half his life.

To be fair, not much happened during the other half of the day either. After breakfast he was allowed twenty minutes in the washroom, then an hour in the exercise yard. Alone. Back to his cell for lunch, followed by an hour in the library, then another hour in the yard. This second hour was optional, and if he preferred to do so, he could stay in the library. He usually chose to stay. The washroom again, then back to his cell to wait for dinner.

Every other week he had an appointment with a psychologist. An hour each time. Edward had met many over the years, and the one thing they all had in common was that they bored him. At the beginning of his stay in Lövhaga he had said what they wanted to hear, but now he didn't even bother doing that. None of them really seemed to care anyway. Fourteen years without any discernible progress dampened the enthusiasm of the most persistent soul. The latest incarnation didn't even appear to have read his predecessor's notes. And yet the visits continued. He must not only be punished. He must be rehabilitated.

Become a better person.

Routines and pointless activities. These made up his days. His life. With few deviations. But this evening something had happened. He was collected from his cell by two guards and taken to one of the visiting rooms. It was a long time since he had been there. How many years? Three? Four? More? He couldn't remember. At any rate, the room looked exactly the same as it had done then. Bare walls. A fine-meshed grille covering windows made of shatter-proof glass. Two chairs on either side of a table that was fixed to the floor. Two metal loops screwed to the surface of the table. The guards sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs, then attached his hands to the metal loops with handcuffs. Then they left the room, leaving Edward sitting there. He would soon find out who wanted to talk to him, so there was no point in speculating. Instead he tried to think of who he had met the last time he was shackled to this particular table.

He hadn't come up with the answer by the time he heard the door open and someone walk in. Edward resisted the impulse to turn around. He sat there motionless, staring straight ahead. There was no reason to give the guest the impression that he was eagerly awaited. The footsteps behind him fell silent. The person who had come in had stopped and was looking at him, presumably. Edward knew what the visitor could see. A skinny little man, no more than a hundred and seventy centimetres tall. Thin hair to just below his collar, too thin to be as long as it was, at least if you had any interest in wanting to look good. He was wearing the same clothes as all the inmates on the secure wing: soft cotton trousers and a plain, long-sleeved cotton sweater. When the visitor moved around the table he would see watery blue eyes behind rimless spectacles. Pale, slightly sunken cheeks with a few days' stubble. A man who looked older than his fifty-five years.

The man who had come in was moving again. Edward was sure it was a man. The footsteps and the lack of any kind of perfume were strong indicators. He was proved right when a small, very ordinary man sat down opposite him.

‘Good evening. My name is Thomas Haraldsson, and I am the new governor here.'

Edward's gaze travelled slowly down from the window to the man opposite, and he looked him in the eye for the first time.

‘Edward Hinde. Pleased to meet you. You're my third.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Governor. You're my third.'

‘Right …'

The bare room fell silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the air-conditioning system. Nothing from the corridor, nothing from outside. Edward kept his eyes fixed on the new governor, convinced that he wouldn't have to be the one to break the silence.

‘I just thought I'd drop by and say hello,' Haraldsson said with a nervous smile.

Hinde smiled back politely. ‘That was nice of you.'

Silence once more. Haraldsson shuffled on his chair. Edward sat motionless and stared at his visitor. No one ever just dropped by to say hello. The man opposite him wanted something. Hinde didn't know what it was yet, but if he sat still and didn't speak, he would soon find out.

‘Are you happy here?' Haraldsson asked, in a tone of voice which might have been appropriate if Hinde had just left home and moved into his first apartment. Edward had to suppress a laugh. He looked at the patently insecure man in front of him. The first governor had been a hard bastard, two years from retirement when Hinde arrived. He made it perfectly clear to Edward from the start that he had no intention of putting up with any nonsense. By nonsense he meant anything that didn't involve Hinde going exactly where he was told to go, speaking when he was permitted to speak, and giving up any attempt at independent thought. Hinde had spent a great deal of time in solitary confinement. He had barely glimpsed the second governor, who had stayed for twelve years. They had never spoken, as far as he could recall. But this one, this Thomas Haraldsson, could well be worth getting to know better. He unleashed a disarming smile.

‘Yes, thank you. And how are you getting on?'

‘Well, it's only my third day, but so far so …'

Silence again. But the nervous man opposite seemed to like meaningless small talk, so Edward deviated from his strategy of allowing the other person to lead the conversation, and smiled at Haraldsson once more. ‘What's your wife's name?'

‘What?'

Edward nodded at Haraldsson's left hand, which was lying on top of the right on the table. ‘The ring. I noticed you were married. But perhaps you're one of those modern men who have a male partner?'

‘No, no, not at all.' Haraldsson waved his hands defensively. ‘I'm not …' He stopped. What made Hinde think that? Where had that come from? Haraldsson had never heard anyone say he looked gay. Never.

‘Jenny, my wife's name is Jenny. Jenny Haraldsson.'

Edward smiled to himself. There was no better way of finding out about someone's wife than to suggest that the person in question might not be straight.