The Man Who Watched Women (37 page)

Outside it was a perfect summer's evening, still light and warm, but as usual the inmates of the secure unit were making their night-time preparations. Some had already gone into their cells, but a few were still sitting in the common room. Lock-up was at 19.00. The inmates had thought this was rather early when they were informed that their evening activities were being curtailed by two hours, but their protests had been in vain.

Edward was always the last in the washroom. This evening, however, he was not alone, but had the company of the new arrival who did not yet understand the routines of the unit, and had turned up at quarter to seven two days in a row. His behaviour was annoying Edward, and he had already decided that when the opportunity arose he would make it clear that the washroom was his, and his alone, at this particular time. The veterans already knew this, and would silently leave the room just before he arrived. Hinde was standing in front of the mirror, gently washing his face. The washroom contained a dozen washbasins in front of a shatter-proof mirror which ran all the way along the tiled wall. On the other side, a little further down, were the showers and toilets. Edward contemplated his wet face and didn't even glance at the two warders as they walked past.

‘Lock-up in fifteen minutes,' they called out before going into the common room to deliver the same message. Every evening was exactly the same, and Edward didn't bother to listen anymore. His routines were embedded in his body, almost down to the second, and he no longer needed a watch. He knew exactly when he was going to wake up, eat, read, shit, walk, talk and have a wash. The only positive aspect of this was that the identical pattern of each day gave him time to focus on what was important, what was significant, rather than everyday life; he got through that on autopilot by now.

Hinde picked up his black electric shaver. It was one of the few things he still disliked a great deal. He wanted to have a proper shave, but any kind of razor was out of the question in the secure unit. He longed for the day when he would feel the honed blade against his skin again. That would be freedom. Holding something sharp. That was probably what he longed for most. The metal blade in his hand.

He switched on the shaver.

In the mirror he watched as the staff turned off the wall-mounted TV and nodded to the three men sitting on the sofas in the common room to indicate that it was time. The same three as usual. They got up without making a fuss and headed off down the long corridor towards their cells. Behind them lay the only way in or out of the unit; he heard the click of the lock as the cleaner arrived. Same time as always. The inmates cleaned their own cells, but the communal areas had been contracted out. LS Cleaning. A long time ago the inmates had been expected to clean these areas as well, but that had stopped ten years ago after a violent dispute over who was actually supposed to be doing what. Two prisoners had been seriously hurt. Since then the work had been undertaken by a cleaning firm, but always after lock-up. The cleaner, a tall, thin man in his thirties, was pushing a big metal trolley containing all his equipment; he nodded to the guards as he wheeled it along the corridor. They greeted him cheerfully; they knew him. He had been cleaning there for some years now.

The cleaner pushed his trolley into the washroom, where he usually made a start. He stood a respectable distance away, waiting for Edward and the new inmate to leave. Everything according to the routine. All inmates must be in their cells with the doors locked before the cleaning could begin. The guards arrived a minute or so later. They looked at the men in the washroom.

‘Come along, you two, it's time now.'

‘It's only six fifty-eight.' Hinde calmly ran his hand over his newly shaved chin. He knew exactly what time it was. He still didn't condescend to glance at the guards.

‘How do you know that? You haven't got a watch.'

‘Am I wrong?'

Edward glimpsed a movement in the mirror as one of the guards looked at his watch.

‘Less talk, more action.'

Which meant he was right. Edward smiled to himself. 18.58. Just over a minute left. He placed the shaver in his light brown toilet bag, zipped it shut and splashed his face one last time. Annoyingly, the new inmate was still standing there, showing no sign of leaving. Edward hated people who couldn't stick to the proper times. At any second the guards would tell them again, but Edward pre-empted them. He turned around and left the washroom with water dripping from his face. He walked over to the trolley and nodded to the cleaner.

‘Evening, Ralph.'

‘Evening.'

‘What's the weather like out there?'

‘Same as yesterday. Hot.'

Edward looked at the pile of fresh paper towels with which Ralph would shortly fill up the white plastic holders in the washroom.

‘Is it okay if I take a couple of paper towels?'

Ralph nodded listlessly. ‘Sure.'

Edward leaned forward and picked up the top three towels. At the same time the guards took a step forward. Their attention was focused on the new inmate. Not Edward.

18.59.

‘Come on, you've got one minute!'

They stood tall, making themselves look big in the doorway just to show who was in charge. Edward ignored them completely. He was already on the way to his cell.

18.59.30.

Behind him he heard the guards walk into the washroom. He hoped they would give the guy in there something to think about. Something that hurt. Pain was the best way to learn, he knew that from personal experience. Nothing was more effective than pain. But this was Sweden. They didn't have the courage to exploit pain in this country. It would probably be a caution, a shortened break or the withdrawal of some other privilege. Hinde was afraid he was going to have to deal with the new guy himself. The guards wouldn't succeed. He became even more certain when he heard them launch into a loud discussion. He stepped into his cell with the three paper towels.

Perfect timing.

19.00.

The door closed behind him.

Edward sat down on the bed and carefully placed the paper towels on the bedside table. He loved this moment, when the routines of Lövhaga were replaced by his own. When the time became his. In two hours he would begin. Slowly he picked up the middle paper towel and opened it out, full of anticipation. Below the crease on the inside someone had written in faint pencil: ‘5325 3398 4771'.

Twelve numbers that represented freedom.

The last thing on his list was to get hold of Trolle and tell him to put a stop to his investigations. Sebastian had called from work and later from his mobile, but he had heard nothing all day. Now he let the phone ring and ring once more. He was starting to get worried. The mere thought that Torkel might sooner or later get in touch with his former colleague turned his blood to ice. And it would happen. In spite of everything, Trolle Hermansson had been one of the best officers involved in the Hinde case in the nineties. Torkel respected him in many ways. Not as a person, they were too different for that, but as a professional. Whatever you thought about Trolle, there was no denying the fact that he always got results. And Torkel was going to want to speak to him. Particularly if the investigation remained at a standstill. That was the secret of good police work. You turned over one stone after another, prioritised, started with those who appeared to be most closely connected to the investigation, then worked outwards. Further and further from the centre, until you had gone through every possibility. Then you started all over again. Trolle wasn't the hottest lead, but as time went by a good police officer would reach the conclusion that it might be worthwhile having a chat with him, and Torkel was a good police officer. One of the best, in fact. At some point in the future the Trolle-stone would be turned over. When that happened every dam might suddenly break, everything Sebastian was trying to hide might come cascading out and everything would be destroyed.

Because Trolle Hermansson couldn't be trusted.

After yet another unanswered call, Sebastian decided to go and see him. Just because he wasn't answering the phone didn't necessarily mean he wasn't home. Sebastian jumped in a taxi. It was a fraction cooler now, and he opened the window to get a little bit of fresh air. He could see people strolling along in their summery clothes; the city really came to life on these warm nights. Everyone looked so young and happy, all in groups of two or more. What happened to the old and the lonely and the depressed in summer? he wondered as he looked at them.

He was almost there when he spotted Trolle on the pavement on the other side of the street. He was wearing a big black coat, so he was hard to miss. Most of the people Sebastian had seen on the way hadn't been wearing coats or jackets, and those who had went for pale colours and light fabrics. Trolle looked as if he were equipped for the worst winter in living memory. Sebastian asked the driver to stop and stuffed a few hundred-kronor notes in his hand. He leapt out of the taxi and ran towards Trolle, who turned into Ekholmsvägen and out of his sight just a few hundred metres up ahead. He seemed to be on his way home. Sebastian ran after him. It was a long time since his heart and legs had worked so hard, and the hint of coolness he had felt in the taxi was long gone. He was sweating and puffing as he rounded the corner of Ekholmsvägen and saw Trolle step in through his doorway. Sebastian stopped to catch his breath. Now he knew where Trolle was, and from a purely tactical point of view he felt it was probably better not to turn up looking sweaty and desperate. He waited a few more minutes, then walked over to the apartment block.

Trolle opened the door after only two rings. He looked much fresher than the last time they had met, but the apartment behind him was still gloomy, and the same slightly unpleasant smell filtered into the stairwell.

‘I saw from the phone that you'd called. I was just about to ring you,' he began, and surprised Sebastian by holding the door open to invite him in.

‘We need to talk.'

‘Evidently. I'm sure nine missed calls must mean something.'

Sebastian tried to smile disarmingly as he looked around the small, dark space. There were newspapers, clothes and mess lying all over the place. The blinds were closed, no curtains, the walls completely bare. It smelled of cigarettes, dirt and stale rubbish. Trolle showed him into the living room. The television was on with the volume very low; the only illumination was provided by some cookery programme featuring celebrities. The entire complement of furniture was made up of a sofa, on which Trolle appeared to sleep, and a glass table that must once have cost a great deal of money, but now served as a dumping ground for wine bottles, pizza cartons and an overflowing ashtray. The ceiling above the sofa was greasy and nicotine-yellow.

Trolle turned to Sebastian, noticed his critical expression and flung his arms wide. ‘Welcome to my world. Once upon a time I lived in a white two-storey house in a swanky suburb. Now I live like this. Life is full of surprises, wouldn't you say?' Trolle shook his head and looked around, then went over to the sofa and pushed the grubby bedclothes to one side. ‘Sit down. I've found something for you. Good stuff.' He gave a smile which could only be described as malicious. ‘Really good stuff.'

Sebastian remained standing and shook his head. ‘I don't want it anymore. I've come to ask you to stop digging.'

‘Read it first. Before you decide.' Trolle bent down and picked up a white supermarket carrier bag, stuffed with what appeared to be papers. He held it out to Sebastian. ‘There you go.'

‘I don't want it. Get rid of it.'

‘Read it anyway, it'll only take you about half an hour. Time well spent.'

Reluctantly Sebastian took the carrier bag. It probably only weighed a few hundred grams, but it felt considerably heavier in his hand.

‘Okay. But you have to stop now. I'll give you the money, and then you have to promise me that you'll never tell anyone I asked you to do this. You and I have never even met.'

In spite of the gloom, Sebastian saw a glimmer in Trolle's eyes. A glimmer of interest. That couldn't possibly bode well.

‘And who would be asking me?' Trolle looked at him with curiosity. ‘What's going on, Sebastian?'

‘Nothing. I just want you to promise me that you won't say anything.'

‘No problem.' Trolle shrugged his shoulders. ‘But you know me. Promises mean nothing.'

‘I'll pay you double.'

Trolle shook his head and turned away from Sebastian with a gusty sigh. ‘I helped you, and now you want to buy me off? Who do you think I am? I thought we were friends.'

‘If we're friends, just promise me you'll keep quiet. And stick to your word,' Sebastian countered sourly.

‘Why don't you tell me the truth instead?'

‘If anyone finds out about this, it will be a total disaster for me. Total.' Sebastian gazed pleadingly into Trolle's implacable eyes.