‘Look, Dad, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t get it. What do you want from me?’
‘No more stomach pumps, for a start.’
Sammy gets slowly to his feet and goes to hang the towel up.
‘I thought Nico was counting the pills he was giving me,’ he says when he comes back. ‘But there were too many.’
‘Count for yourself in the future.’
‘I’m weak-willed. And it’s actually OK for me to be weak,’ he replies quickly.
‘Then you won’t make it. There’s no place for weakness in this world.’
‘OK, Dad.’
‘Sammy, it’s not like I’m making this up – that’s just the way it is.’
His son is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. His cheeks are flushed and he swallows hard.
‘Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous,’ Rex says.
‘Why not?’ Sammy whispers.
24
No terrorist organisation has claimed responsibility for the murder, but the Security Police don’t think that’s strange given the specific nature of the attack. The underlying reason for shooting the Foreign Minister is to frighten a small group of high-ranking politicians rather than terrify the general population.
On Sunday they continue evaluating the forensic evidence and the thousands of lab results. Everything points to the fact that they’re dealing with a highly professional killer. He didn’t leave any fingerprints or biological evidence, he didn’t leave any bullets or cartridges, and he doesn’t appear in any security-camera footage.
They have several of his boot imprints, but they’re a type that are sold all over the world, and analysis of the dirt on them hasn’t come up with anything.
Saga is sitting with Janus, who’s the head of the investigation, and a few colleagues in one of the conference rooms of the Security Police Headquarters. Janus is wearing a pale green, tie-dye T-shirt. His almost white eyebrows take on a pinkish tone when he gets agitated.
Security around government buildings has been tightened and key individuals have more bodyguards, but they’re all aware that this might not be enough.
Stress levels in the conference room are high.
Salim has been isolated at Hall Prison in preparation for his transfer to Joona’s unit. No one believes that isolating him will prevent more murders, because even if he can’t give any further orders it’s possible that the first three have already been arranged.
Right now almost all of their hopes are pinned on Joona gaining his confidence inside the prison. If he fails, their only real option is to wait and see what happens on Wednesday.
‘We’re dealing with a meticulous killer. He doesn’t make any mistakes, doesn’t get carried away, doesn’t get scared,’ one of the men says.
‘Then he shouldn’t have left a witness alive,’ Saga says.
‘This is all assuming he isn’t just a pimp who thought the Foreign Minister had gone too far this time,’ Janus smiles, blowing his red hair away from his face.
Jeanette and Saga have conducted three more interviews with the witness, but nothing new has emerged. She’s sticking to her story, and there’s nothing to suggest that she’s lying. But they haven’t been able to verify the fact that she’s a prostitute.
No one else in the business knows Sofia, but the investigators have managed to trace Tamara Jensen, who now appears to be the only person who might be able to confirm her story.
Tamara’s number was in Sofia’s mobile phone, and by using three base-stations to trace her phone they’ve managed to identify an exact location: Tamara’s movements are restricted to a small area just southwest of Nyk?ping.
She isn’t married, and she hasn’t moved to Gothenburg, as Sofia claimed.
She’s still advertising on a website that says it offers an exclusive escort service in the Stockholm area. The photograph shows a woman in her mid-twenties, with lively eyes and shiny hair. Her presentation promises cultured company for social events and trips, nights and weekend packages.
Saga is navigating while Jeanette drives the dark grey BMW. The two women always enjoy each other’s company even though they’re very different in both personality and appearance. Jeanette’s hair is held in place by a silver clasp, and she’s wearing a light grey skirt and white jacket, thick tights and pumps with a low heel.
They’re talking and eating liquorice from a bag in the centre console.
Saga is telling Jeanette how her ex-boyfriend, Stefan, sent her lots of drunken texts from Copenhagen yesterday, wanting her to go to his hotel.
‘Well, why not?’ Jeanette says, helping herself to another piece of liquorice.
Saga laughs, then looks thoughtfully out of the side-window at the industrial buildings flashing past.
‘He’s an idiot, and I can’t believe I’m still sleeping with him,’ she says quietly.
‘Seriously, though,’ Jeanette says, drumming the steering wheel lightly with one hand. ‘Who cares about principles? This is your life, the only one you’ve got, and you’re not seeing anyone else.’
‘Is that your advice as a psychologist?’ Saga smiles.
‘I really believe that,’ she replies, looking at Saga.
It’s late evening by the time they reach Nyk?pingsbro, an all-night restaurant situated on a bridge over the highway.
Jeanette drives around the car park until they find Tamara’s old Saab. They block it in with the BMW, then go into the restaurant.
The restaurant is almost empty. Saga and Jeanette walk around the tables anyway, but there’s no sign of Tamara. They pass a deserted ballpit trapped behind a smeared glass screen, next to a green sign with tourist information.
‘OK, let’s go outside,’ Jeanette says in a low voice.
It’s dark in the car park. The air is cold and Saga zips up her leather jacket as they walk past the tables and benches. A few magpies are scrambling around on top of the overflowing dustbins.
Saga and Jeanette walk towards the lorry park as a blue articulated lorry pulls up in front of them. The vehicle’s weight makes the ground shake. It turns and parks wheezily beside the furthest lorry.
There are nineteen lorries parked on this side of the bridge. Beyond them the murky darkness of the forest takes over. The roar of the highway comes in waves, like exhausted surf on a beach.
It’s dark and strangely warm between the vehicles. The smell of diesel mixes with urine and cigarette smoke. The hot metal clicks. Dirty water drips from a mud flap.
Someone tosses a bag of rubbish under a trailer and clambers back up into the cab.
Cigarettes glow in various places in the darkness.
Saga and Jeanette walk around the huge vehicles. The tarmac is covered with oil-stains, empty chewing-tobacco tubs, Burger King wrappers, cigarette butts, and a tatty porn magazine.
Saga crouches down and looks under one of the trailers. She sees people moving around between the lorries further away. One man is peeing against a tyre. They can hear a muted conversation, and somewhere a dog is barking.
One lorry, smeared with dirt, starts up beside them and idles for a while to get the engine warmed up. Its red tail-lights illuminate a pile of empty bottles at the edge of the forest.
Saga crouches down again to look under the rusty vehicle frame, and sees a woman climb out of one of the cabs. Saga’s gaze follows her thin legs as she totters away on platform boots.
25
Saga and Jeanette hurry towards the woman in high heels just as the articulated lorry rumbles out from the lorry park. It turns heavily on its axis and passes so close that they have to press up against another lorry to avoid getting crushed.
The huge tyres crunch past.
A hot cloud of exhaust fumes in the air and Jeanette coughs quietly.
Some distance away a man calls out, then wolf-whistles.
They walk around the other lorry and catch sight of the woman in platform boots. She’s standing with her hands cupped around a cigarette, the glow of the lighter reflected on her face. It isn’t Tamara. The woman’s eyes are red-rimmed, and she has deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her mouth.