‘Are there any chairs?’
‘Only one … so you’ll have to sit on my lap. No, I usually move the chairs out when I’m baking so I have more space,’ she says, gesturing towards the living room.
He walks into the next room, which contains a television, sofa and an old hand-painted dresser. Six kitchen chairs are lined up along the wall, so he picks up two of them and carries them back to the kitchen. He hits his head on the lamp again, stops it swinging with one hand, then sits down.
The lamp keeps swaying for a while, its light sliding over the walls.
‘Valeria … I’m not really here on leave,’ Joona says.
‘Did you escape?’ she asks with a smile.
‘Not this time,’ he replies.
She lowers her bright, brown eyes, and her face turns almost grey, as if she were trapped behind a wall of ice.
‘I knew it would happen. I knew you’d go back to being a police officer,’ she says, swallowing hard.
‘I’m not a police officer, but I’ve been forced to do one last job. There was no other option.’
She leans gently against the wall. She’s still not looking at him. The veins in her neck are throbbing hard, and her lips are pale.
‘Were you ever in prison for real?’
‘I accepted the job the day before yesterday,’ he replies.
‘I see.’
‘I’m done with the police.’
‘No,’ she smiles. ‘Well, you may believe that, but I could always tell you wanted to get back in.’
‘That’s not true,’ he says, even though he realises that it is.
‘I’ve never been as in love with anyone as I was with you,’ she says slowly, switching the stove off. ‘I know I’ve failed at most things in my life, and I know being a gardener isn’t much to brag about … But when I found out that you were in Kumla … I don’t know, I felt like I didn’t have to feel ashamed in front of you any more, that you’d understand. But now … You don’t want to work here. Why on earth would you? You’ll always be a police officer. That’s just who you are, and I know that.’
‘I’d be happy here,’ Joona says.
‘It wouldn’t work,’ she replies, her voice catching.
‘It would.’
‘Don’t worry, Joona, it’s fine,’ she says.
‘I’m a police officer. It’s part of who I am. My dad died when he was on duty … He wouldn’t have wanted to see me in uniform, but he’d rather that than prison clothes.’
She looks down and folds her arms over her chest.
‘I’m probably overreacting, but I’d like you to leave,’ she says quietly.
Joona nods slowly, runs his hand along the table, then stands up.
‘OK, how about this,’ he says, trying to catch her eye. ‘I’ll book a room in a little hotel in Vasastan, the Hotel Hansson. I have to be back at Kumla again tomorrow, but I hope you’ll visit me before I go, regardless of whether or not I’m a police officer.’
When he leaves the kitchen she looks away quickly so he won’t see that she’s on the verge of bursting into tears. She hears his heavy footsteps in the hall, then hears the door open and close.
Valeria goes over to the window and watches him get in his car and drive away. When he’s gone she sinks to the floor with her back against the radiator and lets the tears come, all the tears that have been dammed up inside her since high school, when a chasm opened up between them.
39
Saga locks her motorcycle and starts walking down Luntmakar Street while she thinks about how quickly Joona infiltrated Salim Ratjen’s organisation. The operation is supposed to start in two hours.
She passes a vegetarian Asian restaurant and sees a couple in their fifties having a meal. They’re holding each other’s hands over the table between the dishes and glasses.
Saga realises that she’s forgotten to eat anything since the Foreign Minister was murdered.
Everyone has been affected by the threat facing the country.
Jeanette went home sick after their trip to see Tamara at Nyk?pingsbro. Saga had to drive back to Stockholm while Jeanette lay curled up on the back seat with her eyes closed.
Janus’s eyes were bloodshot and he was chugging water when she met him in the office that morning.
He hadn’t shaved, and admitted that he hadn’t been home to his family, he’d slept in his car. It occurs to her that she needs to talk to him about the importance of taking his medication. She knows he spent several weeks in hospital after he was dismissed from the military, but that he has managed his illness very well since then.
Janus’s colleagues have looked through the security-camera footage from the Foreign Minister’s hard-drive. There’s no sign of the killer, even though he must have been there at least once before to do reconnaissance.
But three weeks ago the cameras caught another intruder on film.
In the middle of the night Rex Müller, the celebrity chef, was filmed climbing over the fence, crossing the lawn and weaving his way up onto the deck.
The recording shows him urinating straight into the illuminated swimming pool. Then he goes around collecting garden gnomes and throwing them into the pool, one after the other.
It’s hard to see any connection to the murder, but it’s undoubtedly an aggressive and unbalanced act.
Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Janus stressed several times that no expression of hatred could be disregarded. A few hostile words in the comments section or on a Facebook or Instagram post could be the prelude to a horrifying hate-crime.
Rex fetches the ashtray Sammy has left on the balcony, rinses it, and is putting it in the dishwasher when the doorbell rings. Leaving the tap running, he hurries downstairs.
The most beautiful woman he has ever seen is standing outside his door.
‘My name is Saga Bauer. I work for the Security Police,’ she says, looking directly at him.
‘The Security Police?’ he says.
She shows him her ID.
‘OK,’ he replies, without looking at it.
‘Can I come in?’ she asks.
Rex backs away, hears the water running in the kitchen and remembers that he was busy washing dishes.
The police officer kicks off her worn trainers and nudges them aside.
‘Can we go to the kitchen?’ he says weakly. ‘I was just filling the dishwasher and …’
She nods and follows him up the stairs to the kitchen. He turns the water off and looks at her.
‘Do you … would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘No, thanks,’ she says, looking out at the view of the city. ‘You knew the Foreign Minister, didn’t you?’
She turns to look at him, and Rex notices that one of her big toes is sticking out of a hole in her sock.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t know it was so serious, he hardly ever mentioned his illness … Typical of men of a certain age, I suppose, always thinking they have to keep things to themselves …’
His voice fades away.
She goes over to the kitchen table, stares at the bowl of limes for a while before looking up at him again.
‘But you were fond of him?’
Rex shrugs his shoulders.
‘We hadn’t seen a lot of each other in recent years. We’ve both been so busy … That’s always the way if you want a successful career. Everything has its price.’
‘You’d known him a long time,’ she says, putting her hand on the back of one of the chairs.
‘Since high school. We were at the same boarding school, Ludviksberg. We were in the same gang … spoiled kids, really, no joke was too coarse for us, no prank too extreme,’ he lies.
‘Sounds fun,’ she says drily.
‘Best time of my life,’ he smiles, then turns towards the dishwasher because he can’t bear the insincerity on his own face.
When he looks over at her again he feels a sudden cramp in his chest. Some of the blood from the night DJ came to his flat is clearly visible on one of the kitchen chairs. How could he have missed it when he was cleaning? Somehow the blood has run under the armrest and frozen into dark, congealed drops.
‘Why do I get the impression you’re not telling the truth?’