He must not have noticed her creep out.
With a groan, he sits up and tries to find his phone, but the room is spinning so much that he can’t focus. He stands up, head throbbing, and comes very close to falling over. He screws his eyes shut and leans against the wall for a while before he can continue. The phone is under the bed. Odd images swirl around his head as he crouches down and tries to reach it.
His phone says he’s missed nine calls from Sammy.
Rex feels a cold shiver of angst.
He tries to call but can’t get through. Either his son’s phone is switched off, or he’s run out of battery.
He sees that Sammy has left three voicemails, and clicks to listen to them. His fingers are shaking.
‘Dad, if you feel like coming early that would be great.’
There’s a click and the call ends. The next message is from a few hours later, and Sammy sounds considerably more tired this time.
‘It’s half past one now. Are you on your way?’
After a brief pause his son says in a low voice:
‘Nico was mad and ignored me all night, and now he’s with some girl and I’m left here with a bunch of idiots.’
Rex hears him sigh to himself.
‘I’ll be waiting on the side of the road outside the house.’
Rex stands up and listens to the last message. The walls lurch away from him the moment he tries to focus on them.
‘I’m going to start walking, Dad. Hope you’re OK.’
He pulls on the clothes that are lying on the floor, bangs into a wall and tries to suppress the urge to throw up. He weaves his way out into the hall, finds DJ’s car keys on the dresser, pulls on his shoes and jogs downstairs.
When he emerges into the cool air, he walks straight over to some recycling bins and throws up between the green containers.
He shivers as if he has frostbite and throws up again, feeling lumps of the buffet from Café Opera press their way through his throat.
Legs shaking, Rex makes his way to DJ’s car. He pulls out Sammy’s note and taps the address into the GPS.
Rex drives off towards Nykvarn. His lingering intoxication makes the world spin outside the windshield. His hands shake on the wheel and sweat runs down his back, and he prays silently to himself that nothing bad has happened.
He tries calling Sammy again, but the car lurches and a lorry honks its horn at him.
While he drives, memories from the past evening slowly become clearer: his drinking, Edith’s patient coaxing of his faltering erection.
In the early morning light, the city looks like it’s rising from the sea: church spires and imposing buildings break the surface, water runs off rooftops, gushes from windows and doors, down streets and squares.
The water runs away, revealing glistening fragments of the night.
Champagne splashing over floors and sheets, her hand on his head as he licked her, her sweating thighs against his cheeks, the floor lamp toppling over and going out.
Somewhere in the middle of it all he started to get dressed to take a taxi out to Djursholm, before remembering that the Foreign Minister was dead.
He tripped over her bag, picked it back up and saw a knife in there along with her purse and make-up case.
Rex swerves again as an ambulance passes by silently, blue lights flashing.
He shudders and lowers his speed.
After S?dert?lje the traffic gets thinner and the highway is almost empty.
Rex speeds up again, passes a tranquil lake, and then there’s nothing but forest.
He looks at the GPS and sees that the turn-off for Nykvarn is five kilometres away. Then he’ll have to make his way to an isolated place called Tubergslund.
He passes a white van with a sheet of cardboard taped across its rear window, turns the indicator on and is about to pull back into the right-hand lane when he sees a thin figure trying to hitchhike on the other side of the highway.
Realising that it’s Sammy, Rex reacts instinctively and pulls off onto the gravel at the side of the road, braking so hard that the tyres slide across the uneven surface.
The van driver lets out a long blast of his horn as he drives past.
Rex gets out of the car without closing the door and runs back along the hard shoulder. He waits until a white bus has passed before rushing across the two lanes. He walks down the tall grass divider as a series of cars drive past. He quickly dashes across the other lanes, then starts running after Sammy.
A huge articulated lorry makes the ground shake. The turbulence once it’s passed swirls rubbish and dust into the air around him.
He tries to run faster when he sees Sammy up ahead, lit up in the headlights of the lorry as it thunders past. His thin frame turns red for a few seconds in the glow of its rear lights.
‘Sammy!’ Rex shouts, and stops running, gasping for breath. ‘Sammy!’
His son turns around, sees him, but keeps his thumb up as the next car approaches.
Rex hurries on, panting, sweat running down his back.
‘Sorry. I’m so sorry, I fell asleep …’
‘I was relying on you,’ his son says, and keeps walking.
‘Sammy,’ Rex pleads, trying to get him to stop. ‘I don’t know what to say … I don’t want to admit it, but the truth is that I’m an alcoholic. It’s an illness, and I had a relapse earlier this evening.’
Sammy turns around and looks at him at last. His face is pale and he looks exhausted.
‘I’m ashamed,’ Rex says. ‘I’m so ashamed, but I’m doing my best to deal with it.’
‘I know, Dad, and that’s really good,’ his son replies seriously.
‘Did your mum tell you I’m going to AA meetings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course she did,’ Rex mutters.
‘I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it,’ Sammy says.
‘I just want to say … I haven’t been taking it seriously, but I will be from now on.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m bound to fall off the wagon again, but at least now I’m admitting I’ve got a problem, and I know it’s hurt you …’
His voice breaks and hot tears spring to his eyes. Cars rush past, lighting up Sammy’s face briefly.
‘Can we go home?’ he asks, and sees the hesitant look on Sammy’s face. ‘I don’t mean I should drive. We can walk to S?dert?lje and get a taxi from there.’
They start walking together as a police car passes by on the other side of the highway. Rex turns around and sees it stop right behind DJ’s car.
61
Verner Sandén leans back in his chair and looks at Saga, who is standing in front of his large desk.
‘I know how the Security Police work,’ she says quietly, putting her pistol and ID card on the desk.
‘You’re not being fired, you’re just on leave,’ Verner says.
‘There’s no way—’
‘Don’t get angry now,’ Verner interrupts. ‘I can’t deal with that.’
‘There’s no way in hell that I’m going to let a murderer keep killing just because it suits the Security Police,’ she concludes.
‘That’s why we’re paying for you to go off to the Canary Islands.’
‘I’d rather take a shot in the back of the neck,’ she says.
‘Now you’re just being childish.’
‘I can accept the fact that we’re saying the Foreign Minister died of natural causes, but I can’t let this go. That’s out of the question.’
‘Janus is in charge of the investigation,’ Verner explains.
‘He told me he’d been put in charge of the logistics surrounding the funeral.’
‘But after that he’ll be picking up where you left off,’ he says.
‘That doesn’t exactly scream high priority to me.’
Verner adjusts some papers in front of him, then clasps his hands together.
‘There’s no need for you to get angry,’ he says. ‘I think it will do you good to get away for a while, get a bit of distance from—’
‘I’m not angry,’ she says, taking a step closer to him.
‘Saga, I know you’re disappointed about the operation at the marina,’ he says. ‘But the upside is that this has led to us getting an increased budget, and that means we’ll be able to fight real terrorists much better.’
‘Great.’