‘What’s this about?’
‘Good question,’ he smiles, looking over Rex’s shoulder.
‘You’ve already been here.’
‘Yes, exactly, that’s right, Officer Bauer … I’m working with her,’ he replies, tossing his hair back from his face.
‘OK.’
‘So you really liked the Foreign Minister,’ the man says with a familiarity in his voice that sends shivers down Rex’s spine.
‘You mean politically?’
‘No.’
‘We were old friends,’ Rex says guardedly.
‘His wife says she’s never met you.’
‘I clearly didn’t make much of an impression,’ Rex says, forcing a smile.
Without returning the smile, Janus walks into the hall and shuts the door behind him. He glances around, then looks at Rex intently again.
‘Do you know anyone who was … less fond of the Foreign Minister than you were?’
‘If he had any enemies, you mean?’
Janus nods.
‘We talked about old times when we met,’ Rex says.
‘Happy memories,’ Janus mutters, fastening one of the buttons on his fly.
‘Yes.’
‘We can offer witness protection. I can personally guarantee the very highest level.’
‘Why would I need protection?’ Rex asks.
‘I just mean, if you have information that you don’t want to talk about because you’re worried something might happen to you,’ he explains in a low voice.
‘Is there some kind of threat against me?’ Rex asks.
‘I hope not; I love your stuff on TV,’ Janus replies. ‘All I’m saying is that I help people who help me.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything to tell you.’
Janus pretends to be taken aback by this, as if he doubts Rex’s words or is at least very surprised by them.
‘I’m picking up energies from you. I like them, but they feel a bit hemmed in,’ he says, squinting at Rex.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m joking. I can’t help it. Everyone seems to think I look like a hippie.’
‘Peace,’ Rex says with a wry smile.
‘Is that a Chagall?’ Janus asks, pointing at a print on the wall. ‘Wonderful … the falling angel.’
‘Yes.’
‘You told my colleague you had coffee with the Foreign Minister a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘What day was that, exactly?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Rex says.
‘But you do remember which café you went to?’
‘Vetekatten.’
‘Coffee and cake?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s great. I mean, they ought to remember you: Rex the celebrity chef and Sweden’s Foreign Minister sitting there eating cake,’ Janus smiles.
‘Sorry, but can we do this later … we just got back from the funeral, and …’
‘I was just about to ask about that.’
‘OK, but I need to take care of my son. We’re pretty shaken …’
‘Of course, I understand,’ Janus says, raising a trembling hand to his mouth. ‘Actually, I’d like to talk to him too, when it’s convenient.’
‘Give me a call and we can arrange a time,’ Rex says, opening the door.
‘Do you have a car?’
‘No.’
‘No car,’ Janus repeats thoughtfully before disappearing down the stairs.
66
Joona spends the evening exercising in his tiny cell while repeating his Dutch lieutenant’s words about courage and fear: ‘It’s all about the strategic distribution of energy and the importance of concealing your best weapons for as long as you can.’
Joona sleeps fitfully that night and wakes early. He washes his face and starts to work through the case in his head. He examines every detail he can remember, looks at everything from all three hundred and sixty degrees, piece by piece, like the tiny cogs in a clock, and becomes increasingly confident about his theory.
Rain is falling against the window from a solid grey sky. Time passes.
It’s already afternoon when two prison guards knock on Joona’s door, unlock it and ask him to go with them.
‘I need to make a phone call, even though it’s probably already too late,’ he says.
They lead him through the tunnel without replying. As if repeating the events from a few days earlier, he is led to a meeting he hasn’t requested. This time he is shown into one of the smaller rooms beyond the usual visiting-rooms, where inmates usually see their legal representatives.
The guards let him in, then lock the door behind him.
A man is sitting with his head in his hands. The desk divided across the middle by a screen thirty centimetres high. One wall of the room is adorned with a black and white photograph of Paris. The Eiffel Tower has been tinted a golden yellow colour.
‘Is Absalon Ratjen dead?’ Joona asks.
Carlos Eliasson leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. His face is in shadow, and there’s an anxious darkness in his otherwise friendly eyes.
‘I just want you to know that I took you seriously. I sent two response teams.’
‘Was he shot?’ Joona asks, sitting down across from his former boss.
‘Stabbed,’ Carlos says in a subdued voice.
‘First in the gut. He bled profusely but retained consciousness despite the extreme pain. Then about fifteen minutes later he was dispatched by …’
‘A machete to the back of his neck,’ Carlos whispers in astonishment.
‘By a machete to the back of his neck,’ Joona nods.
‘I don’t understand how you could have heard about that. You’ve been kept in isolation, but …’
‘And because you hadn’t figured out the killer’s plan,’ Joona goes on, ‘you couldn’t see that the Foreign Minister was the first victim because the murderer needed a big funeral to lure his next victim into the open.’
Carlos’s face turns red, and he stands up and loosens his bowtie.
‘The acting US Defence Secretary,’ he mumbles.
‘Who was right?’ Joona asks.
Carlos pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his head.
‘You were right,’ he says helplessly.
‘And who was wrong?’
‘I was. I did what you said, but I still doubted you,’ Carlos admits, and sits back down.
‘We’re facing an intelligent spree killer with top-class military training … and he has another seven victims on his list.’
‘Seven,’ Carlos whispers, staring at Joona.
‘The killer has a strong personal motive for these murders … one that somehow distorts his perception of reality.’
‘I’ve got a proposal,’ Carlos says tentatively, and takes out a leather folder.
‘I’m listening,’ Joona replies gently, just as he did a few days ago when the Prime Minister came to see him.
‘This is a signed agreement,’ Carlos says, holding up a sheet of paper. ‘The remainder of your sentence is being commuted to community service with the police … with immediate effect, if you accept the terms.’
Joona merely looks at him.
‘And, after the community service, I can guarantee that you’ll be reinstated, at your old rank,’ Carlos says, tapping the folder.
Joona’s expression doesn’t change.
‘Same pay as before. You can have more if that’s important to you.’
‘Can I have my old office back?’ Joona finally says.
‘A lot has changed while you’ve been in here,’ Carlos says, squirming in his seat. ‘We’re no longer the National Criminal Police, as you know … these days we’re the NOU, the National Operations Unit. And the National Forensics Centre is the new name for—’
‘I want my office back,’ Joona interrupts. ‘I want my old office, next to Anja.’
‘That isn’t going to work, not right now, anyway. It’s too soon, and it wouldn’t work in the building, because after all you are a convicted criminal.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t take it too hard,’ Carlos says. ‘We’ve got a great building at Tors Street, number 11 … It’s not the same, I know, but there’s going to be an overnight flat and … Well, it’s all here in writing. Read it through, then …’
‘I prefer to trust people,’ Joona says without touching the document.
‘Is that a yes? You do want to come back, don’t you?’ Carlos asks.
‘This isn’t a game for me,’ Joona says seriously. ‘The risk of another murder increases every day the killer walks free.’
‘We can leave right away,’ Carlos says, getting up from his chair.
‘I need my Colt Combat,’ Joona says.
‘It’s in the car.’