The Disciple (36 page)

After a weekend with Sebastian she had taken a sheet from his laundry basket. A sheet that bore clear traces of sexual activity. She had taken it to the lab at Linköping and asked one of her former colleagues for a favour. She wanted to run a DNA test. The colleague quickly realised this wasn’t part of any police investigation; he was understandably reluctant to get involved, but allowed her to use the lab. So she did it herself. It was simple.

She had collected Sebastian’s DNA from some strands of hair in his hairbrush. The test result showed that one trace of DNA on the sheet came from Sebastian. Of course. But the other matched Ursula’s DNA only at certain points. With growing horror Ursula realised what she was looking at.

It was elementary forensics. If the DNA profile didn’t have exactly the same pattern, but was similar, it could well belong to a relative. The closer the relationship, the more similar the DNA profile.

These were very similar.

Like sisters.

She had confronted Sebastian, who had owned up immediately. Yes, he was sleeping with Barbro. As far as he recalled, he and Ursula had never promised to be faithful to one another. She’d been away for several months, more or less. What was he supposed to do, live like a monk?

She had walked away from him.

Maybe, just maybe, she could have coped with his infidelity. With a stranger. But not with Barbro. Not with her sister.

When she had left Sebastian she had driven straight out to Mälarhöjden. The whole family had been at home when she stormed in and confronted Barbro with what she knew. What was it she’d said about finishing one thing before you started on the next? Barbro had denied everything. Ursula had shown her the DNA report. Anders had been furious. Klara and Hampus had started crying. Ursula had left a home in chaos. That was the last time she had seen her sister. She eventually heard from her parents that Barbro and Anders had split up and moved away. She didn’t know where. Didn’t want to know. She had no intention of ever forgiving Barbro.

She had gone back to Linköping. To Bella. To Micke, who was back on his feet again. They had discussed the situation, and after a while Ursula had managed to persuade the family to move to Stockholm. She loved her job. She wasn’t about to give it up just because Sebastian Bergman was a pig. They would be able to work together. She would make sure of it.

She had gone on ahead of the others and visited Sebastian. Spelled things out. They would work together. She hated him, hated what he had done, but she wasn’t going to give up her job. She would not allow him to destroy anything else for her. If he as much as whispered to anyone else that they had been together, she would kill him. She had actually said that. And meant it. Sebastian had been uncharacteristically cooperative. He had kept his promise, hadn’t breathed a word about their relationship to anyone, as far as she knew. Micke and Bella moved up to Stockholm. Life went on. It worked on every level. Her family. Her job. But nobody was happier than she was when Sebastian left Riksmord in 1998.

But now he was back.

Now neither hot water nor essential oils could make her relax.

Now she was lying here with a loaded gun on the toilet.

Now she was thinking about events she had spent several years trying to suppress.

Yes, Sebastian Bergman was back.

In the worst way imaginable.

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.