The Disciple (18 page)

‘My name is Lennart, as you know, but you can call me Granddad if you like, now we’re going to be related.’

He was happy to do so. He had liked the man with the greying hair and the kind brown eyes that always seemed full of laughter.

At the time. When they had just met.

Before the outings.

Before the games.

Then he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

With the ritual completed, the tall man sat down in the kitchen and opened the newspapers with trembling fingers. They had finally realised. It had taken time, but now they had linked the first with the second with the third. They were writing about him. He was spreading fear, the first paper said. Pictures of the houses he had visited. An anxious neighbour clutching her daughter. He turned to the second newspaper. Much the same. There was nothing about his role model, in spite of the fact that the murders were exact copies. Either the journalists didn’t know the details, or they were simply unaware of the Master’s greatness. The police comments were brief. They merely wished to state that they were probably dealing with a serial killer. They wanted to warn the public, and particularly women on their own, against letting strange men into their homes. They said they had several leads, but that was all. They were not prepared to comment on any possible similarities between the three victims. They gave no details whatsoever. They were trying to diminish him, turn him into someone invisible, someone whose actions were unimportant. Again. They would not succeed. It wasn’t over. They would be forced to acknowledge that he was a worthy opponent. As great and as capable of instilling fear as the Master.

The tall man stood up, opened the second drawer down and took out a pair of scissors. He sat down and meticulously cut out the articles that were about him. When he had finished he folded up the newspapers and placed them in a pile on the table. Then he sat motionless. This was new. He needed to create a ritual. There would be more articles to come, he was sure of it. This was just the beginning. His whole body was tingling, as if he had suddenly moved into the next phase. The phase where the whole world would begin to search high and low for him, the hidden one. The phase where he existed.

He got up and went over to the cleaning cupboard. Next to the vacuum cleaner was a paper sack for the recycling. He picked up the newspapers from the table and placed them in the sack. Then he closed the door, picked up the cuttings and walked to his desk in the other room. He opened the top drawer. He kept envelopes in the drawer. In three different sizes. He took out one of the largest and placed the cuttings inside it. The ones from
Expressen
on top of the ones from
Aftonbladet
. If any more newspapers wrote about him, they could go behind
Aftonbladet
, he decided. If he printed out anything from the internet, it would have a separate envelope. He went over to the chest of drawers, opened the top drawer and placed the envelope containing the cuttings underneath the black sports bag. That was what he would do. Cut out, gather together, recycling, into the envelope, into the chest of drawers. A ritual. He immediately felt calmer.

The tall man sat down at the computer, opened his web browser and went into fygorh.se. He had reported on his recent observations, and the information had been extremely well received. On page seven he clicked on the small blue button right in the middle of a long extract on runic script. A new page opened and he entered his password. He gasped when he saw the change on the page.

He had been given a new task.

He was ready for the next one.

Number four.

The lift had been out of order all week. Sebastian walked up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t get much sweatier. The sun had been beating down on him all the way home. This summer it didn’t seem to make any difference which direction you were going in or at what time of day. From the moment the sun rose at around four in the morning, it seemed to be at its zenith. Shade was in short supply. The area of high pressure had lingered over the country for so long that the tabloids had been forced to invent new phrases. ‘Record Temperatures’ and ‘What a Scorcher!’ were no longer enough. ‘Sizzling Sun Strikes Again’ and ‘The Inferno Summer’ were a couple of examples from the last week’s crop, both linked to articles detailing how several people had ended up in hospital with the symptoms of dehydration, and tales of dogs dying in parked cars.

There were flowers hanging on his door. A bouquet in grey paper with a note attached. Sebastian ripped it off as he unlocked the door and went inside. He read the note as he pulled off his shirt without unbuttoning it, but it merely told him things he already knew or had worked out for himself: that someone had sent him flowers, but he hadn’t been at home to receive them, so they had been left on the door. Sebastian went into the kitchen and tore off the paper. Roses. A dozen, perhaps. Red. Definitely expensive. A card attached to the stems. Evidently he was being congratulated on something. That was all it said. ‘Congratulations’ in fancy writing. And a name: Ellinor.

The hand-holder.

He knew breakfast had been a mistake. He had known it at the time, and this was the confirmation. He threw the flowers in the sink and took a glass out of the cupboard. Filled it with water, drank it greedily and filled it again. Then he walked out of the kitchen. For a moment he wondered what the congratulations were for, but he decided not to worry about that.

The apartment was only marginally cooler than outside. It smelled stuffy. Dusty. He considered opening the window, but realised it wouldn’t make any difference. He took off all his clothes and threw them on the unmade bed in the spare room. He needed to do a couple of loads of washing, but decided not to bother with that either.

It struck him that the building was unusually quiet. No pipes humming away, no flushing toilets, no children yelling in the apartment above, no footsteps on the stairs. The whole place felt empty. Which it probably was, more or less; most of his neighbours were away on holiday. Not that he missed them – he hardly knew the names of any of them. He deliberately avoided residents’ meetings, communal clean-up days and neighbourhood parties. The children in the block had even stopped ringing his doorbell trying to sell Christmas magazines, May flowers and other crap. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

The encounter with Stefan hadn’t had the desired effect. He had gone there as a victor. He had won. He was going to show Stefan once and for all who set the agenda for their contact with one another. He would make it clear that if Stefan was intending to take the initiative and force him into something like that bloody group therapy session, then Stefan would have to wear the consequences. Sebastian had been fully prepared for an invigorating fight. Instead Stefan had seemed almost resigned. Highly unsatisfactory.

Sebastian went into the spare room and switched on the television, which was mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. He was about to lie down on the unmade bed when the telephone rang. He gave a start at the unfamiliar sound. His landline. Must be Trolle. For a moment he considered letting it ring, but curiosity got the better of him. Perhaps Trolle had found something. Something juicy. He went into the kitchen. This could be fun.

‘Yes?’

‘Did you get the flowers?’

Sebastian closed his eyes. Not Trolle. Most definitely not Trolle. A woman’s voice. Not fun at all.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Ellinor Bergkvist.’

‘Who?’ He managed to sound suitably puzzled. He had no intention of giving her any encouragement.

‘Ellinor Bergkvist. We met at the talk on Jussi Björling, and you came back to my place.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sebastian said, as if he had just succeeded in putting a face to the name.

‘You knew who I was when I said my name, didn’t you?’

‘What do you want?’ Sebastian snapped, not even trying to hide his irritation.

‘I just wanted to congratulate you on your name day. Jacob.’

Sebastian didn’t reply. Presumably his full name was on some Wikipedia page. He could just imagine her surfing around to find a link, a reason to call him. Get in touch. Flowers to his address and a phone call to his landline. Wasn’t his number ex-directory these days? It had been in the past, he knew that, but nowadays?

‘Your name is Jacob Sebastian Bergman, isn’t it.’ No hint of uncertainty in her voice. A statement. Sebastian cursed himself. The second she’d slipped her hand into his he should have pushed her away. He would have to do it now instead.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just screwed some woman and I need a shower.’

He put the phone down. He stood there for a moment, almost expecting it to ring again, but it remained silent. He left the kitchen. It had been a half-truth, anyway. He hadn’t had sex, but he definitely needed a shower. He was heading for the bathroom when a voice from the television caught his attention.

‘. . .
but according to the police there are indications that the same
perpetrator is involved . . .
’

Sebastian went into the room. Some news programme. A young man in front of a house, with a glorious garden in the background.

‘
. . . would make this the third woman who has been murdered in her
own home. The police are asking the public to be careful, particularly . . .
’

Sebastian stared at the television.

As Torkel pressed the button and opened the door leading to the foyer, he knew what was waiting for him. The call had come a minute ago when he was sitting in the Room with the team. Reception. He had a visitor. Sebastian Bergman.

Torkel had explained that he was busy, and that his visitor would have to wait. The receptionist had replied that Sebastian had said Torkel would say that, and if Torkel didn’t come down immediately Sebastian was going to start telling anyone in the foyer who was interested everything he knew about Torkel. Everything. Every single detail. He would kick off with a wet evening at the Stadshotell in Umeå with twins, he said. Torkel said he was on his way.

It wasn’t unexpected. As soon as the news was out and the press began to carry the story, Torkel knew he would hear from Sebastian.

He had barely managed to get the door open before Sebastian was there.

‘Is it true? Have you got a serial killer?’

‘Sebastian . . .’

‘Have you? Has he killed three times? That’s extremely unusual. I have to be involved.’

Torkel looked around. This was a conversation he really didn’t want to have in the reception area, but nor did he want to let Sebastian any further into the building. ‘Sebastian . . .’ he tried again, as if the repetition of his former colleague’s name would calm him down, and with a bit of luck make him forget the purpose of his visit.

‘I don’t have to be a part of the team if that will cause problems. Bring me in as a consultant. Like last time.’

Torkel saw a small escape route opening up. A tiny hole he might just be able to crawl through.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said firmly. ‘Do you know how much that would cost? I won’t be given any additional resources to bring you in.’

Sebastian was lost for words. He simply stared at Torkel for a few seconds, trying to work out if he had heard him correctly.

‘You’re not seriously trying to use your useless organisation and your pissing finances as a reason to keep me away? For fuck’s sake, Torkel, surely you can do better than that?’

Yes, he could, Torkel realised. Or he should have been able to. But now he had taken this route and he intended to follow it a little further, even if he was pretty sure it was a dead end.

‘You can think what you like, but it’s true.’ His voice wasn’t quite so firm this time. ‘I can’t afford you.’

The look Sebastian gave him was almost one of disappointment. ‘I can afford me. I’ll work for free. Like last time. Seriously, Torkel, if you don’t want me you’re going to have to come up with something better than the idea that I’d be buggering up your finances.’

‘Sebastian . . .’

‘At least let me have a look at the case. Surely that can’t do any harm. It’s what I do, for fuck’s sake!’

Torkel stood there in silence. It didn’t matter what he said. Sebastian had no intention of listening.

‘Okay, so the team got a bit stressed by my presence last time, but it would be professional misconduct not to bring me in if you’re dealing with a serial killer.’

Torkel turned around, took out his key card and swiped it. The door unlocked with a click. Torkel yanked it open. Sebastian obviously interpreted this as a sign that the conversation was over, and changed tactics.

‘I’m trying to get a grip on my life, Torkel. I really am trying, but I need a job.’

Torkel thought for a second. He wasn’t impressed by Sebastian’s assertion that he was trying to get control of his life; he’d tried that line in Västerås as well. Joining the team on that occasion hadn’t made a scrap of difference to him, as far as Torkel could see. However, his previous remark . . . Perhaps it would be a serious error of professional judgement if he didn’t make use of Sebastian’s expertise. Particularly in view of the person the murderer was copying. Three women were dead. The whole team was convinced there would be more. They were no closer to an arrest today than they had been a month ago. Wasn’t he obliged to do everything he could to stop the murders? He turned to face Sebastian again.