The Disciple (58 page)

‘Thomas Haraldsson.’

‘Afternoon, Västerås Cabs here,’ he heard a male voice say. ‘You ordered a taxi for today.’

Haraldsson frowned. Were they ringing to confirm the booking? It seemed a bit late. He glanced at his watch. They were supposed to be picking Jenny up right now.

‘That’s right,’ he said warily.

‘We’re at the pickup address, but there’s nobody here.’

‘Nobody there?’ Haraldsson assumed the man meant that Jenny wasn’t there. Anything else seemed highly unlikely. The company wasn’t very big, but surely somebody should be there.

So naturally his next question was: ‘Are you in the right place?’

‘Engelbrektsgatan 6. Her colleagues said another driver came and picked her up earlier today.’

‘So you sent two drivers?’

‘No, that’s why I’m calling. Did you book a different cab?’

‘No.’

Haraldsson didn’t understand any of this. Something had clearly gone wrong somewhere. He found it very difficult to believe that it could be down to him. The whole day had been meticulously planned. The driver passed him over to Veronica, who said exactly the same thing. A man had collected Jenny about an hour ago. He was wearing a taxi driver’s uniform. A big guy with a ponytail and a scar over one eye. He’d joked about it being a surprise, so he must have been the cab Thomas had ordered.

Haraldsson ended the call none the wiser. The taxi firm must have messed it up, but in that case where was Jenny? He scrolled down to her name in the list of contacts and called her mobile. No reply. When the voicemail kicked in, he left a message asking her to call him. Ended the call. Rang home. The answering machine clicked on. He left the same message there, perhaps with a little more anxiety in his voice. Ended the call. Thought for a moment and went back to his desk. Opened his web browser and Googled the name of the spa. Found the number and called them. At least he got an answer this time. Jenny Haraldsson hadn’t turned up yet. But there was still fifteen minutes to go before her booking; should they get her to call him when she arrived? Yes, Haraldsson said. They should.

He leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t really worried, but it was unlike her not to answer her mobile. He let his mind wander, trying to find a thread that might eventually lead to an explanation for what had happened. Where she was.

The man who picked up Jenny had known it was a surprise, Veronica had said. Not many people knew that. Not even Västerås Cabs, it struck him. He had merely booked a cab to collect her from work. He hadn’t mentioned that the person being picked up didn’t know anything about it. The only person with whom he had discussed the surprise was Veronica, so that Jenny could have the afternoon off. She was the only one who knew.

She and Edward Hinde.

He went cold all over.

Could Hinde have anything to do with this? It seemed impossible. Unbelievable. He and Hinde had worked together. Hinde had got everything he asked for. If there was anyone who should be dissatisfied with the outcome of their conversations, it was Haraldsson. Why should Hinde go anywhere near Jenny? He had shown a certain amount of interest in her, that was true. Asked to keep her photograph. But Hinde was safely behind bars. Even if Hinde had been working with Ralph Svensson on the outside, as Riksmord seemed to believe, he too was in custody. Riksmord had arrested him almost an hour before Jenny was collected by the mysterious driver.

For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of confronting Hinde, but he decided against it. Firstly, it was unthinkable that Hinde could have had anything to do with Jenny’s disappearance. Possible, he corrected himself. Possible disappearance. There was probably a completely natural explanation for what had happened.

Secondly, his direct confrontations with Hinde had turned out to be less than successful.

Haraldsson pushed away the frightening thoughts. He was being paranoid. He had spent too much time with Edward Hinde. That horrible man had managed to crawl under his skin. He tried Jenny’s mobile again. Heard it ringing, no reply, voicemail. Haraldsson couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. He picked up the ‘Visions and Aims’ folder again, but soon put it down. Opened his email inbox. There were a number of messages that needed answers, but he couldn’t concentrate.

Someone had picked her up.

She had gone with this person and disappeared.

He couldn’t just sit here and carry on as if nothing had happened.

Even if he was pretty sure nothing had happened.

Haraldsson left his office and Lövhaga and went home.

Edward Hinde was sitting cross-legged on his bed. Eyes closed. Calm, steady breathing.

Focused.

Composed.

Turned in on himself.

As soon as he heard the first rumours about Ralph spreading through the unit, he had got to work. He had made it known in the vicinity of one of the guards that he wasn’t feeling well, and was therefore going back to his cell for a rest. Once he was there he closed the door firmly behind him, slid under the bed and immediately began to unscrew the cover of the air vent. He worked quickly, well aware that this was the weakest point in his plan. It was highly unlikely that one of his fellow inmates would walk in uninvited, but if they did, it would be a distraction, nothing more. If a guard opened the door, though, that would be the end of it. The stress of the situation helped him. He had never before removed the cover in such a short time. He reached in and took out the fork he had stolen from the canteen yesterday, along with the jar he had got from Thomas Haraldsson.

Seven hundred and fifty grams of pickled beetroot.

Hinde replaced the cover, but didn’t screw it in place. He got up, tucked the fork into his sock and slipped the jar of beetroot under his top. This was the next risky enterprise. Even if he kept his hands cupped around his stomach as if he was in pain, a watchful eye might spot the jar. But he had to go for it. Stooping slightly, he left the cell and hurried towards the toilets.

Hands around his stomach. Rapid, shuffling steps. A man in dire straits.

Once inside a toilet cubicle he took out the jar and placed it on the edge of the washbasin. He pulled out a thick bundle of paper towels from the dispenser and spread them out on the lid of the toilet. Then he opened the jar, fished out several slices with the fork and let them drain off before laying them on the paper towels and beginning to mash them thoroughly. When there was nothing left but mush, he scooped it up with the fork and shovelled it into his mouth. Then he repeated the process until the jar was empty. It got quite difficult towards the end. Seven hundred and fifty grams of beetroot was more than he had thought. Before he left the toilet he picked up the jar and gulped down the remaining liquid. Then he rinsed the jar, tucked it under his top once more, slid the fork inside his sock and went back to his cell. He didn’t bother hiding the jar this time, but simply placed it behind the desk. He sat down on the bed, drew his legs up beneath him and closed his eyes.

Planning. Patience. Determination.

He had now been sitting on the bed for about an hour. Roland Johansson should have completed his task in Västerås. Ready for the next job. High time for phase two.

Slowly and deliberately Hinde straightened his legs and stood up, only to slide under the bed once more and remove the bottle he had been given by Haraldsson.

Ipecac.

Two hundred and fifty millilitres.

He unscrewed the cap and knocked back the contents of the bottle in two gulps. It didn’t taste good. But that didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be keeping it down for long. Before he left the cell he decided to hide the empty bottle and the beetroot jar in the air vent after all. It would be stupid to fail just because he had been lazy and careless. However, he could feel that he wouldn’t have time to screw the cover back in place. His stomach was gurgling. He went out into the dayroom, still with his hands cupped in front of him. His jaws were tightly clenched and he could feel that he had actually started sweating. He stopped in the middle of the room.

Showtime!

When he felt the first indications that his stomach was beginning to cramp, he collapsed. Screaming. Everyone else in the room stopped dead, staring at him. Hinde clutched his stomach and writhed around on the floor. He took a breath so that he could scream again, but before he could make a sound the contents of his stomach came up in a violent cascade of vomit. The inmates standing closest to him jumped aside in disgust. The guards who had begun to move towards him when he collapsed stopped dead, unsure of what to do. It was a well-known fact that the security staff knew very little about physical complaints. Hinde was counting on it, and those who were on duty today didn’t disappoint him. They hadn’t a clue what to do. Just as he had planned. He heaved again. Through tear-filled eyes Hinde saw to his immense satisfaction that what he had produced this time was thick and almost black in colour. The right consistency, the right colour. The beetroot had had time to react with his stomach acid, and most of the red colouring had disappeared. Unless you smelled it at really close quarters, it would be impossible to distinguish from internal bleeding. Hinde calculated that no one would want to stick their nose into the substance he now brought up for the third time, with slightly less violence than before. One of the guards was speaking into his two-way radio, summoning help, while the other seemed to be wondering how to get to Hinde without stepping in the contents of his guts. The cramps began to ease. Hinde breathed in through his nose and swallowed some of the vomit that had got stuck there. It tasted of beetroot and ipecac. He bent double and screamed with pain one more time, before switching tactics; he started rolling from side to side, whimpering helplessly. One of the guards came over, crouched down and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Hinde coughed, struggling with what appeared to be severe pain.

‘Help me,’ he snivelled feebly. ‘Please, help me.’

‘We will,’ said the guard.

Little did he know how right he was.

Haraldsson had got home in record time. Broken every speed limit and traffic regulation you could think of. His anxiety grew, pushing him on. He screeched to a halt in the drive, switched off the engine and leapt out.

The spa had been in touch. A different woman from the one he had spoken to earlier. Jenny Haraldsson hadn’t turned up. Did he know if she had just been delayed, or . . . ? He told the truth; he didn’t think she would be coming. The woman informed him apologetically that he would be liable for seventy-five per cent of the fee, since it was such a late cancellation. He didn’t care. An unnecessary expense was the least of his problems. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

‘Jenny!’

Silence. Without taking off his shoes he moved through the hallway.

‘Jenny! Are you here?’

The same silence. He walked quickly through the living room, into the kitchen, glanced in the combined guest room and sewing room. Yanked open the door of the utility room and toilet.

Empty.

Silent.

He went back into the hallway and up the stairs. A few steps from the top he paused. Strange, how the brain worked. He hadn’t been thinking about anything at all. The fear had pushed everything else aside. But now he suddenly remembered. Hinde and the four murders in the nineties. All exactly the same. The copycat, Ralph Svensson. ‘The Summer Psycho’. Four women this time too. He had read about them. The MO identical.

Tied up. Raped. With their throats cut.

At home.

In their bedrooms.

Haraldsson looked up. At the bedroom. His and Jenny’s bedroom. Where they had had breakfast and made love this morning. The door was closed. It wasn’t usually closed. Why would they close it when no one was home? A small sound broke the silence, and Haraldsson realised it had come from him. A little whimper of pain. And fear. He had to force himself to carry on up the stairs. Step by step. When he reached the top he grabbed hold of the last part of the banister to stop himself from falling backwards. He couldn’t take his eyes off that closed door. Couldn’t get it out of his mind. Particularly now, at the height of summer, it would be far too hot to sleep in there at night if the door had been closed all day. She hadn’t closed it. Why would she have closed it? He took a deep breath and let the air filter out slowly between tight lips before he was able to move forward. He jumped when he heard Abba. His mobile. He grabbed it without looking at the display.

‘Haraldsson.’

He hoped it would be her. That he would hear her voice telling him that everything was fine, there had just been a silly misunderstanding.

‘It’s Victor Bäckman,’ he heard on the other end of the line.

Not her. Everything wasn’t fine. The disappointment swept over him, and he had to use all his strength to stay on his feet. He couldn’t speak, but there was no need. Victor carried straight on.

‘Edward Hinde has collapsed in the dayroom; he brought up a lot of blood.’

‘What?’

‘He seems to be in a really bad way. We can’t take care of him here. Something to do with his stomach, I think.’

‘Okay . . .’ Haraldsson heard what Victor was saying, but couldn’t really understand why he was being told this right now. He was still finding it difficult to process the information.

‘The ambulance will be here shortly, that’s why I’m calling you. You need to approve a transfer to the hospital.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Shall we transfer him?’

As if from nowhere, another thought came into his head.

An image.

A memory.

Hinde is sitting on the bed in his cell. Haraldsson is standing in the doorway. Gooseflesh on his forearms. Hinde’s quiet voice.

‘Say yes.’

‘To what?’

‘You will understand when and to what. Just say yes.’

‘Are you still there?’ Victor asked in his ear.

‘What? Yes.’

‘Do we transfer him? Yes or no?’

‘Just say yes.’

Haraldsson tried to grasp the significance of what he had just heard, the connection he had just made. Hinde had known he was going to be ill. Had known that this conversation was going to take place. That this question would be asked. He must have done. But how? Was he just faking – or did it have something to do with the things Haraldsson had given him? Beetroot and a bottle from the chemist’s. Some kind of South American name, that’s what it sounded like. Icacaca . . . something. Why an illness, genuine or otherwise? Because he wanted to be moved. Get out. Escape. Should he warn Victor? Tell him about his suspicions?