Buzz: A Thriller (12 page)

She kept making little trips to the bedroom to wake the computer from standby mode and check if anything new had appeared.

Wallowing in the muck, picking at the scab, and tormenting herself with every detail, every single comment until her stomach was a tightly clenched lump and she could hardly breathe the air inside the flat.

She clattered deliberately noisily with the teapot in an attempt
to drown out her thoughts, but it didn’t really work. She’d decided not to tell Micke about the forum. This rubbish was bad enough, but she was worried that other rumors would start to appear. Rumors that happened to be true . . .

Everything looked so good on paper. Promotion, her own bodyguard team, and a considerate boyfriend. A villa, a dog, and a Volvo waiting around the corner. All the stuff that had plagued her for years—that had sat like a tight band over her chest—was finally history. It hadn’t been her fault, so she no longer had any reason to torment herself. It ought to be straightforward. Child’s play . . .

So why couldn’t she do it?

Was it really so hard just being happy?

While the kettle boiled she glanced quickly into the living room.

Micke was still concentrating on the television.

She took out her cell.

Wednesday at seven

Usual place

Then she pressed Send.

♦  ♦  ♦

“You’re a fortunate man, Mr. Pettersson,” a clean-shaven Moussad smiled from the seat beside him, in English that was almost as perfect as Anna Argos’s.

HP’s brain crashed and while it was rebooting he missed the start of Moussad’s story.

“A clean fingerprint on the lighter and enough traces of skin to check for mitochondrial DNA. We heard from Interpol
this morning; they both match a Bruno Hamel, a French-Canadian citizen with an interesting reputation, to put it mildly . . .”

The police officer paused long enough for HP’s synapses to make at least one functioning connection.

“Wh-what?”

“Evidently Monsieur Hamel has made a career for himself as a contract killer. There are at least four open cases that have been put down to him. Would you care to guess what his speciality is?”

Another smile.

HP nodded silently.

“Single women . . .”

HP suddenly felt his nausea rising.

All the blood rushed from his head and he was forced to lean forward so as not to pass out.

Even though Moussad was sitting right next to him, his voice seemed to be coming from far away.

“What Colonel Aziz didn’t tell you during your conversations was that Mrs. Argos had received death threats. We got confirmation of that when we contacted the police in her home country.”

“C-Colonel . . . ?” HP stammered, confused.

Moussad chuckled.

“It’s a little trick we sometimes use to get quick results. For some reason, unshaven Arabic men who don’t speak English seem to prompt the majority of Westerners to cooperate. Colonel Aziz is my boss, and he’s actually in charge of the whole of the Royal Dubai Criminal Investigation Division.”

The police officer took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds while he waited for HP to straighten up.

“You understand, Mr. Pettersson, everything seemed crystal clear. The blood, the witnesses, your relationship with Mrs. Argos, and so on . . . But there was one thing that didn’t quite make sense . . .”

He waved one hand to underline what he was saying.

“No genuine witness statements fit together a hundred percent, Mr. Pettersson. People simply perceive things differently. But all five of the French citizens who gave statements against you told the same story—exactly the same story, down to the very smallest detail. Do you understand?”

He went on without waiting for an answer.

“We suspected something was wrong, and in the end you gave us the evidence we had been looking for,” Moussad continued.

“Imagine the Frenchmen’s faces when we showed them Interpol’s pictures of Hamel—a professional hit man wanted in several countries, and someone they had done all they could to protect . . .”

He smiled again, then paused as if he was waiting for some sort of reaction from HP.

“Someone had Mrs. Argos murdered . . .” Moussad went on, with almost exaggerated clarity, when he didn’t get any response.

“ . . . and this someone also went to great lengths to frame you, Mr. Pettersson.”

HP’s world was lurching, and suddenly his nausea got the better of him. As if on a given signal, the car door was opened from outside.

A moment later he was on all fours and throwing up onto the desert sand.

Déjà vu!

♦  ♦  ♦

The reply came within a minute or so.

Sure—thought you were going to back out ;)

She began to write a sarcastic reply but changed her mind. She heard Micke moving on the sofa and quickly deleted the received text.

The water had boiled and she put two mugs and some biscuits on a small tray.

When she sat back down on the sofa he put his arm around her and pulled her to him.

“Good to have you home again,” he muttered.

She didn’t answer.

“By the way . . .” she said after a short pause.

“Hmm?”

“I won’t be home on Wednesday evening. I thought I might go to the cinema with Nina. I need to clear my head a bit . . .”

“Okay.”

He didn’t even look away from the television, which made the lie easier.

“We might go for a drink afterward, so you don’t have to wait up. I mean, you don’t have to hang around here if you’d rather sleep at yours . . .”

He turned and gave her a quick sideways glance, and for a moment it looked like he was going to say something. Then he sank back onto the sofa and went on staring at the television.

“Okay, have fun . . .”

♦  ♦  ♦

They shepherded him like a sheep between the indoor palms of the vast terminal building. Moussad on one side of him, the driver on the other. People on the moving walkway hurried to get out of the way, presumably thinking he was a mass murderer or something.

When he saw the familiar blue-and-white sign he almost burst into tears.

For a few terrified seconds he was scared they were going to carry on past it. That all this was yet another trick to break his fragile mental state. But they got off the walkway at the right place, went up to the desk, and Moussad handed over a ticket and some documents to the woman behind the SAS counter.

He didn’t understand a word that was said, but a minute or so later they were standing in the smoking booth by the gate and Moussad was offering him a cigarette from a little flat metal case. HP’s hands were shaking so much he had trouble getting the cigarette lit.

Then wonderful, deep lungfuls of smoke . . .

None of them said anything for a while.

“Wh-what about the Frenchmen?” HP eventually muttered. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“We’ll hold them for a few weeks while their rich daddies pull every string they can to get them home. In the end I’m sure we’ll find a solution that works for everyone. After all, the ones we’re really after are Monsieur Hamel and his employer . . .”

HP nodded. Perjury really didn’t matter that much in the greater scheme of things.

Business is money.

God, he was so sick of this damned place!

“Have they said anything about why . . . ? I mean, why they agreed to try to frame me?” he clarified in a monotone.

Moussad nodded and took a drag on his cigarette.

“Apparently they met Monsieur Hamel in Goa just a few days before they met you.” He waved his cigarette, sending smoke rising toward the ceiling in little spirals.

“Just after you left them the Indian police made a raid and a number of the group were found in possession of various illegal substances. Hamel solved the situation there and then, without any of them having to call home to Daddy and making a fool of themselves. My guess is that he actually staged the whole thing to make them feel indebted to him. These people have their own rules, Mr. Pettersson . . .”

“So the Frenchmen paid the drivers enough for them to go home to Yemen and drop off Vin . . . I mean Hamel at the airport on the way back?”

“Something like that.” Moussad nodded. “A name matching one of Hamel’s aliases was used to leave the country shortly afterward. We’re not entirely sure it was him; the camera footage from the airport isn’t good enough for a hundred percent identification, but it seems likely.”

♦  ♦  ♦

Moussad accompanied him on board, even helping him to stash his luggage in the overhead locker before holding out his hand in farewell.

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Pettersson.”

HP hesitated for a couple of seconds, then shook the man’s hand. Strangely enough, the gesture seemed to make the police officer more relaxed.

“If you hear anything about Mrs. Argos back home in
Sweden, anything you think might be of use to the investigation, I’d appreciate it if you got in touch . . . Someone hired Hamel to murder Mrs. Argos, and we’re very keen to get hold of whoever that was.”

He pulled out a little white business card from the pocket of his neatly pressed shirt.

HP nodded mutely, and tucked the card away without bothering to look at it.

The police officer had got as far as the door before HP’s addled brain finally caught up.

“Moussad . . . ?”

The man turned around.

“What makes you think I might hear anything about Anna Argos back home?”

“So you didn’t know?” Moussad smiled.

“What?”

“That Anna Argos was Swedish?”

Pillars of Society forum

Posted: 14 November, 16:19

By:
MayBey

Lying, misleading and manipulation are natural talents for a psychopath.

The rest of us have to practice to get good at it . . .

This post has
45 comments

NOW, IN HINDSIGHT,
she seemed to recall having seen the man the first time she went to the gym. Just as they were about to leave Nina had bumped into one of the owners, someone she’d dated for a while. It was while they were kissing each other on the cheek and exchanging small talk—a discussion that had ended with Rebecca being given a month’s free membership—that she thought she had seen him.

A man with cropped hair on one of the treadmills, not much taller than her. Fit, in the sinewy way she preferred over the gym-pumped version. But it wasn’t primarily the man’s appearance that made her notice him. It was the way he was
running. Determined, focused, as if he were pushing for the line in the Olympics.

And now here he was again—on the same treadmill over in one corner, running in exactly the same way.

His tempo was ridiculously high. The man’s arms were pumping at his sides like muscular pistons, and his eyes were locked on his own reflection in the mirror. His suntanned body was pouring with sweat; his thin vest was already soaked. His feet were pounding on the machine.
Bang-bang-bang-bang.

There was something about the whole scenario that drew your attention, and she realized that she had almost stopped concentrating on her own weight training.

Then—just for a second—Rebecca met the man’s gaze in the mirror and found herself shuddering.

♦  ♦  ♦

Obviously, it
could
all be an unfortunate coincidence.

That Hamel just happened to pick him as the scapegoat, so that he himself could vanish without a trace. Just as Moussad had pointed out, he was pretty much typecast for the role of fall guy.

Even if it obviously seemed way too much of a long shot, the theory couldn’t be discounted altogether.

But whoever was behind all this hadn’t bumped off Anna Argos just to get at him, he was sure of that. Game or no Game, she was the one who was JFK, whereas he had merely been given the role of Lee Harvey Oswald. A useless, no-good patsy.

Just like him, Anna had been on the run, and had tried to put half the planet between her and those trying to find her.

In those first panic-stricken moments in the hotel lounge
he had picked up Game vibes. And actually thought she was another Player who’d been sent out to track him down.

What if he’d been right, or at least half right?

That she really was a Player, but had chosen to get out, just like him?

In which case it was pretty stupid of her not to dump her phone.

Maybe she thought it was enough just to change the SIM card?

BIG mistake!

He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop his imagination running away with him.

But suddenly a new image popped up in his head. Of some of those desert ravens circling slowly above Anna’s lifeless body. Closer and closer until the bravest of them dared to land beside her on the sand. A couple of ungainly steps, and then . . .

He took a couple of deep breaths, then gestured to one of the flight attendants to have his drink topped up.

Anna may have been a fully fledged massive bitch, but no one deserved that sort of end. Whoever had employed Hamel to get rid of Anna must have really hated her.

But Hamel and his employer had made a mistake.

They had left him down there with the Arabic cops in the belief that he was finished. Letting other people finish the job when they should have sent Jack Ruby.

Instead of a gunshot to the back of the head or lifetime in the Bangkok Hilton, he was sitting here—on a plane back home to Sweden. He had crawled through a world full of shit and come out on the other side, alive if not exactly clean.

Exhausted, screwed up, and shat out—but also freaking angry!

♦  ♦  ♦

“So, how did you get on at the gym?”

“Fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded and gave Micke a dutiful peck on the cheek. Really she would have preferred to be left alone, making the most of her physical exhaustion from the gym to get a decent night of dream-free sleep. But she had already lied her way to one free evening this week.

Besides, he’d made dinner.