Dark Secrets (36 page)

It had been such a strange dream.

He had been standing behind the embankment at the soccer field. Illuminated by the car headlights. The boy was lying on the ground in
front of him. Blood everywhere. The man who was not a murderer was holding the damaged heart in his hand. Still warm. Had it been beating? Yes, in the dream it had. Slow beats.

Fading.

Dying.

At any rate, in the dream he had turned to the right, aware that someone was standing there, a few yards away. Completely motionless. He was fairly certain who it was. Who it ought to be. But he was wrong. To his surprise he saw his father, silently watching him. A sense of unreality came over him, even though this was a dream. His father had been dead for many years. The man who was not a murderer made a sweeping gesture with his hands, taking in the gory scene.

“Don’t just stand there. Aren’t you going to help me?”

His voice was high, and when he spoke it broke like the voice of a small child who was upset. His father didn’t move; he carried on gazing at the scene, his eyes clouded by cataracts.

“Sometimes the best thing you can do if you have problems is to talk about them.”

“Talk about what? What is there to talk about?” shouted the man who was not a murderer in his childish voice. “The boy is dead! I’m holding his heart in my hand! Help me!”

“But sometimes when we talk, we say too much.”

Then his father had disappeared. The man who was not a murderer looked around. Confused.

Afraid.

Let down.

His father couldn’t just disappear. Not now. Daddy had to help him. Just as he’d always done. He had to. It was his fucking responsibility. But his father did not reappear, and the man who was not a murderer became aware that the heart he was still holding had grown cold. Cold and still.

Then he had woken up. He couldn’t get back to sleep. He had thought about the dream from time to time during the day, wondering
what it could mean, whether it meant anything at all, but as the hours passed and everyday life took over, the memory of it began to fade.

But now… now he was going to sleep. He needed it. He needed to remain one step ahead. The lead he had sent from the school hadn’t produced the result he had hoped for. Somehow the police must have worked out that Leonard hadn’t hidden the jacket in his garage. That it had been planted. What should he do now?

He read everything he could find about the dead boy, but there wasn’t much new information. He wondered whether he knew anyone who worked in the police station, someone who could give him some inside gossip, but he couldn’t come up with anyone. Evidently the team that was investigating the murder had been expanded.
Expressen
wrote that the police had brought in a specialist. Sebastian Bergman. Well known within his field, apparently. Played a crucial and decisive role in catching the serial killer Edward Hinde in 1996. The man who was not a murderer was aware that his thoughts were becoming more and more unfocused; he was just about to fall asleep when he suddenly woke up. Sat bolt upright. He understood now.

“If you have problems, talk about them.”

His father
had
tried to help him.

As usual.

As always.

He had just been too stupid to understand. Who did you talk to if you had problems? A psychologist. A therapist.

“But sometimes we say too much.”

He knew. He had known all the time, it was just that he had never made the connection. Never thought he would need it. There was one man in Västerås who could destroy everything he had accomplished so far. Everything he had fought for. A man who could threaten him.

A professional listener.

Peter Westin.

I
T WAS
twenty past two and bitterly cold. Not below freezing, perhaps, but it must have been very close. At any rate, Haraldsson’s breath was coming out of his mouth as white vapor as he sat there, his gaze fixed on the apartment building across the street. He had heard somewhere that freezing to death was a painless, almost pleasant way to die. Apparently your entire body felt warm and relaxed just before you passed away. Which meant that at the moment Haraldsson’s life was in no danger whatsoever. He was shivering in the driver’s seat, his arms tightly folded across his chest. Every time he moved—even the smallest amount—he twitched uncontrollably and felt as if his body temperature dropped another tenth of a degree. There were still lights showing here and there in the building he was watching, but most of the apartments were in darkness. People were fast asleep. Under their blankets. In the warmth. Haraldsson had to admit that he envied them. Once or twice during the evening he had been on the point of giving up and going home, but each time he had felt tempted to turn the key in the ignition he had pictured himself arriving at work tomorrow as the person who had solved the murder of Roger Eriksson. The person who had caught the murderer. The person who had cracked the case. He had seen the reactions.

The praise.

The envy.

He could hear the chief superintendent thanking him and praising his initiative, the dedication to his work that had made him go a
step further than duty demanded, a step further than even Riksmord thought necessary. The step that only a real police officer could take. This last comment would be delivered by the chief superintendent with a meaningful look at Hanser, who would stare down at the floor with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. Perhaps Haraldsson’s outstanding contribution had even prevented the loss of further lives.

Haraldsson felt warm inside just thinking about it, sitting there in his deep-frozen Toyota. Imagine how he would feel when it actually happened! Everything would turn around for him. The downward spiral in which his life was caught would be halted, and he would be back. In every way.

Haraldsson woke up from his drowsy deep-frozen daydream. Someone was approaching the front door of the apartment building. A tall, lanky figure. A man. He was walking quickly, hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched. Obviously Haraldsson wasn’t the only one who was shivering inside. The man passed beneath a light fixed to the outside of the building, and for a brief moment Haraldsson had a clear view of his face. He glanced at the photograph attached to the dashboard with a paper clip. Not a shred of doubt. The man heading for the door was Axel Johansson.

Welcome home
, thought Haraldsson, feeling every scrap of frozen weariness melt away. Axel Johansson reached the entrance and punched in the four-digit code. The lock clicked and he pulled open the door. He was about to step into the warmth and darkness when he heard another click and a metallic sound that could only be a car door opening. Axel stopped dead and looked around. Haraldsson sat motionless for a moment. He had been too eager. He should have let the suspect enter the building before he opened the car door. What was Johansson doing now? The front door was still open, and he was staring straight at the Toyota. Sitting there with the car door ajar looked even more suspicious, if that were possible, so Haraldsson got out. Twenty yards away he saw Axel Johansson let go of the door handle and take a step backward. Haraldsson set off across the street with determination.

“Axel Johansson!” Haraldsson did his best to make it sound as if he had unexpectedly caught sight of an old friend. Pleasantly surprised, not in any way threatening. Not like a police officer at all. Evidently he failed.

Axel Johansson turned and ran.

Haraldsson set off after him, cursing the fact that he had sat in the car for so long and gotten so cold. Slow. When he rounded the corner of the building he could see that the distance between him and Axel Johansson had grown. Haraldsson increased his speed, ignoring the fact that his thighs and legs were stiff and not at all inclined to cooperate. He was operating on sheer willpower. Johansson was running quickly and easily between the buildings. He jumped over the low wooden
RESIDENTIAL PARKING ONLY
sign, raced across the parking lot, up onto the grass and away. But Haraldsson was after him. He could feel his strides getting longer and longer as his whole body responded to his efforts. His speed was steadily increasing. The distance between Haraldsson and Johansson was no longer growing. It wasn’t even staying the same. Haraldsson was catching up. It was a gradual process, but he was fit and unlikely to tire. As long as he didn’t lose the suspect or slip on the wet grass, he would catch up with him eventually, he was sure of it.

Not bad for a man with a badly sprained right foot.

Now where had that thought come from?

Haraldsson slowed down instinctively, swore to himself, and sped up again. Ran. Heard his pulse throbbing at his temples. Got his second wind, his legs pounding rhythmically. Strong. Axel Johansson showed no sign of slowing down. He crossed Skultunavägen, heading for the bridge over the Svartån River. Haraldsson was still behind him, but he couldn’t shake off that thought. Officially he was injured. A badly sprained foot. He had been particularly careful to maintain the illusion. He could still barely get to the coffee machine and back to his desk without grimacing in pain. Sometimes he had to stop halfway to have a chat with one of his colleagues, simply because his foot was aching
so much. Throbbing, kind of. If he caught the suspect after a night chase of several miles, then everybody would know he’d been faking. Lying. They would have proof that he had left his place in the search party. Deserted his post. But would it matter? If he caught a child murderer, surely nobody would make an issue of the fact that he had been economical with the truth in relation to certain circumstances several days earlier?

Wrong. Hanser would. He was sure of that. He would never hear the speeches and the praise. Would he become the subject of an internal inquiry? Perhaps not, but what would his colleagues say? It would hardly be the step up he so desperately needed. His head was spinning. Haraldsson saw Axel Johansson cross the river and turn left, heading down the cycle track along Vallbyleden. Soon he would reach the park at Djäkneberget and it would be impossible to find him in the darkness. Haraldsson slowed down. Stopped. Johansson disappeared from view. Haraldsson stood there panting, swearing out loud to himself. Why had he come up with the sprained foot? Why hadn’t he said that Jenny had been taken ill, or that he’d gotten food poisoning or any fucking thing that didn’t last long? He turned around and set off back toward the car.

He would go home to Jenny.

Wake her up and have sex with her.

So that he wouldn’t feel completely worthless.

One of the bedroom windows was ajar and the fresh night air had cooled the untidy bedroom. Sebastian stretched and cautiously straightened his clenched right hand. The feeling of Sabine remained on his skin, and he stroked his palm just to stay close to her for a little while longer. It was warm beneath the covers, and a part of Sebastian thought it would be nice to stay there for a while, postponing the moment when he had to face the cold. He turned to Beatrice. She was lying quietly beside him, watching his face.

“Bad dream?”

He hated it when they were awake. It always made the departure so much messier.

“No.”

She edged closer to him, and the warmth of her naked body wrapped itself around him. He let it happen, even though he knew he should have chosen the cold. She stroked his neck and back.

“Does that feel silly?”

“No, but I have to go.”

“I know.” She kissed him. Not too hard. Not too desperate. She provoked a response from him. Her red hair tumbled over his cheeks. Then she turned away, adjusted her pillow, and settled down comfortably.

“I love early mornings. It feels as if you’re the only person in the world.” Sebastian sat up. His feet met the cold wooden floor. He looked at her. He had to admit that she surprised him. He hadn’t really been aware of it before. She was a potential grower. This was the term Sebastian used for women who were really dangerous. The ones who grew on you. Who gave you something. More than sex. The ones you could grow fond of, feel you had to come back to. Particularly if you were a bit out of sorts. He got up to put a little distance between them. It already felt better. To Sebastian, most women were more beautiful when you went to bed than when you woke up with them. But with some it was the opposite, and a grower was at her most beautiful just before you left her. A grower left a promise at the end, rather than promising something from the start. She smiled at him.

“Would you like a ride home?”

“No, thanks, I’ll walk.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

He nodded. After all, she was a grower, in spite of everything.

They drove through the quiet morning. The sun was resting below the horizon, just waiting for the night to disappear. David Bowie’s
“Heroes” was on the radio. They didn’t say much. Bowie took the place of conversation. Sebastian felt stronger. It was always easier with clothes on. Many of the things that had happened over the past few days were tumbling around in his head. A lot of emotions, and then this. An emotional connection, albeit a faint one. No doubt the situation was to blame; he was in a weakened state, that was all, not his normal self.