The Disciple (12 page)

‘What do you want?’

‘Were you asleep?’

‘No. What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘I’m busy.’

Trolle made a big show of trying to close the door, but Sebastian managed to insert the toe of his shoe in the gap just in time. It occurred to him that he had never done this before, tried to stop a door from shutting by using his foot. He had seen it in films hundreds of times, but had never done it himself. Oh well, there was a first time for everything.

‘You’re going to like what I have to say.’ Sebastian paused briefly before deciding to sweeten the bait a little more. ‘I’ve got money.’

The gap widened a fraction, and the light from the stairwell illuminated Trolle’s face. He really had aged. He had to be just under sixty, but he looked ten years older. His hair was uncombed and peppered with grey, he was unshaven, skinny, and gave off an acrid stench of tobacco and alcohol. Trolle had always drunk, even when he was working, and now, fifteen years later, with neither a job nor a family, alcohol seemed to be his only companion. He was dressed in a scruffy white T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His feet were bare, his toenails yellow, gnarled and too long. He hadn’t just aged. He had fallen into a decline.

‘I don’t care about money.’

‘Maybe not, but it does no harm to have a little bit.’

‘So how much have you got, then?’

Sebastian dug out his wallet and showed Trolle all the money he had: a few hundred-kronor notes and a twenty.

‘I don’t do it for the money,’ Trolle proclaimed as soon as the notes were in his hand.

‘I know that.’ Sebastian nodded. Unless Trolle had changed completely over the past few years, this was true. He didn’t do anything for the money. Admittedly he had never said no to a bit of extra cash on the side, not even when he was a police officer, but the remuneration had never been his driving force.

That had been the pleasure of messing with people’s lives.

Ruining things for them.

Planning, waiting, gathering information, directing the course of the action and then finally making their lives hell.

That was Trolle’s real driving force. The money was just a bonus.

‘Can I come in?’ Sebastian asked, putting his wallet away.

‘So you’ve changed your mind?’ Trolle cackled, his laughter echoing in the stairwell, but he still didn’t open the door. Instead he pressed his face against the gap so that it filled the space. ‘You need old Trolle after all . . .’

Sebastian nodded and leaned forward so that the conversation could be conducted with a little more discretion.

‘Yes, but I don’t want to discuss it here.’

‘You never used to be shy. You can stay right where you are.’ Trolle fired off a broad, almost challenging wolfish grin. Sebastian looked at him wearily. Trolle had always been difficult, but the years and the alcohol appeared to have made him even worse. For a brief, terrifying second Sebastian saw himself standing there in the doorway. If he had carried on drinking. If he had chosen the mind-numbing drugs, the ones he had tried the year after the tsunami. If he hadn’t had Stefan. If he hadn’t found Vanja. Suddenly everything became much more important. He was only four ‘ifs’ away from being Trolle Hermansson. A man who had nothing left to lose.

‘I want you to go all the way. Find out whatever you can. About the whole family, including the mother. Her name is Anna Eriksson . . .’

‘I know what her name is,’ Trolle interrupted. He took a deep and slightly rattling breath and ran his hand over the stubble on his chin as he appeared to consider Sebastian’s offer. ‘Okay. But in that case you have to tell me why.’

‘Why what?’ Sebastian suspected that he knew the answer, but hoped he was wrong.

‘What’s so special about this family? Why are you following the daughter? She’s a bit young, isn’t she – even for you?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me.’

‘No!’

Trolle met Sebastian’s determined gaze and realised this was non-negotiable. Oh well, with a bit of luck he would be able to work it out along the way.

‘I used to like you, Sebastian. I was probably the only one who did. When you rang I said yes because I used to like you.’ Trolle fixed his bloodshot eyes on Sebastian with what could be interpreted as a hurt, pleading look. ‘Friends tell each other things.’

‘You didn’t say yes because it was me. You said yes because you thought you might be able to fuck things up for somebody. Because you get a kick out of doing that. I know you, Trolle, so don’t even try. Are you going to do it, or not?’

Trolle laughed out loud, more naturally this time.

‘You don’t like me. You’re here because you haven’t got anyone else.’

‘Same applies to you.’

The two men looked at one another in silence. Then Trolle held out his hand to Sebastian, who took it after a moment’s hesitation. It was damp. Cold. But the grip was firm. Strong.

‘Even if I don’t do it for the money, I don’t work for free.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘A thousand. You can have a discount because you’re such a loser.’

With that Trolle slammed the door shut. His voice came from inside the apartment: ‘Call me in a few days.’

Sebastian turned and slowly walked down the two flights of stairs.

Annette Willén loved these evenings. She began to prepare herself mentally as early as three o’clock. Always the same routine. First a long hot shower; she washed her hair, and scrubbed her body with that apricot-scented exfoliating soap she had bought from The Body Shop. Then she allowed herself to dry naturally for a little while in the warm bathroom before applying body lotion to her slightly damp skin. She had read somewhere that this locked in the moisture and had a deeper softening effect. Then she put on her dressing gown and wandered barefoot into the combined living room and bedroom. She could have moved into the apartment’s only real bedroom, but it was her son’s, and even though he had moved out, she didn’t want to make it hers. The room was her last hope that he might come back one day.

Need it again.

Need her again.

Moving his things would make his departure all too definitive and real.

Annette opened the wardrobe and began carefully removing blouses, skirts, dresses and trousers. Once she had even taken out the suit she had bought for that interview she didn’t attend. But it stood out like an overdressed and under-confident dinner guest, and after its brief guest appearance long ago, it was always left hanging there alone. She placed the various items of clothing on the bed, and when there was no more room she used the three-seater sofa or the coffee table. Then she positioned herself in the middle of the room and drank in the different colours, styles and fabrics spread out all around her. She was in control. She might be insignificant out there, beyond the confines of the apartment, but here and now she was the one in charge. It was her life that lay in front of her, the life she would soon begin to taste hungrily, to try out.

When she felt ready she went into the hallway, lifted down the mirror, carried it into the living room and propped it up against the wall. Took a couple of steps backwards and looked at herself as she stood there, freshly showered, wearing the pink, slightly too short dressing gown her son had given her on her fortieth birthday. Every time, she was struck by how old she had become. It wasn’t just her hair that had grown thinner and duller, it was her entire self. She had given up standing naked in front of the mirror a long time ago. It was too depressing to see herself as time’s depredations became too obvious. She wasn’t ashamed of her body. She had always had womanly curves, and she had never had a problem with her weight. No, she was still petite; she had good legs, and her breasts were still firm and rounded, but there was something about the way her skin grew paler and less elastic with each passing year. As if it were slowly shrinking, like a peach that has been left in the sun for a little too long, regardless of how many exfoliating, anti-ageing and anti-wrinkle products she used. It frightened her, particularly as she knew that time had barely begun its journey with her. It had much left to do, and one day she would stand there unable to recognise herself. And just when she was about to start living.

Properly. For real.

She started trying on clothes in order to escape from her thoughts. Who did she want to be today?

She could be the carefree girl in jeans with an oversized top, or the artistic type in the short black dress made of slightly too daring lace. Annette loved being that girl, particularly when she was brave enough to wear the darker lipstick. She thought the woman in black would be fantastic if only she had the courage to dye her hair black, but she couldn’t do it. And the outfit kind of demanded it. So off it came as usual, to be replaced by the more sedate, businesslike white blouse with the dark skirt. She too was a woman Annette felt comfortable with. Timeless in a way she longed to achieve. But she also demanded too much. Too much hair. A better figure. Better posture. Better everything. In a while, perhaps. Soon. Clothes came off and went on. Annette loved meeting the different identities that had been waiting for her inside the dark recesses of the wardrobe. Women stepped forward in the mirror. New women, better women, exciting women. Never Annette. Always someone else. That was the problem. However much she loved meeting those women standing in front of her, she never dared allow them to take that step out of the mirror. The certainty and the game were gradually replaced by fear and second thoughts. Her choices became more limited, more cowardly. The routine took up half the day, and as usual she went from being overdressed and colourful to diminishing herself and her clothing.

In the end she finished up with the three choices that always remained.

The black blouse. The white blouse. Or the polo-neck sweater.

Always with jeans.

Stefan knew exactly where to look for Sebastian. Outside the police station or Vanja’s apartment were the two locations that constantly recurred in their discussion, so he decided to start there. It was after eight, so the police station seemed less likely. A quick call to directory enquiries gave Vanja Lithner’s address as Sandhamnsgatan 44, and Stefan allowed the car’s sat nav to guide him there. He was running out of time. The group session was due to start at nine, and he was actually going against his own principles at this point. The whole thing was supposed to be based on free will. The person in question should choose to participate. That was important. But Sebastian was different. It was as if the knowledge almost stood in his way. As if he deliberately made the wrong decisions. Stefan had come across this kind of patient before. Usually he had been forced to give up. Let them go. But Sebastian was his friend, in some way. However complex their relationship might be. And if Stefan let him go, who else would try to catch Sebastian when he was in freefall?

Stefan parked his car a short distance from number 44 and set off on foot. He looked around the pleasant residential area. The buildings were arranged in rows, not too close together, but with due deference to the countryside on their doorstep. In front of the entrance to number 44 a cycle rack housed several adults’ and children’s bicycles. Stefan stopped and looked around, trying to work out where he would position himself if he wanted to spy on an apartment a couple of floors up without anyone spotting him. As far from the road and as well hidden as possible, he decided. Behind the block he saw a hill covered in deciduous trees. Leafy bushes provided plenty of cover, and the fact that he had made the right choice became clear when Sebastian Bergman suddenly peered out from behind the biggest tree with a horrified expression on his face.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he barked. Stefan almost burst out laughing at the sight of the man staring at him through the trees, looking absolutely furious. He reminded Stefan of a teenager who had just been caught having a cigarette on the sly.

‘I wanted to see you in your new home environment.’

‘Very funny. Fuck off before someone sees you.’

Stefan shook his head and made himself even more noticeable by planting himself a short distance away from Sebastian on the open, grassy area.

‘Not unless you come with me. Your group therapy starts in half an hour.’

Sebastian stared at him, his expression livid. ‘Aren’t you supposed to stick to certain rules and regulations? What happened to people doing things on a voluntary basis?’

‘That doesn’t apply to middle-aged men lurking around behind trees, spying on young women they claim are their daughters. Coming?’

Sebastian shook his head. Inside he was ice-cold. His world was beginning to seem more and more fragile. He felt naked and embarrassed, and would have liked nothing more than to go on the offensive. At the same time there was something about the man standing in front of him that suddenly enabled Sebastian to see himself through someone else’s eyes, and however he manipulated the truth, the answer was always the same.

He had been to see Trolle.

He had come here.

He was lost.

‘Please, Stefan. Just go. Leave me in peace.’

Stefan stepped into the leafy little world where Sebastian was hiding and took his hand.

‘I’m not here to stress you out. I’m not here to make you feel bad. I’m here for your sake. If you really want me to go, I will. But deep down you know I’m right. You have to stop this.’

Sebastian looked at his therapist and quietly withdrew his hand.

‘I’m not joining a group. I do have some pride left.’

‘Really?’ Stefan gazed at him gravely. ‘Look around you, Sebastian. Look where we are.’

Sebastian didn’t try to come up with an answer.

Even he couldn’t find a way out of this one.

‘I mean, I said last week I was going to try to clear out the garage so I could get the car in there. Chuck out a load of stuff. Do you think I actually did it?’ The man opposite Sebastian whom the others called Stig had been talking for more than ten minutes. However, it seemed as if he was nowhere near finished. He just went on and on, as if his huge body contained an infinite number of words.