Watching You(23)

In the end Berger had had enough. On his way out of the office he heard Deer’s extremely tentative question: ‘Dentist?’

He turned and gestured towards the whiteboard. ‘Good idea. We’re pretty toothless right now.’





12




Monday 26 October, 18.47

Dusk had long since fallen, but the rain just went on falling.

There were two street lamps on the easily overlooked side street. They were both suspended from what looked like lethal cables strung across the street, from building to building, and the evening showed its true character in the constantly shifting pools of light. Beyond these pools it was hard to see how hard the downpour was, but even in the darkness it could be felt and, not least, heard. The rain was hammering all the car roofs along the street in a variety of tones, but it seemed to be making an extra effort with the dark blue Volvo. The downpour was drowned out by retaliatory heavy metal. Meaning that the two men in the car weren’t at all prepared for the knock.

Berger saw the men’s hands fumble across jackets that had been buttoned all too carefully. But he understood; he had sat in his share of surveillance vehicles, and the thing that was engraved in his marrow wasn’t the boredom, the tiredness, the hunger, the need to pee, or even the smells – it was the cold.

‘You need to turn the volume down,’ he said through the opening window. ‘I can hear your music from the pavement.’

‘Sam,’ the older man said in a measured voice, then lowered the volume with purposeful slowness.

‘Any signs of life?’ Berger said.

‘Is that really what I think it is?’ the man said. ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous a cop with an umbrella looks?’

‘Signs of life?’ Sam repeated from under his umbrella.

‘We’d have been in touch if there were.’

‘And you’ve taken photographs of everyone going in and out?’

The younger man in the passenger seat raised a disproportionately large camera in response.

‘Many people?’ Berger went on.

‘Not really,’ the older man said. ‘About ten since we took over.’

‘You can see inside the building as well,’ the younger one said, pointing. ‘Through the windows in the stairwell.’

Berger nodded. ‘If she shows up in the next half an hour, leave her be, and don’t report it. Just shadow her up the stairs but don’t intervene unless the situation is critical. Understood?’

The older officer raised his left eyebrow and said: ‘I take that to mean that you …’

‘Understood?’

‘Understood.’

The umbrella blew apart as he crossed Vidargatan. He ditched the remains on the pavement and walked up to the unremarkable door, tapped in the code, made his way up the stairs and stopped outside the still-untouched door.

It was a conscious decision on the part of the police, taken by Allan, of course: not to enter a flat that could be rigged. Or at least alarmed. Wired with surveillance cameras. There was thought to be a significant risk that a raid would warn Nathalie Fredén, whereupon she would in all likelihood disappear, leaving no more than the smattering of evidence that her identity had provided thus far.

Berger studied the stone floor of the stairwell. A number of wet footprints were visible, and a small puddle had already formed around his feet. Evidence that was going to linger for quite some time.

Everything was telling him not to go in.

Not least that Allan’s words could no longer be treated as a joke. If Berger did warn Nathalie Fredén in any way, he really would be fired.

Even so, his lock-pick was out.

Even so, it slipped into the lock.

He studied the gap between the door and frame all the way round. There was nothing obvious, no classic strand of hair or piece of paper, nothing that should have stopped him from breaking in.

He paused to consider one last time. And he considered very seriously.

Even if all their external assessments suggested that it was unlikely, there was a slim chance that Ellen Savinger was behind that door. Berger simply couldn’t hold back any longer. His entire being fought against all this waiting.

Leaving the pick in the lock, he went and looked out through the window in the stairwell. Sure enough, he could see straight down onto the surveillance car. He raised his hand and the younger officer raised the camera in response. Berger pulled back. Fragments of weak street lighting flashed in the black trickles of rain competing to hit Vidargatan first.

And he was back in the rain. He was standing behind a ruined building in the middle of a downpour, the wooden planks behind his back so rotten they felt spongy. Police officers disappeared, one after the other, into the rainstorm, swallowed up by the grey soup. He set off, followed by Deer’s whimpering breath. The house from hell was hidden from view.

It was entirely possible that hell was waiting behind this unprepossessing door as well.

He had to be prepared for that. Mentally, physically, and as a police officer. The realisation actually came as a shock. He had been blinded by the speed of his actions for too long.

He looked at his hand as it rested on the lock-pick. But it was no longer resting. It was moving. As if it only partially belonged to him. His hand was a little rodent, or a newborn rabbit, all pink and trembling, ready for a life as someone else’s prey.