Watching You(40)

‘Ah,’ Syl said, a hint of colour returning to her face. She typed quickly, then abruptly let go of the keyboard.

‘What is this, Sambo? Is Nathalie Fredén from the Security Service? An agent?’

‘I don’t know,’ Berger said. ‘I have no fucking clue.’

They looked at each other for a moment. Then the computer let out a bleep. Syl turned sharply back towards it and typed some more.

‘I’ve actually got a name,’ she said in a thin voice. ‘From “internal resources”. Started Botox treatment for chronic migraines at something called the Eriksberg Clinic. April, eighteen months ago. Female, thirty-seven years old.’

‘What does “internal resources” mean? Is she on the payroll?’

‘Yes, “external” can be anything from mercenaries to pickpockets. “Internal” is police officers who work undercover. But in this case she also works with Internal.’

‘Now I’m not following.’

‘With Internal. Internal Investigations.’

Berger felt he was in free fall. There was no protection, no solid ground anywhere. The claustrophobic little room started to spin, and from the edges of his dizziness he saw Nathalie Fredén’s eyes focusing very distinctly on the little red light. He saw her lean towards him and heard her snarl: ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know who I am.’

And everything fell into place. Almost everything.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK. What’s her name?’

‘Molly Blom. Originally an actress, in fact.’

‘Home address?’

‘Sam …’

‘Is there a home address?’

‘Stenbocksgatan 4, ?stermalm.’

Berger walked around Syl’s little room, filled with the smell of human beings. He was breathing heavily, trying to think. It didn’t really work. Even so, he said: ‘You need to get rid of every last trace, Syl. Nothing must lead back to you. This isn’t about you, and I won’t mention you. Get rid of it all, and go back to the daily grind. And take it nice and easy.’

‘But what the hell is this all about?’ Syl exclaimed.

‘It’s about me,’ Berger said, and walked out.

The last thing he saw was five-year-old Moira’s inquisitive eyes staring out from her improvised bed. They followed him through a Stockholm in which the rain refused to stop tormenting him. There was still no trace of any dawn. It was just as dark as earlier in that peculiar, impossibly long night.

Berger’s car threw cascades of water at the city’s few nocturnal pedestrians. He spent more time looking in the rear-view mirror than ahead. So far he couldn’t see anything.

But he realised they were there.





18




Tuesday 27 October, 04.47

Stenbocksgatan was a forgotten side street between Engelbrektsgatan and Eriksbergsgatan, right next to Humleg?rden. He parked a couple of blocks away and soon found number 4, an imposing brick facade with bay windows. The actual entrance was low and not particularly difficult to get into. As he put the lock-pick back in his pocket he looked around the rain-streaked darkness of the street.

Nothing.

Even so, he knew his time was limited.

Answers, he needed answers. He wasn’t sure if he could formulate a single question, but he knew he’d recognise an answer. Perhaps the answer would formulate the question for him. Anything at all that could turn the tide. Because his life was on its way to becoming a different life.

He just didn’t understand why.

He quickly found the name Blom on the list of residents and set off up the unremarkable stairs. He had his lock-pick out again as he walked up the last few steps. He turned and looked back. He had left some serious puddles behind him.

As if that made the slightest difference, he thought as he fiddled with the pick.

The person who lived there was no ordinary citizen; he felt that at once. The locks were unusually difficult to pick, three of them, one on top of the other. For a fleeting moment he actually feared he wasn’t going to succeed, for the first time in his career. But then the third and final lock clicked and the door slid open. He closed it behind him, locked it securely and stood still for a moment. He looked at the pile of post by his feet. Two days’ worth of newspapers, no more. Molly Blom had been home two days ago. A couple of windowed envelopes, nothing personal.

The flat was scarcely more furnished than Vidargatan, but the atmosphere was completely different. Where Vidargatan gave off a sense of abandonment, Stenbocksgatan seemed to be a lived-in, almost comfortable abode. The occupant was happy there, if she was actually capable of feeling happy anywhere in the world.

He didn’t really know where that impression came from, but he decided to validate it. He validated all his impressions, storing them up in case they could serve as ammunition during the undoubtedly less than pleasant days ahead.

The kitchen seemed to have been refurbished recently, not cheaply, and of course it was clinically clean. He opened the fridge but all he found was a large selection of protein drinks and some cut fruit wrapped in cling film.

That was the overriding impression as he walked through the two-room flat: order, cleanliness, neatness, absolute control.

In the living room was a perfectly white sofa. He ran his hand over the soothing and doubtless very expensive fabric.