Watching You(66)

26




Wednesday 28 October, 01.53

In spite of the downpour the aspen leaves were rustling. And even if the rain had flattened the occasional clump of grass, it remained almost head-high. It was lit up, jerkily, by the sweeping beams of two pocket torches. If anyone had seen the scene from above, it would have looked like two bioluminescent fish playing in the unexplored depths of the ocean.

It was unclear if anyone did see it from above.

A hand rose up above the grass. Berger ducked and moved towards it at a crouch. Blom’s index finger was pointing towards one of the aspens, and eventually Berger caught sight of the large security camera.

‘It looks ancient,’ he whispered.

‘Who knows?’ Blom whispered back, adjusting her bulletproof vest. Then she gave him a sharp look, as if she were evaluating his mental state. With evident reluctance, she held something out towards him.

Only when she snatched the object back from his outstretched hand did he realise that it was a pistol.

‘The way I see it, you could still be in league with William,’ she whispered, aiming her own gun at him. ‘You could have led me here so you can strap me to that fucking contraption one more time.’

‘Is that what you really think?’ Berger said.

Blom wrinkled her nose, then she handed him the weapon. He took it and weighed it in his hand, then nodded. Her face was wet, her blonde hair streaked with rain – and her eyes very clear. Then she set off, torch and pistol raised. Soon she was nothing more than a flickering beam of light winding its way through the greenery. He followed it.

Sometimes he lost sight of her, but she always popped up again, a light like elusive quicksilver through the still green grass.

Out of the darkness the clump of aspen trees rose up. He could detect the faintly brackish smell of open water, and behind the trees he could just make out a greenish-brown building.

The boathouse.

It shouldn’t be visible, he was thinking as he walked straight into her. She was crouching low in the grass with her torch switched off.

‘Turn it off,’ she whispered.

He did as she said.

‘Light,’ she said, pointing towards the trees.

He could see the vague outline of the boathouse but couldn’t make much sense of what he was looking at.

‘Where from?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘But we shouldn’t be able to see it yet. It ought to be pitch-black.’

‘Is it coming from inside?’

She just shook her head and sharpened her gaze.

They were about fifty metres away, and it was their last chance to hide in the tall grass. Just a metre or so in front of them the grass gave way to bare rock before the trees took over. Berger looked at her carefully and had to admit that Blom was more used to being out in the field than he was. He saw her reach a decision.

‘There’s a lot at stake,’ she whispered.

He nodded and stared at the faintly illuminated boathouse. Something seemed to linger there, life, perhaps death. Perhaps their deaths. He shuddered.

‘We need to split up,’ Blom said. ‘I’ll take this side. You go round to the lake.’

‘Look out for booby traps,’ Berger said. ‘You know how he likes contraptions.’

‘That hasn’t slipped my mind,’ she said darkly, and disappeared.

He set off. Felt himself get swallowed up.

He turned away from the water and entered the trees, keeping his torch switched off. He could just make out the short pillars the boathouse rested on. Saw the rock. Saw the slippery rock. Saw the window above the rock. Even thought he could see a twenty-two-year-old mark on the window. He had to ignore his feelings and act rationally.

If William Larsson had returned to where it all started, he was waiting in the pitch-black. Maybe he’d seen them coming a while back.

Maybe he was looking at Berger right now.

Berger had been frozen up until that moment. The tumultuous events of the past twenty-four hours had left him detached from the present. It was like he was moving through a really sick dream. But now, deep among the trees beside the boathouse of his childhood, reality caught up with him. He woke up. His frozen heart thawed; his pulse beat faster. He felt himself shaking. Suddenly he realised with his whole being, his whole body, what might actually be hidden behind that oddly luminous facade.

It could be hell itself.

Everything was in his hands, however much they were shaking. There was no shortcut. Concentration, focus. Clarity of vision. The ability to look evil in the eye. His hand stopped shaking.

Berger went down to the stony shore. A definite chill was coming from the black water. Pointing his torch at the ground, he managed to avoid the most slippery stones. He approached the boathouse from the water’s edge. He could see a window in a door, nothing more, but there was a crooked flight of steps leading up to the jetty that stretched from the building into the lake.

Berger was almost at the boathouse. His left hand aimed the torch straight at the ground while his gun rested in his right hand.

As he reached the steps he heard a rattling sound from the jetty above. It penetrated the night, followed by silence. He took the safety off his gun, shone the torch at the steps and went up with slow, silent footsteps. He pressed himself against the wall of the boathouse and paused. Cast a quick glance round the corner.