CHRISTIAN UNGE

PASS THROUGH THE WATERS, WALK THROUGH THE FIRE

[TEKLA #1]

Original title: Går genom vatten, går genom eld Norstedts, April 2019, 425 pages

Sample translation by Michael Gallagher, mgallaghertranslation@gmail.com

Norstedts Agency

linda.altrovberg@norstedts.se catherine.mork@norstedts.se

2

CHARACTERS

Tekla Berg Specialist in emergency medicine, working at the A&E of Stockholm’s Nobel Hospital. Her encyclopaedic knowledge of conditions and treatments come from an exceptional talent that is both a blessing and a curse – a true photographic memory. Monica Carlsson Eccentric Hospital Director who will stop at nothing to make her hospital more successful than the newly founded privately owned hospital NSK. Victor Umarov Gangland overlord with a dark past and an important influence on Stockholm’s underworld. Sardor Umarov Victor Umarov’s bad-tempered son and right hand. Nina Umarov Victor Umarov’s daughter who fronts the official business working as an estate agent. Tariq Moussawi Senior physician and alpha male at the Nobel Hospital who quickly spots Tekla’s unique gift. Eva Elmqvist Senior physician running the Nobel Hospital’s flagship: the intensive care ward. Anita Klein-Borgstedt Chastened union rep and head of research at the Nobel Hospital. Magnus Lundgren Police officer. Håkan Nilsson Chief inspector who doesn’t hesitate to stretch the law. Rebecka Nilsén Headstrong and colourful detective within the police’s National Operational Division. Simon Berg Tekla’s younger brother who has gone missing and has a history of messing things up.

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Prologue

4

Thursday evening, 6th June

NOBEL HOSPITAL, STOCKHOLM

Monica Carlsson slowly pulled the bowl towards her and then plucked a salty liquorice monkey

from the pick-n-mix assortment. It was so salty that it made the back of her palate tighten and

distracted her for a moment. News updates scrolled past on the screen in front of her. She let her

gaze drift from the presenter’s perfectly straight platinum hair, to the pillar of smoke a kilometre

away that she’d been watching closely for the best part of half an hour now. Her enormous office

was pleasantly quiet, aside from Fredrik’s increasingly loud phone-voice on the other side of the

door.

She looked up, just a few centimetres from where her feet were lying crossed on her

desktop, and was able to make out two new bumps protruding from Northern Europe’s largest

folly. Most recently, the hospital had been topped out with no fewer than two helipads. Two! The

budget for the renovations at her own Nobel Hospital, meanwhile, had been halved.

She took another sweet, and had to peel the liquorice away from her upper molars as she

noted that the pillar of smoke had now taken on a somewhat lighter colour. She picked up the

only pen on the desk and let the nib glide distractedly across the yellow Post-it note.

For the third time in half an hour, Fredrik knocked on her door.

“Isn’t it time to get going now?”

Monica flung her legs down and pushed her feet into her high heels. She then lined her gold

pen up with the edge of her keyboard.

“Did you hear me calling or what?”

As usual, Fredrik pulled his hand over his expanding bald patch.

“But Göran just rang – for the third time. Everything’s chaos. What are…”

“What was the doctor’s name who took care of that stab victim down there?” Monica calmly

interrupted.

Her PA went quiet, and jerkily lowered his hand towards his waist. He pulled out a scrap of

paper and read:

“Tekla Berg. But...”

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Monica’s gaze settled on her screen once more. The clock in the top corner showed 21:43.

She looked out at the city skyline. Jesus, what was going on? First the gangsters brandishing

pistols in A&E, and now this. It’s a dog’s life, running a hospital.

As she weighed her options, she let her fingers trace the golden links of the chain around her

neck. The new burns unit had cost a hundred and twenty million krona. Despite that, the national

centre had gone to Uppsala. It was like owning an exclusive restaurant full of the finest

ingredients and restless star chefs and seeing it sit empty. She knew what the solution would be,

realised who the key individual was, but just not how she was going to capture that person’s

attention. She did, however, have an idea.

She took another sweet and got to her feet. Her knees ached but she wasn’t going to have

any more codeine. She had her heart set on a few glasses of Chablis with Gregor when she got

home.

Monica adjusted her belt and buttoned her blazer. She shuffled over towards the tall, oval

window. Did it look like a watchful eye from the buildings below? One that never blinked.

The phone in her hand showed 21:48. Another five minutes had passed – hopefully that

meant at least one new patient admission to the burns unit.

Monica Carlsson turned around and shouted.

“Now you can activate the major incident alarm. And make sure you send this Tekla Berg.”

6

I

7

Thursday evening

ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Unstable stab victim in resus room one,” Johan said from over by the door. “Twenty-three

years old. Five minutes.”

Tekla spun around on her stool to face the nurse’s worried expression.

“Have you bleeped the anaesthesia team?”

“They’re on their way.”

That’s when the headache hit, like a terrifying little Hiroshima bomb between the frontal

lobes.

Tekla put down the scalpel, pulled off her surgical gloves and asked the patient to put his

clothes on.

“That anal abscess needs debriding, so I’ll have to arrange another appointment.”

“Can you say that in plain Swedish?”

“The zit in your back passage will need squeezing again.”

The man struggled to his feet, avoiding eye contact as he did so, but it was obvious from his

cowed body language just how badly his masculinity had been hurt.

Tekla walked out and started half-jogging towards A&E. Her hands felt clammy against the

stethoscope as she pulled it from her pocket. Her pulse was rising; she knew immediately what

the most stressful thing going on was, and it wasn’t the stabbing victim due at any minute.

She walked into Resus Room One.

Cassandra, an energetic healthcare assistant with white, close-cropped hair and a spider’s

web tattoo just above her cheekbone came in.

“Apparently he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Tekla noticed that Cassandra was waiting for something and she quickly realised what it was.

She contemplated various scenarios as she pulled on a plastic apron and latex gloves.

“Alright then, bleep the on-call surgeon.”

“What about Hampus?”

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Slimy-playboy-Hampus, who’d tried to out-manoeuvre her on their very first night on call,

six months previously.

“No need.”

Another nurse, Anki, wheeled over the sample trolley and opened the fridge with her swipe

card. Menthol-blue light flooded out of it. The room immediately felt a little cooler.

“Shall I get something ready to go?”

“A bit of morphine might be good?”

Silence.

Tekla stood up straight.

“Ten mg morphine would be great.”

“Don’t let him suffer.”

In the course of three long seconds a single thought flew through Tekla’s head; that second

where everything stands still, the moment a decision is made. Paul Tibbets, piloting Enola Gay

over Hiroshima – did he hesitate as his hand moved towards the button to drop the bomb?

“Fill a shot with ten milligrams of diazepam,” Tekla said to the nurse who gave her a

quizzical look.

“Give five.”

“But then…”

“I’ll do it myself. And get the Claforan. We’ll skip the blood cultures, just give him some

antibiotics pronto.”

The nurse fetched the syringe before returning with the drugs.

Tekla took the lid off the little cannula sitting in the boy’s hand and injected five milligrams

of diazepam. She returned to the stab victim’s bedside and turned to her colleagues.

“We need to get him on his side.”

That’s when she spotted it – another bleeding wound, further down his side, almost on the

small of his back.

“We’ve got two wounds here then,” Tekla said out loud in summary. “One to the thorax and

one above the kidney on his left side. We need to get him to theatre.”

“Fifty over no reading,” the Polish anaesthetist said as he held the oxygen mask over the

man’s face. Suddenly two men barged into the room, closely followed by a nurse trying to stop

them:

“Listen, you can’t come in here…”

The men ignored the nurse as if she were an anxious puppy yapping at their heels.

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Tekla only had time to register that the men were wearing leather biker vests with matching

symbols on and white, short-sleeved shirts. Both were big units, like old bodybuilders whose

muscles have turned to fat. Their arms and necks were covered in tattoos. One of them had a

shaved head and a downy goatee, the other crew-cut pale blond hair. They stood at the foot of

the trolley. Tekla caught sight of a pistol in one of the men’s waistbands.

“Will he survive?” the slightly larger of the men asked, in a strong Finnish accent.

Tekla noticed the terrified nurse in the background walking over to the phone and lifting the

receiver, at which point the shorter man turned around and sternly shook his head. She dropped

the phone and backed away.

“He’s lost a lot of blood and he needs an operation.”

The bigger man walked towards Tekla and placed a hand on her shoulder. She could feel his

rings on her collar bone and tried to ignore the weapon in her peripheral vision.

“We trust you…” He looked at her name badge, “…Tekla Berg.” He then backed away and

stood next to his companion.

The father from next door barged into the room, screaming.

“He’s stopped breathing!”

Tekla turned around and grabbed a prepped syringe from the drug trolley. She held it down

by her side and turned towards the little boy’s father.

“Oscar is terminally ill, you know that. Gaucher’s type 2 patients can’t actually be saved.

Besides, you have both decided that he is not to be made to suffer. It could be sepsis, which is

why we’re giving him antibiotics. I had to heavily sedate him, but I don’t have time to explain any

more right now…”

“For fuck’s sake, he’s not breathing!” The fireman’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop

out of their sockets in rage.

Tekla leaned towards him.

“Right now though, you need to calm yourself down so that we can do our jobs.”

She pushed the syringe into his muscular thigh and pushed its contents into his bloodstream.

The pain made him cry out, but he couldn’t work out where it had come from. He raised his

hands and lunged towards Tekla but one of the bikers effortlessly pushed him away and then

hauled him back into the other room. He stumbled and the last thing Tekla saw was him

collapsing onto a chair.

Tekla turned towards Tariq and it was if the whole scene suddenly froze. She knew straight

away that he had seen everything. She’d had it now.

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Thursday evening, 6th June

NOBEL HOSPITAL

“BP un-recordable,” the anaesthetist shouted from the patient’s side.

She felt the room swing. Nausea washed over her and she could feel the sweat running down

his spine. What a mess. She was contemplating leaving the room, or just telling Tariq to take

over, when she heard Johan’s voice booming like a ringmaster from the doorway.

“Hampus’s on his way!”

Tekla took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and for just a second, transported herself to

Jämtland. To the row-boat on the lake. To Simon and Dad, waiting there for her to pour some

coffee from a steaming flask. Saffron-yellow autumn colours on the blanket of leaves lining the

shore. Simon saying: “Mind your piano fingers sis!” Tekla responding: “You can be the pianist

you idiot. I can hold my drumsticks with my feet if I have to.” Dad grinning with his cigarette

wedged in the corner of his mouth. “What are you two like? Quiet now so they start biting before

your mum goes to bed.”

As if Mum ever even bothered to wait up for them, Tekla thought to herself.

Bang! Anki slammed the medicine cabinet shut.

Tekla opened her eyes. She quickly took three steps towards the stabbed gang member.

“We need a drain. The largest one we’ve got.”

Then she tilted the bed, raising the foot end.

“I’m intubating now,” she heard the anaesthetist say, somewhere in the background. His

voice sounded as though it was being transmitted down a long metal pipe.

The bikers followed everything with scowling expressions on their faces. Gripping their

weapons. Tekla heard them talking to someone on the phone.

Just as she was putting on a pair of surgical gloves, Hampus Nordensköld entered the room,

accompanied by another nurse. His hair was ruffled.

“What’s going on?”

Tekla had never seen him so excited. The smaller biker with the shaven head and red

bandana around his neck raised his arm to stop Hampus getting to the stretcher.

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“One doctor’s enough. She’s on top of it.”

“But…”

Tekla took pleasure in the obvious rage bubbling over Hampus’ face.

“You can go to the other room. A boy with Gaucher’s who’s got sepsis. You’ll need to get

him a bed in ICU and get the father a stretcher. He’s going to be asleep for four and a half

hours.”

As if Hampus even had a clue what Gaucher’s was, Tekla thought to herself. But, as a male

doctor, he would lie until he was blue in the face rather than admit his ignorance.

Visibly affronted, Hampus ran his fingers through his quiff and shuffled off to the other

Resus Room.

“Scalpel,” Tekla cut him off once the entry site was clean.

“No pulse,” the anaesthetics nurse called out with a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Cardiac arrest,” the Polish anaesthetist stated in a rather more laconic tone.

Tekla was about to say “Compressions, please,” when she spotted the bigger biker take three

large strides and start giving CPR. Perfect compressions at the right tempo and with the right

depth.

“Carry on Doctor,” he wheezed.

She took the scalpel from Cassandra’s hand and made a long incision along one of the ribs

on the patient’s left side. Then she used her index finger to open a channel over the rib and in

towards the chest cavity. Suddenly fresh blood started pouring out across the patient’s side and

running onto the military-grey lino floor.

“Blood,” she muttered, as if someone might have failed to notice the deep-red fountain

pulsating behind her.

The doors then slid open again and the Charge Nurse walked in.

The two bikers looked at each other in complete confusion.

Suddenly it was as if she’d been transported into an episode of Sons of Anarchy. The bigger

man doing chest compressions shouted out:

“Take over,” at which point Cassandra dumped her bandages, hauled herself onto the edge

of the trolley and continued pumping. The shorter Finn swept his hands behind his back and

retrieved a pistol. He pointed towards the entrance.

Four more bikers came in with weapons drawn, at which point the first two seemed to relax.

Members of the same gang. They were talking excitedly and Tekla thought she caught something

about Albanians and rats.

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Tekla was standing with her finger inside the warm chest cavity where she could feel weak

pulses from the heart massage via the lungs and the fluid inside them. She was struggling to

focus, and to ignore the sweat that was trickling into her eyes and burning like vinegar.

“Drain.”

The noise level increased. Anki handed her a plastic tube, which she took and inserted using

a twisting motion. Fresh blood poured out, filling a bag that Anki had just managed to attach.

“Have we got some O negative on the way?” she called to Mia, who was still standing

pinned to the wall.

“I’ve got it here.”

“Hang it up and push it through.”

Tekla glanced over her shoulder where she could see Tariq Moussawi still standing there, his

arms now crossed in front of him. The expression on his face had changed.

Another minute or so passed before she heard the anaesthetist say to Cassandra:

“Pause a moment.”

A few seconds of deathly silence. Even the bikers kept quiet.

“Weak pulse,” said the anaesthetist.

Tekla closed her eyes for a second. She could see Simon’s toothy grin and sly eyes in front of

her.

That was when the clattering noise first came from out in A&E, the sound of metal on wood

and screeching rubber.

The next moment, six police officers stormed in with their weapons drawn.

Tekla stood with her back to the riot police as they slammed the bikers to the floor and

handcuffed them. She tried to stay focused on attaching the thick drain through the patient’s

ribcage and eventually managed to secure it with a few rough stitches. One of the officers –

unusually broad and two metres tall – approached her and pulled down his face mask. The

camera on his helmet made Tekla think of snowboarders. The policeman stopped by the monitor

showing the patient’s heart rate to be one-hundred-and-twenty beats per minute.

“Everything okay, Doctor?”

At first Tekla recoiled at the sight of the automatic weapon hanging from his neck, but she

was soon reassured by the empathy in his eyes. She attempted a smile.

“He’ll survive.”

“Well done. Now you’ll soon be shot of these criminals and things will be back to normal.”

A healthcare assistant squeezed past the policemen and screamed loudly:

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“We’re on major incident alert! Söder Tower has exploded.”

Tekla dropped the haemostat and needle holder onto the sterile paper cloth and watched as

the police started talking into their comm-radios, and then with each other. The atmosphere

immediately became irascible. She heard the words ‘explosion’ and ‘fire’.

The large officer approached her once again.

“There’s been an explosion at Söder Tower, which is now ablaze. Our unit has been called

there.”

“What about the gangsters?” Tekla asked, as she taped a large bandage over the drain. The

anaesthetist attached another bag of blood, the patient’s BP had stabilised at eighty over sixty.

“One of the patrols will have to take them to the station on Torkel Knutssonsgatan.”

“Tekla!” Cassandra called out through the chaos. “The Medical Director wants to speak to

you.” She held up the phone.

Tekla peeled off her bloody gloves and plastic apron. She quickly consulted with the

anaesthetist to make sure the patient was stable.

“Under control. We’ll go to ICU via radiography.” In the other room, the little boy was

about to be transported to the children’s ICU.

Tekla grabbed the phone and introduced herself.

“I’ve received instructions that you are to lead the first medical response team at the site of

the fire,” Director Leif Törblom said in what sounded to Tekla liked a slurred voice. “We’re just

arranging staff but we need to get more doctors out there quickly.”

Tekla looked around. She was just going to have to do as she was told: pull on the

emergency response jacket and get down to Söder Tower. She left A&E, stopping by a sink to

swallow a bomb and wash it down with lukewarm water. In the ambulance bay she met

paramedics Johan and Jessica, who, like her, had been assigned to the first response group.

“Let’s go then,” said Tekla. She noticed the police officer with the blue eyes turn around and

look to make eye-contact before jumping into the silver van and disappearing off towards the

fire. She had a strange feeling inside. Who had given the medical director ‘instructions’ that she

was to take charge of the first emergency response group?

14

Thursday evening, 6th June

SÖDER TOWER, STOCKHOLM

“Is he dead?” asked Johan.

“Dunno.”

“He should be, shouldn’t he?”

“Can you not just wait!” Tekla hissed. “How’s anyone supposed to check a pulse with all this

going on?”

She knew she ought to apologise to Johan for losing her temper, but after all the patients

she’d already taken care of she was starting to feel that she’d had enough. Her fingers stayed

pressed against the casualty’s neck and she let her gaze drift into the distance for a few welcome

seconds. The flames were licking up one side of the tower, already halfway up the building. The

black pillar of smoke rose straight into the sky towards a wispy pink shroud of evening sky that

was trying to escape the approaching darkness. She would remember each image of this scene, it

was her blessing and her curse. Tekla felt a rush as the cool air ran across her neck, while the

vibrating heat reached her face from the flames a couple of hundred metres away. There air was

thick with the smell of burning plastic and scorched skin. The thundering noise of the fire was

only occasionally eclipsed by exploding windowpanes and the emergency services’ sirens.

“Where did you find him?” she asked, and stopped looking for a pulse.

“Outside the machine room. Under a spiral staircase.”

Tekla stood up and looked at the fireman laden with breathing apparatus, and it was only

now she noticed that he was covered in soot and sweating profusely.

“Sit down and catch your breath,” she said.

The fireman slumped down in a tangle of tubes, opened his jacket and wiped his dirty face

with one hand. Then his head rocked forward, as if his neck vertebrae had just given way. Tekla

could see his whole body starting to shake. She knew that she ought to walk over to the man and

put a hand on his shoulder. Instead though, she stayed put, and stretched her stiff back. An

evening breeze stroked one half of her face and for the first time in at least two hours she

allowed her shoulders to sink a few centimetres.

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“Was he the last one you pulled out?”

He nodded.

Tekla peered over towards the inferno. The last patient was the first to die. The body was

going to be tough to identify. She stuffed her hand inside her jacket and pulled out a black plastic

card that briefly flashed in the light from the flames.

“How many of those have you seen to?” asked the fireman.

Tekla didn’t have to stop and think. She would’ve been able to describe each of the

casualties: the colour of their clothes, hair type, facial expressions, body temperatures. All of it, in

minute detail. Everything except their smell.”

“This’ll be number twelve,” she said.

“They should’ve stayed put. Not run out into the stairwell.”

“You still wouldn’t have reached eighty metres up with those ladders.”

The fireman closed his eyes, as if to deflect the truth of that statement.

“How many fatalities?” the fireman asked.

“Only one so far. But several of the most critically injured might not make it.”

Tekla stood staring at the charred body. She turned away from it, towards the reassuring

darkness by the neighbouring crescent-shaped apartment block, Bofills Båge. She pulled out her

lip balm tube, shook out another little ball and swallowed quickly, not even registering its bitter

taste. She knew that it’d be another minute or so before it kicked in.

Someone crouched down alongside her.

“You can barely see that it’s a person,” said Johan, one of the nurses.

“More the a charred animal corpse on a smouldering bombsite,” Tekla muttered and was

about to ask for a bottle of water when she suddenly saw the badly burned man’s ribcage moving.

As she leaned forward, her knees burrowed into the soft earth. She put her ear to the place

where a mouth should have been but where there were now only large, copper-coloured blisters,

covered in soot and blood.

“He’s breathing!”

She quickly pulled a flashlight from her breast pocket and shone it into the eye that wasn’t

obscured by burnt flesh.

“The pupil’s tiny. We need to get a cannula in!”

Johan grabbed his emergency kit while Tekla scoured the inside of the man’s elbow, but the

flames had ruined every vein. His face, his abdomen, his arms… she estimated that he’d

sustained third degree burns across eighty per cent of his body. His clothes were gone, even his

16

genitals were unrecognisable. Her fingers felt their way around his head and she felt a spongy

depression on the back.

Johan soon reappeared.

“It’s going to have to be an intraosseous canulation,” Tekla said. “Here, this knee has a

relatively undamaged section.”

Johan pulled out the drill and pushed a yellow-tipped needle onto it.

“Should’ve checked for a pulse in the groin…”

Tekla aimed above the bony part of the right tibia, alongside the knee, grasped the drill and

prepared herself. She then drilled right into the marrow. Not as much as a whimper from the

patient.

She glanced across the man’s body. Normal build. Average height. How old might he be?

Impossible to say. No hair left. Face basically gone. His entire head: a smouldering, bloody lump

of flesh. His body: a liquorice black collection of scabs. Tekla saw pictures from Pompeii, where

those buried alive in the glowing ash had had their positions frozen for ever. Many looked to

have been asleep when the volcano erupted. What would it be like to be lying there herself? What

we she herself have wanted? Would she have wanted someone to save her life… like this? Or just

given her painkillers so that she could drift away?

The next second, Tekla injected him with an entire ampoule of naloxone before following

up with saline.

“So, intubation,” she said.

At that point she heard a deep voice come from behind her.

“Is he alive?”

She saw a police officer from the corner of her eye, but she then turned back towards Johan.

“Increase the Ketamine. And then two bags of Ringer’s lactate.”

Straight from memory, she was reading Textbook of Burns, page 2127, left-hand column. She

counted out loud: “based on a bodyweight of seventy kilos and eighty per cent burns, the patient

would need twelve litres of fluid over the next ten hours. Tough, intraosseously, we have to start

there. Then they’ll have to sort out a central line in A&E. If we make it that far.”

“Has he said anything?” asked the cop, who was now standing right next to her. He was a

man who seemed to be attempting to make up for prematurely thinning hair by spending late

nights in the gym and sporting a well-groomed Captain Haddock beard. Not a single piece of

police-issue kit out of place.

“Does it look like he can speak?” Tekla asked.

“Doesn’t he speak Swedish?”

17

“I hope you’re joking.”

“Have you seen any tattoos?”

“On the twenty per cent of his skin that is intact, no, I haven’t seen any tattoos.

She stifled an urge to simply barge the policeman right out of there.

The badly burned man suddenly started moving slightly, first his arm, then even turning his

head towards Tekla.

The lead officer leaned in, and started shouting loudly.

“Can you hear me? Nod if you can here me. Witnesses saw a green panel van with five men

inside leaving the scene just before the explosion. You were involved, weren’t you? Did they just

piss off and leave you behind? Where were you supposed to meet up? You’re gonna talk, now!”

No response.

“Did you put a bomb in the basement?” The policeman roared, seemingly convinced that

the casualty had had his eardrums blown out. “What did you do outside the… what the hell is

‘elcentral’ called in English? What were you doing outside the substation?”

The man was now moving his arm limply and it looked to Tekla like he was seeking eye

contact. She shooed the officer away.

“I need to intubate this patient immediately if he’s going to have any chance of survival.”

“Just one more thing,” the policeman said as he leant over the man one last time and hissed:

“If you’ve blown this place up and killed all those people I will personally make sure that you and

all your relatives from whatever shitty Middle Eastern country you come from will keep suffering

for all eternity. No prophet can help you. You can forget about all those virgins in heaven. You

hear me?”

Tekla stood up and faced down the policeman who obstinately started slowly backing away.

“What are you talking about? How on earth could you know that this is some kind of terror

attack? It might very well have been an accident!”

The other officers had to grab hold of their boss who seemed determined to go and stamp

on the casualty with his heavy boots. He stared at Tekla and sneered before he slowly started

moving away. The others officers also backed away and the light from the flames returned. Tekla

placed her hand on the injured man’s forehead. His bare leg was exposed.

She leaned in, stroked him carefully and whispered.

“It’ll be okay, you’ll see. It’ll be okay… You can sleep now.”

She picked up her laryngoscope and was about to move towards the head when the man

stretched his index finger towards her. Towards Tekla’s face. She leaned forward to try and

18

decipher what he wanted. She could hear his shallow, rasping breath. Words emerging slowly,

hesitantly. Then his armed slumped down and he disappeared into unconsciousness.

“What did he say?” asked Johan.

“Swim,” said Tekla, still shaken. “It sounded like he was asking if I could swim.”

19

Friday 7th June, early hours

NOBEL HOSPITAL

Travelling backwards in a vehicle had always made Tekla carsick. The Ambulance was swerving

all over the place, but she gritted her teeth, took deep breaths and concentrated on her only task:

keeping the burns victim alive. Until they got to A&E at least. Coming up the hill up from

Ringvägen, she noted an unmarked police car right behind them. It turned off its sirens as they

approached the hospital. She inflated the ambo bag, carefully pushing the right amount of air into

the patient’s lungs through the tube in his throat. She hadn’t been able to get a blood pressure.

There was a poor little pulse, she could feel it in his groin. She knew he was still alive. Tekla

looked down at the gloopy mess that was sticking to her latex glove. Could those almond-white

threads be nerves, dissolved by the heat like overcooked spaghetti?

The engine turned off and she heard Johan open the sliding door.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“For me, or the patient?”

“I’ll take that to mean he’s still alive.”

Johan skipped over towards the rear doors. Tekla really envied his easy-going take on life.

“Nice driving,” Tekla said, helping with the stretcher. “For once I didn’t throw up.”

Between them they lifted the stretcher out of the ambulance as Tekla squeezed in a breath

from time to time. The ambulance bay was filled with another eight ambulances, two of which

were being unloaded.

Tekla saw the departmental director coming towards them. She had never seen him so red in

the face. Göran Collinder must have left his exclusive Östermalm pad in a hurry, since this was

the first time she’d ever seen him without his navy blazer with the gold buttons.

“Tekla Berg, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone else by that name in your department.”

“And this is the severely burned patient?”

“One of them.”

20

Tekla noticed for the first time that Göran was accompanied by two men in civilian clothes,

possibly police. She made eye contact with one of them but quickly focused on her boss once

more.

“We need to get into resus,” Tekla said.

“We’ll wait here, we can talk once you’ve left the patient,” Göran replied, apparently waiting

to see the order acknowledged. Tekla, however, just turned around and continued towards a

resus room where an expectant doctor was standing fully prepared in a visor and full battle gear.

It pained Tekla to leave that poor patient. He had a night on the respirator and having his

wounds dressed to look forward to. A real slog. Maybe she should’ve listened to Johan’s hint

about a quick death at the scene – compassionate euthanasia delivered with a huge dose of

morphine.

Tekla backed away towards the medicine fridge where Johan was standing and typing

something into an iPad. He glanced up.

“Listen, what was that stuff about swimming?”

Tekla froze.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“I thought he said… ‘swim’.”

“When he saw you?”

Images from the lake appeared in Tekla’s head.

“The funny thing is I can’t swim…”

Johan looked at her.

“Why would he ask that though?”

“Yeah, really weird,” Tekla said, avoiding Johan’s inquisitive stare. “He might have been

hallucinating. But then it did look like he was staring at me and it did sound like a question. I

must’ve misheard. The only person who knows I can’t swim is…”

“Tekla!”

Göran was standing in the doorway, waving. The police were standing at his side –

apparently they were not going to leave the injured man alone.

Tekla could now see the chaos. The hospital was on major incident footing and staff were

pouring in from all over the city. Far more than were needed.

She peeled off her blood-stained coat and hung it up by the ambulance bay, washed and

disinfected her hands before scooping cold water onto her face. Then she started walking. She

tried to read Göran’s body language. He was yet to mention the previous night’s drama with the

21

stabbing victim from Kvarnen Restaurant and the baby brought in with convulsions. Could it be

that incident reports from the other staff hadn’t reached him? Perhaps his thoughts were

completely occupied by the fire.

They passed a few casualties lying on stretchers outside the already-full triage rooms.

“How many have we admitted?” she asked.

“Five. But only two serious burns victims.”

“How come only two?”

“Well, then yours, so that makes three.”

“But where are all the others? There must’ve been at least ten.”

“Uppsala got five, and Solna two.”

“Uppsala? But don’t we have a brand new burns unit here at Nobel?”

“Yes, but Uppsala was made national centre of excellence, as you might have heard.” Göran

attempted a smile but was obviously far too stressed for any affected light-heartedness. “But now

the new unit will have its work cut out. I know of one person who will be pleased.”

Tekla left A&E and walked past the children’s clinic, towards the central atrium. Göran did

his best to keep up. She had never seen so many people in the hospital in the middle of the night.

They passed wave after wave of anxious relatives and hard-pressed staff as they approached the

main entrance.

She turned left.

“Tekla, I want you to be the designated responsible clinician for this burns patient.”

“DRC?”

“I know, but this is a special patient.”

“You mean critically injured?”

“That too. But, if he does survive, there’s going to be a police investigation. A task force

commander called me and explained their suspicions. He may have been involved in the fire.”

“Injured you mean?”

“More than that, perhaps.”

They arrived at the lifts. Tekla pushed the button several times.

“But why me? Isn’t it usually someone from ICU who takes on those patients?”

“I gather he responded well to Naloxone?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It means we treat it as an overdose. And A&E are responsible for all overdoses.”

A pair of lift doors slid open. To her dismay, Tekla saw that it was the tiny lift that could

take a maximum of three people. She reluctantly stepped in and stifled a gag reflex as Göran’s

22

aftershave filled the tiny space. She hadn’t been in this close proximity to a man in several years.

She pressed nine.

“Overdose? But…”

“This is your patient, for two reasons: one, it’s an overdose. Two, his identity is unknown,

and the police want a person they can contact to keep them updated about everything that

happens to the patient.”

Göran stared at his watch.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one in charge.”

“So who is then?”

Tekla watched as Göran quickly thought better of whatever he was about to say.

The lift finally arrived at their floor. Tekla could hear Göran carrying on as she headed

towards her room.

““The Task Force Commander said that the patient recognised you. Is that right?”

Tekla stopped outside her room and unlocked the glass door. It was now apparent why

Göran had accompanied her all the way to her bedroom.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t he point at you? Do you think he seemed to recognise you?”

“Give over. He just moved his arm when I gave him the Naloxone. He wasn’t exactly aware

of what was going on around him was he? Did you see the state of him?”

She walked into her room and stood over by the window. She could feel her heart pounding.

Sweat was trickling down her spine, making her whole body shudder. There was only one person

who knew she couldn’t swim, wasn’t there? But then lots of people can’t swim.”

She needed a bomb. Now.

Göran came and stood next to her. Only a kilometre or so away, the could see Söder Tower

still burning. Darkness fell across the city and the flames had now engulfed the entire structure,

right up to the top storeys.

Even Göran was suddenly struck by the sight.

“My goodness.” He panted.

“Hadn’t you seen it?”

“What was it like over there?”

“Unreal.”

Her thoughts were full of all the people she’d tried to save over by the tower. Was there

anything she could’ve done differently?

“Shelob’s salvation,” Göran whispered.

23

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

They stood staring at it for a few seconds. Tekla could now feel sweat running down the

inside of her thigh too. She was freezing.

“Now I really do need to get changed.”

She stooped to start unbuttoning her trousers.

“Here?”

“I wasn’t planning to jump on the metro looking like a butcher.”

“You know we get changed in the basement. You’ve got your changing rooms…”

“Seriously though,” Tekla cut him off as she pulled her trousers down. “I’m really tired

now.”

“Okay,” Göran said apologetically and then turned around. “But you accept this patient?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Well then there’s your answer.”

“Eleven o’clock, Intensive Care. The police are going to turn up for the ward round every

day. And they’re going to want updates.”

“Every day.”

“Eleven sharp.”

“Work faster with the same resources,” Tekla sighed.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Tekla took a deep breath and moved her clammy hand towards her tube of lip balm inside

her pocket. Göran’s phone rang.

“Yes… yes… she’s with me…”

Göran held the phone up towards Tekla.

“Who is it?” Tekla whispered, waving the phone away.

“It’s Monica. Just take it.”

Tekla barely had time to work out which Monica Göran was talking about before she

grabbed the phone.

“Tekla?” said a sharp, alert voice.

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you this evening.”

“Have you?”

24

“I want to talk to you. First thing. You’re on duty tomorrow, right? You’re going to ICU at

eleven.”

“Yes. But how did you know…?”

“I’ll call you,” the Hospital Director said as she hung up.

Tekla gave Göran back his phone. She stared blankly at his back as he finally left her alone in

her room. A high-pitched ringing filled Tekla’s ears until finally floor nine fell completely silent.

Now she got it.

Shelob.

25

II

26

Friday morning, 7th June

GRÖNVIKSVÄGEN, BROMMA

Victor Umarov woke up with an erection. This spread an almost indescribable joy throughout his

body. He lay touching his cock for a few seconds, to establish whether he could keep it up. He

reassured himself that this wasn’t yet another shitty dream.

Victor turned over and hauled his body closer to Elena. She was still asleep, blissfully

unaware of the wonderful morning gift that he was planning to give her. He pushed his hand in

under her arm and carefully pulled her singlet to one side, grabbed one of her large breasts and

started stroking her nipple while he pushed his hard-on against her wonderful arse. When they

first met at a party in Moscow, he’d fallen in love with her arse – before he’d even seen her

beautifully made up face.

She woke up. Christ, they were going to fuck. Long, hard, and sweaty, like they hadn’t done

in months. He was going to have a whole crate of champagne delivered to that doctor over on

Östermalm. No Russian vodka, which the Swedes can’t even drink anyway. Eye to eye. Just like

when he’d bought up the Russian state-owned electricity company in the early nineties. A firm

handshake and a shot. Vodka, of course.

Christ, he was so absorbed by his gratitude that he was almost losing focus. His buttocks

kept pumping away, his whole backside yearning.

Elena now realised what was going on. She pulled her knickers to one side. God, he realised

that this could be over quickly. He was as moist as the oysters at Royal Castle Hotel in Bulgaria. As

long as he didn’t come before he’d made it inside. He needed to thrust a few times. In and out.

Needed the sensation of her wonderfully warm pussy. To feel her thrusting back against him.

Suddenly he noticed something change. His cock was no longer as hard. He strained his

buttocks, trying to force the blood to his member, to fill it with power. It was as if someone had

pulled the plug. In his mind’s eye he could see one of those enormous inflatable figures outside

an American car dealership, and how it suddenly collapsed as soon as the pump was turned off.

It had been less than a minute. Sixty seconds later, his cock was as flaccid and lifeless as it

had been throughout the past year.

27

He rolled over and swung his feet towards the carpet. He stood up, opened his bedside

drawer and pulled out his revolver, locked in a cartridge and fired off two shots in quick

succession towards the mirror. The two metre by one metre gold-framed mirror shattered into a

thousand pieces with a horrible crash.

The door flew open and Kamila and Max burst in. Kamila in her burgundy flannel pyjamas,

her big hair all over the place and wearing a teenage scowl that was more angry than surprised.

Sardor also came rushing up the stairs, pistol drawn.

“It’s fine,” Victor said, avoiding the shards as he walked towards his two children. He took

Kamila in his arms. “Just a little broken mirror.”

“A little mirror? You’re sick in the head, Dad,” Kamila hissed.

“But not so sick that I can’t get the moon on a stick for my little princess.”

“Argh,” Kamila groaned, stamping angrily on the carpet before going back to her bedroom.

“What a crazy fucking Dad…”

Sardor stood waiting.

“You can tidy that up later. Let her sleep.”

“You’re kidding, right?” came Elena’s voice from under the covers.

Victor left the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He was hungry and in need of

coffee. He’d deal with that incompetent idiot of a doctor later. At the same time, he felt an ache

in his stomach: he needed to rein in that impulsive behaviour. Put violence behind him. Every

time he relapsed, life felt like a big failure.

“I didn’t know you still had that old toy,” said Sardor.

“Just for self-defence. A bit of nostalgia.” He stuffed his 1951 Makarov into his robe.

Sardor shrugged

“Victor, we have a problem. A fight broke out in A&E at Nobel last night and…”

“Why,” Victor interrupted, “don’t you call me Dad, like Nina and Kamila do? Or the old

man? Or Daddy-O. Whatever. It just feels so weird to hear you calling me by my name. As if you

didn’t know me. Your own father, your Uzbek flesh and blood.” He stroked his sizeable paunch

and tugged at Sardor’s cheek again. “Look, feel the elemental force here. You haven’t forgotten

about that time you were sitting in…”

“One of the Red Bears’ guys got stabbed in a bar on Södermalm,” Sardor interrupted, turned

his head away and replaced his pistol in its shoulder holster. The grey t-shirt had dark sweat

patches under the arms. “He was taken to A&E at Nobel. There ended up being a bit of bother.

Rumour has it that someone from Northside Network cut him up.”

Elena sighed loudly as she walked past them.

28

“Do you always have to talk shop?”

“I’ll be with you in five minutes, darling,” Victor said, and waited for Elena to disappear

down the stairs.

Victor pulled his son towards him and tried to keep him there. Stroking his head, just as he

used to over thirty years ago, in London. Sardor was only five at the time and Nina had started

school. Even then, you could tell what different temperaments the children had. Sardor was a

restless sleeper, always calling out to his parents at night. Nina made friends instantly and was

well-behaved. Sardor started to go off the rails in middle school. His recollections of that time

were few and far between; Victor realised that he had been absent, always travelling. Journeys

that took him all over the vast, disintegrating Soviet empire, all those industries he and Boris had

bought, half of which he couldn’t even remember the name of. Everything had had its price.

Images of the FSB agents walking into his Moscow office and asking him to come with them

were etched in his memory. That was when he realised he hadn’t given his son the upbringing he

needed. And that it was too late.

Sardor pushed his father away.

“Northside Network?” asked Victor.

“That’s what Eje said, but I’m not sure.”

“Jensen didn’t make the call himself?”

“What does that matter?”

“Have you seen him recently? Fat - like Yeltsin in his final days.”

“Who?”

“Are you telling me you don’t know who Boris Yeltsin was? My poor little…”

“Can we just decide what we’re doing?”

Sardor wiped a little moisture from his forehead and ran his hand over his short, thick hair.

“Which gang from the Northsiders?” asked Victor. “The Lions? K-Men? Jakan Crew? No

Way Out, or whatever they call themselves?”

“How would I know which gang it was? There are rumours, as I said. But you don’t need to

worry. I’ll take care of this.”

“Tell me what Eje said.”

“One of their new recruits, Jarmo, was stabbed in the chest. Serious. We don’t know if he’s

going to survive.”

“But what was it all about? Girls? Gear?” Victor asked.

“How should I know?” Sardor sighed irritably. “You’re going to stay out of the details,

remember? The less you know…”

29

“But Jensen is furious?” Victor continued.

“Yes, he’s fucking livid. According to Eje he wants to tool-up every teenager in Skärholmen

with an AK5. It wouldn’t surprise me if he meant that literally. Happy now? You just focus on

your translations.”

Victor pulled his hand through his greasy matted hair, pulling out a knot that had become

tangled overnight. He reminded himself that he’d need to sort his hair out before the party next

weekend.

“Have the Northsiders been ripped off much recently?”

“That’s not clear.”

“Perhaps we should reach out with a helping hand, lend them some cash. Why not start a

bank?”

Sardor stared at the shards of glass on the carpet. “You do know what a broken mirror

means?”

“A mirror can be repaired,” Victor replied. “Gang warfare can cause permanent damage to

the business.”

Victor stared out of the window that overlooked the pool area. Elena was dragging herself

over to the outdoor table carrying a cup of coffee and a glass of juice.

“Fuck!”

Sardor nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Stay calm, we’ll sort this.”

“The pool looks dreadful.”

Sardor shook his head in pure confusion.

Victor’s voice became calm once more.

“Do you realise how much work I’ve put in to getting control of the heroin in this town?”

“You do have more grey hairs now than when we moved.”

“I don’t think you do know, son. Everything you see around you…” Victor swept with his

hand in a regal gesture over his suburban palace, “…is the result of work I started many, many

years ago, in a dingy Russian prison cell.”

“I thought you were a translator of Russian literature. Isn’t that what it says on the tax

return? Besides, wasn’t it the FSB that gave you the task?”

Victor sighed. “They would never have released me and sent me to Stockholm if they hadn’t

known I was going to do a good job. How many days of your life have you spent in a room

measuring six square metres? No, that’s right. I decided to…” Victor turned and grabbed the

30

back of Sardor’s head, “either to build up an empire for my family, an empire worthy of a Tsar.

Or else I might just as well put the pistol in my mouth and pull the trigger.”

Sardor looked at his dad with a titillating mixture of terror and delight.

Victor smiled reassuringly. He let go of his son’s head and scratched at an inflamed patch of

eczema by his elbow.

“Northside Network , you say?”

“Yes. But…”

“The Tullinge stash is full, isn’t it?”

Sardor was stunned.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you looking so stressed about?” Victor wondered. “A simple question. We have

enough weapons to cope, if things were to escalate?”

“What do you mean escalate?”

“It means increase, heighten, intensify.”

“I know what the word means,” Sardor hissed. Victor placed his hand against Sardor’s cheek

and smiled.

“You never know with you. But we’ve got plenty of firepower?”

“Sure. We moved everything there from Haninge after the raid at the end of April. But…”

“Good. Even if I hope to take this operation with me when I go, and for Nina to lead the

family into a new, legal future, you have no idea how good it feels having you out there on the

streets. Complete control of the gear, the girls, the weapons, the cash flow…”

Sardor didn’t know quite where to look.

Victor took a deep breath, and could feel himself waking up properly.

Today, even the pool was going to have to wait. It had taken a long time to build up a fragile

relationship with the biker gang in Skärholmen. The Northsiders, however, seemed to be strong,

and on the up. A full-blown conflict would be far too costly. The suited types at FSB HQ would

be less than happy if Victor was to lose control of the northern gateway to Scandinavia. Victor

stood propped against Sardor’s shoulder while he contemplated the situation.

“We’ll take the diplomatic route on this knife drama.”

“I don’t think that’s what Jensen wants to hear at the moment.”

“That’s precisely why you’re going to convince him.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“But…”

31

“I won’t be coming along. Sooner or later I need to take a step back from being vor. Victor

didn’t actually like the Russian epithet for a mafia boss, but under the circumstances it felt good

to underline his position.

Sardor went to say something.

Victor cut him off.

“Problems are only there to be solved. The only question is how. And there has to be a stop

to all this violence. You’re going to show everyone that you can negotiate like a professional

diplomat. Oh no, I’m pissing my pants.”

Sardor looked uneasy.

Victor hobbled over towards the bathroom.

“Time for a bit of diplomatic finesse. Absolutely no unnecessary wars between Jensen and

the Northside Network. Full stop. Keep a lid on your temper. And Sardor?”

“Yes?”

“Make your dad happy.”

Sardor turned around and walked away. He was in a hurry get to Kungsholmen and his yoga

class. As he made his way down the stairs, he typed the word ‘escalate’ into Google.

32

Friday 7th June

RED BEARS MOTORCYCLE CLUB, SKÄRHOLMEN, STOCKHOLM

Apart from a pink recovery truck, a complete write-off of a Mazda was the only other car on the

street. The high, barbed-wire-topped fence around the site wasn’t unusual around the industrial

estate that had cemented its position as the car-burning location of choice for Stockholm’s

southern estates. The businesses out there had even clubbed together to hire in a private security

firm. Not that Sardor thought for a minute that Red Bears made any contribution to that

monthly fee.

A large gate was hauled open by a man whose torso was the size of a wine fridge.

Nikolai pointed at the man’s open waistcoat.

“You probably shouldn’t be showing off your little toy like that.”

The man tugged clumsily at his leather motorcycle vest but made no attempt to conceal his

Mini Uzi.

“Well, it’s war.”

Nikolai sighed. He felt annoyed already.

“It’ll be difficult to fight a war from inside if you get banged up for possessing a firearm.”

Sardor started walking towards the clubhouse. A dozen or so motorbikes were parked neatly

in a line, each one having longer front forks than the one before. Their chrome fittings gleamed

brightly in the June sunshine.

At the entrance to the two-storey building – an office building much like its neighbours with

its bunker-grey façade and poorly maintained old windows with white frames – was another

meathead standing guard. His leather waistcoat bore the words “Road Captain.”

“Everything under control Eje?”

“I’ve seen Jensen in better moods,” replied Erik ‘Eje’ Johansson as he patted Sardor down.

Sardor continued down a short, dark corridor until they came to a large room. A long bar

counter ran along one wall. In the corner, a chunky brown leather sofa. A low glass table was

cluttered with a collection of empty bottles in various shades of green. A large black, yellow and

red flag featuring a man holding a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other hung on another

33

wall. The man was also wearing a large Mexican sombrero. In the centre of the room was a pool

table, and in the far corner was an enormous dining table with at least twenty chairs around it.

Sitting on one of those chairs, smoking a cigarette, was Christian Jensen. He was sucking in

the smoke as if it was the last cig of his life. An unplugged electric guitar lay in his lap. Across the

table from him were two other men: one with long, lustrous hair and almost goth-style garb,

apart from his biker vest with its exploding skull logo. Sardor nodded at Totte Lidegren. The

other, slightly older man – Penti Harju – had ash-grey hair in a side parting and a walrus

moustache. At the head of the table, a skinny man with a shaven head and a black goatee –

clearly dyed since he had to be over sixty – sat drumming his fingers on the tabletop. That was

Johan ‘The Count’ Holmström.

Sardor had heard how he got that nickname: as a youngster, Holmström had worshipped a

Norwegian metal band, and one of the members was known as The Count. That bloke was doing

time, for murder. As he walked into the room and past the pool table, Sardor wondered whether

there was a universal blueprint for how Biker dens were supposed to look. Had they all watched

the same stuff on TV?

Nikolai went over and shook Christian Jensen’s hand. The President stayed sitting,

presumably because he’d be risking an attack of angina if he were to haul his hundred-and-twenty

kilo hulk from the seat. His legs were as skinny as a goat’s. He wheezed between words, all

squeezed out with some effort. The long, downy red beard sat on his chest like a bib.

“Esteemed visitors I see,” said Jensen.”

Cue grins from the other men.

Sardor’s pulse rose. He tried to make eye contact but Jensen’s eyes were so deeply buried

behind fat that it was almost impossible. Sardor looked around. The dress-code seemed to be

black or white t-shirt, leather jacket, and dark trousers. A surprising number were wearing

trainers. The only one in proper boots with silver tips and Cuban heels was Jensen himself.

Sardor’s guess was that given the choice, the President would have liked to wear a sheriff’s star.

But then he had to take account of the senior club. After all, Red Bears was only an Affiliate

Charter and there were certain formalities that had to be adhered to.

Silence filled the room. The man at the head of the table, next to Sardor, resumed his

tabletop finger tapping. His vest was emblazoned with ‘Vice-President.” Sardor felt that there

was something smug about his sunken face. Perhaps ‘The Count’ was demented from all the

glue-sniffing and not quite all there?”

34

Christian Jensen caressed his guitar as if it were a cat sitting in his lap. The only thing missing

was the purr. “Have you lost weight?” Sardor said eventually as he pulled himself up a chair. He

adjusted his suit trousers by the knees and sat down. “Suits you.”

“You’ve lost just as much yourself,” hissed Jensen. “Which doesn’t leave much more than

skin and bone on you. Soon you’ll be in the same weight class as your anorexic sister. How is

Nina?”

“All good.”

“You’ve come without the boss, I see.”

“He sent me because…”

“Those are pretty big shoes to fill,” Jensen said with a mocking smile.

Sardor attempted a smile and calmly lay his hand on the table. He moved a sawn-off shotgun

out of the way.

“I’m glad you can still talk. I was a bit worried for a while there, that you might’ve drowned

in your own flab. You know what rumours are like…”

“Aha, there are rumours about me?” Christian Jensen leaned over towards Sardor with

badly-feigned curiosity. “Hold on… hear that?”

Sardor played along, looking curious himself.

“Your tinnitus?”

“Outside, it sounds like… cannons and drums. Is there a war going on?”

“Sounds as quiet as a church on a Monday morning to me,” said Sardor. “And you know

what? It’s going to stay that way.” Sardor leaned back and stroked an AK5 that was lying on the

table. “Because these little playthings are going to stay on this table, gathering dust.”

Christian Jensen suddenly burst into a gurgling laugh. He gestured that he wanted something

to pour into a glass. A hovering lackey in a biker vest with no markings on hurried over to the

bar and quickly returned with two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Jensen poured.

“A toast.”

Sardor took the little glass from Danne-Pix, a new recruit who Sardor had bumped into a

few times in the Årsta depot.

“To our wonderful partnership.” Christian Jensen necked his glass and urged Sardor and

Nikolai to do the same. They drank. “To the Southside Finn-Uzbek Friendship Association.”

“But you’re not Finnish are you Christian? You’re more of a soggy pastry man?” Nikolai said

with a look of amusement. He knew full well that Christian Jensen was Danish; that he’d left

Black Angels Denmark after an internal conflict, which rumour had it was about whether or not

Black Angels Denmark should begin trafficking operations. He’d moved to Sweden, at first

35

hanging around in the Helsingborg area but later moving to Stockholm and Skärholmen, where

he organized The Red Bears. Now they were well on the way to becoming a Supporter Club of

Black Raiders. They weren’t quite there yet though, they still had plenty to prove to their mother

club.

“And you’ve got the whole of Eastern Europe represented in your ranks, so you’re really not

that Finnish anyway?”

Suddenly, Christian Jensen looked like he’d grown tired of the charade. Perhaps it was the

wire that had been holding his ribcage together since his bypass operation digging in.

“Victor cannot prevent us from exacting suitable revenge. The lad is only nineteen years

old.”

“We know that Jarmo is Pentti’s nephew, and we offer our condolences that he was

stabbed.”

The man with the walrus moustache on the far side of the table nodded appreciatively.

“Okay,” said Jensen. “So what has happened is that Jarmo was attacked, almost killed, by an

Albanian trying to steal a bit of our patch. If we don’t strike back then every gang in town will

start thinking they can do whatever the hell they please with no consequences.”

“But we don’t actually know what happened,” Sardor continued, to Nikolai’s dismay.

“Maybe Jarmo was just demonstrating what a little shit he is, maybe he tried to pull the wrong

girl at Kvarnen.”

Jarmo’s grey-haired uncle reached for a pistol but Christian Jensen waved his fat hand

dismissively.

Sardor lowered his voice.

“Victor doesn’t want you escalating this. We’ll find the son of a bitch who did this. Give me

Eje and the two of us can sort this out together.”

The Vice President’s fingertips were still drumming away.

Sardor noticed how Jensen froze at the mention of Victor’s name. After all, he was the vor,

not someone you wind up. Everyone knew that the FSB would be able to send a few men before

any biker gang or the Northside Network had had time to reload their weapons.

“So you know who’s responsible?” said Jensen, regaining his composure. “That does make

things easier. Just give us the name and then we won’t have to exterminate every Lion and K-

Man in this town. It’ll save plenty of ammunition.”

“Give us a few days. The kid is still sedated. Just focus on being good relatives at the

hospital. Give the staff chocolates and stuff that they like.”

Christian Jensen’s face had now taken on a blue-purple hue.

36

“You Russian’s don’t fucking get it. Anyone who attacks us will have it returned ten fold.

That’s what we normally call one of those laws of nature.”

Some of the meatheads in the room started chuckling. Seemingly they were now allowed to

do so.

In less than a second Sardor had pulled out his double-edged knife and punctured the Vice

President’s hand between his second and third metacarpus.

The pain hit The Count’s brain, and he let go a deafening scream that also abruptly stopped

Christian Jensen’s laughter. Now the bikers had each raised a weapon which were now trained on

Sardor Umarov. In the meantime, Sardor had managed to bend down and retrieve his Glock

from inside his bootleg. He now pushed that weapon to Christian Jensen’s fat temple.

Jensen held his hand up and the scene froze to ice.

“Aha, I see Rambo brother has woken up. He’s having one of his famous moods.”

Sardor took a few deep breaths and tried to stop his pulse from racing out of control. He

held the pistol completely still.

“We’ll try that again. Victor says we’ll take care of the whole business.”

Jensen cracked a strained smile.

“Sure thing. We can deal with this like civilized people. Tell Daddy that. Take Eje with you.”

Johan ‘The Count’ Holmström was panting through his nose to control the pain. Sardor

pulled the knife out. Put away his pistol.

Everyone lowered their weapons in unison.

“But if you don’t deliver either a name or a head in a plastic bag within a week then we’ll be

opening the doors of hell.” Jensen concluded.

“A tip, going forward,” said Sardor. “Never call an Uzbek Russian.”

37

Friday 7th June

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL

The burns unit wasn’t hard to find: furthest from the door of Intensive Care, each of its three

rooms the size of a classroom. It was so clean that you could easily have carried out open surgery

in there. Tekla put on her protective clothing and passed through the airlock to be confronted by

a bizarre sight: a middle-aged woman bent over the burns victim, peering over her glasses as if

she were examining an unusual species of insect in a museum. Alongside her was a nurse,

applying a new dressing to one of the patient’s arms. Tekla walked over to them.

“How’s it going?”

“He was tachycardic this morning, the on-call team took that as a sign he was in pain. We’ve

upped the dosage of propofol.”

The woman on the other side of the bed looked up and stretched out her hand.

“Rebecka Nilsén, Detective with NOD.”

“NOD?”

Rebecka smiled and cocked her head to one side. “National Operational Division. The

countrywide part of the Police, quite simply. We get called in when it may be a case of…

somewhat larger crimes.”

“Larger…?”

“But who are you?” Rebecka fired back.

“Tekla Berg. I am a doctor in the Accident and Emergency department and…”

“Aha! You’re our contact person,” the woman interrupted with a forced smile as she

removed her glasses, leaving them to hang over her chest on their neon yellow cord.

Her grey-flecked hair was scraped into a dancing ponytail. Tekla couldn’t help noticing the

dark, cadmium purple lipstick. All in all: a stylish sixty-something.

“Isn’t that right?” asked Rebecka.

“My boss asked me to keep you up to speed.”

“It’s so nice to only have one mobile number to keep track of. So, when can we expect to be

able to interview John Doe?”

38

“John…?”

“I know, it’s just I love American films.” Seven, have you seen that? J.D. – the man with the

mystery identity. We’re trying to get forensics down from Solna but they’ve got their arses full if

you want to be literal about things. Well, it’s actually all a matter of prioritizing of course. Life is

all about priorities.”

Tekla felt a bit embarrassed when Ms Nilsén winked at her, as though she was a little

schoolgirl who would be rewarded with sweets if she could take care of a task.

Rebecka Nilsén did not appear to be the person looking for answers.

“Solna is a bit closer to forensics over at Karolinska Hospital isn’t it? Jeez, so much political

meddling everywhere. Oh well… so what do you think?”

“About?”

Something suddenly occurred to Rebecka. “Wait.” She pulled out a Dictaphone. “Is it alright

if I record our conversation? Just for my records. I mean, not an interview.”

“Sure,” Tekla replied as she watched the colourful detective fumbling with her phone.

“So! When can we talk to him?”

“I’m not the right person to ask.”

The nurse chipped in: “You can ask Eva.”

At that point Eva Elmqvist walked in – the ITU doctor responsible for the burns unit. Tekla

had seen her in several emergency situations and been very impressed.

“What are you going to ask me?”

“When we’re going to be able to speak to our dear patient here,” said Rebecka.

Eva laughed.

“Come back in the autumn. And you should both be wearing face masks. He’s extremely

susceptible to infection.”

Both Tekla and Rebecka put on their masks.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Seriously,” Eva said, as she took over the bandaging from the nurse. “Does it look like he’ll

be able to talk in the foreseeable future?” Then she turned to Tekla. “You’re from A&E, aren’t

you?”

“Tekla Berg.”

“Göran called.”

Tekla made a mental note: Just ‘Göran’, no surname.

“I’m sure he did.”

Eva turned to the Detective again.

39

“We’ll be in touch. Or rather Tekla here will be, when he wakes up. Isn’t that right Tekla?”

“Definitely.”

This was probably how children of divorced parents feel when their parents are squabbling

about dates in front of them.

“Just out of curiosity,” Eva said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but what is it you think

he might have done?”

Rebecka pondered the question for a moment.

“We’ve got a broad approach. To start with, we have to assume that it was one of the

residents who was down in the laundry or the basement storage and then didn’t make it back to

their apartment before it started burning. As you might have heard, or read, the new cladding

went up very quickly and molten drops fell down onto the lower floors. The area around the

tower was soon on fire. The bike shed, the recycling room. There are lots of lines of investigation

here – amongst other things we’ll be following up the allegation of building regulations not being

followed, but that will have to be at a later stage.”

“Dodgy building?” asked Tekla.

“Yes, it looks that way. But our main focus, for the time being – aside from identifying all

the victims of course – is to establish who this man is and what he was doing in the building.

And whether he had anything to do with the explosion.”

“Which came first? The fire or the explosion?” Eva asked.

Rebecka looked inquisitively at the doctor, who seemed to be around the same age as her.

“We don’t know.”

“But wasn’t he found outside a plant room?” Tekla asked.

“A substation,” Rebecka corrected her and buttoned up her dark blue windcheater that

looked like it’d come from one of some exclusive vintage clothing store around. “Why?”

“Was it locked down there?”

“The firemen had to cut through the door, so yes. What’s on your mind?”

Tekla shook her head.

“Nothing in particular.”

Rebecka gave Tekla a sly glance.

“He could be homeless, or a drug user,” said Tekla. “Right?”

“Well… he could be all sorts of things.”

“Did you do any drug tests?” asked Rebecka. Tekla looked at Eva while simultaneously

scanning through the lab results in her head. She hadn’t seen any toxicology reports.

40

“He was critically injured,” Eva responded, “and we focused on rapid rehydration and other

lifesaving interventions.”

“But aren’t toxicology reports standard?” said Rebecka.

“We’ll check,” Tekla chipped in.

Eva looked annoyed.

“As you may be aware –” Rebecka said, “ this has been in the press since this morning –

we’re looking for a green panel van that was seen leaving the scene. Five men… or four fled after

the explosion.”

“And this could be the sixth member of the same gang?” asked Tekla.

“For example.”

“So he might’ve done what – put a bomb in the basement?”

Rebecka smiled.

“We don’t want to get carried away. As I said, we want to speak to him if… when he comes

round. We’ll have to see what the technicians at the scene come up with. The fire fighting

operation is still underway so they won’t gain access until later today.”

“So what, you think he’s a terrorist?” Eva exclaimed. She looked almost exhilarated. As if

terrorism had final struck Stockholm with its full force.

“Let me put it like this,” Rebecka replied. “NOD are not called in for ordinary police

investigations.”

“And do you always work alone when interviewing doctors at the scene?” Eva blinked.

Rebecka smiled and her eyes opened wide. “You seem to know a bit. Might you possibly be

married to someone in law and order? But yes, we’re lacking a bit of womanpower and several of

our team are off doing various interviews.

“Is this an interview?” asked Tekla.

“No.”

A healthcare assistant carrying a blue bucket came in and started removing the bandages

from the patient’s lower leg.

Tekla smelt the stench of smoke mixed with disinfectant. Rebecka took a few steps towards

her and asked her, almost in a whisper:

“I spoke to the commanding officer at the scene. Is it the case that you…” She rephrased

her question: “Did you recognise the patient? I mean had you met him before the fire?”

Tekla recalled how he’d moved his hand towards her face as she administered the Naloxone.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because of his reaction at the scene.”

41

“I gave him an antidote to opioids because his pupils were tiny. He responded by starting to

move.”

“So he was briefly conscious?”

“That was my assessment.”

“So you did suspect some form of overdose? Yet you forgot to test for it in A&E?”

“Oh come on that’s enough,” Eva sighed irritably.

“He might have come round for any number of reasons,” Tekla continued. “It’s by no

means certain that it was an opiate overdose.”

“But when he did come round, you didn’t recognise him then, is that right?”

Tekla shook her head but avoided making eye contact with Rebecka. The auxiliary had now

removed the bandage and was carefully washing away small charred patches of skin with a

sponge. Tekla caught a glimpse of his foot and she felt a jolt shoot up her spine into the back of

her head.

Rebecka Nilsén looked down at her phone and raised her voice.

“I’ve got to get going. See you tomorrow at eleven… or perhaps you don’t work Saturdays?”

“I’m coming in.”

“Great. Another hard-working member of society with no life outside of work. Ever so

familiar, that.”

Tekla had no comeback. She couldn’t even manage a tough expression. Her thoughts were

somewhere else. Now suddenly her body felt cast and stiff, like a tin soldier on its mounting.

Rebecka Nilsén gave Tekla her mobile number, “In case anything crops up,” then left the

room.

Tekla stayed put and checked the monitors. The patient had a high pulse. Oxygenation levels

were good, thanks to the ventilator that, for the time being, was doing the lungs’ job for them.

Eva placed the wrapped arm back down on the bed.

“Poor thing.”

“Isn’t he,” Tekla concurred with a very dry mouth.

“You keep staring at that foot,” Eva said inquisitively. “Something in particular?”

“Eh? No. No.” Tekla quickly backed away. “How’s his head? I felt a depressed skull

fracture.”

“I didn’t want to encourage their conspiracy theories,” said Eva, “but that’s correct, he has a

fractured skull. It has caused a minor haemorrhage that doesn’t need treatment. I just spoke to

the neurosurgeon. We’ll wait, and do another x-ray tomorrow. That’s the least of his worries.”

She gently ran the back of her hand across his chest. “Within a couple of days he will develop

42

sepsis and pulmonary oedema. Then it will be like rowing a dinghy through a mid- Atlantic

storm. We’ll have to balance on a very thin wire when it comes to fluids.”

“What’s the extent of the burns?”

“Eighty-five per cent.”

That was pretty close to Tekla’s estimate at the scene.

“If he’s about thirty then he has an eighty-five plus thirty – that is to say one hundred and

fifteen – per cent chance of dying.”

Eva smiled. “According to the old way of working it out. Medicine is more advanced today.

You’re right, though – the prognosis for him, to put it bluntly, is pretty shit. The surgeons are

going to have to get in quickly if he’s going to have a chance.”

Tekla tried to gather her thoughts. The foot. What was it about that foot that had caused

such a reaction throughout her body?

43

Friday, 7th June

TOP FLOOR, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Just keep it compact and concise, no digressions,” was the last thing Göran said before the

meeting with Monica Carlsson.

Or else what? Tekla thought to herself as she pulled out her phone again. She called the

director’s secretary, Fredrik Franck, to get directions the Hospital Director’s office. Tekla had no

idea where it was. She slipped out of the chaotic morning meeting, which that Friday had been

devoted entirely to the status of the burn victims, and eventually found the right lift. No patients

had died overnight. A miracle, given the extent of the injuries of the final patient, the one she’d

been assigned.

In the lift, she thought about the stab-victim and the boy with Gaucher’s Syndrome from the

night before. All she’d had time to read that morning was that both were still alive. The gang

member had had an operation to remove his spleen and he was in ICU for further blood

transfusions. The boy had sepsis and renal failure. It was not clear whether he would survive the

day.

The lift juddered to a halt and the doors glided open. A long corridor led towards the side of

the building, the one facing towards the city centre. She passed a dozen or so empty glass

cubicles and was met by a thin man with powder blue glasses, an expanding bald patch and an

expertly pressed dress shirt.

“Tekla Berg, I presume? Fredrik Franck. Great that you could make it. She’s waiting.”

She.

Tekla came to a sombrely-appointed room dominated by white office furniture and with a

black leather sofa in one corner.

“Should I go in?”

“Wait.”

The secretary pointed to an invisible spot on the grey-blue fitted carpet. Tekla stopped.

Fredrik Franck knocked on the door.

“Yes!” came a muffled shout.

44

Fredrik made a sweeping gesture towards the door.

“You can go in now.”

Tekla opened the door and stepped in.

The first thing that struck her was the light. She quickly attempted to get her bearings, but it

was difficult. The room projected out from the main structure of the building, giving it windows

on three sides. The morning sunshine pushed through the windows on one side, bringing the

sensation that they’d just passed through the clouds on a climbing jumbo.

While her gaze was still firmly fixed on a point somewhere due north, a stocky woman in a

deep purple suit and white shirt stood by the window. High heels. A thick ring on one ring finger,

visible even from where Tekla was standing.

“Our very own hero.”

Tekla could still only see the back of the woman’s dark, short hair. She got a fright as the

door slammed shut behind her.

“I came as soon as Göran asked me to but I had to get the doctors up and running down in

A&E.”

The woman turned to make eye contact with Tekla.

“Word is that you were in complete control out there.”

She walked over to her huge desk and reached for a glass bowl containing something black.

Tekla propped herself up against the backrest of one of the two chairs facing the desk. There

would be no handshake, it seemed.

“It’s hard to grasp such a chaotic situation.” Tekla felt a bit nauseous. “May I sit down?”

“And nicely done down in A&E last night, I hear. Two tough cases at the same time. And

the police storming in. Not everyday we have firearms in A&E.”

Monica Carlsson lifted something out of the bowl and popped it in her mouth before

turning back to face the window.

Tekla decided to take the risk, and sat down. She was still thrown by the light in there. Now

suddenly something else sprang to mind: it was like being on a boat on a sun-soaked ocean. She

could see the smoke rising from Söder Tower, a few hundred metres away.

“Have you worked there?” The Hospital Director asked.

“I haven’t been back since we brought in the last of the burns victims…”

“A folly,” Monica Carlsson cut in. “A sinking Titanic. If those consultancy scandals or the

shutdown of the building works weren’t the iceberg, then it won’t be long before it hits, I

promise you that.”

45

Now Tekla realised that the woman was actually looking at something a little further away,

towards the horizon.

“Oh, right, no, I’ve only worked…”

“Umeå. Specialism in Internal Medicine from 2010 to 2015 and then supplementary training

in Emergency Medicine. Medical school and generalist before that, Uppsala 2003 to 2010 as well

as a doctorate, completed at the same time, 2003 to 2008. Thesis on Neurology. Why

neurology?”

“That was just the way it turned out,” Tekla lied, while trying to work out what was going

on. There were no papers on Monica Carlsson’s desk.

“Apparently you were the youngest female doctoral candidate since Hilma Strålin.”

“That’s news to me.”

“And then a bit of moonlighting within psychiatry.”

“Addiction treatment,” Tekla corrected her.

Monica Carlsson sat down on the chair opposite Tekla and reached for the bowl once more.

“Help yourself. Good for low pressure types like you. I notice you have a tendency to get a

bit light-headed.”

Tekla picked up what she could now see was a piece of super salty liquorice and popped it

into her mouth. It made her jaw tighten.

“That does happen.”

Tekla tried to wipe the sweat from her hands onto her trousers unnoticed. She noticed a

bright white streak in Monica Carlson’s otherwise jet-black hair that reminded her of a badger.

The Hospital Director wore distinct makeup that framed her green eyes and she had a thick

amber necklace hanging around her neck.

“Have you noticed an increase in overdoses over the past week?”

“I wouldn’t say so, but…”

“Something’s going on here that I don’t quite get. And there’ll be more to come.”

Tekla thought about the burns victim, had he overdosed on some form of opiate after all?”

“Personally I cannot for the life of me think why anyone would do drugs,” Monica

continued.

“It’s probably not always a matter of wanting to,” said Tekla.

Monica’s eyes met Tekla’s with a fascinated expression.

“I myself prefer a nice glass of white. Perhaps a Domaine Leflaive Montrachet, Grand Cru.

How about you?”

“Don’t know much about wine.”

46

“No, because you would’ve known than a bottle of Leflaive will set you back fifty

thousand.”

“A bottle?”

Monica smiled.

“What is it that you’re running from?” Monica asked.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re either hunting for something we desire or we’re running away from something we

fear. You’ve achieved more in fifteen years than most doctors manage in a lifetime. So my hunch

is that you’re running away from something. What?”

Monica took another sweet and held it in a pincer grip between her front teeth. She looked

out of the window again.

Tekla breathed a sigh of relief as Monica took her eyes off her. She was weighing up her

answer. Death was always present. All her life, Tekla had woken up in the mornings and flung

herself out of bed, worried she might miss something fun. And the fear of death had hung over

her head like the Sword of Damocles. So yes, she’d hurried through, run fast, done lots of things

at the same time, always scared that life might suddenly come to an end.

Monica left that line of questioning. “You heard that shower over in Solna could only admit

two patients yesterday?”

“From what I gather…”

“Two! A burns unit that cost taxpayers over three hundred million crowns. What a mess.

Complete madness. If this had been England or the USA, heads would’ve rolled a year ago. Not

in the Social Democrats’ Sweden though. The devil’s own politicians, with no balls whatsoever,

they don’t want to get their beautifully manicured nails dirty.”

Tekla noted Monica Carlsson’s perfectly trimmed, deep-red fingernails that looked capable

of gouging the eyes out of any creature you can imagine.

“You published an impressive number of papers while you were in Umeå. Do you like

having lots of irons in the fire?”

“I couldn’t exactly say that I don’t like it.”

Monica Carlsson smiled, clasped her hands together and leaned her ample bust against the

desktop as she studied Tekla with interest.

“Type A then. Apart from the sport. I can see you don’t have time for that.”

“I try and take the stairs.”

“But you forget to eat. Have another.”

47

Monica pushed the bowl over and grabbed two pieces herself, this time chucking them

straight down her gullet. She extended one finger, touched the keyboard and looked at the screen

to her side.

“But you don’t have much contact with… Clemence Rågsjö these days, do you?”

Tekla froze.

“It’s been a while.”

“I can imagine. Your old assistant supervisor had certain issues with your research, I

understand.”

Monica turned her eyes away from the screen. She stood up and limped slightly as she made

her way over to the panoramic window once again.

“Tekla, as you know, those of us who possess that little extra, those of us who want to get to

places others never make it to, sometimes we have to stretch the boundaries of what others

might think of as strict frameworks. You and I see possibilities where others see threats. We see

clear paths where others see only marshland.” The Hospital Director turned and stared at Tekla.

“That’s right, isn’t it Tekla – it’s difficult for you to trust anyone when it comes to your need

to get to where you want to go?”

Tekla wasn’t sure if she was supposed to respond. She concentrated on trying to appear as

neutral as possible as a way of dealing with the bizarre situation.

“People like Göran have ended up on a level where they feel comfortable. They’re like…

sort of…” Monica stroked her hand down her lapel. “curling stones, just gliding forwards

without any friction or resistance. Getting somewhere else, changing direction, is completely alien

to them.” She turned around and tapped on the window. “That is not an end in itself. That is the

definition of failure. And people like you and me – who don’t want to fail – we don’t accept

failure.”

Tekla felt that perhaps she hadn’t managed to disguise her confusion.

“How do you feel about chance?”

“Chance?”

“Chance.”

“I don’t think I’ve given it very much thought.”

“Good.”

Monica walked back to her desk and leaned in, close to Tekla. She seemed to be pondering

some taxing decisions. Then she clapped her hands together with a bang.

Tekla instinctively drew her shoulders up around her neck.

“That’s why we became doctors, eh?”

48

Tekla looked up as she tried to work out what kind of doctor Monica Carlsson could’ve

been but she really had no idea. Pathologist, maybe? As far as she was concerned, the reason was

obvious: to save lives. As many lives as possible. Without discriminating.

“Because we’re heroes. And heroes can keep secrets in ways no one else can manage. Comes

with the territory, so to speak.”

Tekla sat perfectly still.

“How about we grab a coffee some time. Just the two of us?”

“That… maybe we could do that.”

“I’ve got a favourite café that I cannot reveal the name of. I’d have to kill you if I did.” She

looked at Tekla. “Only joking.”

Monica’s eyes returned to her computer screen.

“Nobel Hospital will regain its glory. I’m going to make sure of it.” Tekla listened. Once

again, she didn’t know what to say.

“You can leave the door open on your way out.”

Tekla stood up and headed for the door. Deep down she wanted to back out of there, to

keep her eye on the situation, but she would probably have tripped over her own feet.

As the lift descended, she found herself contemplating whose hero she really was, and

whether maybe she’d veered off after all.

49

Saturday morning, 8th June

TROSA ARCHIPELAGO

Magnus was trying hard to think about something else, and he pictured Sixten Andersson’s

characteristically square, aging face. He jumped down into the boat and started getting stuff

ready. It felt good knowing he’d soon be out on the water, and he was sure that the anxiety

would lift but he’d decided to have a chat with Håkan regardless of what his old friend thought

of his fears.

Sixten was a retired fisherman from Trosa from whom Magnus had rented a fishing cottage

for more than ten years. As a thank you, Magnus would usually leave a five-hundred-krona note

and a bottle of brandy next to the coffee brewer in the kitchenette. He usually got to borrow

Sixten’s motorboat that had a cabin for two in exchange for filling it up with two-stroke oil at the

filling station before leaving it moored by the disintegrating jetty. Sixten, for his part, gave

Magnus tips about lovely little spots that only the older folk around there knew of. Shallow bays,

always south-facing, where the chance of the water having warmed by a few tenths of a degree,

thereby activating the brown trout, were much greater. Magnus would check the temperature

with a thermometer, seven degrees was ideal: trout. He’d identified a few favourite locations,

windward spots with a south-easterly breeze, “the wind has to be blowing up,” Sixten nagged

every time he picked up the key.

Magnus often headed out on a Friday night, with a quick stop at Sixten’s flat in central Trosa

before carrying on to reach the cottage before nightfall. He’d take a loaf, sausages and some weak

beer, light the stove and then a cigarette. He would then sit lovingly filing his hooks by

candlelight, checking the weather forecast and making a plan for the next day. He’d usually go to

bed with his clothes on, set his alarm, and enjoy his best sleep of the year. In the mornings, he’d

be out before the sun came up, carrying his three favourite rods, including a magnificent nine-

foot Berkley M. Coupled with a Shimano reel, loaded with eighteen-mm braided line – that set-up

guaranteed a close contact with the fish. It felt right. On bright days, he’d also have his polaroid

shades so he could see the trout behind the lure. There was a reason his sister Astrid called him a

fishing fanatic.

50

Now though, a Saturday in early June, was a bad time to go fishing. But this time it wasn’t as

much about the angling as the company. Magnus checked his watch. Annoyingly, Håkan was late,

he’d said something about preparing for the party that evening.

Magnus had laid out the cushions in the stern and was carefully coiling two hawsers when he

saw Håkan approaching on foot with his tackle box over one shoulder and two rods in his hand.

A snug-fitting brown leather jacket, blue jeans, and, as always, a dark-blue polo shirt.

Magnus immediately felt his pulse quicken.

“This thing old hulk still floats then?” Håkan said as he chucked his bag to Magnus.

“It does the job. Not all of us can afford a Buster XXL.”

Håkan untied the mooring lines and called out:

“I didn’t pay a penny for it.”

“I bet you didn’t,” Magnus mumbled to himself as he placed his friend’s fishing tackle in the

forecastle.

Håkan jumped on board and took out his phone.

“Jesus I’m going to enjoy this. There.” He turned it off. “Even the boss needs time off. Let’s

do this.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” said Magnus as he untied the bow mooring. He started the engine and

bound the boat cover a tighter still. He then pulled out a cold Lapin Kulta from the cool-bag and

waved it in front of Håkan who gratefully took it off him.

“I guess there’s a lot going on at the moment?” said Magnus.

“Oh yes,” Håkan replied, then took a swig. “Since the explosion, everyone’s on edge.”

“I was thinking about tonight too.”

“Yeah but it’s all under control. I backed out of today’s activities – bungee jumping and all

the rest of it.

“Glad you wanted to do this.”

“You don’t pass up the chance to hang out with your best mate, do you?” Håkan said as he

gazed out across the water. “It doesn’t happen nearly enough.”

Magnus backed the boat away from the jetty and steered slowly away from the inlet. The sun

had risen a few decimetres above the horizon and a weak southerly breeze blew across the water.

Fairly good conditions, Magnus thought to himself as he opened the throttle. After all these

years, he could read Håkan’s body language like a book. He looked relaxed. His hand, running

through his slicked-back dark hair, and his legs thrown across each other on the seat radiated

harmony and control. Magnus could not understand how it was possible to relax with so many

51

irons in the fire. Impressive. He himself could barely keep on top of the housework in his two

bed apartment, get himself to work and drag himself to the gym on a regular basis.

“You good?” Håkan called above the rumble of the boat.

“All good,” replied Magnus, toasting the air with his can. He wondered whether it was a

good time to talk, but then he decided they ought to get the fishing underway first.

“Aren’t we going to have a game soon?” Håkan shouted. “It’s been ages.”

“Sure,” Magnus replied. “I can book a court next week. Are you doing any jogging?”

“You’re allowed to say I’m getting fat,” Håkan replied, patting his emerging beer belly. “Five

years to fifty. You’re allowed a bit of spread. You’re lucky you get to move around so much in

your job.”

“Have you started planning your party?” asked Magnus.

“I thought you could do that.”

“Sure,” said Magnus. He got the sarcasm in Håkan’s reply. He’d never arranged a party of

his own, never fed Håkan anything other than takeaway, and was only in touch with his sister

Astrid, Håkan, and a handful of others. Håkan, on the other hand, had Stockholm’s widest social

circle, and loved attending and hosting parties. He was also a good cook, especially when it came

to meat and barbecuing.

“What’ll we have?” Håkan asked with a grin. “Roast beef and potato salad? Maybe a few

cocktail tomatoes?”

“And cans of beer,” Magnus added. “But I think you’ll have to arrange the entertainment.”

“I bet I will,” Håkan said with a superior wink. “You ought to come along tonight. While

we’re on the subject of entertainment…”

After twenty minutes at full-throttle Magnus rounded one of the skerries and slowed down.

In the reeds lining the shores it was possible to find trout at this time of year. When they entered

the bay, Magnus stopped and cut the motor. He looked at Håkan, who was busy necking the

beer. The large clump of snus tobacco under his lip had started to disintegrate, leaving behind

black lines between his teeth. They began calmly getting out their fishing tackle.

Magnus swallowed a few gulps of Lapin Kulta and thought back to when they lived together

in Håkan’s mum’s old three-bed apartment in Drakenberg. The packing cases lining the living-

room walls stood untouched throughout the three years they spent there. You could hardly get

out onto the balcony for all the empties. All those girls who came and went. That was during

their first years of police training and a lot had happened since, above all in Håkan’s life. Magnus

had kept slogging away on the streets, then taken the step up into the public order unit, where he

was now among the most senior and experienced officers. Håkan had now given up asking him

52

about his ‘next step’. Was there even a next step for Magnus? Håkan had taken rather greater

strides in his career.

“How’s Angelica?” asked Magnus.

“No idea,” replied Håkan, as he tied a lure.

“But she’s enjoying Malmö?”

“I don’t know what she sees in that IT bloke. As if you care.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Håkan said with a smile.

The boat lay almost still in its leeward spot, sheltered from the sea. Magnus felt the heat of

the sun and took off his quilted gilet.

“The kids then?”

“I was thinking I’d take Mattias on a short trip to Alaska this summer. He’s studying now, in

Lund, so he should be able to get some time off.” Håkan tested a first cast. “A bit of real

fishing.”

“Wow. Sounds expensive. And Sara?”

“Well. I can’t get her out of that teenage quagmire. And, since I’m not on Facebook or any

other social media, I don’t exist as far as she’s concerned.”

“You could always try calling.”

“She just rejects my calls. She only texts if she wants me to send her money. How about

you?”

“You mean holiday plans or what…?”

Magnus stood up on the opposite side of the boat and cast into the water.

“I was thinking more whether you’d come back from your latest low-water mark,” Håkan

sneered mockingly. Magnus adjusted the resistance on his reel.

“We were called out on Thursday. Armed bikers in A&E at Nobel where another gang

member had been brought in with stab wounds.”

Håkan looked inquisitively at his old friend.

“What’s that got to do with your dating?”

“The doctor, who was treating the stab victim…”

“Aha!” exclaimed Håkan. “Now we’re talking.”

“Insanely fit,” said Magnus.

“Whaddya know. Get her number?”

Magnus rubbed his hand over his stubbly jaw. “Fraid not. I don’t even know what her name

was.”

“Oh well. I’m sure you’ll get another pop. How old?”

53

“Bout thirty. Thirty-five, maybe.”

“Perfect. Tall, short?”

“Fairly tall and skinny. Short, dark hair in a side-parting.”

“Sounds a bit of a tomboy. Right up your street, I can hear that.”

“And you wouldn’t even notice her,” said Magnus. He pictured the doctor’s eyes, there in

the resus room.

“She had something a bit Sami about her. Her eyes I’d say…”

“You need to get laid, that much is obvious,” Håkan said sternly. “Where you at the fire

too?”

“Yes. Awful.”

“Lucky I’ve climbed a few rungs and I don’t have to get out there.”

“Congratulations on the new job, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Håkan. “Commissioner does sound better than inspector.”

Their fishing continued in silence. They grabbed a beer each. Magnus realised that he could

not wait any longer. He took a few big gulps and then said:

“Listen, what really happened to that money from Haninge?”

Håkan stuffed a new lump of tobacco under his top lip and propelled a long cast towards the

reed beds.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Magnus replied, feeling how his hands were tingling as the sweat began to

gather.

“You don’t need to worry about any of that,” said Håkan. “It’s all fine. Completely fine.”

“But the investigator that I gave the bag to…”

“It’s fine,” Håkan cut him off. “You hear? You can drop it.”

“It’s just that…”

“I haven’t brought up Solvalla Races, have I?” Håkan interrupted bitterly, putting his rod

down inside the boat.

“Because you promised me you’d never bring it up again,” said Magnus, avoiding Håkan’s

stare.

“Well then you realise that this really is not something I want to have to bring up,” said

Håkan. He leaned against the driver’s seat.

“Then don’t,” said Magnus.

“I think I’ll have to if you’re going to start going on about Haninge,” Håkan replied in a

harsh tone.

54

“I thought we had a deal?” said Magnus. “I know I fucked up at Solvalla, but that was ten

years ago, and I’ve stopped gambling.”

“And I disappeared that debt collector, didn’t I?”

Magnus nodded. More than anything he didn’t want to have to think about that event ever

again. He added:

“Which is why I felt I had to do my bit when you asked that favour of me in Haninge.”

Håkan crumpled his beer can and chucked it onto the deck. “Do I get another one?”

Magnus bent down and pulled out a beer each from the cool box. “So we’re quits then?”

“We’re quits,” said Håkan. “Solvalla-Haninge, check, check.”

They stood looking in different directions for a few long minutes of silence.

“Sorry,” said Magnus, and turned to Håkan. “I’ve just been a bit paranoid. Are you sure you

took me off that raid?”

Håkan flung his arms wide and laughed.

“Don’t I usually deliver what I promise?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Well then. You can trust me. Your name is not in the report and you were on sick leave on

the day of the raid.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. Now calm yourself and enjoy the fishing.”

Håkan widened his stance to ride a few waves that struck the boat’s side.

“So you’re not coming tonight? It’s going to be great.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Magnus. “But it’s your crowd.”

“You know Petter too.”

“Not from studying though. Besides, stag do’s aren’t my thing. Too much testosterone.”

Håkan laughed. “Says the two-metre tall, hundred kilo riot cop?”

“One ninety-one,” Magnus corrected him. “But yes, unfortunately the ton came up a few

months back.” He looked up to the sky. Gulls had begun circling above the boat and a few

clouds had drifted in from the south. He actually wanted to find out more about the money but

he knew that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Håkan. He was good at keeping secrets.

Always had been.

“Heard any more about the missing van?” Magnus asked.

“From Söder Tower?”

Magnus nodded and grabbed another beer. He looked over towards the horizon, as if to

check whether the pillar of smoke from Södermalm was still hanging in the air.

55

“Nothing,” said Håkan. “But what a fucking bonfire.”

“It’s a miracle no one died.”

“If it had been in Nairobi or somewhere then we’d be reading about hundreds of casualties.”

“Or London,” Magnus said, mindful of the fire disaster a few years back.

“It’s nice to live in a civilised country with emergency services that work.”

Magnus’ thoughts wandered and settled on the cute doctor from A&E. He hoped he’d see

her again, knowing full well that that was unlikely.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Håkan.

“The fire,” Magnus said, again avoiding Håkan’s inquisitive gaze.

“You’re lying.”

“Oh am I?”

“You’ve never been able to lie. You’re far too respectable for that.”

“Just as well not everyone made it their speciality.”

“Eh?”

“You heard me.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” asked Håkan.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, tell me,” Håkan snarled.

“Forget it.”

“Oh yeah. Forget it.”

“Okay. Calm down,” said Magnus, and let the matter rest. He thought about all the times

he’d seen Håkan lose his temper on the piss. All the vulgar things he’d said. All the stupid moves,

particularly on girls in bars. In fact, it was a bit strange that they were still friends. He had never

pulled Håkan up on any of it, just let it all go. He felt weak. Spineless.

Magnus took out another beer and chucked it to Håkan.

“Here. Cool yourself down a bit and we’ll see who gets the first bite.”

“Shall we put five-hundred on it?” Håkan teased.

“I don’t gamble.”

“You don’t?”

“Any more.”

“Ah yes,” Håkan said with a mocking smile. “The Devil’s gone straight in his old age.”

56

Saturday morning

GULLMARSPLAN, STOCKHOLM

Tekla was woken up by the sound of a car horn outside. She went over to the balcony and closed

the door, realising at the same time that she was freezing cold. She had to stand in a scalding

shower for twenty minutes before she finally stopped shivering. The flat was a bit noisy, but apart

from that she liked the place she’d called home for the last year or so. She’d bought it for three

and a half million – precisely the amount the bank would agree to lend her. She’d searched via

the map function, to work out how close she could get to the hospital while still being able to

afford a two-roomed place. That turned out to be Gullmarsplan, a neighbourhood she’d never

heard of, much less had any links to. But she was happy there.

She went into the kitchen. Lying inside a box of rooibos tea was the key to the cupboard

above the microwave. She opened it, retrieved the glass container from behind the wine bottles,

and flipped open the lid to confirm what she already knew: just ten little balls left. She took one,

ripped open the fraying toilet paper and tipped the white powder into a glass of yesterday’s cold

coffee, stirred it with a spoon and necked it in one. Her breakfast cocktail: a double caffeine and

amphetamine kick, those siblings that get along so well.

The stream of unsorted images finally started falling into place, in their intended folders.

Tekla had started taking amphetamines to be able to cope with studying and working at the same

time. She needed money, partly for her mother’s private residential dementia care, partly to

maintain Simon’s messy lifestyle. She studied medicine by day and worked in psychiatric care in

the evenings and nights. She upped the dose to keep going. She regarded it as self-medication,

not abuse. To wind down she took sleeping pills, and benzodiazepines occasionally. The biggest

benefit from the speed, though, had to do with her photographic memory. Early in life, she’d

noticed how the mental images from the day would spin around inside her head when she was

trying to get to sleep. They kept her awake. In her teens, she’d tested hash and alcohol, but her

sleep only got worse. Sleeping pills left her hung over the morning after, and other psycho-

pharmaceuticals just gave her side-effects. It was only after reading an article about an Indian

memory champion who’d had similar problems and used cocaine to sleep that she tried

57

amphetamines at bedtime. She noticed that the images immediately calmed down. They began

finding their way to their rightful places in the brain. Like a storm gust full of swirling handbills,

which suddenly flutter down into small, properly-labelled crates. It brought her peace. And, with

the help of the sleeping pills, she slept like a baby.

Tekla lay down on the sofa and ran through the previous day’s events. She stopped by the

burns victim in ICU. To the right: the bare wall, a window pane out to the rest of the unit, blinds

drawn. She could easily have stated the number of folds on the Persian blinds. His weight, in

orange digits: seventy kilos. She could see every detail on the metal stand, the thick mattress with

its hourly vibrate-function to prevent bedsores. Above, just to the left: the monitor. Pulse, one-

hundred and four. Saturation ninety-two. Tekla rubbed her temples. Her memory was working

perfectly, like a camera constantly taking photographs.

That foot though. Why couldn’t she see the burn’s victim’s foot?

Tekla went out into the hall, struggled into her coat and her Converse All Stars. It was six in

the morning. Tekla usually walked to the hospital via Skanstull, then left onto Ringvägen,

reaching Nobel Hospital after a twenty-minute brisk walk. Today though, she turned right after

the bridge, past the dive bars on Ringvägen and cut through Lilla Blecktorn Park onto Katarina

Bangata. She slowed down, feeling the moisture gathering inside her blouse, and took off her thin

H&M jacket which was almost coming apart at the seams. She needed to buy some new clothes.

Tekla regretted not having put any socks on, her feet felt sweaty inside her red sneakers. She also

wished she’d put on a skirt, or some thinner trousers; that her faded jeans weren’t always thrown

on, regardless of the season. Putting on anything other than the most comfortable clothes just for

the walk to and from the hospital just made no sense, she wasn’t going to meet anyone who’d

appreciate her choice of clothes.

She untied her short hair, put the bobble in her pocket and took a can of Coke out of her

bag. Drank half, chucked the rest. Here, just a hundred metres from the rush-hour traffic on

Ringvägen, it was calm. There really wasn’t anything worth seeing or exploring in this corner of

Södermalm. No hip bars like on Skånegatan, which lay at the epicentre of the craft-beer-bar

explosion.

On the first floor, just above the words ‘Bar and Kitchen’, the curtains were drawn. Just as

they had been whenever she’d walked past in recent weeks. The apartment where Simon lived,

and which she had paid for all these years. A heavy burden which she’d shouldered by doing

extra on-call shifts and dropping countless wraps She entered the code on the keypad next to the

entrance, ran up to the first floor and rang the doorbell. A hand-written note above the letterbox

read ‘Simon Berg’. No one answered. She waited five minutes, then called his mobile. No answer.

58

Nor any ringing sound inside the flat. She was beginning to see the futility of her behaviour. He

had probably been evicted. Or else he’d moved in with a mate and was getting stoned all day

long. She headed back out onto the street and arrived at the hospital an hour before she was due

to start.. Tekla stopped dead outside the hospital’s main entrance. The burns victim’s foot was

becoming clearer and as it did so her pulse started to rise. She needed to go to ICU before she

started her shift.

All was calm in ICU. The night staff were handing over to the day-shift. Tekla tracked down

the nurse responsible for Burns Room One.

“I just want to check something I forgot yesterday.”

Pirko, the diminutive nurse, seemed completely indifferent. “You check away. The HCA’s in

there now.”

“Thanks,” said Tekla, as she headed for Room One. The healthcare assistant was reading a

hardback book with a colourful dust jacket.

“Hi,” she said in surprise.

“Tekla Berg. I’m his designated responsible clinician. Just checking in on him. Pirko out

there said it was okay.”

The assistant waited for her to continue. Tekla elucidated:

“You can carry on reading.”

“Okay,” she said, and fell back into her love story.

Tekla tried to concentrate on her breathing.

Suddenly she feigned a dizzy stumble and grabbed hold of the bedframe.

The auxiliary looked up.

“You okay?”

“Er… Blood sugar’s a bit low, that’s all. Work’s been full on all day today.

The girl put her book down on the windowsill.

“Would you like me to get you some juice?”

“Thanks. Some juice would be good.”

The auxiliary hesitated for a second.

“It’ll only take a minute. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

When she’d gone, Tekla looked at the patient on the bed. The sheet covered his entire body

except his face and his bandaged arms. She carefully lifted the fabric away from the bottom of

the bed. Slowly revealing what she’d come to see.

Half of the right foot was relatively uninjured, and its big toe was now sticking out from

underneath the sheet. The joint of the big toe was noticeably crooked. Tekla had only seen that

59

once before. On the person she’d grown up with. Who she had played with on a beach, burying

his body in sand, leaving only the unusual toe sticking out. And the happy face, of course. Large

canines, wild, spiky hair. Subtle dimples that appeared at regular intervals.

Tekla let her exhausted body collapse onto the bed. Against all the rules of good hygiene, but

now gravity had the upper hand.

She gently prodded the big toe. Now she could hear the auxiliary coming back through the

airlock.

Tekla quickly got to her feet and straightened the sheet. Now she was about to faint for real

and she pumped her feet to keep the circulation going.

The auxiliary returned carrying a glass of fruit juice and a cheese sandwich.

“Here.”

“Thank you so much,” Tekla managed. She stared at the patient’s head. Swathed in bandages

and completely impossible to identify.

One shoulder was exposed. It was muscular, which threw Tekla. That didn’t fit, did it? He’d

never been particularly well built.

She drank the juice and put the sandwich down on the bedside table next to the burns victim

and left the room.

In the lift on the way down, she tried to collect her thoughts.

She made her way outside and sat down on an empty bench by the fountain. It was a

beautiful summer evening – quite wonderful, in fact.

That toe, it was identical… Tekla felt the nausea hit her stomach like a clenched fist.

Suddenly she threw up right where she was sitting. A sour taste of juice and bile.

Could it really be Simon?

Could that really be her own brother, lying there, in Intensive Care, with eighty-five per cent

burns to his body?

60

Saturday morning, 8th June

GAMLA STAN, STOCKHOLM

Monica Carlsson sat with her feet on the footstool and her aching back slumped into her Lamino

armchair, with a cup of coffee in one hand and Svenska Dagbladet’s weekend supplement in her

lap. She could, unfortunately, hear the sound of Gregor’s footsteps from over by the bathroom

and the blissful morning solitude would soon be over. She pushed two Co-Codamol from their

blister pack and washed it down with a greedy gulp of hot coffee. She continued reading about a

new treatment for varicose veins. Akademikliniken’s latest attempts on her thighs had left rather a

lot to be desired. She’d called the clinic’s director at home one Sunday and given him an

ultimatum: either he refunded the cost of her treatment and gave her a gift-cheque for fifty

thousand or she was going to call her old school friend Jens Hedenius, a leading politician on

Stockholm’s health board, and ask him to revoke the clinic’s license. “He owes me a favour,” she

had rounded off, matter-of-factly. The money was in her account later that day and three days

later a golden envelope with a hand-written address had dropped onto her doormat.

Gregor Dabrowski flopped onto the sofa and placed his coffee cup down on the glass table.

“You know that that’s glass, don’t you.” Monica said without looking up.

“Slept badly?”

Gregor picked up Dagens Industri’s weekend section.

“Pretty normal.”

“You sleeping badly is nothing new, darling. Maybe you should stop drinking a bit earlier in

the evening.”

Monica hauled herself up and limped over to the open plan kitchen with its seamless single-

piece Corian worktop. The delivery company had had to use a hydraulic crane and guide the

thing in through the balcony. Part of the pavement on Skeppsbron had been cordoned off for a

whole day to get the hulk into position.

She started slicing grapefruits and switched on the juicer.

“Typical male master suppression techniques.”

“Eh?”

61

“Just because I ask you to be a bit careful with our designer furniture you turn it into me

being sleep-deprived. Shame you can no longer play the tried and tested PMS card.”

Gregor turned the page of the faintly pink newspaper.

“You’re pretty irritable, don’t you think?”

“There you go again.”

“What?”

“Again: dragging up emotions and biological clocks instead of dealing rationally with the

facts.”

Monica poured the juice into two large glasses and topped them up with ice from the fridge’s

ice dispenser. She walked over to her husband of fourteen years – her third, his second – and

held up the glass towards the editor at one of Sweden’s largest publishers.

“Here…darling.”

Gregor took the glass.

“No need to be sarcastic.”

“It’s true. You’re too emotional. Always have been. That’s why you’ve never been offered

the top job at work.”

“I meant that you shouldn’t be saying affectionate things unless you mean them.”

“Says the man who’s bought his wife ten roses every Friday for the past five years. I wonder

what guilty secret they’re supposed to make up for?”

Gregor tenderly took his wife’s hand in his left hand and patted the sofa next to him with his

right.

“Come here and give an old man a hug instead of getting crotchety. What’s happened to my

sugarplum this week to make her sourer than this awful juice?”

Monica smiled and shook her head.

“If you only knew.”

“Go on.”

Monica walked over and sat back down in her favourite armchair.

“Why don’t you start up on your own?” she asked.

“Too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“I’ve lost my edge.”

“No.”

“It’s true.”

62

“You’re only saying that because you’ve got all bitter. You’re still the best publishing agent in

town. More Nobel Prize winners behind you than anyone else.”

“That’s not true either.”

“Who’s got more than you?”

“That makes no difference.”

Monica fiddled with her gold necklace.

“I wonder which one of is bitter, anyway,” said Gregor.

“What are you insinuating?”

“Darling, I know how much you wanted that Directors role at NSK.”

“And?”

“You didn’t get it.”

“Oh that’s right, I didn’t,” Monica replied sarcastically.

“See?”

“What?”

“You’re still bitter.”

Monica stood up in a huff and walked over to the fridge. She poured herself a glass of white

wine and promptly necked it.

“Bit early,” came Gregor’s gentle tone.

“Why don’t you sort out your own life instead?” she snarled.

“You’re avoiding the question: Why are you so crabby today?” Gregor countered.

“No you’re the one squirming.”

“So be it. Two snakes, slithering around avoiding each other.”

Gregor finished his juice.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment,” Monica said as she sat down on the sofa.

“For what?”

“To fire the shotgun.”

“Bit early for the hunting season, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perfect timing more like.”

Monica picked up a few Yahtzee dice and tossed them from hand to hand. She stared at her

husband’s big nose. His distinctive high forehead. Thin lips, that would often press tightly

together, especially when he was reading some Hungarian manuscript. Every now and then he

would stop, stare out of the window and take off his glasses while he contemplated something.

He would then put his glasses back on and carry on reading.

63

Monica let the dice bounce across the glass tabletop. A ladder. She picked up her phone and

called Fredrik Frank, who, despite the early hour, picked up after the first ring.

“Good morning.”

“It is now time to deploy Kallax.”

“Now? It’s Saturday.”

“Text me when it’s done.”

“But…”

Monica hung up, and returned to flipping through the magazine, where she found an article

about how to slow-cook braising steak in a Dutch oven.

64

Saturday, 8th June

INTENSIVE CARE UNIT, NOBEL HOSPITAL

Tekla could still taste the vomit in her mouth, although the nausea had disappeared. She

wondered what might take her mind off the foot up in ICU, and started thinking about the boy

with Gaucher’s. She hadn’t had time to catch up with his progress and she decided to go to

Paediatric Intensive Care.

“Where’s the little boy from Thursday night? The one who was fitting when they brought

him into A&E.

One of the auxiliary nurses recognised Tekla and showed her the way.

“Have you met his relatives?” asked Tekla. “The father was very upset.”

“Fathers can be very difficult,” the nurse stated matter-of-factly.

“Especially police officers and firemen. They probably see a lot of crap on the streets.”

“Like us.”

“Crap?”

The auxiliary smiled. “That too. But we just wipe that off.

Tekla smiled back. “That’s true.”

“I’m sure you’ll be okay from here,” the auxiliary nurse said, then disappeared. Tekla

struggled out of her jacket and hung her bag alongside a few facemasks that were hanging in the

airlock outside the room. She entered, sat down on a chair and folded down the side rail on the

large bed. Oscar lay sleeping, with a tube down his throat. The sound of the ventilator was

pleasantly soporific and Tekla took a few deep breaths as she felt the tiredness hit.

She took the boy’s hand. It felt warmer than it had in A&E the other night. She looked over

at his peaceful face and let her eyelids lower in time to the ventilator’s puffing.

After what felt like an eternity, Tekla suddenly heard a girl’s voice from behind her.

“Who are you?”

Tekla turned around to see a straight-backed, thin creature with long, flaxen hair standing

only a few decimetres away from her. She hadn’t heard the door open.

“Hi.”

65

No response. Just large, staring, clear-blue eyes.

“I’m the doctor who took care of Oscar when he arrived at A&E.”

“You don’t look like a doctor.”

Tekla smiled. Her body felt completely numb.

“Because I don’t have a white coat?”

The girl nodded slowly.

“It’s my day off today.”

“I haven’t started yet.”

“Well then why are you here if you’re not working?”

The girl was wearing a red denim jacket over a white t-shirt with glittering letters that Tekla

couldn’t read. And baggy black pirate trousers. Her eyes had now shifted from fearful to a rather

firmer expression.

“Are you Oscar’s sister?” asked Tekla.

“What’s your name?”

“Iris.”

“Hi, Iris. I’m Tekla.”

Iris cocked her head and clumsily folded her arms. It looked like she was mimicking some

grown-up original.

“What a weird name.”

“But you asked me why I’m here. I’m here because I wanted to see how Oscar’s getting on.”

Iris cast a terrified glance at her brother, lying motionless on the bed. It was the first time

she’d taken her eyes off Tekla.

“He’s seriously ill. But right now, he’s asleep. They’re giving him loads of medicines to make

him better.”

The girl seemed to be weighing something up. Her arms fell to her sides. She waited. Then

she rubbed the sleep from one of her eyes.

“Can I sit on your knee?”

Tekla was thrown. Her body froze. She wanted to make her excuses and leave but yet she

saw something in the girl that she could not resist.

“Sure.”

The girl walked cautiously over to Tekla and sat down in her lap. She put her little hand in

Tekla’s, which in turn was holding Oscar’s.

“He’s sweaty.” Iris whispered.

“Maybe he’s dreaming about deserts.”

66

Iris turned around carefully and looked Tekla straight in the eye.

“Do you think?”

“I think he’s cosy and he’s enjoying a proper sleep. Look how nicely they’ve tucked him in.

Wouldn’t you like to lie in a big bed like that?”

“No.”

“And that tube in his mouth. Imagine if they’re giving him Coca Cola. Litres of it!”

“I like Fanta.”

“Well if you’re sick you can choose whatever you like.”

“My daddy says pop’s not good for you.”

“What does Mummy say then?”

“She’s scared of Daddy.”

Tekla was stunned.

“Right. Scared? But here at the hospital it’s the patients who get to decide. Does Oscar like

Coca Cola?”

“Yes.”

“Well then he can drink as much as he likes.”

Iris burrowed in between Tekla’s arms and pushed her little head against her breastbone.

Tekla detected a slightly buttery smell from the girl’s hair. She thought for a moment about

whether to follow up on the thing about the mother being scared of the father but she didn’t

want to ruin the sweet moment. Tekla’s voluntary childlessness resulted from her fear of passing

on her mother’s genes. Damaged genes, that brought with them the terrible dementia of

Huntingdon’s. Genes that Tekla did not know whether she herself carried. Ones she’d never

dared have herself tested for. And yet they formed walls and moats between her and anything to

do with relationships and possible future children of her own.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” asked Iris.

“One brother.”

“Do you look after him?”

Tekla swallowed hard. “I do my best. But he’s…”

“Is he sick too?”

“You could say that.”

Tekla allowed herself to put one arm around Iris.

They sat there in silence for ten minutes, each submerged in a world of their own, before a

nurse came in and broke the spell. Iris sat still and pressed her hand even harder against Tekla’s.

The girl seemed to have entered a comfortable state which she had absolutely no desire to leave.

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Carefully, Tekla stood up and pulled her sweaty hand away from the siblings’.

She could see Iris’ disappointment but she helped the girl sit herself on the chair.

“Don’t tell the parents I was here.”

“No?” Violet replied, surprised.

“Don’t mention to anyone that I was here.”

“Don’t you worry.”

Tekla left the room. As she headed down to A&E, the girl’s blue eyes stayed with her all the

way.

68

Saturday, 8th June

GRÖNVIKSVÄGEN, BROMMA

Victor Umarov looked out at the pool that was beneath the bedroom window. It brought up so

many emotions. Mostly hopelessness, and no small amount of rage. Victor, though, was not

about to give up.

The two years he spent in prison back in the early nineties had suited Victor surprisingly

well. Black and white. Clear structures. He gained respect, and access to new social structures,

thanks to his fighting ability. He never got off on it though. Just made sure that he did enough of

the macho-inmate stuff that he made it out with top grades in criminal circles. Something that

would later pay off when, many years later, he was given a role by the FSB, Russian security

services, in Stockholm.

He had embezzled money from the FSB for several years before he finally got caught, and

after a rhapsodic trial he was given a death sentence. Then, after six months in prison, a ‘final

chance’, as the bald-headed FSB bureaucrat had put it. Two conditions. Firstly: using the heroin

that came from Afghanistan via the former eastern bloc – the ‘Northern route’ – he was to seize

control of the heroin market in Stockholm, and to make regular payments to FSB’s fourth

division, the one responsible for economic security. Secondly: the death sentence had merely

been suspended. If he did not comply they would ‘send someone’ as the man had drily put it

when he pushed the contract in front of Victor for a signature. So far, Victor had kept his nose

clean and the debriefs with FSB agents at various Irish pubs around the city were very raucous

affairs. The Russians seemed satisfied that Victor was successfully taking care of duties as a Vor

in Stockholm.

Victor ran his finger along the row of dry-cleaned shirts. Black or white? The easiest thing

might have been to alternate every other day. Or maybe black for the daytime, white in the

evening? Black for everyday wear, white for parties? No, he’d never been consistent. Structured?

When it was called for. That he ended up being registered as a translator of Russian literature was

particularly ironic, given his dyslexia. His old friend Boris helped him out with the occasional

translation for the sake of appearances. Boris was also the family’s accountant.

69

Victor buttoned his shirt, two squirts of Old Spice, trousers, shoes – black ones from Ecco.

Nina often mocked his choice of shoes, but he didn’t care. Function had always been his

watchword.

Victor took the spiral stairs down to the living room. The dark, larch wood floor creaked as

he walked over and pressed the button that raised the wooden venetian blinds that spanned the

thirty-metre wall of full-length windows overlooking the water. Like a Sci-fi film where the

spacecraft wakes into life, allowing the rising sun to slowly bathe the vast living room with its

various spaces – suites, a bar counter, pool table, several armchairs – in sunshine. The entire

opening ceremony took about twenty seconds – the mechanism was getting on for ten years old

and it worked like an old Russian T62 tank. It was one of the highlights of Victor’s day – seeing

Mälaren waking up fifty metres below his window.

“Granddad, do you want to play with us?”

He turned around. Victor had been so far off in a world of his own that he hadn’t even

noticed the twins creeping up behind him. He suddenly felt like he was standing there naked in

the rising sun but quickly realised that his both his pants and his dressing gown were on. He

relaxed.

“My little darlings.”

He crouched down and pulled Emily and Kate into his arms. The pair were wearing

matching white pyjamas that were emblazoned with pink teddy bears and they smelled of

raspberries.

“Show Granddad the sweeties.”

The twins looked wide-eyed at each other and shook their heads, throwing their dark locks

from side to side.

“Noooo, we haven’t got any sweeties.”

Victor feigned surprise.

“Noooo. So it isn’t jelly raspberries you’ve got in your hand there, behind your back.”

The twins giggled and tried to keep their mouths closed.

“Don’t tell Mummy.”

Victor shushed with his index finger in front of his lips.

“Granddad promises. As quiet as the mummy I was telling you about the other day.

Remember?”

They nodded thoughtfully and remembered the drama at the Pyramids of Luxor.

“Right, breakfast time. How about some hot chocolate?”

“Yes!” They both screamed.

70

In the kitchen, the twins’ mother Nina was busy preparing breakfast. Victor kissed his

princess on the forehead.

“Sleep well, Dad?”

“Like a Russian bear in the winter.”

“Lucky you could come out of hibernation then,” Nina said, cracking a broad smile. She’d

already fixed her perfect makeup: deep red lipstick on her plump lips, discrete mascara and

bronze eye-shadow that made her dark hair, worn in a sharp side-parting, look jet black.”

Victor glanced around the enormous kitchen. “Where’s Joakim?”

“He left early,” Nina replied as she piled small, thick pancakes onto a plate. “Tennis with a

friend.”

“You do know that Coco can do that,” Victor said, pointing at the frying pan.

“Not as good as my crumpets,” Nina grinned. “Do you remember our nanny in London used

to make them? They’re best with honey on. You sit yourself down Dad, and I’ll make some

coffee. I hardly ever get the chance to look after you. You look like you need it, I think you’re

worn out.

“Why thank you,” Victor said with a smile.

Victor enjoyed seeing his eldest daughter in such a good mood. Fresh from the shower and

full of energy, her short hair perfectly styled, but yet there was still something that put him ill at

ease, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Something with her relationship? Victor

guessed she was happy to be at home for once. At the same time, he felt that perhaps her

husband Joakim didn’t always show her the appreciation she needed.

He sat down in the dining room that looked out over the rear of the house. The sliding

doors stood open and cool June air swept in over the flagstones.

Sardor walked into the kitchen and propped himself against the backrest of a chair. He was

wearing his leather jacket; he had a large coffee mug in one hand and a book in the other.

“Hi,” he said curtly.

“Yo bro,” said Nina. “Not used to seeing you with a book in your hand.”

Sardor gave his sister an uncomfortable glare.

Victor stood up and pondered the pool’s brown-bronze water through the kitchen window.

“The colour reminds me of the courtyard in Tashkent in the autumn. Clay, kindling and

rusty metal buckets. Everything I wanted to escape.”

“But Dad,” Nina said, placing her hand on Victor’s shoulder. “It’s hardly that bad.”

“Yesterday I did a shock chlorination, the second of the week. So far, nothing. The

maintenance guy has been here too, he gave the filter a once over – it ‘went like a an Audi from

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2001,’ as he put it.” Victor sniggered. “I don’t want some old Audi. The pool has to be looking

good by next weekend when all the neighbours are coming to Elena’s annual garden party. But I

won’t be giving up. I think Kamila and the twins will probably get their perfect pool in the end.”

“They’re happy,” said Nina.

“Have you seen them swimming, this past week?” Victor asked rhetorically.

“It’s still too cold,” Nina attempted, busy delivering Nutella on toast to her daughters and

making hot chocolate in the microwave. She was already dressed for the day’s viewings: a dark-

blue Zegna suit with a black blouse. A red silk scarf around her neck.

He poured himself some coffee from the silver pot, placed it in the centre of the huge glass

table before then sat down next to Kate and started stroking her curly hair. He turned towards

Sardor.

“How did it go with Jensen and the leather britches in Skärholmen yesterday?”

“They put on hot dogs.”

Nina did the buttons on her suit jacket and sat down to join the family breakfast. “I had a

chat with Jensen.” Sardor continued. “He seemed to get it in the end.”

“We’ve got a week to find whoever it was that stabbed Järmo.”

Victor pulled out his leather pouch and lighter from the pocket of his silk robe. He clicked

out a cigarette using the gadget that had worked perfectly ever since he’d received it, a gift from

an important customer in Tbilisi. The silver lighter projected a two-centimetre-long sharp gas

flame, which he moved back and forth at a safe distance from the cigarette tip. He then held it to

his lips as usual and sucked in. Even if there wasn’t actually any smoke he could feel the

sensation of warm air passing down his throat. He closed his eyes and put the cigarette down on

the table.

“And then you caused a scene?”

Victor took another unlit drag.

Sardor fiddled nervously with his book.

“They provoked me.”

“So it was you who resorted to violence?” asked Victor. “I’m sure I remember asking you to

be diplomatic.”

“Does it always have to be about guilt with you?” Sardor sighed. “It’s always one person’s

fault when two people clash.”

Nina got to her feet. “I’ve got to go in to the office. Jonna’s in New York for the weekend

and I’m going to close a deal.”

72

Victor realised what was wrong. Nina was avoiding eye contact. She was stiff, her body

language was jerky and stressed.

“Is it that island?” Sardor asked his sister.

“Kaggholmen, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“A whole island. Sounds expensive.”

“It’s on the market for thirty-three million. This Dutch guy’s going to buy it. Is there a

problem?”

Sardor stood up, ignoring his sister.

“I need to set Tatyana straight,” he said. “She doesn’t really have things under control with

the girls.”

Victor smiled at Emily and Kate, whose faces were covered in Nutella. “I’ve said I can

arrange for someone to take care of the Columbian girls. She won’t have it.”

“I’m glad you’re looking out for your employees,” said Victor.

“Employee?” asked Sardor. “Tatyana is a bit more than that. She’s been with us ever since

we arrived.

Nina glanced at her brother, then at Victor. He wiped Nutella from the twins’ faces.

“I can help out if necessary,” she said.

“You’re not going to get dragged into this,” Victor replied, shaking his head. “You know

that.”

“All I’m saying is that…”

“No!” Victor screamed, and slammed his fist onto the glass table with a bang. The twins

jumped in surprise. Victor took a few desperate unlit drags and then stubbed out the unsmoked

cigarette.

“How many times am I going to have to explain that there’s a Great Wall of China between

what you Sardor does and what you do, Nina.”

The kitchen went quiet.

Victor had got himself really worked up.

“I am Vor in Stockholm, translator and low-key businessman, living off the interest of old

capital. Okay? No one can touch me. Not the gangs. Not the bikers. Not the police. Jesus, I even

have a harmonious relationship with the tax authorities. And you, Nina, are a female mirror-

image of me. You must not get so much as a parking ticket. Got that?”

“Yes Dad,” said Nina.

“You must never, ever, have any contact with anything illegal.”

“You don’t need to go on about it.”

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“Come here,” said Victor. “Look at me. Is something wrong?”

“Like what?” Nina asked nervously.

“You would tell me if something was weighing on your mind, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

Sardor put his cup on the table.

“Do your thing, that way everyone’s happy,” Sardor said to his sister.

“No one’s going to pinch your slice of the cake,” Nina replied with a fake smile. “You

needn’t worry.”

“I’m not dead yet,” sighed Victor. His body felt heavy and spent, which got him down. This

was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid: two kids squabbling over his inheritance. Why had he

failed to raise them properly? Why was Nina the only one who could manage to steer clear of

crime? He ought to have been stricter, made Sardor continue his studies. “Besides, everything is

already sorted. You can stop arguing.”

“I haven’t seen any paperwork,” said Sardor.

“Give over!” screamed Victor.

Nina let go a raw cackle. “As if Sardor would’ve been able to read any paperwork!” Sardor

started heading for the door.

You need to get more sleep,” Nina called out after him. “If you like I can have my doctor

prescribe you some sedatives. Something to help calm all that testosterone at night.”

Without turning around, Sardor replied:

“Someone has to do the dirty work.”

74

Saturday 8th June

ÖSTERMALM COVERED MARKET

Nina parked her black Cadillac Escalade outside the entrance to Östermalm Market Hall. She

could still remember Joakim’s surprise at her choice of car. It was safer for the kids, she’d argued.

She liked the shape, and its large seats. And the quiet ride. But yes, sometimes it was a struggle to

find a parking space big enough.

She walked into the market and headed for Melander’s Fish, which was full of customers.

Her phone rang: Jonna Fredén-Hansson.

“Why haven’t you been answering?” Jonna asked.

“I’m well aware that you’ve rung about fourteen times. You can take it easy,” Nina said as

she took a queue ticket. She gave the owner a familiar nod, and he presented her with a glass of

fizz. Sipping at the ice-cold cava, she picked up a little cube of cheese on a cocktail stick.

Manchego. It reminded her of the time she and Joakim had flown to Oviedo, on the north coast

of Spain, where the proceeded to pour bucket loads of cidera down their necks until they could

not so much as smell a bottle of cider anymore. That was life before the kids.

“Come off it Nina. Have you missed a minor disaster?”

Nina struggled to find a seat where she could talk undisturbed. She was amazed to note that

the ladies she was squeezing past still hadn’t put their long furs in the attic. It was almost high

summer. That Swedish cliché about ‘sweating in spring’ had never felt so literal. She really didn’t

get the Östermalm elite’s fetish for plush furs. She’d always preferred black leathers.

“Now I’m planning to buy some prawns for the family and try to shut out screaming

colleagues and aggressive brothers for a few hours.”

“What’s Sardor done now?”

“Well, he’s not going to ruin my Saturday evening, that’s for sure.”

“Not fallen out have you?”

“When have we ever done anything else?”

“You should talk it through.”

Nina smiled to herself.

75

“Sardor isn’t really the type you talk things through with. He has no connection to his inner

self.”

“But maybe it’s worth a try.”

“Can you spare us the analysis of my family? It feels like we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

She necked the glass and caught the owner’s eye, pointed at his glass and nodded to request

a top-up. She and a man with a bulbous nose a little way away were the only ones drinking. The

ladies next to him were clutching their handbags tightly and wouldn’t relax until they returned to

their apartments a few blocks away and poured themselves the first sherry of the evening.

“Do you enjoy the pace of life in big cities?” Nina asked. “Personally, I’d rather die than live

in New York. Admittedly I do sometimes get a bit panicked by the fact that everyone knows

everything about everyone around here. I don’t know if you can call Stockholm a world city.

Never mind Venice of the North.”

“Can you try and focus?” Jonna shouted down the phone.

“You sound like my dad. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s staying focused.”

Nina’s thoughts turned to Victor, and everything he’d actually taught them: to calm down

when necessary. He might come across as noisy and bubbly, eager, perhaps even distracted but

on countless occasions she had seen industry colleagues who thought he didn’t know what he

was doing trying to manipulate him, or blind him with numbers. This never turned out well for

those involved.

“Nina, what are you talking about?”

“The art of relaxing when you get the chance.”

Nina had always envied her father’s ability to completely switch off from all things business

at the weekends. He tinkered with his pool or got involved in some neighbour’s completely

baffling DIY project that could go on for months. That’s without even mentioning Victor’s

complete obsession with what his grandchildren were getting up to.

“Would that improve our situation? Sticking our head in the sand?” asked Jonna.

“I’m not going to compromise my free time.”

Nina made eye-contact with the bulbous-nosed man, and she recognised him. MD at a

Credit Brokers, recently divorced.

“It’ll all come out. If anyone ought to be worried it should be you.”

“We need more information,” said Nina.

“How can you stay so calm, as if nothing’s happened?”

“Well you don’t get a better grasp of the situation by screaming and panicking.”

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“And you haven’t got hold of him yet?” asked Jonna. It was Nina’s turn to order. “Hang

on,” she said to Jonna. “Two kilos of fresh prawns.”

He carried on the call:

“I’ve tried several times – straight to voicemail.”

“Might he have done a runner?”

“Worse than that.”

“How can it be worse than that?”

“An unidentified man was admitted to Nobel Hospital,” Said Nina. “Severe burns.”

“And that’s him, is it?”

“We can’t rule that out. I’ll take care of this though. As long as I get a bit of a break this

evening.”

Nina pulled out her platinum card and handed it over in exchange for a white carrier bag. As

she headed for her 4x4 she spotted a traffic warden in the process of putting a yellow ticket

under her wiper.

“I will try and relax,” sighed Jonna.

“You’re not doing a very good job of it.”

Nina completely ignored the traffic warden. She chucked the ticket on the ground, got into

the car and revved the engine. Then she called Joakim to let him know she was on her way home

to Karlaplan. At a red light on Karlavägen she turned the music down and stared at an elderly

man out walking his dachshund. She tried to work out how she could stop the impending

catastrophe. Maybe it was time to book an appointment at the dentist’s.

77

Saturday 8th June, 11am.

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL.

Eva Elmqvist ran her fingers through her frizzy hair and scratched her scalp.

“He got his pulmonary oedema last night.”

Tekla had to strain to take in Eva’s update on the burns victim. She was terrified of how she

might react if she saw the toe again. Her brain had clearly short-circuited and made her think of

Simon, which was a completely absurd thought.

“As you said.”

They were standing outside the lunchroom in ICU, each holding a plastic coffee cup.

“And he’s in septic shock. He needs high doses of anti-diuretics. He’s still passing water

though, which is good.””

“Are you going to operate?”

“Who knew you were so interested in burns treatment?”

“I can stop asking questions.”

“No, not a problem. The plastic surgeons managed two rounds before he got the oedema.

They’ve started prepping for the transplantation of donor skin, but they want to remove more

dead tissue first. Now we’ve got problems with his airway. He needs a tracheotomy but the ENT

surgeons are dragging their feet. Quelle surprise! Hopefully we’ll get a slot today. Apart from that,

nothing medical. So you’re going to talk to the police?”

“Just one last thing,” said Tekla. “Do we know who he is?”

“Well that’s the police’s job but I gather it could take time. They need to get x-rays straight

from the dental clinics, there’s no national database.”

“Swedish bureaucracy.”

Eva shook her head.

“I don’t think it would be any quicker in any other country.”

“Not without a financial incentive.”

“Well that’s something to be thankful for.”

Eva headed off towards the operating theatre without saying goodbye.

78

Inside the room, Tekla noticed another new addition: the smell of infected skin. Like a sour

version of the smell by the supermarket meat counter on a warm summer’s day.

Rebecka Nilsén stood discussing something with the Charge Nurse. Her face lit up when she

saw Tekla.

“Aha! Our infiltrator.”

Tekla was taken aback.

Rebecka smiled.

“Go on, do tell.”

Tekla avoided looking at the patient, despite him being covered by a sheet. The only thing

visible was his bandaged face.

“I just heard from the ICU doctor that they’re struggling with his hydration levels. Things

are precarious.”

“You lot will always hedge your bets, I’ve noticed that.”

“How do you mean?”

“Problem. Precarious. Why can we never get any clear numbers. Like, ‘there’s an eighty-five

per cent chance he’ll be dead within two days.”

“I can lie to you if that would make you feel better.”

“No need for that. Analysing things is just in my nature. People and phenomena.”

Tekla glanced at the bank of monitors. The patient was more tachycardic today.

“I’d say that’s very uncertain.”

“And when can you take that tube out of his throat? Or… might you be able to reduce the

sedatives so that we can talk to him?”

Tekla smiled.

“That only happens in films. I think you understand that.”

“And I just love films,” Rebecka said, with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“His condition is worse today than yesterday.”

Rebecka looked with distaste at the ventilator, while Tekla walked over to the bed and the

sheet, which had slipped off to one side. Now suddenly she saw the foot and she recoiled. Her

chest tightened and she struggled for breath. It subsided though, as quickly as it had arrived.

“We really do need to try and talk to him,” Rebecka said to herself, as though she was trying

to come up with some clever way of rousing the patient that even the doctors themselves weren’t

capable of figuring out.

Tekla noticed that the policewoman had a different hue to her lipstick: more of a jelly-

raspberry pink. Her hair was as sternly brushed back on her head as before. She was wearing an

79

outsized dress in a thin, dark green fabric that left the top of her bra on display. Around her waist

was a thin band made of the same material. High heels on her white strappy shoes. She looked

like she was dressed for an opening show at Liljevalch Museum of Contemporary Art.

“Why is it so important to talk to him?”

“You’re sworn to secrecy, aren’t you?” said Rebecka.

Tekla nodded.

Rebecka Nilsén’s eyes burrowed into Tekla’s as she seemed to make a spontaneous decision.

“Forensic technicians found traces of saltpetre, sulphur and ammonium sulphide in an

apartment on the second floor – bomb-making materials, in other words.”

“Bombs?” exclaimed Tekla.

We suspect that the men seen leaving the scene in a van were renting the apartment, and we

cannot rule out that our dear patient here may have been part of that same group.”

A storm of thoughts raged through Tekla’s head.

“So they’re supposed to have tried to blow up the tower?”

“It’s a line of inquiry we have to follow up. Without jumping to any conclusions.”

Tekla nodded and continued:

“But he responded to Naloxone. Doesn’t that make it more likely he was a junkie, sleeping

in the basement? There are plenty of them in cellars and garages across the city.”

“So you did a drug test after all?”

Tekla sighed. “No, unfortunately that was overlooked.”

“But how long afterwards can you do it?”

“Several days, but the problem is that he was given morphine and lots of other drugs as soon

as he got to A&E so it’s difficult to say what’s what.”

“Okay. But we cannot close any doors. Even bomb makers and terrorists use drugs. My

team will be investigating all possible leads.”

“Are there many of you?” Tekla asked inquisitively.

Rebecka’s serious expression suddenly cracked into a smile.

“Enough. We’ll crack this little nut soon enough,” she replied, and Tekla felt like she could

hear the sound of a walnut shell being cracked by the Nilsén family Christmas tree.

“And how are you getting on with his identity?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious. I know about curious. We’re working on it.”

Rebecka Nilsén left ICU Room One.

80

Tekla peered at the foot and tried to appear unmoved. The nurse was busy with the cannula

on his neck, which seemed to be playing up.

“Is it okay if I do a quick exam?”

“Do whatever you like. I’m just trying to flush out this central line, it’s only half-working.”

Tekla put on plastic clothing and gloves. She pretended to listen to his heart and lungs, but

was actually focusing entirely on trying to find uninjured patches of skin to examine on the

severely burned body. One shoulder and the upper chest on one side were relatively uninjured.

She ran her index finger along the groove above his collarbone. Hadn’t Simon broken it falling

off his bike when he was about nine? Or was that his humerus? The burns victim’s collarbone

hadn’t been broken. She pulled up a clear photo of Simon, sitting on cross-legged on the beach

by the lake. Little dark blue swimming shorts with a white drawstring. He was building a

sandcastle complete with a moat. She compared the palm-sized area from her mental image with

the patient in front of her. They looked identical. But then, how much variation would you

expect in the collarbone region of skinny young guys? She continued down towards the left hand:

its little finger was red, but not burned. She bent the finger gently at the joint and recalled a

picture of her and Simon on a night out in Umeå with a few of his friends. They took turns trying

on a wedding ring that Tom had just bought. It was far too big for Tekla but Simon smiled

triumphantly as he claimed, “the ring fits me better, so me and Jossan are going to get married

instead.” It was his ring finger she could see though, not his little finger.

“How’s it going?” asked the nurse.

Tekla awoke from her pictures to be met with a curious face.

“I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“Not if you ask the surgeon who was here this morning. What was it he said… something

like, ‘why waste theatre time on someone who’s going to die anyway?’”

Tekla tried to get a handle on the situation, she needed her lip balm to clear her thoughts.

Why could she not just abandon that insane thought about who it was lying there in front of

her?” Did it have something to do with the promise she’d given her father on his deathbed? Or

the other things that Dad had told her about their mother’s affliction. The one Simon never

knew anything about. She wandered along the beach and studied the collarbone once more, from

a different angle. She could see every shadow on his skin. For a moment, she revelled in her

incredible talent. She knew full well what problems it had caused her over the years: bullying, the

silent treatment, introversion, isolation, but she also knew how much time it had saved her during

her studies.

“I just need to grab some more Chlorhexidine. Will you be here a tick?”

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“I can be,” Tekla replied, watching the nurse disappear through the airlock.

She stood up, bent over the casualty’s face and tried to get a look at his eyes. They were still

swollen shut. She could smell hand gel and burnt hair, and she could see images of how they used

sit in the sauna, scrape sweat and dead skin from their bodies and flick it at the heater. She

couldn’t summon the smell though.”

““Oh Jesus that stinks!” shouted Simon.

“I like the smell,” said Tekla, aiming more fluid at the stones.

Tekla took the burns victim’s hand and whispered:

“Simon, is that you? Just give me a little sign. Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear me?”

All she could feel as she leant over though was her own sore back. The only sound was that

of the ventilator’s stubborn pumping.

“Please, just move a finger. Simon, is that you in there? Can I help you? I just need a little,

tiny sign that it is you. Like when you mimicked my noisy chewing that time at the dinner table,

do you remember? You hated it. Said it sounded like I was inside in your ear stamping clay. I still

chew like that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I promise. I’ll chew till you have a

fit when you wake up. Simon, can you chew a bit?”

Raising her voice was no help. Not a flicker from the man lying in front of her.

She put her other hand on the patient’s bandaged forehead.

“You know I can’t swim. Dad never had time to teach me. Was that what you meant? Do

you know who’s done this to you? Nod, move your head a bit if you can hear my voice. I want to

help you so badly. Whichever idiots it is that have put you where you are, I will find them. I

promise. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, no one deserves to suffer like this. I know you’re a

pain. Sorry, but you always were and… you’ll always be who you are. But I love you for who you

are. Do you remember what Dad used to say? That you can’t be held responsible for the parents

you got lumbered with. He knew full well what a bad father he was himself. No doubt about it.

But at least he knew it, unlike Mum. Simon, please, move your head.”

She adjusted her position. Waited for movements from Simon that never came. She looked

at the monitor and noticed that his pulse had risen slightly. Coincidence? Or was that his only

way of communicating with her?

“If you die, I’ll die. I don’t believe in any god so I can’t pray to him or her for help. All I can

do is ask you to survive. Because if you don’t, I don’t know how I will…”

“How are things?”

The nurse had returned.

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Tekla stood up quickly and pretended to be taking the man’s pulse on his wrist. It probably

looked pretty clumsy.

“Good. With me, I mean… or perhaps you meant Si… him… the patient…”

She let go of the burns victim’s hand, causing it to fall heavily against the side of the bed,

avoided the nurse’s stare and left the room with a faint tightness across her chest.

83

Saturday 8th June, evening

VASASTAN, STOCKHOLM

The fridge was chock-full of beer. Håkan Nilsson grabbed a cold one, opened it, necked half the

bottle and then let out a loud burp. His shirt was still soaked with sweat after the fencing duels,

the final physical activity of the day.

Oskar came in and leaned his considerable belly against the table projecting from between

the tall windows overlooking Kommendörsgatan.

“Sick pad eh?” said Oskar.

“You’re not kidding,” Håkan said, but he didn’t feel all that impressed.

Oskar poured himself a gin and tonic as he chewed on a slice of lemon.

“Insane. What sort of money do you think he’s actually on?”

“No idea,” Håkan said, uninterested. “But I heard that he sold the previous game for about

ten million.”

Oskar laughed.

“That wouldn’t cover it. It’s mad that it ended up being Petter.”

Håkan remembered a tall, lanky guy who excelled in chemistry and physics lessons but who

always came in last in “The Killer” – a three kilometre cross-country run. His and Petter’s lives

had gone in very different directions since school.

The stag-do had apparently got underway at Rasmus’ place, with an abduction and a hood

over his head. Sanna had left the door open as arranged, and made sure that they’d got to bed

really late the night before. Next stop was Mattias’ pub in Sollentuna for a first class champagne

breakfast. Then bungee jumping in Nacka Strand, and lunch in town at The Dubliner. That’s

where Håkan had met up with them, straight from his fishing trip with Magnus. At the Dubliner

there was a quiz, hosted by some superannuated pop star. Rasmus aced the Eurovision questions,

but his gaze regularly slipped down onto the star’s cleavage. Luckily she was absorbed in all the

small talk. After lunch they’d had a manicure at a salon on Sveavägen, followed by fencing, then

beer bongs in The Observatory Park surrounded by a hundred sweltering students before finally

arriving at Petter’s vast apartment.

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Thus far, it had been standard stag-do fare. But now Håkan was going to take over and take

it up a notch.

They went into the living room. Rasmus was sitting there in his Superman costume, beer in

hand, absorbed in a deep discussion with Petter. Håkan felt a sting of jealousy when he saw their

heads tipped towards each other, just like they used to at uni, shutting everyone else out of their

profound deliberations. While the rest of the guys mostly talked about sport, girls, and how to

avoid bad grades, Rasmus and Petter’s conversations had a more intellectual character. At the

time, most of them hadn’t had a clue what they would end up doing, but now he could

summarise like this: they’d all done well, Petter in particular.

He sat down on the four-metre long white leather sofa, drumming along on his thigh to

Beyoncé’s “7/11”. Petter’s Spotify playlist, of course. The beer was flowing. The whisky came

out. Pizzas on the table. Music pumping. Håkan wondered what the neighbours might make of it

but Petter had probably already softened them up with tickets to some concert. Besides his

games company, Petter had a few projects in the music business. Håkan had no idea what they

were all about. Petter was really Rasmus’ friend to begin with, one step removed from Håkan’s

world. In their twenties, the whole gang used to get together, if you called anyone you called

everyone. Parties, events, trips. Things were done as a group.

When they were around thirty, as a few of them came out of long relationships while others

decided to carry on and the kids started to appear, it became obvious who your real friends were.

Håkan wasn’t really close to anyone. The meet-ups thinned out. He and Angelica were the first

out of everyone to have kids, they bought a house in Farsta and before long life became a

treadmill. Things were good though, until they had their second child. He mustn’t grumble. He

was still in good shape, liked his job, enjoyed hunting and fishing with Magnus. On top of that,

his career was on a constant upwards trajectory.

He looked at the clock. It was almost time. He sent a question off to the number he’d been

given. Then he stood up and tapped the beer bottle with his phone.

“Listen up, there’s a little surprise coming that’ll be here soon.” He turned to Rasmus and

raised a glass of champagne. “Rasmus, you are ace. I hope your marriage lasts a whole year before

Sanna realises what a loser you are.”

He raised his voice.

“To Rasmus!”

“To Rasmus!” chanted the terrace choir.

Håkan noticed how the tension in the room was rising. Everyone could tell that whatever

he’d come up with now was something out of the ordinary.

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No one could have missed the fact that there was something of an internal power struggle

going on between him and Petter to decide who was the best fixer. Petter had done well. He was

happy to admit that. The grand piano in one corner of the room was covered in gold, he drove a

Ferrari 4x4, and spent most of his weekends on the French Riviera or in London. He didn’t have

a family though. Admittedly Håkan had a terrible relationship with his kids but…

His phone bleeped.

We are here

He couldn’t understand why they’d written in English but headed out into the hall.

“Cover your eyes,” he called out on his way to the door.

Two scantily-dressed girls were standing there and they marched nonchalantly in, past him

and into the middle of the living room. Cue wolf-whistles and cheers from the guys in there. He

followed them in, and said, “Allow me to introduce Anna and Petra!”

The pair didn’t look like an Anna and Petra. More like a Valentina and Olga. But that didn’t

matter. They were pretty fit, especially Petra, Håkan thought to himself. She was taller than Anna.

Thin, with pretty large breasts. She reminded Håkan of Angelina Jolie, with her plump lips, but

kinder. A gently, slightly shy face. She was younger than Anna who looked more like your typical

prostitute: short fur coat, minimal skirt and a bit too much makeup. Håkan took a few big gulps

of his beer.

Petter changed the music to I Keep Forgettin’ by Michael McDonald and positioned Superman

Rasmus on a chair in the middle of the floor. Hands tied behind his back. The others sat lined-up

on the leather sofa like children watching a magician. Håkan could see how all of their eyes were

burning, while they were all avoiding making eye contact with each other. Everything they’d done

so far that day was stuff they could go home and tell their girls about. From here on, it would go

like this: “Then we ate, had a sauna, and went down to Café Opera. It was cool but I was a bit

tired.” An unspoken but self-evident pact.

The Anna-girl took charge and started stripping. She was wearing black underwear and

suspenders. She danced provocatively in time to the music and ground her arse against Rasmus

who did his best to look unfazed, nodding at the guys on the sofa as they raised their beers

contentedly. Petter was the only one standing up. Every now and then, he glanced over in

Håkan’s direction. The only positive was that there had been a certain shift in the balance of

power. The guys seemed happy. And they all knew who had got the girls round.

Håkan took a large whisky from Felix, who was handing them out from a silver tray. Like

some kind of maître d'. He looked over at the other girl, cute little Petra, who was dancing alone

behind Rasmus’ chair. She had a cropped denim skirt and a black vest top with a gold pattern.

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Her long brown her was down, and she was pouting those wonderful lips but without looking at

the guys. She seemed to be in a world of her own. Was she high? Maybe. Probably, rather. Håkan

knew only too well how girls like these lived. They were part of an ugly industry full of people-

smuggling, drugs and violence. In spite of that, for now he could only see their young, lithe

bodies in front of him. He thought about Angelica, who’d always been a little bit overweight.

He necked the contents of the glass. Shuddered. Carried on drinking a new, cold beer. He

felt the intoxication kicking in just as the girls started to caress and kiss each other over Rasmus’

head. Christer, Mattias and the others clapped their hands and wolf-whistled loudly.

After ten minutes performing the girls were down to just their g-strings. They contorted

their bodies into various fucking positions and Håkan knew that everyone in the room would

actually like to whip their cock out and start wanking. Instead, beers were being sunk at a frenetic

pace.

Petter walked over to Anna and whispered something in her ear. He started loosening

Rasmus’ rope, took him by the hand and led him off towards the bedrooms at the far end of the

apartment. Petter was showing the way. Håkan knew exactly what Petter was up to. He was

trying to regain the upper hand. After this, though, Håkan was going to be the uncrowned king

of the gang.

The guests scattered, the music pumped away. Petra put on a shirt that Felix had leant her

and asked Mattias for some champagne. The guys took it in turns to talk to her as she sat there

on a piano stool. Everyone was trying to act natural but all were acutely aware that this was a

once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Håkan was onto his seventh beer but funnily enough he didn’t

feel that tired. Sharp and alert, more like. Buzzing on adrenaline. He chatted away to Oskar about

some football match but kept glancing over in Petra’s direction. He couldn’t help staring at her

beautiful face. She really did look glowing, so glamorous with her champagne glass and her legs

lightly crossed, framed by the lid of the gold grand piano. Oskar went to the kitchen to restock

the bar and Petra’s cavalier went to the toilet. Håkan walked over.

“Hej.”

“Hej,” Petra said, in heavily accented Swedish. She was even cuter up close. Perfect teeth

shining out from a slightly shy smile. How old could she be anyway? Not under eighteen, he was

completely sure about that. Twenty-two?

“You’re a great dancer.”

“You think? That’s very kind of you.”

It felt right. Her tone was kind and she sounded honest. They kept talking. She explained

about her family outside St Petersburg, about her sick mother who needed medical treatment.

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How she had only planned to spend a year or so in Sweden to save up the money for her mum’s

medication. How she wanted to be a professional dancer. Maybe study, become a psychologist.

Anna and Rasmus came back. The guys gave him a round of applause and Rasmus necked a

drink. Petter looked disgustingly smug. Håkan’s eyes met Petra’s and he could feel the rage

returning.

She stared him straight in the eye. He could smell the scent of her perfume. She moved her

hand down towards his jeans, stroked his hard-on. His whole body felt like it was going to

explode.

She took him by the hand and dragged him out into the hall.

They went into Petter’s master bedroom and within a minute they were naked. Håkan lay on

his back while Petra went down on him. Oh Jesus could she suck! Suddenly Petra had got out a

condom and was rolling it onto Håkan’s cock, which immediately went soft. Yet at the same time

he was ready to burst, and he only had one thought in his head: to take her from behind, with her

arching her back, peering over at him and saying:

“Fuck me hard. Harder!”

“Let’s do without?”

“We can’t,” she smiled back, and carried on putting the condom on.

He sat up.

“Come on. I’m completely healthy.”

She shushed him, and carried on.

Håkan started losing it. She wasn’t going to ruin this moment for her for the sake of some

stupid fucking principle. He was the one taking the risk – fucking a whore without a condom.

And he was prepared to take that risk!

“Listen, if you don’t want to we can leave it there,” she said eventually.

He could see Petter’s smug smile in his mind’s eye and the rage came rushing back once

more.

“We’re doing this now,” Håkan snarled as he hit Petra in the face.

She stared, terrified, at him and was getting out of the bed when Håkan grabbed her and

pushed her neck down towards the mattress. She struggled but he weighed almost twice as much

as her. She didn’t have a hope.

He grabbed her hands with assured police grip and pushed her legs apart with his knees.

Petra screamed but Håkan pushed her face down into the big feather pillow. The music was

pounding away outside.

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He stroked himself hard again and pushed his cock into her, down to the base. Deep. Warm.

He lasted twenty seconds. He started trembling. Suddenly felt freezing cold. Her let his sweaty

body fall onto hers.

She was lying still. Completely limp.

“Sorry,” he managed. “You’ll get paid extra.”

89

Saturday night, 8th June 2019.

SÖDERMALM, STOCKHOLM

It was about one in the morning when Sardor managed to find a spot just outside Evil Eye

Tattoo on Magnus Ladulåsgatan. As he parked his Nissan Armada, he spotted Tatyana’s

characteristic bouffant outside the entrance. She was smoking hurriedly.

He locked the car and walked over to her.

“How bad is it?”

Tatyana sniggered, and flicked her cigarette butt onto the street.

“Fucking bad. She’s completely ruined.”

“Does she need to go to hospital?”

“Not for physical injuries.”

“Why are you so upset?” Sardor asked.

“What do you mean upset?”

“You look stressed.”

“What do you think?” Tatyana hissed. “That I don’t give a fuck about my girls when they get

raped?” She tapped in the code and they walked inside, then took the lift up to the fourth floor.

Sardor looked at Tatyana. She was fiddling nervously with her gold necklace.

“What are you staring at?” she hissed. “I can call Nina if this is inconvenient.”

“You know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

The lift stopped. Tatyana unlocked the door to a six-room apartment with a large kitchen.

Four bedrooms, where the girls slept in twos. Just then, only Jelena and Olga were home. And

Kaisa of course. All three were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea large mugs of tea.

“What happened?” asked Sardor. He studied the marks on Kaisa’s throat. Deep purple

bruises that extended right around her neck.

“A Swedish guy. Middle-aged. Big. Fine to begin with. But he didn’t want to use a condom.”

“And then?” Sardor asked.

“Suddenly it just went bang,” said Kaisa. “I was completely unprepared. And he was strong.

He locked my hands so that I couldn’t move. He seemed to know how you do it.”

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“How you do it?”

“Put someone in an arm lock.”

“It was him, that cop,” said Tatyana, shaking her head. Her apricot-red hair looked

electrified. Despite their policy of no-smoking in doors she took out a cigarette and turned

towards the girls.

“Just me, and just today. Forget you saw this.” She turned to Sardor. “You’ll have to deal

with this. Going to the police isn’t an option, obviously.”

She lowered her voice and placed her hand on his.

“Sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean that Nina’s better at…”

“No worries,” Sardor cut her off. He was tired. He liked all the girls, in different ways, but at

the end of the day they were only Russian sluts. Just as replaceable as his Glock. Kaisa was the

second youngest and had only been on Tatyana’s books for about six months, but the others

liked her, you could tell. And she was cute. Innocent. Sardor didn’t think she was that into drugs.

Not the heavy stuff anyway.

“That fucking punter will pay for this. I promise you.” Tatyana turned to Olga. “Have you

had a look down there? Is she injured?”

“No,” said Kaisa. “He came quickly.”

She started crying again. Her make up was long gone but it had left her face with a bluish

tone.

“Come on,” said Jelena. “We’ll go and have a lie down.”

Sardor and Tatyana watched the girls disappear off down the corridor and into Kaisa’s

bedroom. Sardor poured a glass of water.

“When was this?”

“Ten-ish,” said Tatyana.

“He rang me several times during the evening,” said Sardor. “I didn’t bother answering.”

Sardor laughed to himself.

“I’ll take care of this.”

“He needs to get grief for this,” Tatyana hissed. “Even if you do know him.”

Sardor suddenly went quiet.

“This is good.”

“How the fuck can this be good?” Tatyana asked, angrily.

Sardor nodded gently.

“We can use this to our advantage.”

“But he must not get away with this!”

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“Oh no. Don’t you worry. Håkan will be getting a visit.”

92

Early hours of Sunday 9th June 2019

STORA ESSINGEN, STOCKHOLM

The large split-level house was at the bottom of the hill leading down towards the water,

discreetly screened by lush greenery. An onshore wind blew and the cords on the sailboats a little

way away whipped in the wind. Across the water you could make out the rental apartment

buildings in Gröndal, and Sardor also knew what the view was like from below the building. He’d

been at a barbecue there the previous summer. He knew that there was a large, new Buster boat

moored alongside the jetty.

They parked outside the gates. There was no one to be seen, no barking dogs. Just the

muffled hum of the traffic over on the Essinge bypass.

Sardor spotted Håkan’s Range Rover on the drive and wondered whether he was home

alone, or whether he might have a child there with him. Because he did have a family, didn’t he?

Sardor wasn’t sure.

He stopped, turned his back to the wind and pulled a little baggy from his jacket pocket. He

dipped his little finger into the white powder. Took a snort.

“Want some?”

“No need.”

Erik “Eje” Johansson grasped his baseball bat and waited. Glanced around. He pulled his

blue hoody over his shaven head. Only his goatee stuck out.

Sardor opened the gate and walked towards the back of the house, which was in darkness. A

large veranda on the front overlooked the water.

“You watch the front, in case he tries to leg it. I’ll ring the bell.”

“And his family?” asked Eje.

“Don’t know if he’s got one.”

“And we take care of him here, right?”

Sardor nodded.

“But just a warning.” Sardor glanced around one last time.

“If you say so…”

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Eje disappeared around the front of the house. Sardor went to one of the doors and pushed

the handle. It was open. Håkan had forgotten to lock up. Perhaps he’d been too drunk when he

got home.

Sardor opened the door and stepped inside.

Straight ahead he could see the kitchen, and to the right was the enormous living room.

Large windows and patio doors, lit by the streetlights from Gröndal on the other side of the

channel. On the left was a corridor lined with closed doors.

Suddenly a woman wearing black knickers and a shirt that was too big for her emerged from

one of the rooms. When she caught sight of Sardor, she started screaming. Sardor realised that he

was holding a pistol which he pulled out of sight. Right behind her a big man came out, wearing

only boxer shorts.

“Shh,” said Håkan Nilsson, trying to calm the woman down. “Just go back to bed.”

The woman reluctantly went back into the room and closed the door behind her.

“How did you get in? Was it open?” Håkan asked, surprised, as he walked towards Sardor.

When he spotted the pistol, he stopped.

“What the fuck are you doing here, by the way?”

Sardor stuffed the pistol into its shoulder holster. He could smell the booze on Håkan as he

walked past him to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“I think you know why,” Sardor said, following him.

Håkan turned round with a start. “Jesus you scared me.”

On the balcony beyond the kitchen door, a bruiser with a baseball bat came into view.

Sardor let Eje in.

“Listen, what the fuck…” said Håkan, who suddenly looked completely sober.

“You have fucked up,” Sardor stated calmly. “You raped one of the girls.”

“Give over,” Håkan attempted. “She…”

“I’ve seen her. The marks on her throat.” Sardor held up his phone to show a picture of

Kaisa. “Not nice. Not nice at all.”

“She was into it.”

Sardor smiled.

“Okay. I don’t give a shit that you’re a cop. We’ve both got stuff on each other but this time

you fucked up. Big time.”

Håkan walked past Eje and on towards the living room. The floor sounded a bit sticky as he

went over and sat down on the sofa next to the soapstone stove. He drank some water.

“Who is the woman?”

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“A girl,” replied Håkan.

“Fit. A bit young maybe.”

Håkan ignored that comment about Isabelle Åkerlund, a thirty-one year old trainee police

officer he’d been seeing for a few months.

“I can pay. I’ll pay and you keep quiet. Simple. Just as long as you get out of here so I can get

some sleep.”

Sardor saw the genuine pleading in Håkan’s eyes. The bootlicking turned his stomach. Yet

for once the shoe was on the other foot.

“Gave Kaisa the same opportunity, did you?”

Håkan sighed but didn’t respond. Sardor waved Eje over.

“So what now? Do I get a kicking or what? Look,” Håkan put his glass down. “I am sorry. I

don’t know what came over me. I just saw red. I’d had far too much to drink.”

Sardor recalled the image of Kaisa’s neck, and felt a rush course through his body: the rage.

The hate. His loathing for these cowardly punters who abuse the girls. Not because they were

ultimately his girls. This wasn’t about ownership, just pure unadulterated rage.

“I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. I was so…”

“Pissed and horny,” Sardor cut in.

“A hundred,” said Håkan.

“One hundred thousand?”

“Yes.”

Sardor smiled. He was really enjoying this shifted balance of power.

“We’ll forget about it. I’ve got something else you can help us with instead.”

“Okay,” said Håkan, looking visibly relieved.

“We’ll come back to that. But I can’t disappoint Tatyana. She’s fucking livid.”

Håkan shook his head.

“So what do we do now?

“I have to be able to show her some blood.”

Håkan stood up and walked towards Sardor.

“Two blows to the left hand side?”

Sardor nodded at Håkan.

“Three.”

“No rings,” said Håkan.

Sardor nodded again.

95

While Eje did the dirty work, Sardor looked out through the panoramic windows. The first

light of morning was breaking through the darkness and the birds started singing in a new day on

Stora Essingen. He was looking forward to a yoga session that afternoon.

“Got any decent whisky?” he asked.

Håkan groaned, and slurped blood from his busted lip.

“Yeah. A Speyside. Will that do you?”

Håkan stood up and stumbled over to the glass drinks trolley.

“Perfect,” Sardor said as he pulled out his phone. “We’ll have a glass for the photos.”

96

Saturday evening, 8th June

ÅRSTAVIKEN, STOCKHOLM

Tekla pulled on her faded dark blue jogging pants, her favourite bra, the jumper her mum had

knitted her – finished just before she slipped into the mist – her windcheater, which she’d bought

in Umeå back when she still harboured dreams about becoming an outdoorsy type, and trainers.

She clutched her phone in one hand. Not because she thought some guy might jump her, she

was probably like one of those emaciated gazelles out on the savannah that the lionesses turn

their noses up at, but she wanted to be reachable if Simon rang. He was a night-owl, always had

been. After a few hours had passed since her visit to the ICU, it once again felt bizarre to think

that Simon could be the burns victim. It was probably her brain short-circuiting, seeing and

hearing things that weren’t there. She needed more amphetamine.

The door slammed shut behind her. Music streamed out from the brick-building across the

street, she could see people smoking at open windows. Tekla let a taxi pass in front of her as she

crossed the road and continued onto the cobbles that covered the whole of the square itself. She

closed her eyes and felt the uneven surface through her soles, imagining how this could be

somewhere in southern Europe, a warm evening with the sound of cheerful laughter coming

from a trattoria. Finally, a bit of summer heat had found its way to this inaccessible corner of

Europe.

She opened her eyes. The florist’s was closed. The kebab shop was open, but devoid of

customers. A few figures were wandering, apparently aimlessly, around the edges of the square.

Perhaps they were mentally ill, unable to settle down in their lonely little flats. Or addicts, looking

for the first hit of the night.

By 7-Eleven, she was hit by a heavy waft of the smell of newly baked pastries. A young guy

in a cap who she recognised waved from the fridge section, where he was restocking the vitamin

water. Tekla waved back, then pulled her hood up over her head, without really knowing why.

Silly and irrational. She didn’t know anyone around here. She’d only been in the apartment about

a year, but when she headed out at night it was as if she wanted to change form, preferably move

about the city with tinted windows and a chauffeur, point and say “that way, we haven’t looked

97

for Simon over there.” She bought a coffee and a packet of liquorice chewing gum. On her way

out, she held the door open for an old man with a walking frame. The coffee was hot and it

burned her palate. Straight overhead, the sky was dark but to the left she could see drapes of the

sun’s pink rays as it tried to keep the day alive. She downed the coffee, felt it warm her tummy,

and walked over to the zebra crossing. She crossed over and continued on down towards the

water.

Her headache was grinding her temples like a millstone. Images jostled inside her head,

demanding her attention. The burning tower block. The tormented faces of all the casualties.

And what the hell had actually happened in A&E last Thursday anyway? The stab victim and the

three-year-old, at the same time? How had she made a decision like that? And what were the

consequences going to be. She was happy it was the weekend and Göran was still none the wiser.

On Monday morning, all hell was going to break loose.

The marina was just as dead as the gravel path ahead of her. A few boats were still up on dry

land, waiting to be lowered into the cold, black waters of the bay. Her only experience of boats

was the rowboat on the lake in Edsåsdalen – they used to take it out fishing. Tekla could see her

father’s thick hands rowing steadily out towards the middle of the calm lake. As if all the fish

were lying there, at its deepest point, waiting to get caught. Dad’s satisfied expression as he baited

the hooks in front of her and Simon’s expectant faces. Simon’s open smile as he said ‘Ladies

first,’ at which point she’d grabbed the rod and cast off. He never showed any signs of jealousy.

Not even when, many years later, she got her own moped, even though he wanted one more

than anything else in the world. “Your big sister can take care of herself,” was Dad’s matter-of-

fact reply. Of course she would lend it to him when no one was around. Simon nurtured and

repaid that trust very carefully, and would polish the paintwork with his old Iron Maiden t-shirt

after every ride. “Just like new.” He would then flash his honest grin.

A chill breeze blew up from the water. The effects of the coffee were blown away and she

couldn’t stop thinking about Simon. After a long walk around Hellasgården almost three months

earlier and a row that erupted they had only had sporadic contact on the phone, hadn’t seen each

other at all. That was the longest they had ever been apart. And she could see how badly it was

affecting her, she felt almost mutilated.

She stopped by the vertical rock face at the bottom of the long slope. She knew she was

early, and he was always late. She took a few minutes to enjoy the beautiful scene. There, from

the darkness of the woods, she could look over to the other side undisturbed.

The Nobel Hospital towered powerfully across the water. A place so full of history, suffering

and knowledge. Was a ruptured aorta being rushed into theatre? Perhaps someone was battling

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with a crash caesarean that was about to go badly wrong? Was someone sprinting past those

windows in ICU with a needle in hand, ready to remove the pericardial tamponade that was

about to cost the heart attack victim his life?

Try as she might, she couldn’t get rid of the image of the burns victim’s foot. Could it be

Simon after all? She tried to laugh at the absurdity, but she felt a lump in her throat instead. She

would have to wait and see what the DNA tests revealed. What if she’d got it wrong? She would

then have exposed her brother as a junkie. Which, admittedly, he might’ve been, but not heroin,

which the burned man had taken? There was no point trying to hurry things along, the police

were conducting the investigation as quickly as they could. And if, after all, it did turn out to be

him, what was the connection with that van? Could Simon have had anything to do with a bomb?

She managed to smile sincerely to herself. Pictured her dad laughing at Simon when he moaned

about the recoil on the hunting rifle. Simon didn’t want to shoot anymore. Tekla took charge of

the gun. Simon was a good shot with his air rifle, but he was more into Lego, and then, a few

years later, mopeds.

She had to assume that it wasn’t Simon lying there, intubated. The foot was a coincidence. A

trick her badly-functioning brain was playing on her. Instead, Tekla was going to focus on finding

him, and then give him a real bollocking. All she knew was that she would do anything for her

brother. Wherever he’d got to. Whatever state he was in. No matter what demands it might make

on her.

She looked at her phone. Ten long minutes to go.

The bridge was just visible through the trees. The cars up there gave a distant indistinct hum.

In the background, beyond the bridge: the high-rise buildings pushing the forest to one side.

She sat down on one of the wooden logs by the outdoor gym. Someone had chucked a

tobacco tin that she couldn’t be bothered to pick up but that irritated her nonetheless.

“Hi,”

Tekla looked up. She hadn’t heard him coming.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Jumpy?”

He sat down on a log next to hers, legs crossed, and his bright yellow running shoes shone

in the darkness. They looked brand new.

“Makes you want to work out.”

He pulled his rucksack of his back, its orange straps flapped as he did so.

“Not really,” she said flatly. Her pulse was slowing sinking. She just wanted to get away from

there as quickly as possible. He always wanted to shoot the breeze first though, and she had long

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since accepted the rules of the game. If she engaged him in conversation for a few minutes,

pretended to be interested in his updates about some girl, trouble with some supplier or

customer, then he’d be satisfied and disappear. On the occasions when she’d revealed her

impatience he’d just started acting like a five-year-old determined to make it take as long as

possible.

“How do you manage to look in such good shape without working out?”

“Good genes,” Tekla replied.

“Are your parents sporty?”

She smiled as she thought about her mother’s upper arms, bags of skin and fat that flapped

and wobbled as she knitted.

“That would be exaggerating.”

“But you have been active, right?” he insisted, seemingly genuinely interested.

Tekla thought back to Anna-Stina’s valiant efforts to get her to come to a gym class in

Umeå. How she’d gone along, perhaps three times, lain there on the stinking, sweaty gym floor

doing sit-ups, push-ups and squat thrusts. It only hurt – no elation, no kick. Her limbs seemed

badly assembled when put under strain, hopping in a jerky way.

“I haven’t, as a matter of principle.”

He looked her up and down from head to toe in astonishment.

“Unbelievable.”

She noted how he stared at her little bust, sucking in her body the way guys in the pub might

when they thought it was a real compliment to admire someone in a really animal way. She

wanted stolen glances, from the side, unobtrusive, as though she was forbidden fruit. Not a slab

of meat to be thrown on the barbecue.

“I guess one she say thanks at this point,” said Tekla.

He put the rucksack down on the muddy ground and took out a cigarette.

“Want one?”

“No thanks.”

“You don’t smoke, right?”

Tekla shook her head.

“Yes I suppose its only Polish builders who smoke on the job these days.” He took a long

pull into his lungs. “Were you working after the fire?”

“Yes.”

“How was that?”

She immediately regretted saying anything.

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“It was a… big fire.”

“Lots of deaths and casualties?”

“You know there were. And I can’t discuss any of it. Confidentiality, you know?”

“Shit that’s stupid.”

He looked disappointed. Probably didn’t even know the word.

She was suddenly struck by the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about him. Did he

have a proper job as well as this? Family? Was it his real name that he’d told her? Probably not.

But she did have his mobile number. Probably a separate ‘work phone’. She actually felt slightly

curious. He seemed kind, despite his slang and his obsession with talking about girls all the time,

all those sexual references. Luckily he had other customers to meet. It was Saturday, after all. He

got his phone out and started texting.

Eventually he threw his cigarette butt onto the ground.

“How much do you want?”

“Forty.”

He stopped dead, holding the rucksack in one hand.

“Wow, I take it you’re not hawking it on? You know this is for Percy.”

“Just my personal use.”

“But it was twenty-five last week.”

“There’s a lot on at work right now.”

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

She tried to smile.

“We can talk anytime. I’m damn good at keeping secrets. I swear. And it’s no problem if you

want more. It’s all good for business. But what’s better still is having long-term customers. You

know…”

“I just need a few more bangers at the moment.”

“Bangers?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes?”

Tekla felt exposed, silly.

“You bang one, when you take a wrap, yeah. No one says bangers.”

“Whatever,” Tekla said, just wanting him to disappear.”

“You’re funny, Doc.”

“Sure.”

Tekla regretted having mentioned that she worked as a doctor. She’d always been a bit blue-

eyed, as Simon was always pointing out.

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He pulled out a carrier bag, and from that a freezer bag full of little paper balls. He counted

Tekla’s ration into another freezer bag.

“Here,”

“Thanks.”

She had already worked out how much to give him and she held out the bundle of notes. He

stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

“Not going to count it?”

He smiled haughtily.

Tekla knew he was expensive. But he was also the only one who made those little balls for

his customers. The mere thought of sitting at home with some scales, a little spoon and some loo

roll made her paranoid. It would probably end up being the wrong weight, not exactly 0.2g. And

she could afford it. For now.

She stood up and he took her by the hand. His hand was warm, and sweaty.

“Take it easy, yeah?”

“Are you my dad or what?” she said as she pulled her hand away.

He threw his arms wide.

“You just give me a call. The customer comes first.”

He disappeared off the way he came, towards Liljeholmen, probably home to most of his

customers. Or Hornstull. She’d never seen him around Gullmarsplan.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the silence.

After a minute or so she turned around and made sure he really had disappeared. Alone at

last. She pulled out the plastic bag and got hold of a little ball. Chucked it into her mouth, then

realised: she didn’t have any water. Fuck. Nothing to wash it down with. Her mouth was tinder-

dry and there was no way on earth she was going to be able to swallow. But she couldn’t wait till

she got home either. Her head was pounding. Her body was screaming with pain.

Tekla looked around in desperation, hoping to spot a dropped water bottle.

Nothing.

The only thing left was the water down in Årstaviken.

She scrambled down the slope. Then, balancing on a slippery rock, she bent over and

scooped up some water in her cupped hand. She swallowed the paper ball, which by now had

started to dissolve.

She closed her eyes. Its effects would hit within a minute or so. Her mouth tasted of nasty

water and toilet paper. Tekla picked up a stick of liquorice chewing gum. It tasted better straight

102

away. She was shivering, and she knew that by the time she got home she’d be almost

hypothermic.

Despite having ploughed through a carrier bag containing a chocolate bar, a bunch of

grapes, a half-litre bottle of Fanta and a pasta salad from the supermarket by Gullmarsplan, Tekla

was already hungry and had to make her way to the lunch room at eleven in the morning. She

asked an auxiliary who was warming some food in a microwave whether it would be okay to take

a sandwich from the patients’ fridge.

“Yes, just take one love. Everyone does it. Public hospital, you know.”

“Thanks.”

She poured herself a big glass of milk and could feel her strength slowly returning. Half her

on-call shift to go and she was already poleaxed. It didn’t matter how quickly she got through

them, new patients just kept arriving. The only good thing about the weekend shift was that

neither Göran nor any other management were in the building.

“What is it that stinks?” Tekla asked.

“We’re all wondering the same thing.”

Her visit to Intensive Care the previous day had thrown her completely. She didn’t usually

have such problems concentrating. She sent the tenth text of the day to Simon. No reply. She

recalled what a technophobe he’d been as a kid. Always preferred board games over his friends’

Atari marathons. Deep down, he must hate the mobile era. If only she knew where he was, she’d

send him a friendly little handwritten note with a heartfelt greeting.

Tekla noticed that the auxiliary was looking at her and she raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“I just wanted to say that plenty of us think that you did exactly the right thing the other

night. You were amazing. Don’t let anyone get on top of you. That would never happen if you

were a man.”

“Do you mean the knife drama in the resus room?”

“And the little kid at the same time. And then straight off to the fire. You’re amazing Tekla.

Don’t you forget it.”

The auxiliary, who Tekla could now see was called Viola, came closer and lowered her voice

conspiratorially.

“No one, apart from you, spotted that it was one of those status…”

“Status epilepticus.”

“And septicaemia. You took a risk with all those drugs, and you saved that kid’s life.”

“I don’t know if everyone sees it that way.”

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Tekla new that there was now a risk that Oscar was brain-damaged. So what kind of life had

she saved him for? Had she given him, and his family, another six months of medical suffering?

She thought about what his big sister Iris had said.

“Oh yes.”

Out of nowhere, Viola stroked Tekla’s cheek with the back of her hand. It wasn’t clear who

should be patting who but Viola was obviously experienced.

“Have you got someone at home you can talk to love?”

Tekla reacted as if she’d had an electric shock – he face twitched and Viola took her hand

away.

“I cope just fine.”

“Oh I’m sure you do. But sometimes you need someone to share life’s ups and downs with,”

Viola said, then left. Suddenly Tekla longed for home, Edsåsdalen, she drank some more milk

and pressed the button for extra strong coffee. The bright green machine growled and spluttered

out some black sludge. It wouldn’t be called coffee in Italy. Simon loved it that way though, he

always made his coffee ‘as strong as Dad’s homebrew’. The thing that bothered Tekla most of all

was still the sour stench hanging over the A&E department. Wasn’t that the smell of old refuse?

The patient with burns from Söder Tower had been in theatre again overnight, more dead

skin had been removed and they were preparing to for to perform an allograft – transplanting

skin from a dead donor. The stabbing victim who had arrived on Thursday night was in a post-

op recovery ward. He had lost his spleen and had received a total of eleven blood bags, but he

had survived. Incredible, given the circumstances. Tekla suspected he’d have a very saw chest

after his friend’s CPR. She smiled. At the same time she noticed that she was walking around

trying to read her colleagues’ expressions. She was probably reading too much into it, but it did

feel as though some of them were a bit curter than usual. She pictured two buttons in front of

her, one green – for, and one red – against, euthanasia. And herself standing on a crate, delivering

a barnstorming speech about how complicated it was, you shouldn’t try and make it black and

white. Or red and green.

“There are lots of people in the waiting room,” a nurse reminded her from the desk.

“Where’s the other doctor?”

“Don’t know.”

The other was, unfortunately, Hampus Nordensköld. She hadn’t seen much of him. He was

probably very competent – otherwise he wouldn’t have got a registrar post at Nobel’s A&E – but

he hadn’t exactly been generous about sharing his knowledge.

“Tekla?”

104

“Yes?”

Cassandra, the nurse with the spider tattoo, sought her attention.

“Would you mind checking on cubicle seven? Her saturation’s down to eighty-eight, despite

four litres of oxygen.”

“Cubicle seven.” Like rats in cages. Do they do that to dehumanise, to distance themselves,

to be able to cope with all the shit? Is it because the ants’ nest is too big to stay on top of?

Tekla went in to an Iraqi woman with congestive heart failure. She seemed to be floating in

complete ignorance of her critical illness – a condition that has a higher mortality than cancer.

After her, there were another nine patients waiting. On top of that they had sixty patients waiting

for triage right now. She couldn’t see Hampus and thought about asking the nurses to page him

but then concluded that he must be busy with something critical. Her headache was starting to

change colour. From pumpkin orange to brownish-black.

Half an hour later, when Tekla was sitting with a patient with a suspected embolism in his

thigh, Viola poked her head in and held up a cordless phone.

“It’s for you Tekla.”

Tekla held up her plastic gloves and demonstrated to Viola that she was busy doing an

ultrasound.

“Can it wait?”

Viola shook her head and covered the phone’s mouthpiece as she whispered:

“It’s the Hospital Director. She sounds very determined.”

105

Sunday 9th June

LAKE VIEW ESTATE AGENTS, STRANDVÄGEN, STOCKHOLM

Nina closed the glass door and pushed a bronze-coloured Nespresso capsule into the machine.

She spotted Jeanette approaching her with an open laptop in her hand but Nina dismissed her

with an unambiguous gesture. Jeanette flung her free hand up in frustration but turned around

outside the door and went back to reception. Nina sat on the leather armchair, kicked off her

shoes and put her feet up on the footstool. She stared out across the water, and allowed her gaze

to settle on Kastellholmen’s tower. The sky had a cornflower blue hue.

She picked up the phone.

“It’s him,” she said when Jonna answered.

She could hear the intensive hum of Manhattan’s morning rush hour in the background.

“You’re kidding!” Jonna exclaimed.

Nina necked her hot espresso. She had another looked around, made sure that Jeanette

hadn’t snuck in.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“So what happens now?”

“We have to…”

Nina stood up and undid the top button on her blouse. A troublesome thought rushed

through her head: what would actually happen if Victor found out about all of it? The answer was

simple: he must never find out. That was unthinkable. An unadulterated catastrophe. On top of

that is what Sardor would be able to do with this.

“All they know is that Oleg was there. They’ve been to the hospital and checked… it is him.”

“Should I come home?” asked Jonna.

“What for?”

“I can’t…”

“Do you think this is a good time to start whingeing?” Nina walked over to the counter and

pushed in a new capsule. The machine whirred. “Are you my partner or what? And by the way, I

sold Kaggholmen today. Got it up to thirty-five.”

106

“Well done, but…” Jonna grumbled down the line.

“No buts,” Nina said sharply. “Buck your ideas up.”

“But what do we do now?” asked Jonna.

Nina picked up the saucer bearing her double espresso and stood in front of the painting on

the wall. She stared at the fat brush strokes, the oil paint. She remembered how Victor had taken

her and Sardor to an art museum in London. Her dad’s lectures about where art really belonged.

“The only museum you need to visit is the Hermitage in St Petersburg. This is like a Wendy-

house in comparison.” Sardor had spent most of the time trying to tease his big sister but Nina

had lapped it up. Her interest was well and truly awoken in front of a Malevich. “A black square

– impressive,” Sardor said sarcastically before moving on. Nina stood there for some time,

transfixed by the painting’s simple beauty. Since then, she and Joakim had bought as much art as

they could get their hands on. All the house and apartment deals they’d done had drained their

finances though, so there was no prospect of any more art for the time being. The Söder Tower

deal was going to change all that.

“He must not speak, simple as that,” said Nina.

“But isn’t he seriously injured?” Jonna asked. “Is he even going to wake up at all? What

happens if he does survive? He knows everything doesn’t he.”

“He won’t talk,” Nina said with a suppressed irritation in her voice.

She downed the coffee.

“Don’t I usually sort things out?”

She heard straight away how she sounded like Victor.

“I’m afraid I’d have to admit you do,” said Jonna. “Even if I don’t always want to know how

you manage it.”

That was another thing Nina had learned from Victor: discretion. Never give too much

away. Keep sensitive stuff to yourself. Only mention things to your closest confidantes if the

situation demanded it. Unfortunately, there was a huge secret she had to bear alone. Victor would

never know the real reason why he had been released from the Moscow prison. She recalled the

bald-headed man who had approached her in the university refectory. He told her he’d come

from Central, which she later found out was a nickname for FSB’s HQ. They were going to

release Victor and send him to Sweden, but Nina was to keep an eye on him. To report regularly

to a contact person. What could she do? Say she wouldn’t do it? That her father’s death sentence

should be carried out? She quite simply had no choice.

She used to meet her FSB handler once every six months, at Humlegården’s Dental Clinic.

107

“You just sit tight and I’ll take care of this,” said Nina. “I’ve got just as much to lose as you

have if anything comes out.”

“How come?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Nina saw Jeanette coming back and this time she let her in, and asked Jonna to hold on.

“Yes?” Nina asked.

“Two things. Don’t forget about the Swedish Fortifications Agency. Your guests arrive on

Monday.”

“And the other?”

“Your dad called. He said he couldn’t get through on your mobile.”

“Tell him I’m in a meeting.”

“And your phone’s off,” Jeanette suggested helpfully and left the room without getting an

affirmation.

“Are you still there?”

“I am actually already involved in this mess.”

“But the less you know the better,” said Nina.

“I don’t want you keeping me on the outside.”

Nina sat down at her desk. The screen flickered into life when she moved the mouse.

“Ok, suit yourself. I have contacts.”

“Some Russian?”

“I’m not going to say any more.”

“And what if this guy doesn’t fix it. There must be guards there?”

“They know how to gain access.”

“They?”

“As I was saying. Trust me.”

“Just as long as this doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

Nina laughed.

“It won’t. Now, make the most of being in town and enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you

tomorrow.” Nina ended the call and searched for the dental clinic’s number. She was going to

have to be quick, and act now, before the window closed again.

108

Sunday afternoon, 9th June

NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Tekla. How are you?” Monica Carlsson asked as she picked something out of a bowl and

popped it in her mouth.

Tekla was still tense and trying to shake off the feeling that something unpleasant was about

to happen. Being summoned to the director, on a Sunday, had Tekla fantasising that more details

about the little child had emerged, and that she was about to be sacked. Now, seeing the Hospital

Director’s relaxed body propped against her desk with one hand in the liquorice bowl, she wasn’t

so sure that today was doomsday after all.

“Good thanks. Fine.”

“Good of you to come.”

Tekla was taken aback by this new tone. At the same time she couldn’t help wondering what

would’ve happened if she hadn’t left A&E and run straight up to the top floor.

“Everything okay down in the cave?”

Tekla contemplated saying something snide about bratty Hampus and the other workshy

doctors.

“Lots of patients today.”

“And plenty of beds to admit these poor souls to.”

Tekla attempted to reflect the director’s wry smile.

“Isn’t that right?”

Monica put the bowl of liquorice down and hung her red blazer on the back of her chair.

She was wearing a blouse with shoulder pads, something Tekla hadn’t seen since the late nineties.

The director picked up a copy of Connoisseur magazine and absentmindedly flipped through it.

“I heard there’s a bad smell. Not here though.”

Tekla took a deep breath and realised that Monica Carlsson was right. This was in fact the

only place in the hospital where she hadn’t noticed that fusty smell.

The director put the magazine down.

“Is he a terrorist or what?”

109

There it was. The reason why she’d been called up. Of course there was an agenda. Tekla

had realised during her first meeting with the director that one didn’t get summoned at random.

“I hope you don’t think anyone tells me anything.”

Monica came and stood uncomfortably close to Tekla, who could smell a hint of alcohol on

her. Or was it a sickly perfume? She let her gaze follow the golden necklace down onto Monica’s

chest and what was weighing it down: a chunky golden dice.

“It’s like a pyramid,” Monica said thoughtfully. “I’m completely dependent on the two

stones that keep me on the top. Sometimes I might feel a connection with the four stones

beneath them. But that’s as far as it goes.”

Tekla saw the picture in front of her. She thought about Simon and his fascination with large

buildings. How he was always building: Lego towers, food pyramids, sandcastles.

“You, on the other hand, have a whole army of stones down there. Surrounded by stability.

And you can choose who you lean against. I can’t do that.”

Monica picked up two more sweets and started chewing them slowly.

“Do you know who my two stones are?”

“No,” Tekla replied.

“No, I hardly know myself.”

Tekla realised she’d forgotten to take off her plastic apron. Should she start tearing it off

here and now?

“You’ve got lots to do down there, I can see that.”

“Quite a bit.”

Tekla carefully removed her apron.

“Lots of wrecks.”

“I don’t know if…”

“I like to call a spade a spade. They are wrecks, and we are their salvation. We just have to

get the ones who can survive the journey to the mainland onboard.”

“Lots of them are very sick.”

“But not all of them can survive.”

“That depends on their condi…”

“The condition of this society is rotten,” Monica said firmly. “And we need to do what we

can to carve away the dead flesh. What was it like, growing up in Edsåsdalen?”

Once again, it felt like someone was grabbing Tekla’s neck from behind and pushing, almost

depriving her of air, and her voice deserted her.

“A bit too calm, sometimes.”

110

“I can imagine. Not a lot of sunshine.”

Tekla pictured Simon playing on the beach. The lake really warmed up in the middle of

summer and they would go swimming until late into the night. During the day, Dad would sit

reading the paper, glancing up every now and then at the kids playing in the canoe close to the

shoreline. Tekla buried Simon in the sand, leaving only his closed eyes and the tips of his ears

visible.

“Summers were a bit short I suppose.”

“But you felt in control, didn’t you?”

Control. Was that really it, Tekla wondered. The only times she’d ever really relaxed were

with Dad and Simon, when they were alone in the woods or up in the mountains. Far away from

Mum’s sharp tongue or Simon’s wayward friends, away from Dad’s sticky bottles in the larder.

“You don’t have to answer,” Monica said, lowering her voice. Tekla could feel the warmth

from the hospital director’s body. She tried not to blink.

“I know that you are a person with control. Just make sure you keep it. Don’t let anyone get

on top of you.”

Monica Carlsson had summed up the situation pretty well. At the same time though, Tekla

felt like she was actually getting at something else.

“Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Okay.”

Then, out of nowhere, the director suddenly said:

“The best intensive care in the region. The most satisfied patients. The shortest queues in

A&E. And ground-breaking research that leaves the pompous professors on the other side of

Solna bridge salivating.”

“That doesn’t really sound like Nobel Hospital,” Tekla said, adding: “Anymore.”

Monica glared at Tekla.

“Exactly.”

Tekla could feel that there was more to come.

“But it will be.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“That’s precisely why I appreciate you.”

“Because?”

Monica Carlsson picked up her reading glasses and went back over to the computer.

Tekla guessed that it was now she was supposed to slip away silently. She waited for a few

seconds in case there was anything else to come but Monica was absorbed by her screen. As she

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left the room, Tekla wondered how Monica Carlsson was planning to go about achieving all that.

And why? What was her motivation? Then the images of that summer with Simon came back.

It was then she realised what her brain had been trying to draw her attention to: Simon’s

ears. The big birthmark on the top of his right ear. She had to get to ICU.

112

Sunday 9th June

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL

When Tekla arrived at the unit, she had to stop to catch her breath. She wiped the sweat from

her brow and started walking towards the burns unit. She bumped into Pirrko, the nurse who had

been looking after the burns victim, on the way.

“Don’t you usually come about eleven?” Pirrko asked.

“Yes. But I remembered something I need to investigate.”

The patient’s right ear was not burned. Tekla’s brain had noted that, but had not signalled it

until now. She was about, finally, to find out whether it was Simon who was lying there.

Pirrko was carrying a pile of yellow blankets and she accompanied Tekla down the corridor.

“We’ve been baking, would you like something sweet?”

“No thanks.”

Tekla wiped the sweat from her forehead again.

“Maybe something to drink, at least?”

“I’m fine. I won’t be staying long.”

Tekla noticed a prickly sensation on the palms of her hands.

Pirrko peeled off into cubicle two, and said:

“Give me a shout if you need anything.”

Tekla walked into the airlock and started putting on the plastic clothing. The gloves got

stuck because her hands were so sweaty but in the end she was ready and she pushed open the

door.

At first her brain failed to compute what her eyes were seeing: A person holding a pillow

over the patient’s face.

Tekla stormed over to the bed.

“What are you doing?”

The man stopped what he was doing, but did not turn around.

Tekla realised what a dangerous situation she was in: She was alone in the room, there was

no nurse or auxiliary around. And someone was there attempting to take the patient’s life.

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The man, who was wearing a black windcheater with a hood, dropped the pillow, spun

around and grabbed the bedside table, flinging it towards Tekla as he made towards the window.

Tekla managed to get out of the way of the flying table, but tripped on her plastic robe. She

had already – on some subconscious level – spotted a chunky pair of scissors lying on a chair

next to a pile of bandages. She managed to round the table, grab the scissors and run towards the

man.

Just as he was opening the window and taking his first step up onto a chair, Tekla managed

to stab the scissors into the man’s thigh. She came from the side and flung her whole weight onto

him. The scissors plunged right into his groin. Tekla lost her grip on the scissors, which had gone

in right down to the handles.

The man fell to the floor and hissed something in a language Tekla didn’t recognise.

As she regained her balance, she saw the man pulling the scissors from his groin and quickly

standing up. He started limping towards the door.

Tekla screamed as loud as she could. She hesitated a second. Should she stay here and check

on the patient, or chase the man?

Outside the room, the ward was deserted.

“Someone’s tried to kill the burns victim in Room One! Ring security!” she screamed as she

watched the man hobble round the corner.

Pirrko came out from Room Two.

“The patient in Room One has been attacked. Look after him. And call security and the

police.”

Then Tekla gave chase.

The man moved off towards the lift and opened the door to the stairwell. Tekla pulled her

phone out and ran after him. Her first thought was to ring 112, but Pirrko was sure to do that.

She got to the stairwell, hesitated for a fraction of a second but then pulled open the door.

She could hear footsteps a few storeys down and she chased them. No doors slammed shut

so she carried on all the way down to the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, the floor was spattered with blood. She opened the door to the

service tunnels and was greeted by a fusty smell as the door opened.

The tunnel, though, was deserted.

To her right was a long corridor – he couldn’t have made it all the way down there. To the

left, however, the tunnel turned sharply straight away. Tekla went in that direction.

She stopped at a corner and listened. Deathly silence. Could he be on the other side holding

a pistol?

114

She took a chance and rounded the corner.

She noted the blood on the yellow cement floor outside a large door. There were no signs

revealing what was behind it.

Clutching her phone tightly in one hand, Tekla tried to get her breathing under control. She

looked around. Nothing there with which to defend herself.

Further down the corridor, she could now see two people dressed in white coming towards

her, oblivious to the unfolding drama.

She opened the door to see a new corridor that ran along one end of the hospital building.

At the end of the corridor, about two-hundred metres from her, she could see the man stumbling

off.

Tekla screamed at started running after him.

He did not turn around.

The exit, Tekla thought to herself. He knows that there’s an exit leading out into the staff car

park.

“Stop!”

The man still didn’t turn around.

Suddenly Tekla’s phone started ringing. She could feel a crushing pressure on her chest as

the air ran out altogether and she realised she wasn’t going to catch up with the man.

She stopped, and looked around. The service tunnels were completely empty. No one else

had seen what had happened.

The phone was still ringing. Tekla answered.

“This is Cassandra in A&E. Where are you?”

“I…” Tekla tried to regain control of her breathing.

“Hampus wants you to come to the resus room.”

“Do I need to hurry?”

“Well it’s not an arrest, but I think you are needed.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

When she’d hung up, her phone bleeped. She turned the screen towards her and read.

I need help!

Tekla stared at the sender’s name. Simon.

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Five weeks earlier

HANINGE INDUSTRIAL ESTATE

Magnus tried to keep the nausea under control as he stared through the tinted window of the riot

squad’s lead minibus.

“Do you have to drive like a nutcase?” he shouted to Matte up front.

That was met with silence. He pulled his balaclava down and took a few deep breaths.

“How long’s left?”

“Two minutes,” Stefan replied from the seat next to his. “Get your mask on now.”

Magnus picked up his face mask again. There were two squads deployed. One squad within

the riot police consisted of two groups of six operatives in each vehicle. These were followed by

three patrol cars from the regular force – ordinary officers, in other words – who would do the

seizing of goods, make the arrests and so on. But the riot squad always go in first. Organised

criminals meant heavy weapons.

Magnus tightened his bulletproof vest and checked his MP5 one more time.

“Thirty seconds,” shouted Matte.

Everyone prepared themselves. The van slowed down, veered right and then accelerated

again. After another few seconds its breaks slammed on. The side doors opened and they

stormed out.

Magnus was struck by how cold the air was. It couldn’t have been much above freezing.

Typical May weather. Two cars were parked a little way away. No motorbikes. No people. The

observers, who had done reconnaissance and had been watching the industrial unit overnight,

reported that only two guys had entered the building, and no one had come out.

The unit stood on a large, open, tarmacked yard, with its closest neighbour around fifty

metres away. The property was ringed with fencing but the gates were open, which was strange

because it was the day before a bank holiday and the sun had just set. The people who worked

there ought to have left to go and eat candy floss by some Walpurgis bonfire with their families.

Magnus had his automatic weapon across his chest with the muzzle pointing slightly downwards.

His Sig Sauer sat in its holster, as did the rest of his gear. Ahead of him, Stefan had taken the

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lead. Magnus looked up towards the second floor. Two signs with red letters on an illuminated

white background read: “Air Source Heat Pumps” and “PF Print and Copy”. The police

observer’s presentation at the station earlier that day closely matched the scene Magnus now

surveyed. They had shown floor plans they’d got from the leaseholder. The motorcycle club’s

premises were located in the cellar. But he was the only one who knew where the fridge full of

money was.

The squad quickly advanced towards the garage entrance and broke down the double doors.

After that, a series of double explosions were heard. They had decided on a surprise attack with

flash grenades and bangers. The intelligence operatives had indicated that there may be weapons

on the premises.

A large room full of photocopiers and with stacks of cardboard boxes lining the walls

greeted them, but no people. The strip lights were on. It all looked fairly neat and tidy.

They spread the squads out. Each officer knew exactly what to do. They waited outside until

Magnus and his group had secured the building. The warmth inside the building was striking and

Magnus was sweating profusely.

“Clear!” Matte screamed and carried on down a corridor.

They methodically searched through one room after another. Covering each other at all

times. They had done this so many times that occasionally it felt as if they were inside one of

those Chinese dragons from a New Year parade. The dragon wound its way onwards, searched a

kitchen that was devoid of occupants but full of empty pizza boxes, polystyrene cartons and beer

cans. Another room was full of banana crates.

Magnus knew the floor plan. He headed off towards the centre of the building, which was

where the fridge was supposed to be.

The next door was closed. And locked. Stefan barged in the door and was met by a group of

people for the first time: four young guys who looked to have South American heritage.

“Police. Down!” shouted someone. The men held up their hands and fell to their knees.

Pockets and trouser-linings were searched. The leather gloves irritated Magnus, they made

detecting sharp objects difficult. The nightmare was to prick yourself on a needle, although

luckily he’d never actually done that. He tugged at his jacket and undid the top button to give

himself a bit more air.

The men were handcuffed and then left under the guard of one officer until such time as the

slow-moving patrol units could take over. Magnus and another four officers continued along the

corridor. A machine room with a large fuse box in. Two bedrooms with simple camp beds, with

sweet wrappers, drinks bottles and other rubbish strewn all across the floor. It stank of piss.

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“Clear!” Matte called out and carried on.

Magnus pulled his mask down slightly. He only had one problem with the gear, and that was

how warm it was. Even as a child, he’d been teased about his sweat attacks. His head was boiling.

He let the MP5 hang on its strap across his chest and pulled out the Sig Sauer which was easier to

carry. He pulled up his mask.

In the next room, they finally found the heart of the operation: the lab.

“Police! Down on the floor!”

Five young guys stood completely still at first, then started following orders. The aluminium

benches were completely covered with scales, baskets full of zipseal bags, rubber gloves, spoons,

tape, white tubs, glass jars and piles of white powder.

Matte and two others secured that room and cuffed the young men.

Magnus carried on down the corridor with Stefan. They secured a further two rooms and

progressed towards the stairs at the end of the corridor. One last room, on the right-hand side.

That was where he needed to get be. Magnus walked in.

Two guys were sitting at a table in there. Drinking beer, seemingly relaxed, they stared in

bewilderment at Magnus when he stormed in. One of them turned the music off.

“Police,” said Magnus, and he was just about to add, “Down on the ground,” when he heard

Stefan calling in the distance, “Clear!”

Magnus knew that he was in the right place. His pulse rose.

“Where’s the fridge?”

The two red-eyed youths looked pretty intoxicated. The whole room stank of sweet smelling

hash. One of them, who had dark hair and a skull earring, eventually gestured towards it. Magnus

walked over and started tugging at the fridge, which was wedged in under the sink unit.

“Clear!” came Stefan’s voice again, closer this time.

Magnus wiped the sweat from his eyes and put his Sig Sauer down. He pulled at the fridge

door. Eventually it started to budge.

Magnus could hear footsteps approaching down the corridor.

“Quick. In there,” he whispered and pointed towards a door.

The two men went into a broom cupboard.

“Everything under control?” a voice came from behind him.

Magnus turned around. Realised in a split second that he had to decide whether or not

Stefan had seen or heard anything. He took a punt.

“Empty.”

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“Great. Then we can get out of here. All done. The patrol with the detectives and the

forensics team is on its way.”

“Sure. I’m just going to nip to the loo.” He pointed to a toilet across the room, its door wide

open.

“Okay.”

Once Stefan had left the room, Magnus went back to the fridge and ripped it out completely

from under the sink. He pulled the plug out and checked the back: bundles of notes, taped to the

fridge. A whole load of cash, just like Håkan said there would be.

He could feel his pulse rising. He pulled out a paper bag and started ripping the bundles off.

Sweat was stinging his eyes and he pulled his balaclava down to get some air.

“Do you need some help?” One of the men had emerged from the cupboard.

“Wait,” Magnus hissed and carried on stuffing the notes into the bag. Once he was done he

headed for the door and peered out. It was clear, but the sound of voices could be heard from

about twenty metres away. He turned around and stared at the guy. Suddenly he realised that his

mask had slipped down, and that he’d shown his entire face. Fuck!

He pulled up his MP5 and aimed it straight at the guy’s skinny face. Magnus had managed to

pull his mask up again when the other guy with the skull earring came out.

Magnus’ head was spinning. Should he shoot, plead self-defence? But they had no weapons

did they. And there were two of them. One shot each in the heads of two young junkies. No way.

“Chill man,” said the first guy. The other, who probably hadn’t seen Magnus’s face, looked

terrified. Presumably he had no idea what his mate had done wrong.

“Shut up!” Magnus hissed, blinking hard just to see through the sweat. “Fuck!”

“Take it…”

“Give me your wallets!”

The guy with the skull earring carefully pulled out his battered old black leather wallet. The

other one did the same. “Can you point that somewhere else?” He asked, pointing at the MP5.

Magnus lowered the weapon and stuffed the wallets inside his vest.

“So I know who you are… if you grass me up.”

Both stood perfectly still, not knowing what to do next.

“You got that?” Magnus hissed.

“Chill,” said the earring guy. “We won’t say anything.”

“Lie down on the floor.”

The men did as they were told and Magnus handcuffed them both. Then he called out to the

corridor:

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“I found another two. Over here!”

As three uniformed officers arrived, Magnus left the room and took a few deep breaths.

Once the corridor was empty and silence had returned he tore off his helmet and unbuttoned his

jacket to get some air. He rubbed his sweaty face with his and closed his eyes for a moment.

120

Monday morning, 10th June

SÖDERMALM, STOCKHOLM

Tekla stopped in the middle of Skanstull bridge to catch her breath. She had the taste of blood in

her mouth and felt nauseous. She looked up, over towards the Essinge islands and Västerbro

road bridge by the horizon. She wasn’t sure if she’d managed to get any sleep at all that night. It

felt mostly like an anxious stupor between doses of Serax, coffee, bombs and all the images from

yesterday’s chase through the service tunnels beneath the hospital.

The cars on the bridge swished past her, but she took no notice of the cars, the cyclists or

the metro trains a few metres away. She pulled out her lip balm stick, unscrewed the lid, shook

out two bombs and popped them in her mouth. She washed them down with a few gulps of flat

Perrier and continued on towards Skanstull. She picked up the pace and got her phone out again.

She stared at the text message for the hundredth time: I need help!

It was so incredibly weird. And so unlike Simon. Help how? All he had to do was call. Why

hadn’t he answered when she called? Was he high? Had something serious happened? If it was

something acute, he would’ve called the police or an ambulance. At the same time, she knew that

he had always been paranoid about the police. He had always turned to her, whenever he messed

up. Ever since they were teens she’d been his guardian angel, fixer, saviour… basically an extra

parent. For fuck’s sake, if he needed help he only had to answer. At least reply to her texts. She’d

sent eight follow-up questions. She sent another one: Do you need money?

At Skanstull Tekla crossed Götgatan and continued down towards Lilla Blecktorn park. By

the Thai takeaway she stopped and took a few deep breaths. The nausea returned. She wasn’t

daft enough not to realise that she had to eat something. Her stomach was aching and grumbling.

She felt dizzy from the combination of pills and bombs. She was going to eat when she got to the

hospital. Monday morning. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting Göran, who had surely

heard by now about both the knife incident and the little boy in the resus room. That’s without

even mentioning the attack in ICU yesterday. Tekla had been interviewed by police for over an

hour when she emerged from the service tunnels.

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She pulled out her phone again. No replies. She called for the tenth time that day. The same

voicemail greeting. Simon here, leave a…. it was his phone, at least that was beyond doubt. Tekla

had already left several messages. “Where are you Simon? What’s happened? Call me back…”

Something wasn’t right. Why send a text and then not respond?

As she was about to put her mobile back in her pocket it pinged. Holding her breath, she

stared at the screen. It was from Simon:

We need to meet!

She called immediately but it went straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!” Tekla screamed so loud that a young girl walking her dog in the park turned around

and then started hurriedly walking in the opposite direction to the nutter with the phone in her

hand.

She tried him another two times but no reply. Instead, she tried sending several texts: What

do you mean, meet? Where? When? What do you want Simon? Tell me what’s happened. I won’t be cross. I

promise. But please answer your phone. Or text me properly.

After ten long minutes without a reply she had to swallow a couple of Serax so as not to be

torn apart by anxiety. Simon you absolute shit, she thought to herself, and carried on until she

arrived at her destination: Katarina Bangata 71. She entered the key code and walked up the

stairs. She stopped outside Simon’s apartment and called his phone. She pushed her ear to the

door but couldn’t hear anything from inside. She peered in through the letter box but it was dark

and silent on the other side.

“Simon!” she called, again there was no reply. “Simon, are you there?”

She tried to see whether there was any post on the floor but it was dark and the angles were

wrong. She could only catch a glimpse of the old rag rug from Edsåsdalen on the hall floor.

Tekla sent another few texts before finally giving up. She went outside onto the street to

collect her thoughts. She needed to try and think clearly and rationally.

After the attack in the ICU yesterday she had told the police that she had interrupted

someone trying to suffocate the badly burned patient, that she’d stabbed him in the thigh with

scissors and then chased him. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” “No, it didn’t occur to me that it might

be dangerous to go down there.” And “No, as I said, I never saw his face.” She also told them

about the message from Simon, gave them his number and told them that she hadn’t had any

contact with her brother for some time. She didn’t mention the drugs though. They did ask what

he might have meant by his text but she hadn’t given anything away despite her own anxious

thoughts about drugs or money. They didn’t seem particularly interested in that lead, focusing

instead on the attacker in Intensive Care. And no, she didn’t know what language he had cursed

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in. And, for the tenth time, she never saw his face. In the end she’d asked to be allowed to return

to A&E.

She nipped in to the newsagents by Skanstull and bought herself a coffee. Contemplated her

next move. Which of Simon’s friends might she be able to get in touch with? Who might he be

hanging out with? She flipped through her phone contacts in her head but soon realised that she

didn’t know an awful lot about his life in Stockholm these past few years. They had always met

up alone.

She also thought about how she might be able to track a mobile phone but no, she didn’t

know any police officers. She didn’t have any close friends left at all, so who could help her out?

Less than two hours until she was due at work. Should she just not bother? Look for Simon

instead? But where? It just felt stupid. If he really needed help, then surely he would reply to her

texts? That’s if it was him who had sent the messages. It felt so weird, so not Simon. He never

usually sent texts, would always ring if he wanted something. Or just turn up at her door. And

might she now be able to abandon the bizarre notion that the burns victim could be him?

Tekla realised that what she really needed was a good night’s sleep. No more bombs or other

things that could disturb both her sleep and her mood. She drank some coffee and pulled out her

lip balm again. She shook out a bomb, swallowed it and headed for Nobel Hospital. Her phone

rang and she pulled it out – unknown caller.

“Tekla.”

“This is Monica. Would you pop up and see me before the morning meeting?”

Monica Carlsson… Tekla almost dropped the phone.

“Sure,” she eventually managed.

“Good. Come when you can. I’m here.”

Tekla checked the time. Twenty past six, Monday morning.

123

Monday 10th June

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Come in,” Monica Carlsson said in a neutral tone.

Tekla had managed to get changed, and after all that had happened over the last few days

she was prepared for the worst.

“Would you like a coffee?” Monica asked, getting up from her chair. She was wearing

glittering silver trousers that stretched over her powerful thighs, a mint green blouse and the

same gold necklace as before.

“No thanks.”

Monica Carlsson looked fresh, given the ungodly hour.

“Lots of overdoses have come in over the weekend.”

“I see,” said Tekla.

“I have had calls from several senior clinicians. Same thing happening in all the hospitals.”

Tekla wondered whether overdose victims were the only thing on Monica’s mind at this time

on a Monday morning.

“You look a bit rough,” Monica continued.

“That was a nice way of putting it,” Tekla replied and sat down in a chair. Monica stood next

to her desk and picked up a piece of paper.

“A bit or morning homework from Göran. He called yesterday to bother me, in the middle

of the aperitif. About last Thursday’s events in A&E.”

Tekla hunched her shoulders. Here goes.

Monica put on a pair of thin-rimmed gold glasses. “He writes ‘She only called for the other

on-duty doctor twenty-five minutes after the alarm went out about two critically ill patients.’”

Tekla pictured little Oskar in front of her in one room and the stabbed gang member in the

other.

“I asked for help. The first on-call was…”

“Hampus.”

“Hampus Nordensköld was on-call and…”

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“Göran writes that Hampus was on the ward attending to a seriously ill patient with

pneumonia.”

Or attending to a nurse in a broom cupboard, Tekla thought to herself. She couldn’t quite

make out whether Monica was furious or fucking furious. It felt like the air was standing still.

“From what I can gather though, it took a while before he arrived,” Monica said, looking up

from the printed out email.

“I couldn’t tell you how long.”

As a matter of fact she could have. Tekla knew that it had taken Hampus exactly twenty-

seven minutes to get himself down to A&E. She’d seen the hands on the clock as the patient was

brought in and then when Hampus arrived. An eternity. And not acceptable.

“But in the end he did arrive, whatever he’d been up to,” Monica stated matter-of-factly.

“And took over the care of the little boy with Gaucher’s syndrome.”

“Yes,” Tekla said, and gulped despite her dry throat.

Monica looked down at the email once again. “By which time she had already administered a

potentially fatal dose of diazepam,” said Monica.

The nurse in room two reports that they questioned the high dose but that you replied…”

Monica read from the email once more: “Just load the syringe and I’ll give it myself.”

Monica put the report to one side and stared intently at Tekla, who wiped sweat from her

brow.

“I gave the diazepam myself,” said Tekla. She struggled to get the words out. Her tongue

was sticking to her bone dry palate.

“That is euthanasia,” Monica said, with a look of fascination in her eyes.

She picked up a packet of chewing gum from the desk and offered it to Tekla, who declined.

Tekla pictured Monica choking on the chewing gum and suddenly turning plum-blue in the

face. Pictured launching herself at her and attempting the Heimlich maneouvre whilst screaming

for help. No one coming. Monica collapsing to the floor. Stone dead.

Tekla took a deep breath.

“But he survived. It was sepsis. And a status epilepticus.”

“You have to admit, you took a great risk with such a large dose.”

Tekla closed her eyes and read. Then she looked Monica straight in the eye.

“I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but never with a

view to injury and wrong-doing. Neither will I administer a poison to anybody when asked to do

so, nor will I suggest such a course.”

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“Hippocrates,” Monica said as she walked around the desk. She sat down in her chair. Tekla

was confused. The Hospital Director looked so calm.

“Part of the oath,” Tekla replied. “I knew that the boy suffered from Gaucher’s type two.

An incurable illness. Besides that, his pupils were almost unresponsive after twenty-five minutes

of CPR. He could have been brain dead. The parents had even signed a letter declining care using

a respirator. But he was not dead.”

“But he might now be brain damaged for the rest of his miserable little life.”

Tekla stared unflinchingly at Monica:

“You and Göran can do whatever you like with me but I will always try to save life. At any

price. That is why I studied medicine.”

Monica smiled and nodded.

“The father apparently went into some kind of shock, and fell asleep in A&E.”

Tekla remembered the full ampule of propofol that she had injected into his thigh.

“I had a stabbing victim in the other room.”

“I know, some poor gang member.”

“…who I was able to save quite easily.”

“So you mean to say that if you’d had more time with the child you wouldn’t have

administered the diazepam?”

“I did my best, under the circumstances,” Tekla said, more convinced than ever that she’d

done the right thing, even if her hands were trembling and the sweat was trickling down her

spine. Even if this was going to cost her job, she was going to defend herself. “I decided to focus

on the knife wounded patient because I knew that I’d given the child what he needed –

antibiotics.”

She was doing her best to be objective about it. Yet she couldn’t help arriving at the

conclusion that she’d done the right thing. She could see his little ribcage rising as the air was

pumped in, but a long time had passed. His brain had been without oxygen for several critical

minutes. She might have been able to deal with the father more subtly but at that precise moment

her priority was saving lives. Two lives: the young gang member’s and the little boy’s.

Monica chewed slowly and looked down at Göran’s message again.

Tekla lowered her voice: “And I would act in the same way if the situation were to arise

again.”

Monica put down the paper and locked eyes with Tekla.

“Excellent.”

“Eh?” said Tekla, confused.

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“Great. Really excellent,” laughed Monica. “You are fantastic. Couldn’t have done any better

myself.”

“But…” Tekla looked at the paper lying on the table.

“Göran can shove that wherever he feels like. I myself will be telling him that he has a

world-class emergency doctor in his department. Someone who can operate outside the

framework and fully live up to the Hippocratic oath.”

Monica crumpled the paper and chucked it in a bin.

Tekla’s first thought was that the hospital director was winding her up, but then she noticed

the seriousness of Monica Carlsson’s expression.

“He’s too easily upset. I can’t believe how wrong he gets it sometimes.”

Tekla sat bemused, trying to keep up.

“You can forget about what went on in A&E on Thursday. Göran won’t be making any

formal reports. But now do tell me about what happened yesterday,” Monica said, lowering her

voice. “How are you?”

“Er… I’m good.”

Tekla still felt pretty wobbly.

“I’m not convinced. You don’t look like you’ve had much sleep. Lucky the patient was

unharmed.”

“Yes, that was… lucky.”

“Great timing, you catching him in the act. Do you have any idea who it was?”

“No. If I knew that…”

“…you would’ve told the police. I know. I just thought maybe a few clouds had parted.”

Tekla spotted the conniving smile on Monica’s lips.

“And then you chased him through the service tunnels. Brave.”

“I didn’t really think about it.”

“No, you were on autopilot,” Monica said, nodding. “It’s good at times. I was sitting eating

moules frites at that place near Vasaparken. “Have you been?”

“N…no.”

“They go so well with a really nice Belgian beer, a Carmelite perhaps. We should go some

time. And promise you’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“Need?”

“Yes if you need to talk. You can come up here whenever you like.”

It felt like Tekla had just stepped off Insane, Stockholm’s wildest rollercoaster, while

simultaneously being asked whether she wanted to play chess and drink tea.

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“Okay. I’ll let you know if I need to talk.”

Tekla left Monica Carlsson’s office in a dazed state. She looked at her phone but its screen

was as dark as her headache. Nothing from Simon. If they could only establish the identity of

that man lying in the ICU, she would be able to let go of all the crazy thoughts. She headed for

A&E and spotted Tariq’s large silhouette shuffling towards her. She straightened her back, raised

her head half an inch. She had to stand tall. She thought about what Monica had said about all

the overdoses in town and she wondered what Simon was playing at. Whether maybe he’d started

taking heavier drugs without her knowledge.

128

Monday 10th June

A&E, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“I think we should start with a moment’s silence for the victims of the fire,” Göran Collinder

began. “We didn’t have time on Friday.” Anita was the last one to slip in and sit down in the

meeting room, which was now full of doctors and medical students. Scattered, awkward stares

around the room, as if they’d just been asked to take their clothes off for a group hug. Tekla was

aware of unusually many eyes focusing on her. Word of the attack in ICU had got around. She

sent a new message to Simon.

Hello? Can you answer? What did that text mean? Ring!

“Thank you,” said Göran, breaking the uncomfortable silence. The moment of grieving was

over. Life at Nobel A&E went on. Could she breathe out now? Göran had neither mentioned her

nor looked in her direction.

“I think we’re all aware that we had an incident here yesterday in the Intensive Care Unit

that Tekla Berg was involved in. We are all grateful that it went… well… both for Tekla and for

the patient. Naturally the police are investigating. So I think we can leave it there.

Göran had fired off his summary without so much as glancing in Tekla’s direction.

“So how have the rest of you survived the weekend?” Göran continued.

Survived the weekend. That’s how he looked at their role: They were at war, the enemy was

streams of patients and the cannon-fodder went by the names of Hampus Nordensköld and

Tekla Berg, the two doctors who could be held responsible for all the shit that had happened

over the last few days. Hampus looked like he’d found the on-call room last night. His dark

brown hair was damp, and combed, as usual, into a perfect side-parting. Tekla was trying to work

out whether Göran was going to give her a telling off or not. Had Monica had the chance to

speak to him?

“A O K,” said Hampus. “I’ve admitted quite a few. The most exciting was probably one

admitted on Saturday. A completely flattened overdose victim.

“Do elaborate, please,” said Anita’s clear voice from the side of the table. She was like a

theatrical director sitting in the front row. Each one of the junior doctor’s lines could be

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improved. Ragna Sigurdsdottir, who knew Anita from their time in Solna, said that her huge

house on Djursholm was like “a posh version of the Natural History Museum.” The three kids

were also exceptional: a technical physicist with a house in Tullinge and four kids at the famous

Adolf Fredrik School, a doctor in well-to-do Bromma who was just about to present his thesis in

genetics, and a lawyer at the National Audit Office. “Yes, she hasn’t quite decided which

chambers to go for,” as Anita had said with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, just a bog-standard heroin overdose. Some tramp,” Hampus said indolently. “But it

was a struggle to get him going.”

Hampus leaned back, balanced for a moment on two chair legs.

“We maintain our usual decorum, Hampus,” Göran ventured politely but firmly for the

whole room. “And we say ‘homeless person’, not ‘tramp’.

Tekla glanced across the table, in Tariq’s direction. As usual, he had his hands folded in front

of him, and his gaze fixed on a point somewhere just above Anita’s head. As though from his

sitting position, he was able to read Harrison’s great medical reference books, which along with a

load of other titles, filled four shelves running the length of one wall.

Behind Tariq were thirty-four portraits, one of each clinical director since Alfred Nobel’s

Hospital was opened in 1902 by King Oscar II. In her Icelandic accent and her peculiar way,

Ragna had explained how ‘Göran had all the portraits rehung so that his would end up at eye-

level.’ Apparently it had originally been hung at knee-height, which had annoyed the hell out of

him. Tekla wondered what the meeting rooms were like across town, at NSK. Presumably they

had rationalised away all physical books. Tekla pictured abstract art on white walls, sliding doors

silently opening and closing. She could even smell the eco-friendly cleaning products. Scrubs with

a cool logo, young doctors with gold-plated stethoscopes around their necks and the very latest

trainers on their feet.

She kept checking her phone, sent several texts, waited for an answer that never came. Her

thoughts were constantly occupied with Simon – where he might be, what might have happened

to him. At the same time, she knew that all she could do was wait. And there was no better place

than the A&E department.

Hampus let his chair down with a thud.

“A thirty-nine-year-old man, found in a park. He was unconscious, possibly Glasgow 4, with

tiny pupils. Looking at his clothes it was obvious that he was a tra… homeless person.” Hampus

peered in Göran’s direction. “We eventually found a wallet, with an ID card, in his inside pocket.

He was unconscious when he arrived, I intubated him and did some bloods and a CT scan of his

head. Nothing there. He’s lying in intensive care, and hasn’t come round.”

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Nothing there. Not even a brain? Tekla wondered but kept her comment to herself. Everyone

in the room was waiting to hear what happened next. No one had missed the little detail, that

Hampus intubated the patient unaided. He had done a year of his training and really had no

business carrying out the procedure on his own. However, like so many young male doctors, he

suffered from hubris. Tekla was nonetheless impressed by his courage.

She let her gaze wander around the old, peeling tabletop and pondered who might dare to

analyse Hampus’s conduct. Fifteen doctors. Another couple of dozen foundation doctors and

students lined the yellowing walls. Those sitting around the table comprised the permanent staff.

The elite squad. Everyone else in the room would kill for a place at the table.

“It doesn’t sound like a bog-standard overdose,” Anita opined drily. “I’m assuming you gave

an antidote?”

Tekla loved it when Anita piped up. She so often did it in passing, quietly and succinctly, yet

always bang on the money.

“Oh yes,” Hampus replied, annoyed. “I repeated the naloxone that he’d been given in the

ambulance.”

“But he’s still in intensive care?” Anita continued.

“Yes. Your point being?”

Hampus’s tone of voice wasn’t quite as sharp, as though a soft-boiled egg had suddenly

found its way into his throat.

Tariq drummed his fingers on the tabletop and cleared his throat.

“Yes, yes, Anita. We’ll simply have to rethink a bit.” Tariq pointed his thick, hairy index

finger at Hampus and then towards his own broad chest.

“And if we hadn’t got rid of all research then the standard wouldn’t be so disastrously low,”

Anita muttered. Everyone heard what she said.

“Anita, please.” Said Göran. “Not now, thank you.”

Tekla contemplated what different characters they were. Tariq, who looked like one of

Saddam’s generals, used to doling out instructions to his soldiers. Bratty Hampus, who probably

ought to have stayed on some Australian beach and carried on surfing. Ragna would’ve fitted in

better in an Icelandic soap opera. Pearl-laden Anita from Östermalm, who bumbled around the

city’s southern neighbourhoods in order to… well actually the reason remained a complete

mystery to Tekla.

Tekla continued to follow the roundtable drama. By ‘we’, Tariq actually meant himself and

his favourite, Bratty Hampus. Tariq would never discuss a challenging case with Tekla or Ragna

because they were the wrong sex.

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“I’m going to ICU to examine him,” Anita responded.

Tekla saw Anita and Ragna’s eyes meet. Anita nodded sharply. So who was actually going to

take on the patient? Hampus continued his monosyllabic account of the three other patients he’d

admitted.

“Oh, and Tekla,” Göran interrupted.

She could see Tariq’s mocking smile and his affected stare at the ceiling. Admittedly he was

discreet about it, but he knew full well that the trainee doctors in the room lapped up even the

smallest of gestures from the senior clinicians. Like babies at their mothers’ breast. Was he going

to mention the shot of Propofol now?

“I didn’t gave time to mention it on Friday,” she said with a dry gulp. It felt like she’d just

got some of Hampus’s soft-boiled egg rammed down her throat. “But we did have a nineteen-

year-old stabbing victim brought in on Thursday evening who ended up in theatre. It was a bit

dramatic.”

Göran leaned forwards and stared at Tekla. She could almost see how Monica had out

Göran straight. But now probably was the time to reveal her mistake. They only had a full

meeting once a week and if she didn’t name Thursday’s drama now there was a risk that false

rumours would start circulating about what had actually happened.

“Were you there when the surgeon dealt with it?” Göran sniggered.

Tekla stared down at her lap.

“No, I dealt with it myself.”

Tariq’s head slumped.

A hum whizzed through the room.

She quickly added:

“We had that nice surgeon… Nawfal…”

“Nawfal al-Wadi,” Anita chipped in.

“… in the building but he never had to get involved. I put a thoracic drain in before the

police arrived.”

“The Police?” Anita asked, apparently yet to hear about the clash.

Tekla recounted the story of the Police storming in but left out the fitting boy.

“Jeez Tekla,” said Ragna. “I’m impressed. God, well done!”

The room parted like the Red Sea into two equal halves. Half of the doctors around the table

were nodding in agreement, the others shaking their heads in dismay. Tekla felt a confusing

mixture of pride and terror.

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“What’s the latest on the stench, by the way?” Hampus asked suddenly. He wanted to take

the spotlight off Tekla. Everyone knew what he was talking about and they all turned to Göran.

I haven’t spoken to the caretaker this morning but on Friday the latest was that preliminary

checks had not found anything.

Tekla felt a certain relief that they’d moved on from Thursday’s events.

“I would also like to extend my gratitude to those of you who voluntarily came in to help out

with the fire last Thursday,” Göran continued. “There could easily have been more casualties.”

He knocked the table exaggeratedly with his curled index finger. “We have three burns victims in

ICU. Tekla is the assigned clinician for the most seriously injured patient, a man whose identity

remains unknown.

Tekla could feel Hampus staring sharply at her.

“Is this connected to the van they’re looking for?” Anita asked.

Göran straightened his back.

“I cannot answer that.”

“I can though,” said Tariq. “Of course they suspect that. Otherwise why would they have

cops constantly running around ICU?”

Why had Tariq been in the Intensive Care Unit, Tekla wondered, and tried to see whether he

and Anita exchanged any glances, but it was if they were encamped in their tents on either side of

a battlefield.

“Alright,” Göran interrupted, raising his hand. “You can read all about that in the tabloids.

In terms of the clinical side, Tekla can tell us more during the week.” He closed the meeting with

his catchphrase:

“Don’t forget that we’re better than the others.”

Everyone knew who the others were. The new, privately-owned hospital on the other side of

town: The NyX Smith and Klinngman Hospital, NSK for short. Or, from the 1930s until the

present day, “The Solna Side.” As if it were the Death Star itself, far away at the other end of the

galaxy.

Chairs scraped across the floor as everyone stood up. Several of the doctors patted Tekla on

the back as they left the room. Ragna embraced her friend and then hurried off. Several of the

medical students looked at her wide-eyed as they followed the lemming procession out.

“Tekla!”

Göran approached, waving his oversized smartphone.

“I need to get to work out there,” she said in a vain attempt to postpone the inevitable.

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“Just briefly.” Göran lowered his voice. “I hear you met with Monica this morning. What did

you talk about?”

Tekla recognised the thinly-veiled order to explain exactly what had been discussed up in the

Hospital Director’s office. Göran seemed to be having difficulty looking at her, staring down at

his phone instead.

“She… I think she just wanted to check I was okay, after the fire and everything.”

“Everything?”

Tekla didn’t want to unnecessarily remind Göran of all the drama she’d been involved in

recently.

“Well…the fire. Full stop.”

“You don’t need to lie.”

“Lie?”

Göran nodded and seemed to zone out for a second. Tekla could smell the scent of his

sickly cologne and she took a discreet step backwards.

“We were at medical school together. Can you imagine?”

“Listen… I really do have to get on with…”

“Watch yourself with her. Just my advice. She is…”

Tekla waited in suspense for his verdict. Göran fixed his stare on Tekla’s forehead.

“Monica Carlsson has her own agenda in everything she does. Don’t forget that.”

“Okay,” Tekla said, desperate to get out of the uncomfortable situation. “Thanks for the

advice.”

Göran nodded and finally stopped demanding Tekla’s attention, instead stabbing away at his

phone again. Monica had obviously schooled her lapdog very successfully.

134

Monday 10th June

A&E, NOBEL HOSPITAL

Tekla hurried to catch up with her colleagues as they headed for the coffee machines. She looked

at her phone and sent a text message. Come on Simon. Call me back!

“How are you?” Anita Klein-Borgstedt asked, holding a cup of tea in her hand.

“Okay thanks. Yourself?” Tekla said, stuffing her phone away.

“I was off at the weekend. Some much-needed family time for a change.”

“Do you have kids?”

Anita smiled.

“Oh yes. Three, but they’re all grown up now.”

Tekla immediately regretted her question. For doctors, anything to do with family is of the

utmost importance. And if she’d only seen it written down, she wouldn’t have messed up. Other

things doctors care about include: holiday destinations. Sporting activity. Life in the great

outdoors is important too. When it came to male doctors over fifty, it was important to

remember what sports car they’d recently acquired, ask what year, model and how many brake

horsepower.

Anita waited for Tariq and Hampus to walk past. Just as Tekla was about to check her pager

after it beeped, Tariq approached her. He leaned forward, unnoticed, and whispered in her ear:

“Are you not going to stick a needle in her arse so she goes under?”

Tekla looked up. Waited for the rest, but Tariq just patted her on the shoulder and hurried

over to Hampus. Should she confront him, find out what he wants in return for his silence? Or

does he just want to spread anxiety? Maybe he wouldn’t report the incident to Göran? It was a bit

of a shame he hadn’t grabbed her backside so that she could’ve screamed and dropped him

straight in it.

Anita, who hadn’t noticed anything, continued:

“Well done for your response in the Resus room the other day. From what I heard at the

meeting, I mean.”

“I don’t know…” Tekla saw Tariq disappear. He hands were shaking.

135

“You seem to have been in complete control. Suck it up, all the praise!”

Anita’s sharp voice chimed pleasantly in Tekla’s ears.

“I noticed that not everyone agreed,” said Tekla.

“Forget Tariq and his… lackeys.”

“Hampus’s overdose was an interesting case too though.”

Anita chucked her teabag in the bin. “Oh undoubtedly,” she nodded thoughtfully. “Really

interesting. It has to be something else, something complicated that’s going to take some

expertise. What do you think of me going up to ICU?”

“Now?” asked Tekla.

“I’m just going to read up a bit. But why put off something this interesting?”

Tekla realised that this was about a power struggle.

“But wasn’t Tariq going to…”

Anita flipped her glasses down and looked at her phone.

“It sounded very interesting, I’d say. It’ll take a few sharp brains, eh? Are you coming or not?”

Tekla tried to weigh up the pros and cons but it all coalesced into a big brown mess. In the

end she went on pure gut instinct:

“Sure.”

“Good.”

After reading up on the overdose, they left A&E and went the outside way to Intensive

Care. Outside the hospital, Anita stopped.

“You know they had elephants at the grand opening, right where you’re walking.”

“Seriously?” asked Tekla. Anita didn’t appear to be joking. Tekla had never heard anything

about any elephants. In fact, she knew really very little about Nobel Hospital’s history. However,

the grandiose entrance and all the old paintings lining the corridors did point to an illustrious

heritage. She would occasionally stop at stare at all the portraits of men who had made their

careers within those walls. Developed new surgical techniques. Saved patients and accomplished

great deeds. Tekla recalled her job interview, what a heady feeling she’d had at the thought of

being part of something great. A Hospital with history. Now, a year since that June day she’d

landed the job, she realised that Nobel’s glory days might be behind it. Even if the Hospital

Director, and indeed the staff as a whole, did everything they could to rekindle a sense of

greatness.

“That’s actually true,” Anita continued, smiling weirdly in a way that made Tekla nervous.

There was something penetrating about Anita’s eyes, they scanned whatever she was looking at.

136

“Right in front of the entrance. The King was in attendance. There are photos outside

Radiology.”

There was a wonderful kind of weren’t-Christmasses-snowier-when-I-was-little nostalgia to

Anita that Tekla could relate to. Might they even have shared roots in Jämtland? If so, Anita had

worked hard to polish away her dialect, replacing it with nasal ‘i’s and pompous ‘ö’s.

Anita took out a cigarette and lit it. It felt perfectly natural when she did so but Tekla realised

that for a watching patient it was basically a cardinal sin. A smoking doctor outside the hospital.

They strolled along the line of poplars outside the entrance. Tekla realised that Tariq had

planned to get involved with the ICU case but Anita had got there first, and roped Tekla in at the

same time. She had never understood that kind of politics.

“When was this?” Tekla asked. They stopped by the fountain and sat down on a bench.

Alongside them sat two women, one with her head bandaged, smoking. Anita really looked to be

enjoying her ‘fresh air’.

“1902. The first Nobel Prize had been awarded two years earlier. It was decided that the

city’s new hospital should be built here because a lot of the nouveau riche had moved out to

Saltsjöbaden. Besides, Roslagstull, Serafen and a few other hospitals were located in the northern

and central parts of the city. It only took two years to build.”

Tekla looked up at the old brick façade with its tall arched windows and detailing. Then she

looked a bit higher up. It was as if a big, dirty-grey shoebox had been plopped on top of the

grand old building.

“When was it extended?”

“First time was in the thirties. The big extension came in the mid-fifties. All that grey you’re

looking at.”

“Like a new shell on an old tortoise.”

Anita took a deep drag, coughed, and nodded.

“Maybe you could say that.”

She ran her fingers through her ice white hair. Anita was unnaturally brown for the time of

year, probably a sunny break to the Costa del Sol at some point during the spring. She had a air

of golf and cava about her. Crows’ feet sprang from the corner of her eyes.

“How long have you worked here anyway?” Tekla asked.

“Not since nineteen-oh-eight if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Tekla tilted her head to one side and smiled.

“I came hear in nineteen…eighty-eight.”

“Thirty years, then.”

137

“But I’m far from the most faithful servant.”

“Did you do a lot of research?”

Tekla recalled Anita’s scathing comment at that morning’s meeting.

“Of course,” Anita said, aggrieved. “You only become a good clinician by combining

practice with clinical research. Unfortunately, however, the Hospital management haven’t made

research a priority these last few years.”

“But you still have a research team?”

“I can’t pay those poor post-grads from my own pocket forever. No matter how much I

care about research.”

The sun went behind a cloud and the temperature dropped immediately. The June weather

was as unpredictable as ever.

Anita’s gaze wondered off for a second. Suddenly she turned to Tekla.

“You need to stand up straight.”

Tekla straightened her back.

Anita flashed a taut smile.

“Not literally. I saw what you were all about during your first week.”

Tekla could feel her pulse rising.

“You keep the right answers to yourself. Don’t you?”

Tekla didn’t want to lie. She kept her silence. Anita took her eyes off Tekla and looked up at

the Nobel flags waving languidly in the breeze.

“Men don’t need to put in half as much effort to get the same recognition. But we will be

proved right. The bastion of male dinosaurs is slowly crumbling.”

Now Tekla felt like she dared open her mouth.

“And what comes after it?”

“No more nepotism. And above all: a change in the way we communicate. Objectivity.

Facts. Evidence based care.”

“So we’re just talking healthcare?” asked Tekla.

Anita gave an inverted smile. They sat in silence for a minute or so. Tekla took the

opportunity to check her phone, but there was no reply from Simon. She changed the subject.

“So, what do you think about the overdose?”

Anita stood up and stubbed out her cigarette.

“He’s still intubated.”

“I saw that. The tests showed positive for cannabis and opiates.”

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“That doesn’t tell us much. The first arterial blood gas test was interesting. Did you give that

any thought?”

Tekla quickly went through everything she’d read. The patient had arrived as a heroin

overdose on three occasions in the last two years. He had been put in intensive care once before,

and his other admissions were onto general medical wards. He had Hepatitis C, but not HIV. He

had also been an inpatient at a dependency clinic, Kungsholmen, several times. The latest notes

revealed that he lived at homeless hostels around town, but during the summer he also slept at

friends’ places or even outdoors. Tekla noted that he had once given his address as ‘Skanstull

bridge’. That made them basically neighbours. Maybe she’d walked past him as he lay there in his

sleeping bag. Maybe she’d said hello. The actual ambulance report revealed only than that he’d

been found unconscious in the park opposite Medborgarplatsen. Non-responsive, small pupils,

slow breathing. So it all pointed to an opiate overdose. The crew had given him Naloxone, but it

had only had a negligible effect.

“He had low blood sugar and a high temp,” said Tekla. “Apart from that, it was a perfectly

straightforward heroin overdose: small pupils, low blood pressure, slow breathing. Unrousable…

a four on the Glasgow scale I believe. Potassium three point nine, creatinine a hundred and

eleven…”

Tekla realised what she was saying. She noticed Anita staring at her. She was doing it again:

recounting numbers that made people around her suspicious.

“You’re going to have to start telling the rest of us what’s bubbling away in that incredible

brain,” Anita said sternly.

Tekla smiled to herself.

“I’ll try.”

139

Monday, 10th June

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL

Tekla and Anita went back in through the main entrance, carried on in the direction of the west

wing and took the lift up. A short corridor lined with admin offices led to the large, open plan of

the Intensive Care Unit.

Anita stopped. She rubbed her throat with her chapped hands.

“But do we usually see high temperature and low blood sugar in heroin addicts?” she asked

rhetorically.

Tekla saw all the results of the microbial cultures in front of her.

“Fever, no. That would suggest infection. But they did all the cultures and found nothing.”

“What about the sugar?”

“If he has liver failure. Could’ve been an alcoholic to begin with, with poor glycogen

deposits,” Tekla speculated.

Anita looked pleased. This was how it worked, Tekla thought to herself: a load of questions

to see if you’re on the right track. She thought about all the loose ends from yesterday but tried

to keep Simon’s face out of her mind, enjoy hanging out with Anita for a while. Her phone

popped out at regular intervals but it continued to stare emptily back at her.

The Nobel Hospital’s intensive care unit had a long and illustrious history. The world’s first

prototype ventilator had been tested there on a man suffering from peritonitis and shock. He

died after three hours in the armoured box but the doctors still called it ‘a miracle’. Eight years

ago, the unit was completely renovated, and walls were removed, creating an open landscape the

size of a handball court. The patients lay in their enormous beds, hooked up to every modern

device you could imagine at a medtech trade fair in Frankfurt.

The beds were separated by folding walls. Windows on either side allowed plenty of light to flood

in. It was really rather a waste, having ICU on the seventh floor. It would’ve been better to bury

the unit underground, since all the patients were lying, sedated, with plastic tubes down their

throat. But sure, visitors could stare out across Årsta Bay on one side or the whole of southern

140

Stockholm through the windows on the north side, whilst contemplating the fact that their

daughter, son, husband or wife had a fifty per cent chance of survival. What Tekla liked most

about ICU was doctor Eva Elmqvist, consultant in intensive care medicine, who now

approached them in a plastic apron and bloody plastic gloves. She held her arms up in a sort of

pleading gesture.

“Can someone give me a sterile… one of those condoms for the ultrasound?”

A nurse knew what she meant and hurried off to a well-hidden store. They really had done

away with the cupboards and the crates in this hypermodern creation, that felt more like a space

station than an ICU.

Tekla and Anita followed Eva who was just about to change central venous catheter on their

patient. She started moving the ultrasound up and down the intubated patient’s neck, looking for

blood vessels.

“That damned CVC has clogged up.”

“Sounds tricky,” Anita said and leant over the ultrasound machine. She was careful to keep

her hands behind her back to avoid touching any sterile surfaces.

Eva attempted to blow off a lock of hair that was hanging in front of her face. Tekla thought

it looked funny – Eva trying to have a conversation whilst simultaneously blowing hair out of her

face and slopping ultra sound gel onto the patient’s throat. Eventually Tekla went over and

pushed the hair away.

“Oh… thanks.”

Eva didn’t take her eyes off the catheter. It looked about half a metre long, about the

thickness of an index finger. Eventually she pushed it in and pulled out the applicator.

“We’ll have to see how this goes. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Anita backed away, and kept a safe distance from the patient. Tekla was fascinated by the

interplay that immediately began when two senior colleagues met. She soon realised that they

probably went way back, judging by the raw but amiable banter. Tekla took the opportunity to

send another text: Ring!

“Probably not your fault,” Anita said pleasantly.

“His thrombies have dipped under fifty twice now,” Eva sighed. “We’ve pumped in at least

two bags. Maybe three… I can’t remember.”

Tekla smiled to herself. When Eva said ‘thrombies’ she meant thrombocytes – red blood

cells in plain English.

“Is his glucose still falling?” Anita asked.

“Yes, and his kidneys are about to pack up.”

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“So what’s the verdict?”

“Poor Miguel. Thirty-nine years old, but looks sixty. His diet probably hasn’t followed the

healthy-eating plate method. Not clear what he’s intoxicated himself with. But it’s plain that there

was more than just heroin on the breakfast table.”

Eva pulled off her gloves and apron. “Shall we have a little chat?”

Tekla noticed that Eva hadn’t said hello, now Anita was there. She had apparently been

demoted to thin air.

Eva led them towards the centre of the handball court, about ten metres from the rows of

beds. That was the office, one without walls. Tekla had once had it explained to her that there

where acoustic panels in the ceiling that meant that patients and their visitors cannot hear what is

being said.

They sat down in front of a large Mac. For some unfathomable reason, ICU was the only

department in the whole hospital that had bought Mac stuff.

They read lab results in silence. Behind them, another two ICU doctors and a handful of

students and nurses stood discussing another patient.

Eva turned to Anita. “First of all though.” She put her hand on Anita’s thigh, and Tekla

didn’t know where to look. Suddenly she felt just as embarrassed as she had when, as a seven

year-old, she’d interrupted her parents having sex in the bedroom.

“How is Walter?”

“Just fine, thanks,” Anita replied with such an intimate tone that for a moment Tekla

thought they had been transported to some tea lounge on a grand estate north of the city.

“That’s good to hear.”

Tekla couldn’t help peering at the two friends who then changed tack and tone once again.

“Acute renal failure,” said Anita. “And that’s despite you topping him up, I assume.”

“Of course,” Eva sighed, as she removed her hand and the troubled look returned to her

face. “We’ve given a total of fourteen litres since he came in yesterday.”

“And yet his creatinine is still rising,” Anita stated flatly.

“No infection though,” Tekla fired in, quickly realising that she’d thought aloud without

asking.

“That’s what I would have said,” Eva said without taking her eyes off the screen. She shook

her head in frustration.

“But nothing else in the toxicology tests?” Tekla continued.

“Nope.”

“And he is acidotic.”

142

“Yes.”

“Have you tried bringing him round?”

Eva sighed and made no attempt to disguise her irritation, as if Tekla was a reporter from

some weekly magazine asking daft questions about celebrities.

“We can’t. He has fitted pretty much once an hour since last night. We did a brain scan.

Nothing. But then luckily we did an ECG which revealed…”

“Wide QRS complex,” Anita chipped in, holding her reading glasses in a solid pincer grip as

she inspected the ECG print out.

“So it has to be a CDI,” said Tekla.

“No shit Sherlock. That’s as far as we ordinary intensivists can get.” Eva stated and got to

her feet. She walked over to a large glass bowl full of fruit, picked up a green apple and took a

loud, crunching bite.

“So we were planning to ask for help,”

It felt as if she was also saying: But you just seem to have tipped up with some idiot junior burping out

platitudes.

“A bit of general medical expertise then,” Anita said, smiling broadly with her eyes closed. It

looked rather comical.

“I’m just going to examine the young man first.”

Anita walked over to Miguel Vallejo. Tekla felt strangely grateful that Anita hadn’t taken

Eva’s side.

A nurse left, leaving them to examine the patient alone. He was covered in electrodes and his

blood pressure was being monitored through an invasive arterial probe. Two large cannulas at the

top of his forearm allowed the various drugs to be administered with precision from the

automated syringes. The newly attached drain on the vessel on his throat was shiny, still in its see-

through wrapper.

“Poor guy,” Anita whispered to herself. She lifted the sheets and inspected his abdomen,

arms and legs, his neck and face. Tekla wasn’t sure what Anita was looking for but didn’t want to

interrupt, confidant that there was a thinking behind whatever she was doing.

Anita pulled out her reflex hammer and tested nerves in his feet, arms and face. She then put

back the sheets, folded them carefully over Miguel’s chest and stroked his cheek tenderly. Tekla

was suddenly struck by the feeling that Anita had been in a situation like this before, but as a

relative, perhaps beside a beloved family member. Perhaps her own child had lain like this,

intubated, waiting to die?

Anita turned around.

143

“Not much to examine. He’s unconscious.”

“That would certainly appear to be the case,” said Tekla.

“But that’s what’s so strange,” Anita went on.

“What?”

“That he’s still unconscious after two days.”

“Yes but….”

“He shouldn’t be. Not if it was a normal overdose. Right?”

Tekla hadn’t managed to keep up.

“I agree. But the other tests might tell us something.”

Anita stopped where she was, her stare fixed on a point by Miguel’s feet.

“It’s all in the medical history. Eighty per cent of the information is in the medical history. I

think we’re done here,” Anita said, lowering her voice.

“And perhaps we can do our thinking somewhere else, so we don’t disturb the intensivists.”

Tekla nodded approvingly as Anita opened her eyes wide and pursed her lips. Now she was

sure of it: they were a team. For today at least.

They left the ICU and headed for the lifts.

Tekla stretched and recounted the events of the past week for herself: a young guy with

knife wounds on Thursday, and at the same time the little boy with sepsis fitting in the resus

room. She’d managed to stabilise both patients, and both were still alive. And there’d been no

repercussions from Göran as a result of her behaviour. Check. An hour later she was standing by

Söder Tower trying to take care of smoke and burn victims, the last of whom was dead. But then

turned out to be alive. The burns victim whose life was almost over when some madman tried to

suffocate him in ICU yesterday. Tekla averted his death. Check, check. Left was the interesting

overdose in ICU that she could sink her teeth into. A case to crack right under Anita’s - and

especially Tariq’s - noses. No check in that one yet. Then she thought about Simon’s text and

pulled her phone out yet again: no answer. It was ten o’clock. One long hour to go until debrief

with Rebecka Nilsén. It was going to be a long day. Tekla turned her back to Anita and pulled

out her lip balm.

144

Monday 10th June

KARLAPLAN, STOCKHOLM

“I’m going to take the big car today, love,” Nina called out as she smeared on a last layer of

lipstick.

“No need to shout,” Joakim replied. He walked up behind his wife and embraced her. “And

it’s called Escalade, you little plaything.”

Nina walked out of the bathroom and picked out a black blazer from her walk-in wardrobe.

A doorbell in the background. Nina went out into the long hallway and shouted.

“Can you get that. It’s Barbara.”

“Okay,” replied a child’s voice.

“And get dressed. We’re leaving in five minutes.

Joakim grabbed Nina again. He was a full head taller than her, even though she was five-

eight in socks.

“What’s the matter darling?”

Nina tried to squirm away but Joakim stubbornly held her fast.

“You look stressed.”

She let her shoulders sink. Stopped resisting.

“A lot on my plate just now.”

“But you love it that way. You’d be in a right state if you didn’t have loads to do. Do you

remember last summer when we rented a house for the whole…”

“It’s not that,” Nina sighed, extricating herself. She straightened her blazer. “There just

mustn’t be too many negative points on the agenda. For example, I’m getting so wound up by

Carina, who seems to have an opinion on everything in class. How come teachers are always the

worst kind of parents?”

“What else then?” Joakim insisted. “What else is on your negative checklist?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to go now. And you’ve got lipstick on your cheek.

Nina’s heels clicked across the fishbone parquet as she went over to give Barbara, their

cleaner, some instructions. But it wasn’t Barbara standing in the hall.

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“Dad?”

“Good morning,” said Victor Umarov, holding aloft a bag from Thelin’s Bakery.

“Cardamom. Your favourite.”

Nina walked over and kissed her dad on the cheek. He was wearing a black shirt, dark blazer

and lightweight shoes. His hand was fidgeting with his car keys.

“You look great,” said Nina. “But what are you doing here so early?”

“I thought you could do with a treat for breakfast.”

“That’s really sweet Dad, but I have to go.” Nina turned around and shouted: “Kate, Emily.

You have to come now.”

The six-year-old twins ran out, and jumped into their granddad’s arms when they spotted

him.

Victor crouched down to hug the girls.

“Yep. My little tigers. Can I have a sniff… open wide. Have you brushed your teeth?”

Both girls opened their mouths as wide as they could and breathed out for granddad.

Now Victor pushed off with his hands on his thighs as he stood back up.

The girls sat down on the floor and started putting on their sandals.

“Can we talk?” Victor said, lowering his voice.

Nina always felt so exposed when he deployed that look.

That sudden mood swing from jokey and trivial to complete focus. That’s when she knew he

had something important on his mind.

“Dad I have…”

Victor grabbed Nina’s forearm.

“Just two minutes.” He turned towards the girls. “Are the beasts ready to go to prison?”

“Yeesss!” they called and jumped up. They put on their rucksacks and opened the front

door.

“Hold on,” Victor said, then stuffed the pastries into Emily’s bag. He winked at her and

whispered: “In case the lion comes.”

They ran out into the stairwell.

Nina shook her head. “I wonder if your tall tales will turn them into criminals.”

“Not at all. They have a completely straight mother raising them.”

Nina felt an uneasy knot in her stomach as put on her coat.

“Darling I’m off now,” she called into the apartment.

“Okay,” came Joakim’s distant reply.

The twins took the stairs while Nina and Victor waited for the lift.

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“Everything okay?” Victor asked.

Nina took out a lipstick to have something to focus on. She didn’t want to meet her father’s

x-ray stare.

“Oh yes. Lots to do, that’s all.”

“You always have lots to do,” said Victor. “And I’ve stopped telling you what I think about

that.”

“Was that why you came here at eight o’clock on a Monday morning,” Nina said, tidying up

her lipstick. “To see how I am?”

They got into the old turn-of-the-century lift and pulled the grille closed.

“I’d go to Siberia to see how you were,” said Victor.

“I’m fine, I told you.”

Victor looked at his reflection in the mirror.

“Do you remember when we were living in London and Coco was babysitting? You were

going to bake a sponge? You took salt instead of sugar. Coco lost it. When me and your mum got

home we sat down at the kitchen table and asked you and Sardor to look me in the eye. Do you

remember?”

She did.

“Do you remember what I asked?”

“Who’d swapped the sugar for salt,” said Nina.

“And, who was it?”

“Me.”

The lift stopped.

“But you never had to say it, did you. I saw it in your eyes.”

Nina started walking out of the lift. “Dad, I don’t really have time for your sentimental

stories right now.

They walked out towards the garage and Nina unlocked the car.

“Jump in now girls.”

The girls sat down in the back of the big 4x4 and Nina shut the doors. The garage went

completely quiet.

Victor moved closer to his daughter. She knew exactly what he was going to ask next.

“Look at me Nina.”

“What?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me everything’s fine.”

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Nina steeled herself and stared into her father’s face. Now she noticed that he was clean

shaven and had some kind of pomade in his hair, which was slicked back leaving the curls in a

shiny wave.

“You need a haircut,” said Nina.

“I thought I’d kill two birds when I was already in town.”

Victor kept his eyes locked with Nina’s.

“So?” he said calmly.

“Everything’s fine, Dad,” she said, with a broad smile but she could feel her cheeks

tightening. “Really.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek and then headed for the car.

“Enjoy your visit to the city.”

Nina started the car and drove off. She watched her father standing there. His eyes followed

the car as she drove up the ramp and out towards Karlavägen.

She undid the top button on her blouse and sped off towards the English Preschool.

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Monday 10th June

STRANDVÄGEN, ÖSTERMALM, STOCKHOLM

After dropping the twins off, Nina carried on to Lake View Estate Agents.

“Good morning,” Jeanette greeted her by dropping a pile of papers onto the desk in front of

Nina. “Kaggholmen. All done, bar the last bit with the bank.”

“Thanks,” said Nina. The bank. Nina added another thing to that day’s to-do list. She had to

confirm their own loan on the house in Rio. As usual, Joakim didn’t know what was going on,

trusting her to sort out all the details, but he didn’t mind showing his friends the prospectus and

the drone footage. They now owned eleven properties together. Four were rented out and three

were being renovated. What were they actually going to do with all those houses and apartments?

She had no better response than that they were always on the lookout for some new property.

Verbier was easy to justify: both she and Joakim loved skiing. They ended up doing three weeks a

year, at least. The apartment in Palma though, when did they last go there? Nina couldn’t

remember. Kate and Emily had been in their pushchair. And how many times were they going to

fit in trips to Rio in the next ten years?

At a quarter to eleven she left the office and drove down to Kungsträdgården park. She

swung off onto the little street by the synagogue and parked up. She knew she was probably

going to get a ticket. Her mind was elsewhere. She felt irritated and stressed by Victor’s little

morning visit. She hadn’t heard anything from the Dental Clinic but she knew the FSB man was

still in town. He had said that he would be staying, “until all the loose ends are tied up.” She

wondered which hotel he was staying at.

Things were pretty calm at Piccolino’s café. Elena was wearing a fluffy yellow jumper, sitting

drinking lemon juice over by the wall.

Nina kissed her stepmother on the cheek and ordered a cappuccino.

“Soya milk please.”

“Everything ok?” asked Elena.

Nina immediately felt a little wall being raised. Meetings with Elena always had some hidden

agenda.

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“Your dad says he’s worried about you.”

“Really?” Nina said, pretending to be oblivious.

“He says you work too much.”

“He’s one to talk.”

“He’s getting pretty good at staying in these days.”

“And looking after his pool.”

“Oh yes, that gets to him.”

Nina’s cappuccino arrived. She tried not to get annoyed by Elena’s way of telling her about

Victor. It was as though she had a need to control what her step-daughter knew about her

husband’s life.

“I think you ought to see each other one-on-one,” said Elena.

“Yes, that would be nice,” Nina said, and attempted a smile.

“But then you never know with men. They can…”

“What? Just drop dead?”

Nina thought about Victor’s big paunch and the fact that she’d never seen him doing any

exercise. She had never seen him running, not once.

“He’s no spring chicken any more,” said Elena.

“He ought to start taking better care of his health,”

“And what about you and Sardor?”

“What about us?”

“Well, are you friends?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Just wondering.”

Nina pretended that something had just occurred to her. Pulled out her phone.

“Oh my. I’ve got to get going. But it was nice to see you.”

She stood up.

“You see?” said Elena.

“What?”

“You’re stressing.”

“My dear, it’s Monday. There’s always a lot to be done on Monday.”

Nina took the car out towards Humlegården. On the second floor of the late nineteenth

century building was Humlegården’s Dental Clinic. Nina said hi to Julianna in reception.

After a couple of minutes, Julianna came and took her through.

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Nina walked to the far end of the corridor and sat down, as usual, in one of the treatment

rooms. After a while, the door opened and a man came in. He sat down on the other chair in the

room and clasped his hands in his lap. He rocked forward slightly, in that characteristic way of

his.

Nina’s pulse was racing. She tried to read his thin face – was this good news or bad news. He

was as neutral as ever.

“We did not succeed,” he said in his dreadful English.

“What do you mean not succeed?”

“He is still in the hospital.

Nina closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

“Weren’t you going to send some… professional?”

The man took off his thin-rimmed glasses. Now, for the first time, Nina noticed that he had

green eyes.

“They have tightened security, so it will be difficult to get to him.”

“But… you must be able to…”

“Calm down,” the man said, raising his hands that were flecked with liver spots. “I am

informing you of the situation as it stands. He is alive. We did not succeed. We need to rethink.”

He went to stand up.

“But what does that mean?” said Nina. She went from being nervous and stressed to angry.

“That we will be in touch.”

“When?”

“We will be in touch.”

“Shit,” said Nina. “You won’t be doing it in the next week, will you?”

The man left the room.

Nina felt panic stricken. She was going to have to take care of it herself. She could not rely

on FSB this time.

He phone buzzed. Tatyana, asking to meet on Södermalm after lunch. Nina realised what

was going to have to be done.

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Monday 10th June

ÖSTERMALM, STOCKHOLM

Skeppargatan 22 looked very much like a typical Östermalm – Stockholm’s Mayfair – address.

Nina read through the names listed by the entrance and found what she was looking for –

Skeppargatan’s Activity Centre. A nasal male voice answered the intercom.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Jonna Fredén-Hansson.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Are you a member?”

“No, but my colleague is.”

“I’ll let you in.”

The door opened and Nina walked in, carried on down towards the cellar and when she

entered the room she was dazzled by a white light. The wooden panels on the wall, the rubber

floor, the reception desk, the clothes being worn by the man standing waiting for her, all of it was

white. The man even had white glasses. Nina was reminded of a medical lab.

“How can I help?”

“I’m looking for Jonna Fredén-Hansson.”

“I’ll see if she’s available.”

Nina was directed to a white leather chair next to a tiny table. Music played quietly in the

background, it sounded like something oriental. There was a faint smell of Eucalyptus. After a

few minutes, Jonna came in, in a white bathrobe and white slippers. She was red in the face.

“Straight out of the sauna?”

“You should join in a session. I’ve just done boxing with my PT.”

“Thanks, but I only box with children. And Joakim, sometimes.”

Jonna wiped the sweat from her face with a thick, brilliant white towel. She pushed her wet

hair behind her ears and turned to the receptionist. “Can I get one of those freshly-squeezed…

with ginger and lemon?”

The man with the nasal voice disappeared behind a curtain.

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“How was New York?” Nina asked.

“Fantastic. I get just as inspired every time I go. Just a bit of a struggle arriving in the

morning like this. I couldn’t sleep on the plane.”

“So shouldn’t you be at home catching up? You can come to the office tomorrow.”

“Na. Now I’ve had a bit of pampering I feel better. How’s everything?”

Nina ruffled her cropped, dark hair somewhat bad-temperedly. Then she stretched her back.

“It failed.”

“Eh?”

“My plan didn’t turn out as I’d hoped.”

Jonna leaned in and lowered her voice.

“So the burns victim…”

“Is still alive. With extra security. So now my contacts cannot get to him.”

“So what do we do?”

“Yes, what do we do,” said Nina. “That is the question.”

“Are you worried?” asked Jonna.

“Of course I’m worried. As should you be. If Dad finds out about what’s happened then our

estate agency will be shut down. And that will be the least of my problems.”

“Why? It was you and me that started it.

Nina smiled and shook her head. “You are so wonderfully naïve. That’s exactly what it is I

love about you. So Swedish.”

“Give over.”

“There’s an awful lot you don’t know,” Nina said, as she heard a mixer whirring into live

behind the curtain. “Where do you think the start-up capital came from when we launched

Lakeview?”

“You said you had some savings.”

“Four million. That was Dad’s money.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

“No. And there’s other stuff you don’t know about. But trust me. The Police will be

investigating why the cladding burnt so fiercely. They will analyse the material and see that it’s

substandard, that it’s the same EPS material used on Grenfell Tower in London.”

“But then we’ll…”

“No, that’ll be the end of it.” Nina said grittily. “It can’t be traced to us. Officially, the

Latvian building firm are responsible.”

“I know, but Oleg…”

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“Exactly,” said Nina. “Oleg is the link to us. And that’s why he cannot speak to the police.”

Jonna got her smoothie. She put it down on the table without tasting it.

“So…?”

“I’m afraid I think I’m going to have to ask my brother for help,”

“Sardor?”

“I’m afraid he’s the only brother I’ve got.” Nina said, then sipped some juice. “It’s nice.”

“But what’s he going to do?

“I don’t know yet. All I do know is that I need to speak to him. For several reasons.”

“Do you think we’ll manage to keep this at arm’s length?”

“‘Think’ doesn’t come into it,” said Nina. “I know we’ll do this.”

“So why do you look so stressed?” asked Jonna.

Nina smiled.

“That’s because of some other stuff. Family.”

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Monday 10th June

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL

Outside room one in ICU stood two security guards. Tekla felt like Frodo at the gates of Mordor.

“Heightened threat leave,” one of the guards said in a friendly voice. He produced a list of

names. “And you are?”

“Tekla Berg.”

He quickly found her name.

“You can go in.”

Tekla walked through the airlock on shaky legs. Suddenly, it was as if she’d been shifted

twenty-four hours back in time. Before the message from Simon. Still fearing who the burns

victim could turn out to be.

Inside the room, nothing had changed. Rebecka Nilsén was standing in one corner, talking

on her phone, but she hung up as soon as she saw Tekla.

“Hi. So good that you could come.”

“It feels a bit weird, having security guards here in the hospital,” said Tekla.

“Things have changed after the attempted murder yesterday,” said a voice behind Tekla. She

spun around. She’d missed the fact that there was another person in the room, a skinny man with

a friendly face. He was wearing a casual, sandy beige summer blazer over a dark green polo shirt.

The man stretched out his hand.

“Marcus Safidi. Security Police.”

“SEPO?”

Rebecka leaned back against the bedframe.

“Thanks to your fantastic intervention yesterday, he’s still alive. It was fearless of you. And it

was fortunate that you were not harmed yourself.”

“Very,” said Marcus, looking at Rebecka.

Tekla saw the image of the limping man disappearing down the tunnel. The odd thing,

which the police interviewing her had also picked up on, was that she hadn’t seen the man’s face

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a single time. Although he’d had his hood up, there was nothing in front of his face. So he

must’ve kept his face turned away from her throughout. Then the text from Simon had arrived.”

“Yesterday’s attack appears to have been carried out by a professional,” said the SEPO guy.

“A professional?” Tekla asked.

“And we need SEPO to ascertain that,” Rebecka grunted, swiping her phone’s screen

irritably.

Marcus calmly ignored his colleague’s remark.

“We were not sure… are still not sure that the fire was the result of criminal activity.”

“Oh come off it,” Rebecka interrupted. She turned to Tekla. “This is how it is: SEPO have a

theory about the garage where we found the bomb fragments. Stockholm has been on a higher

alert for some time now, with specific intelligence about a terror cell in the city centre. Isn’t that

right?” She waved her finger back and forth between herself and her colleague from the Security

Police. “Communication between us isn’t always what it might be. Responsibility for this actually

rests with us at National Operational Department we are directing the investigation itself while

our colleagues from SEPO are supposed to focus on the terrorist part. Right?”

Marcus smiled. Tekla couldn’t help empathising with him. Having Rebecka Nilsén in the

opposite corner of the ring probably wasn’t a walk in the park.

Rebecka folded her arms across her chest. Dressed for the occasion in a saffron-yellow long

dress and a black blazer with puffy arms, à la early Madonna. She also had new sunglasses, the

rims of which were a discreet blue.

“So what does this mean? You suspect that the burns victim is a terrorist?” asked Tekla.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Marcus said calmly.

“So we’re working hard on IDing him,” Rebecka chipped in.

“Sounds like a hard nut to crack,” Tekla responded.

“It may be unnecessary to point this out, but we do not expect you to spread this

information.”

“Of course,” Tekla said, approaching the intubated patient whose only sign of life was a

slightly less swollen eye. Every now and then there was a little twitch around the eyeball. Doubts

about whether that sms had really come from Simon returned, along with the question of who

the patient in front of her really was. She struggled to stop her hand shaking while she pretended

to examine the patient. She was actually desperately looking for something she recognised. The

height was right, as far as she could tell. Physique: Simon had always been lean, but sinewy and

strong. The patient in front of her was certainly thin, but was he muscular? Hard to tell. Her eyes

wandered slowly down towards his hands: they were badly burned but the thumb on the left

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hand seemed relatively intact. Up until now it had been bandaged. She ran her finger across the

knuckle. Just like Simon’s, the thumb joint was slightly crooked, making the tip of the thumb

angle in.

Her head started spinning and she struggled to get air. Tekla took a deep breathe and a step

backwards. She pretended to cough as she wiped some sweat from her top lip. She then steeled

herself and looked at Rebecka:

“Yes, we’ll have to see what the DNA analysis tells us.”

Rebecka Nilsén had noticed something, you could tell, she had stopped fiddling with her

phone. Tekla tried to deflect the sharp x-ray stare at her side.

“Haven’t you found that van yet?” she asked.

“We have found plenty of green Renault Transport, but not that one.”

“So you have no idea who the people who fled the scene were?”

Rebecka hesitated. Then she laughed out loud.

“Well aren’t you curious? Any particular reason?”

“Of course not,” Tekla replied a little too quickly.

“But no, we haven’t found the men we’re looking for. I’m sure you’ve been following the

story in the papers…”

“I don’t read newspapers.”

“No, you doctors are always working.”

Tekla didn’t bother trying to analyse the subtext of Rebecka’s comment, instead she

pretended to suddenly be in a hurry.

“I have to get back to A&E now. Speak tomorrow, I assume.”

“Yes,” Rebecka replied, observing Tekla’s back inquisitively as it headed for the door.

“We’ll be in touch,” said Marcus.

Tekla drank some water by a washbowl. She felt completely exhausted. Would this shitty day

ever end?

157

Monday afternoon, 10th June

NYTORGET, SÖDERMALM

After work, Tekla walked to Nytorget, the little block on south-west Södermalm that was a

muster station for Stockholm’s successful middle class – the most extreme hipsters, the ones with

the longest beards, the most expensive vintage pushchairs and the strictest organic food

philosophy in town. They had come from the small towns of provincial Sweden, chasing the

dream of succeeding in the big city. Suddenly it struck her: Was she one of them? That thought

was easy to dismiss. There was nothing hip about her. And her reasons for moving to the big city

were quite different to the beardy mafia’s. She lived there, in the same city, breathing the same

air, pounding the same pavements, but she still wasn’t one of them. Her stomach was empty, her

glucose reserves empty and Tekla was shaking from all the bombs she’d dropped throughout the

day. She was terrified of the prospect of going home to an empty flat just to stare at a mobile

phone. She must’ve sent thirty texts to Simon’s phone during the day. Was it really him who’d

sent the two most recent messages? She was starting to doubt it. At the same time, another part

of her brain was constructing catastrophic scenarios in which something bad had happened to

Simon. And she had not completely ruled out the possibility that the burns victim in ICU was

Simon.

She ended up in a falafel place and sat down on a wooden bench, waiting for her order with

indifference. A girl about her age sat down with her back to Tekla. Tekla glanced at her handbag.

There was a book in there. A real, physical book. Unlike the rest of the café, the girl wasn’t sitting

fiddling with her phone. Normally she would never have struck up conversation. But perhaps it

was the bewildering events of the past twenty for hours that were making Tekla act outside her

usual boundaries. She couldn’t help asking:

“What are you reading?”

The girl turned around, beaming a warm smile.

Tekla immediately regretted her initiative but it was too late. “The book,” she specified,

pointing at the girl’s bag.

“Aha.” She picked it straight up. “Ferrante.”

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She said it like it was a given.

“I haven’t read it. The past few years’ big success, right? Is it good?”

The girl looked at the book, turned it around in her hand, as though she was contemplating

whether or not to give it away.

“Only okay, I’d have to say. A bit of a disappointment. It feels… gabbling. It’s about two

girls growing up in Naples, best friends, very different characters… how they change as they go

through life. But yet I can’t put it down. A bit annoying.”

Tekla got another contagious smile from the girl. This time she felt a wave of warmth. It felt

unusual to make personal contact with someone in this city. She was glad she’d come here and

not gone straight home, she needed to meet some normal people. People who were living life.

People who laughed and were okay. At least on the outside.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Tekla asked. She noticed now how muscular the girl was –

beefy might be the word, in that natural way. Muscles you only get from manual work, perhaps as

a fire fighter or on a building site. The girl was wearing a little court dress in a lime green fabric

with a fluorescent turquoise saw-tooth pattern. A black denim jacket over that. That was more in

keeping with her persona, which radiated… wholesomeness. She had well-defined thigh muscles

and a broad back that would make some bouncers nervous.

“My wonderful brother.” She did a bored face. “But he’s late, as usual. Come and sit here.”

Tekla sat down opposite the muscular girl. It felt implausibly spontaneous. At the same time,

the waitress arrived with her falafel. The Tekla held out her hand.

“Tekla.”

“Astrid. Nice to meet you. Do you come here a lot?”

“I’ve never been here before. Didn’t know they did falafel. But it looks good.” She took a

bite, and she wasn’t disappointed. “Bloody good, even.”

“My favourite place on Södermalm. Unfortunately I moved to Vasastan after my divorce.

Not nearly as cool. Do you live round here?”

“Gullmarsplan.”

Astrid’s face betrayed her surprise.

“It’s not as rough as you think,” Tekla explained.

Astrid had frizzy hair that stood on end, like a great lion’s mane. Jet black.

“That’s not what I meant. I just don’t really know it.

Tekla carried on eating. She felt unusually hungry.

“When I was little I used to dream about working with books,” Astrid continued.

“So what did you end up working with instead?”

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Astrid looked away for a second.

“Nothing interesting.”

“But what books would you have published?”

Astrid smiled, and glanced at the Ferrante book on the table.

“I’m embarrassed to say it, but probably fantasy.”

“Why embarrassed?”

“Well it’s not considered to be very literary. No Nobel prizes or anything.”

“But people read it, don’t they? Especially young people.”

“And then there’s little me…” Astrid really did have a contagious smile.

“Hard to label you as little,” said Tekla.

“I was born like this.” She took off her short jacket and flexed her biceps. “No gym

involved. I hate lifting weights. And even more than that, I hate all the blokes grunting and

squealing when they’re doing squats or bench presses.

“Blimey,” Tekla said, holding up her thin, pale arm.

Astrid squeezed it carefully.

“Not bad.”

“Not as bad as it looks, you mean?” Tekla laughed.

Astrid smiled. What do you do yourself?”

“Doctor at the Nobel Hospital.”

“Nobel. Did you get lots of casualties after the fire?”

“Not that many, it could’ve been worse.”

“You mean there weren’t that many burns victims?”

“Oh there were, but it could’ve been worse, considering how quickly the fire spread.” She

could see the unidentified man’s eye in front of her and felt a shudder pass through her body.

“There is one really badly burned man lying in intensive care.”

“Will he make it?”

“We don’t know. He got septicaemia and…” Tekla was getting carried away, letting her

guard down over the falafel.

“I get it,” Astrid said after a long silence. “You’re not allowed to talk about it.”

“They’re doing all they can,” said Tekla.

“Awful, the thought that the fire could’ve been arson.”

“I don’t read the papers.”

“The only thing I’ve seen is that they found explosives in a garage, and then there’s that van

they’re looking for.”

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They sat watching people strolling in the sunshine.

Tekla changed the subject.

“But tell me, what do you do yourself?”

Astrid laughed and clapped her teeth together.

“Something as boring as PR.”

“Well then you are writing something at least.”

“I don’t know if you can call it writing. If you’re referring to my interest in books.”

Tekla looked around. She ate her food and enjoyed not thinking about her phone for a

while.

“You said your brother was wonderful before… in what way? Or were you being ironic?”

Astrid seemed to get caught in a thought somewhere. “He is my hero. I’ve had a few really

tough years with an idiot of a husband, who is also the father of my ten-year-old daughter. I

wanted to stay in the apartment but he had the money… he’s a successful music presenter.”

Tekla noted the change in intonation in Astrid’s voice. “And being an assistant at a PR company

isn’t the world’s best paid job…”

“So your brother leant you money?”

“He’s always been good with money. Anyway he had some savings I was able to borrow. He

says. But I know that I won’t have to pay him back. Lucky for me that he works so much. He

hasn’t had a day off sick in his life. He makes a big thing about that.”

“Sounds like you’re close. Has it always been like that?”

“Yeah, he’s always been the real older brother type. Ever since Mum died. I know that he

promised her he’d look after me.”

Tekla remembered the promise she’d given her dad, alone by his deathbed. She thought

about Iris, the little girl who’d sat in her lap next to the bed where her brother lay fighting for his

life. Tekla tried to recall the smell of her hair, but couldn’t.

Suddenly a man sat himself down at the table, also an XXL.

“Late as always,” Astrid said and shuffled up. Tekla felt small next to the two colossuses.

“This is Tekla. She’s a doctor at Nobel Hospital.”

“Magnus,” said the man, stretching out a hand that enveloped Tekla’s completely. It was

warm and pleasant.

“Hi,” Tekla said, pulling her sweaty hand away somewhat too quickly.

“We’re talking books,” said Astrid. “But not Henning Mankell or Jan Guillou I’m afraid

Magnus.”

Magnus smiled gently and playfully elbowed his sister in the side.

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“I could do with a bit of culture.”

“That’s it!” Tekla exclaimed, pointing at Magnus.

“What?” Astrid asked, bewildered.

“You’re a police officer, right?”

Magnus looked at Astrid and twisted his large upper body awkwardly.

“You were one of the officers who came to A&E last Thursday, about midnight. Then you

got called to the fire.”

Astrid smiled and gave Magnus a little dig.

“Are you then? Police officer… Do you work in public order with all those other lumps of

testosterone? Oh hold on, I know these days it’s called the Augmented Regional Response Unit.”

Magnus looked distinctly uncomfortable as he ran his hand through his close-shorn hair.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“I just thought I recognised your…” Tekla began but lost her thread.

“His what?” Astrid chipped in. She leaned in, seemed to have got a sniff of something she

was going to enjoy.

Shit, thought Tekla. She had done it again.

“His eyes. Am I right? That’s what you were going to say. You recognised his eyes. Because

you cover your faces with those fire retardant masks, don’t you bro?”

“You’re unusually large too,” Tekla attempted.

“Most police officers are,” Astrid ventured with a mischievous smile.

“Now I recognise you,” said Magnus. “It’s not easy without your scrubs.”

“Aha!” Astrid said triumphantly.

“Okay, can we talk about something else now?” said Magnus.

Astrid laughed.

“Oh sure, I think we should talk about the weather. The UV index is high today. Best to take

precautions. You two ought to meet up and talk emergency-services stuff, just the two of you.”

Astrid said, jostling her brother again.

“Sure,” Magnus said with a grin. “Let me know if you fancy a drink some time.”

Tekla attempted to disappear under the table but responded to his invitation with a forced

smile. Astrid was right though, the sunlight was unusually strong. Tekla picked up her Yankees

cap and ate another falafel. Suddenly it struck her what she’d been planning to do yesterday when

she came across the man trying to suffocate the burns victim: check for a birthmark on the

patient’s ear. Right now she was too tired and had no desire to go back to the hospital. That

would have to wait until tomorrow’s debrief with Rebecka Nilsén.

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Monday 10th June

MEDBORGARPLATSEN, STOCKHOLM

Sardor parked his car behind Bofill’s Båge, a large residential building close to Stockholm South

Station. The area around Söder Tower was cordoned off. The fire fighting operation had been

over for a few days and now work was in progress to ensure that what was left of the building’s

skeleton did not collapse. His phone rang.

“Jarmo’s going to make it,” said Eje. “Minus a spleen, but what do you need that for?”

“I have a meeting,” said Sardor. “Can we talk later?”

“Jensen is about to blow his top. He has decided that the blood is going to flow.”

“For fuck’s sake. It’s only been three days,” Sardor said irritably. “Jensen said a week.”

“He’s impatient,” said Eje.

“Any word on the street?”

“The Northsiders seem to be lying low. I’ve had one tip that I’m going to follow up now.”

“Put the word out that there’s a fifty grand reward for anyone who comes forward with

information about who stabbed Jarmo at Kvarnen. Victor wants us to deal with it quickly and

efficiently. No escalation.”

“There also seem to be issues with the horse,” said Eje.

“What do you mean issues?”

“Loads of overdoses at the weekend.”

“How do you know it was heroin?”

“Several of the dealers have been complaining.”

“About what? Our products?”

“I don’t know. I’m in the process of chasing that up.”

Sardor hung up, passed a pavement pizza and cut across Medborgarplatsen. He could feel

the tension in his neck. He needed to get on top of the situation. What was that about a load of

overdoses? Couldn’t been anything to do with their stuff. Their business model was all about

satisfied customers. So that meant never compromising on quality, no matter what. The best,

cleanest heroin on the market. Not like the Northsiders’ brown shit that the junkies had to clean

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with ascorbic or citric acid before cooking up and injecting it. It ruined blood vessels, burnt like

barbed wire in the veins, apparently.

They went into Burger King. Tatyana was sitting in the corner, far from the windows. Shy, as

always. Kaisa was sitting opposite, fiddling distractedly with tray with her long nails.

Sardor took an onion ring and sat down on a greasy aluminium chair next to Kaisa.

“Get your own food!” Tatyana hissed, slapping the back of Sardor’s hand.

“You weren’t going to finish them anyway.”

Tatyana closed her eyes, accentuating her turquoise eye shadow. She was just as cute now as

she had been when Victor recruited her ten years ago to look after the girls. She was actually

quite a lot like Nina, just a bit more hot-tempered and with a dirtier mouth. She ought to have

kids, a family, Sardor thought to himself, channel that energy into something better than Russian

and South American whores.

“Are you really Uzbek?” Sardor asked.

Tatyana sighed.

“Because I’m so much better looking than you, you mean?”

Kajsa slurped on a strawberry milkshake.

Sardor brusquely pulled up the zip on her pink hoody.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Kajsa gasped.

“Don’t forget who paid for those,” Sardor said with a nod towards her augmented breasts.

“And the strangle marks are still visible.”

“Maybe you don’t want anyone else looking at the forbidden fruits?” Tatyana teased him.

Sardor did his best to ignore the jibes but every remark Tatyana made got under his skin like

an allergic reaction.

“Your sister is on her way,” said Tatyana.

“Nina?”

“Got lots of sisters have you?”

“How often do you see each other anyway?” Sardor asked, annoyed.

Tatyana looked over towards the entrance.

“Speak of the devil!”

Sardor turned around to see he sister’s blindingly white shirt flapping across

Medborgarplatsen.

“Well that’s today completely ruined then,” said Sardor.

“You ought to stop that cockfighting for your dad’s attention.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sardor snarled.

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“You’ll never change the fact that she’s the eldest.”

“What does that have to do with…”

Sardor got a message on his phone. From Eje. He read it quickly.

“A real family reunion,” said a cheerful voice behind Sardor.

“I’ve got to go,” Sardor said, ignoring his sister.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Tatyana asked, clearly amused.

Sardor looked around at the queue in confusion.

“Yes, stay Sardor,” said Nina. “I was going to have a salad. Hi, she continued, kissing

Tatyana on the cheek. She sat down next to Sardor who turned away demonstratively.

“So, what have you been doing today then?” asked Sardor.

“I’ve been to the dentist’s.”

“Again?” Sardor turned towards his sister. “How often can you see that flashy git?”

“My dentist?” Nina hung her blazer on a hanger. “It’s actually the hygienist that I see

regularly.”

Sardor looked sceptically at Nina. “You might think you were having an affair?”

“With Clas Neumann? You’re mental. He is not my type.”

“I think she should be happy with Joakim,” Tatyana chipped in. “He is really fit.”

“Thanks love,” said Nina, smiling.

“But it’s good you kept your maiden name,” said Tatyana. “Nina Lundblad would’ve

sounded like some awful diva singer with silicon tits.”

Kaisa was busy applying more lip-gloss.

“Speaking of surgery, my lips could do with filling out…”

Sardor could feel a headache coming on. He grabbed Kaisa by her thin wrist.

“Ow!”

“Now you can shut up about your fucking lips!”

“Can you let go of my hand please?”

Tatyana shook her head and patted Sardor encouragingly on the shoulder.

He let go of Kaisa’s hand.

“When are you going to stop playing at being Victor?” Nina asked with an amused grin.

“Don’t you get it? Dad grew up in a harsh environment. Do you think life in the USSR in the

eighties was a walk in the park?”

Sardor pushed his chair out from the table.

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“I don’t know what you’re on about. I’ve got to go.” He steeled himself to give his sister one

last angry stare. “You live in a pink bubble and you have everything served up to you on a silver

platter. You ought to come with us one day and see what reality looks like.”

Nina carried on, shaking her head.

“You grew up in the posh parts of London. Can you hear what you sound like? Pathetic.

You’re just trying to live up to something you will never be.”

“Says you!” Sardor stood up.

Tatyana smiled, enthralled, and stood up too. “Where you going?”

“The lockup in Årsta.”

“I’ll come with you, have a look at this terrible reality.”

“I was joking.”

“Why not though?” Tatyana put on her leather jacket and grabbed a few onion rings. “You

coming?” she asked Nina.

“Listen I didn’t mean you were going to come now,” Sardor protested, but they seemed to

have already made up their minds. He turned around and headed for the exit.

“A field trip to reality,” teased Tatyana, waving to Nina, who nodded and stood up.

Kaisa stayed where she was, brandishing her lip gloss.

Nina and Tatyana followed Sardor. That wasn’t really what he’d hoped for, or expected.

Tatyana caught up with Sardor out on Medborgarplatsen and whispered in his ear:

“Maybe you should take a few more yoga classes, to tame that famous temper of yours.”

Sardor picked up the pace and walked quickly towards his car while doing his best to ignore

the women’s mocking laughter behind him.

166

Monday 10th June

ÅRSTAFÄLT PARK, STOCKHOLM

They passed the tile factory, turned right and picked their way through to the old vegetable

warehouse. Tatyana climbed out and waited for Nina while she parked her car next to Sardor’s.

“So this is where we pack.”

“Victor will go ape if he finds out that you’ve been here.”

Nina stroked her excitable little brother’s unshaven cheek.

“I promise, my sweet little brother. Quiet as a mouse. I was just curious as to what it looked

like. And besides, you pinched my fika partner.”

Inside the warehouse, they were met by Hampus “Eje” Johansson and two others, Ben and

Emre from Red Bears. Sardor noticed the testosterone in the air. He watched his large friend

dragging his catch towards him.

“And this is?”

“Lorik. Lorik Xhafas,” said Eje, shoving out a young guy with cropped hair, black t-shirt,

jeans, trainers and a swollen right eye. His demeanour screamed ‘you can all fuck off’.

“What ditch did you dig him out of?”

“Lorik’s ex grassed him up when she heard about the reward. Apparently she’s with

someone else from another gang now.”

Ben and Emre held their Uzis aimed squarely at Lorik’s legs, in case he had the urge to leave.

Sardor digested the information. A drunk girlfriend at Kvarnen, late on a Thursday night.

What if this was the wrong guy? On the other hand: if they didn’t do anything, what kind of

signal would that send? He had no choice.

Nina’s curiosity had now been well and truly awakened. She hung her black blazer on the

backrest of a chair and Sardor wondered for a second whether there would be competition over

who would get to take care of Lorik. Then he watched Nina go and sit down next to Tatyana,

who was balancing her chair on two of its legs.

Sardor had made up his mind. He could see Victor in front of him, and hear his voice, like a

chainsaw inside his head: Sort this shit out before it’s too late.

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He pulled out a four-inch flick-knife and folded out its curved blade. Silence filled the

warehouse. The ice-cold light from the fluorescent tubes flickered every now and then.

Suddenly Sardor heard Nina’s voice from by the wall:

“Let me know if you need any help bro.”

Without turning around, Sardor replied:

“You are not here.”

Sardor took off his leather jacket and turned all his attention to Lorik Xhafas. He held the

knife up in front of him. Lorik’s single functioning eye opened wide as he steeled himself.

“So you were the one who stabbed Jarmo at Kvarnen?”

Lorik spat straight in Sardor’s face. An agglomeration he’d been saving up for several

minutes. Sardor sank the blade into Lorik’s thigh with all his might. It sliced through the biggest

muscle in the body and cut a half-centimetre into the femur. Lorik fell to his knees. With his free

hand, Sardor grabbed Lorik’s cropped hair and pulled him up into a standing position.

“Lorik, you like knives it would seem. You’re going to be very sick of knives by the time I’ve

finished with you.

Lorik whimpered through gritted teeth.

Sardor heard Nina’s voice from behind him, slightly closer now.

“Are you absolutely sure you’ve got the right person?”

Sardor had to struggle not to put the knife into his sister instead.

“If you’d like to take over, that’s fine by me. Maybe you’ve got some pedicure scissors in

your bag?”

“I think you mean manicure,” Nina said, and Sardor didn’t need to turn around to see her

mocking grin. “I’m just saying that Dad probably wants this done neatly.”

“Like the way you do things over on Östermalm, or what?!”

“Dad is up to speed on everything I do. Of course. What did you expect?”

Sardor turned around. “If you’re not going to help, please shut up. So,” Sardor continued in

a calm tone, to Lorik, “why did you stab Jarmo?”

“I didn’t,” Lorik managed through a muzzle of snot. “Fuck! I wasn’t even in that fucking

place in Thursday.”

“Oh you weren’t?” Sardor felt a pang of worry. “We have a witness who positively identified

you. And it’s hardly news that you Northsiders are trying to muscle in on our patch?”

“There’s room for everyone,” Lorik said grimly.

Sardor burst into a forced laugh.

“Oh right. A politician. There’s room for everyone. How interesting.”

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Lorik nodded.

“Why didn’t you stick to Gothenburg? Or Eskilstuna? Why try and take on a city that’s

much too big? You know who is Vor in this town?”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Of course. A street rat. But what were you and Jarmo bickering about?”

“I wasn’t…” Lorik was panting, and fighting to stay conscious, it seemed. The knife in his

thigh was quivering alarmingly.

Sardor quickly pulled the knife out and took hold of Lorik’s hand. The backs of his fingers

were covered in tattoos. His palm was wet with sweat.

“Do you like this one?” Sardor said, jabbing the tip of the knife under the fingernail on his

little finger, twisting it and pulling the nail clean off. Lorik pulled his hand away and screamed

again:

“Fuck!” He tried desperately to stem the flow of blood from his throbbing finger.

“What do you reckon, time for a change of tack?” asked Sardor.

“Christ! I’m telling you I wasn’t there,” Lorik screamed. It looked like he was about to pass

out.

Sardor was stuck. How was he going to go on from here? He had to avoid losing face. Not

show any signs of weakness. He nodded in Ben’s direction.

“The chair.”

Ben pulled out a chair which Lorik then slumped onto.

“Whisky, anyone?”

Eje said something, at which Emre went to the innermost room, where the repacking was

done. He came back with a bottle of Jim Beam.

Sardor looked around. Tatyana sat fiddling with her phone as if nothing had happened and

Nina was obviously amused by events.

“Here,” said Sardor.

Lorik swallowed three big gulps and took a few deep breaths. Sardor pulled the bottle off

him.

“That’ll do. Now talk, otherwise I might as well…”

Sardor pulled his gun from his trousers and pointed it at Lorik’s head.

“For the last time, talk or…”

“But Sardo,” Nina interrupted.

He hadn’t heard her approaching.

169

“How do you expect him to remember anything while you’re pulling nails and coming with

empty threats?”

Sardor turned to face his sister. She smiled gently and looked at him as if he needed help

getting off the potty. He wasn’t about to walk into her trap.

“I think it would be best if you went and sat down,” he said.

“Oh no. I think it’s best I help you out a bit. It doesn’t look like it’s going very well.”

“Oh right. Maybe you’d like to pull another nail?”

Sardor offered her the bloody knife.

Nina recoiled with a look of disgust.

“I don’t like blood.”

She turned to Lorik and patted him on the head.

“Can I have some water please?” she said.

Eje went and got a glass of water while Nina continued stroking the wounded beast’s head.

“Here. Drink. It’s easy to get dehydrated when the air is this hot. I’m sorry about my

brother. He hasn’t been himself of late. Could you do me a favour and give me a bit of

background to this unfortunate business in the bar?”

Lorik looked up slowly, and was sucked into Nina’s stare. She stroked his cheek.

“All I’ve heard is that you’ve got a problem with your heroin,” Lorik said quietly. “That it

isn’t as clean as it used to be.”

Sardor went stiff, it felt like an iron ring was being tightened around his chest.

“Okay,” said Nina. “That’s strange, because Sardor is always proudly telling everyone that

we’ve got the best gear in town. Go on.”

“Word on the street is…” Lorik continued.

“That?” Nina said gently?

“… something has happened. We’re selling out quicker than ever.”

Nina turned to Sardor.

“Is this something you knew about, bro?”

Sardor shook his head slowly and then looked at Eje.

“But what does this have to do with Kvarnen?” Nina continued.

“I don’t know. But listen… maybe you should ask… Jarmo. There were lots of others at

Kvarnen that night. But not… me. Not us.”

“Oh yes, Sardor,” said Nina. “Have you double-checked Jarmo’s story?”

Sardor ignored her.

Nina carried on, still facing Lorik. “And you know this because?”

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“Word on the street.”

“Word on the street, you say,” Sardor repeated. “That seems to be the only thing you can say

today.”

Nina stretched and turned towards Sardor.

“Word on the street. Hear that, bro? Word on the street.”

Shut up,” Sardor said, and he could feel that he was close to exploding.

“Someone’s cutting it,” said Lorik.

“Cutting it?” Nina asked.

“Someone’s cutting your H with a load of other shit,” Lorik continued. “At least some of

your consignments.”

“We’ll have to check that out,” said Sardor.

“Was there anything else?” Nina asked cheerfully. “I need to go back to the office soon.”

Sardor walked over to a sink to wash his hands.

Tatyana turned to Nina: “I suppose we’ll have to have that fika some other time.”

“I’m going to stick around here for a little while,” said Nina.

“Could someone give me a lift into town?” asked Tatyana. Eje nodded and gave Emre

orders.

“Ring if you need to,” said Tatyana before she left the room with her chauffeur.

Sardor tried to get his pulse down but realised that he had lost both face and the battle with

Nina. He walked over towards Eje in the far corner.

“You heard this?”

Eje shook his head. He tugged at his long goatee.

“No? But we need to keep track of what’s going on in town.”

“It might explain the overdoses,” said Eje.

“Perhaps,” said Sardor. “And we need to put a bit more pressure on Jarmo. Check his story

stands up. For now you can finish this Albanian off, dump the body in the lake. Make sure

Jensen gets his hand or a few fingers so that he’s happy.”

Eje nodded.

“By the way,” said Eje. “I’ve picked up one of those guys who owe you money.”

“Who are they?” asked Sardor, confused.

“The ones who were supposed to come up with the cash that disappeared from the Haninge

lockup. It’s been over a month now.”

Sardor gulped. The very thought of the conversation he’d had with Jonas and Simon, forcing

them to reimburse the money that had disappeared after the raid in Haninge made him feel sick.

171

The mere thought of that conversation where he’d forced Jonas and Simon to come up with the

money that had gone missing during the raid turned his stomach. They were supposed to be

keeping an eye on the place but had got stoned and fucked up – they missed the police’s arrival.

Three hundred thousand had disappeared and they’d be given a month to come up with the

money. Ultimately though, it was all his fault. His lack of leadership. He was the one who’d left

two dealers to watch the place that night. Two fucking idiots. And that information could not

come out. Not to Nina. And above all, not to Victor. That would be a complete catastrophe.

“And when were you planning to tell me?” Sardor asked.

“That Albanian got in the way.”

“So, where are they?”

“One. I got hold of one of them.”

“And where is he then?” asked Sardor.

“In the fridge.”

“Here, you mean?”

Eje pointed to the large refrigerated banana stores at the back of the unit.

172

Monday evening, 10th June

ERIKSDAL SPORTS HALL, SÖDERMALM

Håkan couldn’t help laughing when he saw what Magnus was putting on.

“That clothes-swapping night must’ve been twenty years ago.

Magnus rubbed his hand over the faded, light grey t-shirt emblazoned with the Jurassic Park

logo. “Nothing wrong with this.”

“And those are Rasmus’ shoes, right?”

“They still work,” Magnus said, pulling out his old badminton racket from the end of the last

millennium. “We’ll have to wait and see who wins.”

“You’re going to get your arse whipped,” said Håkan.

“Wonder who’s been getting whipped,” Magnus said as he sipped some water. “Are you

planning to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“It looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Håkan said, pulling at his jaw so it moved back and forth. “Nothing

broken.”

“You had a good going over though. Who have you pissed off? Some girl?”

Håkan smiled. “I don’t know any girls who pack that kind of punch. We’ll leave it there.”

They headed for the court. Håkan sat down on a bench with his legs crossed. Magnus

windmilled his arms to get the circulation going.

“There was a mad coincidence. I met that doctor I was telling you about. On Nytorget.”

“Well whaddya know,” Håkan said, juggling his racket. “What happened?”

“Nothing. She was there eating with my sister.”

“Wait, do they know each other?”

“They’d met by chance. I barely recognised her, not being in her work clothes, but she was

great even without them.”

“So you asked her out?” Håkan asked.

173

The young couple on the court finished up and embraced each other. Magnus peered over at

the girl’s long, muscular legs and thought to himself how it had been ages since he’d been on a

date.”

“Sort of.”

“Jesus, you’re such a loser.”

They stood up. Magnus was skipping to warm up. Håkan fired a shuttlecock into the air, it

turned just short of the wooden beam on the ceiling.

“Let’s go,” Magnus said impatiently.

“Best of five,” Håkan called out, and served.

Magnus leapt up and smashed straight away. Just over the baseline.

“One-zero,” Håkan said, and changed service box.

“Enjoy the only point you’re going to get.” Magnus teased as he prepared himself.

Håkan moved like a pensioner with a hip-replacement, but had surprisingly impressive wrist

control. Magnus, who’d run a marathon as recently as last summer, was in better shape, but had

obvious difficulty in dealing with Håkan’s nasty drop shots just by the net. At full stretch, he had

to run all over the court and really exert himself to keep up with his old course mate.

He braced his hands on his thighs while he caught his breath.

“Jesus you’re on form today.”

“It’s all in the wrist,” Håkan replied.

“You’ve got a body like Robbie Coltrane but you play like a twenty-year-old Thai.”

“Oh thanks,” Håkan said, shaking his head. “Robbie Coltrane. Not exactly flattering.”

Magnus stretched his thighs while holding onto the tall umpire’s chair while Håkan sat on a

chair spinning his racket.

“What happened to the money?” Magnus asked, and stopped stretching.

“What money?” Håkan asked, apparently genuinely puzzled.

“Come on. How long have we known each other?”

“You had a mullet and played in Division three.”

“Exactly. You know what money I’m talking about. The bag from the raid in Haninge that I

gave to your investigator at the scene.

Håkan nonchalantly watched a couple of old blokes playing two courts away.

“I get that you took care of the money somehow,” Magnus insisted. “And that it wasn’t the

first time.”

“Not so loud,” Håkan said, looking around.

“How much was it?”

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“Three hundred. I had a few leaks to patch. Happy?”

Later, in the sauna, they were alone. Magnus poured a big scoopful of water onto the coals,

which hissed and spluttered. The steam billowed up, turned at the darkened ceiling and then fell

over their shoulders like a scalding hot mist.

Håkan breathed the boiling air through clenched teeth.

“As long as Central Investigations don’t do an audit,” said Magnus.

“That would be incredibly unlucky,” said Håkan. “But you can relax. As I said, I took you

off the raid. You weren’t there. And the guy you gave the bag to would never grass. We’ve

known each other since way back. Honestly, you can stop worrying. Now we’re quits. I won’t be

asking you for any more favours.”

Magnus picked off some dead skin with his fingernails and continued:

“Alright, I’ll let it go. Now you tell me why you got beaten up. Half your face is completely

blue.”

It went quiet for a moment and they both sat staring at the sauna element as it creaked with

heat.

“Business,” Håkan finally replied. “Just business. Another scoop, then we’ll go and grab a

beer. I’m gasping.”

“I’m glad I’m not involved in your business,” said Magnus. “It seems dangerous.” He picked

up the scoop and drenched the stones, making them fizz like a steak in hot oil.

175

Monday evening, 10th June

WALDEMARSUDDE MUSEUM OF ART, DJURGÅRDEN, STOCKHOLM

“Finally some hot weather,” Gregor said as he undid the top button on his blue and white

checked shirt.

They passed the Italian embassy on their left and the little marina to the right. Monica noted

that they weren’t the last in the party; she saw a few late guests strolling up the hill towards the

museum, a few hundred metres away.

“I had no idea that you were an art connoisseur,” Gregor went on.

“You can develop new interests you know,” Monica replied.

“But tell me again, why the opening show on a Monday night?”

“No idea. Maybe he’s away at the weekends. Doesn’t he spend a good part of the year in

France?”

“You’re the expert.” Gregor countered.

Monica left her peach coloured blazer done up, even if she was starting to feel a bit sweaty.

Her black trousers were a bit too thick for the time of year.

“I like his artwork, not the man behind them.”

Gregor stopped but Monica pulled him along.

“That’s something I’ve never understood,” he said.

“What, that you can walk and talk at the same time?” Monica replied acerbically.

“That you can separate the piece from the person. They are so deeply intertwined.”

Monica smiled and patted her husband’s bearded cheek.

“Is that why you read women’s magazines on the sly at the hairdressers? So sweet.”

Gregor ignored that comment and followed a pensioner couple in through the revolving

doors into Waldemarsudde.

“It’s rammed,” Gregor whispered. “Funny that so many people have got so little to do on a

Monday.”

“Priorities, darling.”

176

They didn’t bother with the cloakroom and headed straight for the exhibitions. Monica

showed the doormen her invitation and followed the stream of people to the left. Large sections

of Stockholm’s Cultural Elite were in attendance. People wearing classy summer dresses and

light-coloured suits.

Monica exchanged greetings with the former director of the Mediterranean Museum, with

the founder of one of the city’s leading architectural practices and gave Gregor the briefest of

introductions to the director of the Swedish Film Institute.

“How do you know each other?” asked Gregor as they were both given a glass of cold rosé.

“We sit on the same board.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember,” Monica replied with a forced smile. “The House of Culture, perhaps? I

don’t recall.” She stopped in front of a painting.

“Isn’t it fantastic?”

Gregor sipped his wine.

“Too many animals. I prefer his abstract works.”

“Bengt O Nilzon doesn’t do abstracts.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, perhaps you’re talking about the paintings over there?”

“Exactly. No animals.”

“Well, say that then. Aren’t you supposed to be a wordsmith? You should be a bit more

stringent.”

“Great word.”

“What?”

“Stringent.”

They followed the crowds towards the centre of the building.

“While we’re on the subject,” Gregor whispered as he tugged Monica by the elbow.

A few metres away, Carl-Henrik Filipsson was standing dressed in a bright blue suit with

matching azure blue eyes, chatting loudly with the owner of Uppsala Auction House.

“He’s not exactly keeping a low profile,” Monica whispered back. “Why don’t you go and

present yourself?”

“Give over,” Gregor snapped and headed in the opposite direction.

Monica kept looking but couldn’t see the person she was after.

177

Inside the exhibition’s largest room hung Bengt O Nilzon’s most important work. A lone

microphone stood waiting on a little stage in front of a large stool. Public reading or some

pompous speech, Monica thought to herself and sighed.

As the clock struck five, two people stepped onto the stage. One was Waldemarsudde’s

director, Siri Karén, dressed in a dark cotton suit and with a large, but discreetly coloured scarf

wound around her neck.

“Doesn’t she realise it’s summer?” Gregor whispered.

“She always wears dark suits.”

The other person was a woman of about the same age, with blonde, slightly tousled hair and

a pea-green suit. White blouse. Thin gold necklace.

“Business leader?” asked Gregor.

“No. Regional Finance Minister, Åsa Malmborg.”

“But isn’t she the one who’s…?”

“Remarried, Carl-Henrik’s third wife. Twelve years his junior. Astronomical career in

politics.”

Gregor turned around and stared right at his wife’s face. Monica was concentrating on the

opening speech and keeping up appearances. She felt Gregor letting go of her arm and then

pointedly stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“… and this could never have happened…” Siri Karén turned to Åsa Malmborg, a full head

taller than her, and with a strained smile, she continued, “…if it hadn’t been for the support of

politicians. All of us in the Arts need to be aware that we cannot rely on funding from business.

The competition from the music industry, gambling companies and social media is lethal.

Institutions need to stand firm and defend classical art forms that might otherwise die out. And

that is where we must…” Siri paused for effect as she looked out at the polite audience, “…have

the support of our politicians.”

Siri Karén held up her glass in a toast and Åsa Malmborg took her place at the mic.

“Thank you Siri. Just as you say…”

“Jesus, what fawning nonsense,” whispered Gregor.

“She’s got a point though,” replied Monica.

“Which is?”

“That the private and public sectors need to cooperate.”

Gregor smiled.

“And you’re just referring to the arts?”

“Yes, what else?”

178

“You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“This is silk,” Monica said, running her purple-painted nails across the fabric of her blazer.

Åsa Malmborg rounded off her short speech and raised her glass high, like the Statue of

Liberty’s torch. The audience applauded and raised their own glasses.

Now, the evening’s main draw took to the stage. Bengt O Nilzon sat down on the tall stool,

his legs nonchalantly crossed. He lowered his voice, held a black notebook out in front of him

and began to read.

“Look around you. My job is to make other people rich…”

Bengt O Nilzon delivered a long speech in which he paid tribute to art and the generations

of artists to come. He then rolled up his black notebook and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. The

audience clapped for ages.

“Finally,” said Gregor. “Can we go home now?”

“Can’t we just have a quick look at the paintings?”

Monica exchanged pleasantries with the Rector of the Stockholm Business School and spent

a few minutes making small talk with a board member from one of the largest healthcare

corporations. She kept glancing over towards the stage, moving in an efficient ark along one side

of the room. Approaching the speaker, unnoticed. Monica handed her glass to a waiter as Åsa

Malmborg was left alone for a moment and Gregor had finally found a fellow publisher to talk

to. It looked as though the politician was looking for something on the stage.

Monica walked over.

“Great speech.”

Åsa Malmborg turned around.

“Monica Carlsson, Hospital Director at Nobel.”

Åsa stretched out her hand.

“Oh, yes. Now I recognise you.”

Bollocks, thought Monica but smiled back anyway.

“My husband, Gregor Dabrowski, is a good friend… well, old friend of Carl-Henrik’s.

Åsa Malmborg stopped and looked at Monica hesitantly.

“You have lots of good ideas that I think could be applied to various organisations in the

city,” Monica went on, “not just cultural institutions.”

Åsa looked restless as she waited for some form of follow-up. She was obviously about to

make her way out of there.

“There’s something I would like to discuss with you,” said Monica. “It concerns the future

of Nobel Hospital.”

179

“Great,” Åsa deflected, “but I think you’d better get in touch with my office, so we can book

something…”

“I think we should meet up just the two of us. Tomorrow, at lunchtime.”

Åsa recoiled.

“You’ll have to call my…”

Monica stepped in closer so that no one would hear.

“I really want to meet with you.”

Something awoke within Åsa. Monica recognised it as once: a primitive defence that the

politician could not conceal. It was dripping with aggression.

Åsa looked to be contemplating whether or not to say something dismissive but then closed

her mouth grimly.

“Lunch on Tuesday,” said Monica. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Okay. But I really do have to go now.”

“Of course. I’ll email you the where and the when.”

While Åsa Malmborg almost flung herself at the stage to grab her bag, Monica finally caught

sight of her old classmate. He was standing and studying a brightly coloured painting of a fox and

two deer in a living room.

“So good of you to come,” Monica said to Otto Nordin, MD of consultancy firm Newman

and Weisz.

“When the Director of Stockholm’s second largest hospital invites you to an art show, of

course you get a bit curious. I saw that you found her.”

Monica watched Åsa Malmborg’s back disappear into the crowd.

“I assume that you are a busy man yourself.”

Otto Nordin undid his exclusive blazer and ran his hand down his tie.

“I have the best consultants in town holding the fort.”

Monica glanced in Gregor’s direction. He was still busy with his colleague.

“Best in town? Is that it?”

“Otto smiled.”

“In the country.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” said Monica.

“I expected nothing less,” replied Otto.

“I want to secure a major refurbishment of Nobel Hospital.”

“So I understand.”

“And I need finance.”

180

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not stupid, I realise that securing private financing might be tricky after all the toing and

froing with NSK.”

“No, that deal wasn’t particularly well executed.”

“But I know that you are a discreet man.”

Otto nodded and a broad smile lit up his tanned face.

“So might you be able to conduct things… discreetly?” Monica asked.

Otto carried on nodding while he contemplated the question.

“Naturally. Do you have a construction firm in mind?”

“Well, not the one that NSK used, that’s for sure.”

“But their largest competitor?” asked Otto.

“Yes.”

“You always were the sharpest, even back when we were studying.”

“I didn’t end up doing that much studying.”

“No, you were too busy playing students’ union president at the same time.”

“Playing?”

“And you started your first company.”

“While I wasn’t studying medicine,” Monica chipped in.

“You weren’t there that much.”

“At the Business School?”

“Yes.”

“It felt unnecessary.”

Otto stretched out his hand.

“We’re going to have a great time.”

Monica accepted his handshake.

“So, you’re onboard?”

“You think I’d miss a chance like this?”

“I don’t know how brave you are.”

Otto laughed out loud.

“Not as brave as you – you’re the one who’ll take the hit if it all goes to pot.”

“You’ll have to call it something other than OPS though,” said Monica.

181

The sun was still shining as Monica and Gregor left Waldemarsudde. They could hear the

distant sound of a boat’s horn and the buzz from Gröna Lund amusement park. They walked

past the entrance to Skansen open air museum and strolled slowly onwards, past Hasselbacken.

“You don’t seem like you’re in a hurry?” said Gregor.

“It’s a nice evening.”

“But when where you planning to say something?” he asked.

“Eh?”

Gregor smiled.

“You’re a wolf. Or rather, a lion in tiger’s clothing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Monica said, clearly enjoying the warm June

evening.

“You never leave anything to chance,” said Gregor. “There’s always a hidden agenda, isn’t

there?”

Monica took her husband by the hand.

“Not always.”

“Really? Tell me one time when you allow chance into your life?”

“When we’re playing Yahtzee,” replied Monica.

182

Tuesday morning, 11th June

GULLMARSPLAN, STOCKHOLM

Tekla got out of bed and into an ice-cold shower. Yet again, Simon’s face had kept her awake.

After three speed balls, to help order her memory, followed by four Zolpidem, she’d finally

nodded off, but it was hardly beauty sleep. She still hadn’t finished arranging the images and her

headache had not relented.

Breakfast ended up being a ‘twin black bomb’ – coffee and amphetamine. The only problem

with this diet was the calorie intake. She had no appetite.

In the last month, she’d had to go down a size in her work clothes. She was thinking about

taking dietary supplements. That was just so depressing though.

At five past six, she received a text from Monica Carlsson:

Lunch at Pâtisserie Vienne, 1 o’clock?

Tekla felt she had no choice but to accept the invitation. Her headache reared up again. She

recalled her meeting with the siblings, Astrid and Magnus, at Nytorget yesterday. Thought to

herself how nice they both were.

She called Simon’s phone and sent yet another text. No signs of life there for more than

twenty-four hours.

Tekla took a brisk walk over Skanstull bridge. She fixed her hair after her cap had caused it

to be plastered across her head like a swimming cap. She sniffed her fingers: the smell of butter.

‘Must wash my hair tonight,’ she thought to herself. She wished she was more of the sporty type

who hit the gym at lunchtime, had a sauna and then produced their homemade lamb meatballs

and bulgur salad. A parallel dream life.

She often thought about her mother in the home in Nyhammar. She ought to go there, just

sit with her. Hold a hand. Was this a premonition, that something was about to happen to her

mum? Or was it to do with the articles she’d recently read, about the progress that London group

had published. They were still trials, but patients had shown signs of slowing the decline in what

was often the fastest cause of dementia – Huntington’s. The technique was based on

transplanting stem cells from immediate relatives. Her thoughts spiralled away: would she ever

183

dare to have herself tested? And tell Simon? He didn’t know that it was Huntington’s causing his

mother’s dementia. Nor that he had a fifty per cent chance of developing it himself. Just like she

did. It was all connected. If she had the gene and he didn’t, she would need stem cells from his

bone marrow to survive. And vice versa.

The smell inside the hospital had got even worse. Tekla felt deeply uneasy, it felt as if

something was threatening the hospital’s very existence. When she got to the main entrance to

buy some chewing gum she felt how the hot air was flooding in through the swing doors – the

temperature outside had risen by five degrees in twenty-four hours. The radio weatherman had

reported a high of twenty-nine degrees yesterday. No wonder just walking down the pavement

had become a struggle: the bars of Södermalm had doubled their terrace seating and hardly had

time to switch barrels.

Tekla sat down at a computer in the department and checked what had happened to the

thirty-nine year old overdose patient in ICU. His kidneys had now stopped working altogether.

They’d started dialysis at midnight since he hadn’t passed any urine in twenty-four hours. On top

of that, he had developed acidosis. They kept having to treat with large quantities of sodium

bicarbonate. The fitting, though, seemed to have stopped.

The poor guy. Just thirty-nine. According to an earlier entry from A&E the man had told

them that he had a son, with a woman he called ‘the child’s mother.’ What kind of story lay

behind a man found outside a bar having overdosed? And why was his blood so acidic? She also

noted that several more overdoses had been admitted in the past twenty-four hours, both at

Nobel and the other A&E departments in the city. Many had remained unconscious. Others had

died, despite receiving the antidote. She did not however manage to find any with such high

blood acidosis as the thirty-nine year old. Tekla flipped through pages in her head: Harrison’s,

eighteenth edition, page 1390, Approach to the patient with metabolic acidosis. Nothing on the list

matched up with this patient. She was going to need to search online and in journals. One chink

of light: her brain seemed to still be working properly. After half an hour at the computer, Tekla

had a bit more to go on. Her stomach was screaming out for something other than hospital food,

but she headed to the toilet instead, where she unscrewed her lip balm. After a further fifteen

minutes’ surfing, a thought was beginning to emerge.

“Shouldn’t you be at the morning briefing?”

Tekla looked up in surprise to see Tariq walking into the doctor’s office. Her pulse shot up

towards the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling.

“Shit.” She glanced up at the clock. Five past eight.

184

Tekla thought about trying to make the meeting, but it arriving late would attract more

attention that not turning up at all. You could always blame it on a patient.

“So, everything else okay?” Tariq asked as he slumped onto a chair. He spun back and forth

on it as he nonchalantly typed in his login code.

Tekla was wasn’t convinced by his amiable tone. Then it hit her:

“Are you on here today?”

“I’m covering for Anita.”

“Oh right.”

Tekla’s headache took on a new colour.

“Something about her boat. Or her apartment… I can’t remember. She’s taken a day’s flex.

Tell me about the ICU case.”

“Case?”

“The overdose,” Tariq said as he tapped slowly at the keyboard.

Tekla wanted to avoid getting caught in between two rival colleagues.

“I don’t know that much about it. You should probably ask Ani…”

“Unusual OD,” Tariq cut in, and Tekla was immediately struck by the feeling that he knew

more than he was letting on.

Tekla briefly recounted the patient’s history and the more she revealed, the more upright

Tariq was sitting in his chair. He was reading something on the screen intently, nodding to

himself from time to time.

“Not a regular heroin overdose then.”

“They haven’t come across anything else,” replied Tekla.

“Does Anita have any ideas?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“So what do you think?”

Tekla suspected something underhand but gave a short account of what she knew:

“He’s got low blood sugar, renal failure, ECG disturbances and seizures. Severe acidosis.”

She continued to reel off the lab results without looking at the screen. Her thoughts drifted

onto the articles she’d read earlier.

“Unbelievable,” said Tariq.

“What?”

“That you remember every test result.”

“But… I just checked.”

Tariq looked at the screen once more.

185

“But still.”

Shit, Tekla thought to herself. She had to be more careful. She’d got caught up in this case

though. Suddenly, she recalled what Monica had said was her favourite drink: gin and tonic. The

British had started mixing gin with tonic water to improve the bitter taste of the tonic, which the

Indians had been taking for centuries to combat malaria… She needed to make a visit to ICU.

“Quinine!”

“What are you on about?” Eva Elmqvist asked as she straightened her black compression

tights under her skirt. She was the only person in ICU who wore one.

“Sometimes they cut the heroin with other stuff: flour, baking soda, starch… and…”

“Quinine?” Eva asked sceptically.

“Quinine,” Tekla said, looking up a text book from 2008 on her flash cards. “An alkaloid

which is extremely base, thirty-two per cent of patients develop hypoglycaemia… other side

effects are thrombocytopenia, asthma, liver failure…”

She lost her train of thought. Eva stared at her.

“What are you reading from?”

“Er… I read up a bit on quinine this morning.”

“You are a strange one, Tekla Berg.”

Tekla breathed out.

“But why quinine? This is completely new to me,” Eva said, now in a more inquisitive tone.

Tekla had read three case studies about quinine and heroin before tracking Eva Almqvist

down.

“Because it gives a slightly sharper hit.”

“And his symptoms match up with a quinine overdose?”

“We’ll have to see when we do some supplementary tests,” Tekla said somewhat cockily.

“Those things are expensive. I’m going to take some more convincing.”

Eva sat down at one of the computers. ICU was calm and quiet – work was done quietly.

The only sound was the occasional beep of a drip monitor when it was time to change.

Eva opened PubMed, the article database, then found a review article about quinine

overdoses. They read it together and then nodded contentedly in sync. It all matched up.

“I think you’ve cracked the case,” Eva said enthusiastically. “We’ll have to do some extended

toxicology reports. They’ll need to be rushed to Linköping, that’s if those lab types even know

the meaning of hurry.”

Tekla stood up a little straighter. She looked at the clock on the wall. Almost eleven.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to go. Debrief with the police.”

186

“So what did the DNA show up?” Tekla asked, feeling like an expert from CSI.

“Nothing whatsoever, not in any database,” Rebecka Nilsén replied. “If you’re a terrorist

from the middle east though, you wouldn’t necessarily be in the Swedish PKU register. Nor the

police’s DNA register. And we didn’t have any fingerprints to go on. Every one of them is

severely burned.”

“So the next step is?” Tekla asked, feeling frustrated. She wanted to move on, to let go of

her suspicions.

“The forensic dentists will get to dazzle with their dental analyses. Their raison d’être.

Rebecka rolled her eyes. “It’s going to take time though. We’re looking at a few dental clinics

around Södermalm, but we don’t actually know where he lived. Can you imagine why we don’t

have a centralised database of this stuff?”

Tekla enjoyed Rebecka Nilsén’s company. The detective was wearing gerbera orange lipstick,

a white, billowing collarless blouse, and thin, three-quarter length trousers. Tekla could not get a

handle on her style at all.

“It seems certain that he didn’t live in the building anyway,” Rebecka concluded. “Unless he

was subletting from someone of course. Everyone else is accounted for and no one has been

reported missing.”

Tekla carefully approached the bed while they talked. She pretended to be listening to

Rebecka’s speculation but all her attention was actually focused on that ear. The injuries and

bandages meant the patient had an amorphous, swollen form. His face, or whatever was left of it,

was barely visible. Bandages, wound dressings, stitches, tubes… it was impossible to make out a

human underneath it all. His ear, however, was actually sticking out between the bandages. She

had to lean over the tube that disappeared down his trachea to get a look at the top of it.

“But no. The ear was so red and inflamed that it wasn’t possible to see whether there was a

birthmark there or not. Simon had a prominent birthmark on his ear, she knew that.

“Are you okay?” asked Rebecca.

“Oh yes.”

Tekla thought about the way her amphetamine consumption had increased but quickly

dismissed that. Amphetamine served a purpose and she was going to cut down once things

around her started to settle.

“It can happen so easily if you’ve only got yourself to look after.”

Tekla recoiled.

“How do you know that…?”

187

“I’m guessing that you more or less live here at the hospital.”

Tekla made her excuses and left the ICU. On the way, she sent another text to Simon. She

also sent messages on Messenger, WhatsApp and Insta. She hadn’t checked her email for ages –

unable to face up to all the musts. Better off not knowing.

188

Tuesday 11th June, afternoon

A&E, NOBEL HOSPITAL

Victor lay his head on the rock hard stretcher, and felt the scratchy paper sticking to his back. He

felt a tightness over his ribcage, as if the little stickers the nurse was attaching were ten-kilo

dumbbells. After the conversation with Nina that morning, he’d had difficulty breathing. It was

as if there was an elephant standing on his chest. Sardor’s interrogation of the person they

suspected of having stabbed Jarmo had apparently descended into pure torture, according to

Nina.

A female doctor entered the room and stretched out her hand. Victor sat up, felt the

pressure on his chest ease somewhat.

“Ragna Sigurdsdottir. A&E doctor.” She didn’t look a day over twenty-five, Victor thought

to himself. Straight blonde hair, worn up in a perfect ponytail.

Victor was annoyed that Elena had driven him to A&E for chest pains. It had disappeared

when he got to lie down on the sofa for a bit hadn’t it? He was also annoyed by his nicotine

dependence which for now he was unable to satisfy. The only positive thing about the morning

so far was that Elena hadn’t been able to join him because she had an appointment at the

hairdresser’s.

“I’m Victor Umarov,” he said. “I’m sure you are a rising star but I am fit and well. Just a bit

of a cold.”

Victor began buttoning his black shirt and tried to remove the rubber finger cot from his

hand.

“Hold on,” said the blonde doctor. “I’m going to have to examine you first.”

He let his arms drop to his sides. She looked like she meant it.

“If I understand correctly, you suddenly started having breathing difficulties this morning,

and that they returned an hour or so ago?”

“That’s right,” Sardor chipped in. “He was complaining that he couldn’t get any air.”

Victor wasn’t planning to mention any chest pains. Then they’d surely think he’d had a heart

attack. That was something he was going to save until the day he decided to die in his sleep.

189

“Has anything particular happened?” the doctor went on.

“I’ve been working a lot on sorting the pool out recently,” said Victor.

Ragna made a note of that but looked rather bemused.

Sardor’s mobile rang. He answered it, but the doctor’s stern stare told him in no uncertain

terms to leave the room.

Victor tried to shut out the sounds around him but his stress increased every time some

alarm beeped, a patient cried out or the screen door rattled shut. He jolted as the doctor put the

ice-cold stethoscope to his chest. A sucking sound could be heard each time she lifted its bell

from his sweaty skin. Then an ice-cold, slightly damp hand touched his lumbar and tapped

lightly. He twitched again.

“I’m just tapping a bit.”

“So what do you think? A cold, it’s just some virus isn’t it?”

“You haven’t had a cough or a high temperature in the last few days?”

“No.”

“And you say you’ve been feeling unusually tired in recent weeks?”

“Yes, but that’s not surprising. There’s a lot going on at the moment.” Victor’s thoughts

turned not to the Northside Network, Tatyana’s whores or the impending annual accounts, but

to his mossy-green pool.

The door rattled once again and a large doctor walked in.

“Don’t let me disturb you. Carry on,” said Tariq Moussawi.

Ragna understood at once.

“Victor Umarov, sixty-nine years old, presenting with acute onset dyspnoea, no chest pains.

Previously diagnosed hypertension and prostate problems. He had a litre of retained urine

drained off a few weeks ago, but no catheter in situ. I can’t hear any breathing sounds on the left

side and…”

“It’s just a cold,” Victor interrupted. “I have more important things to think about.

“We’ll have to…” Ragna began.

Tariq placed his large hand on Ragna’s shoulder. It looked as though it made her sink ten

centimetres into the lino floor.

“My friend. It may be that you have a cold, and we will not inconvenience you any more

than necessary. However, our dear young Ragna here is a promising young doctor. She cannot

hear any breathing sounds from one of your lungs.” Tariq successfully managed a really troubled

expression. “It may of course be that she’s got wax in her ears.”

Tariq approached the trolley.

190

It seemed to Victor that all the lights in the room were dimmed slightly.

Tariq lowered his voice.

“Fluid on the lung can mean everything from a cold to tuberculosis to heart failure to…

other things.”

Other things.

It was as if someone had struck a gong, and the whole room was now vibrating with the

deafening noise of the instrument. Victor’s ears were ringing.

Ragna Sigurdsdottir reclaimed the initiative.

“Okay. Shall we start with a chest x-ray and some tests?” That wasn’t actually a question.

“Then we might still need to take some of it and see what this fluid is.”

Victor wanted to nod, but was completely locked inside a world of his own. He could feel

himself falling through a great darkness. Rocks on either side. Below him was dark water, a

waterfall. The air was warm and he closed his eyes. Someone was standing on his chest. It was

warm. Stuffy. He attempted to speak:

“Wa… Water.”

“You’ll get some water. We’ll be back,” Tariq said as he left the room along with Ragna, just

as Sardor returned.

Victor went quiet for a moment. He lay there waiting for the buzzing in his ears to subside.

Then he said to Sardor:

“Have you spoken to Jensen?”

“He seemed happy that we’d found the guy who’d stabbed Jarmo. Eje just called, he’s

disposed of the body.”

“Body?” Victor asked anxiously. “You’re not telling me that you killed him?”

Victor closed his eyes. He tilted his head back and clenched his hands so tightly that his

knuckles went white. He started coughing violently and had to stand up to get some air. He

wandered through the room as Sardor looked worriedly on.

“Do you remember that we spoke about this? That I’m a Vor, not some gangster boss who

bumps people on the street.”

“I didn’t mean for him to die. I just…”

“Quiet!”

Sardor looked like he wanted to disappear off the face of the planet. Victor carried on pacing

around the little triage room. Like a caged lion.

“Imagine if you’d studied, become a… doctor or something. Do you realise where all this is

going to lead? Violence breeds violence. They will exact revenge for that little shit.”

191

“I can…” Sardor attempted.

“Quiet!” Victor cut him off. “Call the gangs of the Northside Network together. Meet up on

neutral turf tomorrow evening. Tell them Victor Umarov needs to talk to them before they do

anything stupid.”

192

Tuesday, 11th June

A&E, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Tekla, could you have a look at this ECG?”

Tekla turned around to see one of the younger doctors waving a print out.

“A forty-year-old female, suffering chest pains for the past three days. I’ve examined her, but

not found anything.”

“What, not even her heart?”

The trainee gave her a puzzled look at first, but after a moment he realised that Tekla was

winding him up. He smiled.

“I mean that the heart and lungs appear…”

“I get it, sorry,” she interrupted, resisting the urge to put her hand on his shoulder. “So what

do you think?”

“I feel a bit unsure, since she’s showing a new bundle branch block.#

“I can see that. No previous history of heart problems?”

“None at all. Picture of health.”

“Strange. We’ll have a look together. Where is she?”

“Cubicle four.”

Tekla started heading in the direction of cubicle four. Lying on the trolley inside was a

woman who looked to be in a bad way. Tekla could determine that much even from several

metres away. There was something about her breathing. Rapid, and forced. Tekla had a

premonition of something dreadful, but she walked over and stood alongside the patient. Her

junior colleague snuck up and stood next to her.

“Have you coughed up any blood?” Tekla asked, and congratulated herself for just having

swallowed a bomb. Her brain felt razor sharp. She knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long, but

right now her brain was like a Pentagon computer.

“No.”

193

The woman looked anxiously at Tekla but didn’t have time to say anything more before she

started grimacing and clutching at her chest. Tekla saw on the monitor that her pulse had gone

up to one-hundred-and-thirty per minute. Tachycardia.

“Are you okay?”

“Not… getting… any air…”

“Call the nurse,” Tekla managed to say before the woman slipped under. She felt her pulse:

nothing.

“Sound the alarm. Cardiac arrest,” she called to the junior doctor who was already half way

to the ward office.

Tekla started giving chest compressions. Since she was fairly tall, she didn’t often have to

climb up to reach the patients’ chests. The woman was quite thin and it was easy to depress her

ribcage enough to compress her heart.

A nurse rushed in.

“Heart’s stopped. Probably a pulmonary embolism.”

The nurse expertly took over the compressions so that Tekla could back away and lead the

rest of the treatment from a distance. Further staff soon appeared. Tekla asked one of the nurses

for adrenaline, and asked another to check the line was working.

“Shall we roll through to the resus room?” one of the nurses asked, from where she was

crouched down, checking back of the woman’s right hand. “She’s going to need another line in.”

“No. We’ll keep going in here,” Tekla said as she pulled out the defibrillator. She placed

three electrodes but was only able to establish that there was some electrical activity in the

woman’s heart, but no pulse. Her working theory was still alive.

“I think we should try thrombolysis. I’m just going to use the ultrasound to check if she’s

got a large right atrium… but it has to be a pulmonary embolism.”

“Are you quite sure?” said an authoritative voice. She saw Tariq prop himself against a pillar,

directly opposite the cubicle.

“Was there something on your mind?” she asked, pretending not to have heard what he said.

“You go ahead,” he said calmly even if he probably had a queue of twenty unseen patients

waiting for him.

She ignored him and carried on attending to the cardiac arrest.

“Where’s the Altaplase?” Tekla shouted, and heard her own voice crack. Her whole body

was shaking and there was a humming in her ears, a high-frequency noise that might have come

from the high noise levels at A&E. Or indeed all the chemicals in her body.

194

“Here,” said an experienced nurse. She was holding the medicine that would dissolve the

blood props in the woman’s lungs. “All of it?”

“Yes. Quickly,” said Tekla, wiping sweat from her eyes. The little cubicle was cramped. One

of the auxiliaries was now kneeling on the trolley and doing chest compressions. Behind her, two

medical students waited patiently for their turn. One of them, the male, was paler than the wall

he was pushing himself up against. His female course mate looked more a lioness, ready to attack

her prey.

Tariq stood and watched without giving anything away.

Tekla moved the ultrasound unit out of the way and made room for the nurse who opened

the line and tied the tube from the Ringer acetate to avoid backwash. She pushed in the syringe

and emptied its contents in the course of about a minute.

After a further minute, Tekla said: “We’ll pause there.”

She felt the woman’s groin.

“Pulse,” she said, avoiding Tariq’s stare. Yes! she exclaimed to herself, internally.

“She’s breathing on her own,” said an anaesthetists’ nurse, who had taken over the airway.

Then she added:

“But she has a very large pupil.”

Fuck!

Tekla pushed over to the patient’s head and pulled out her torch, peeled up her eyelid and

could only agree: one pupil was very large and not responding to light. That could mean only one

thing: a bastard intracerebral haemorrhage!

And at that moment, Tekla’s first thought wasn’t for her patient. Her focus lay entirely in

one direction: enemy number one, over there by the pillar. Now he’d be able to go and hammer

home the final nail in her coffin. Might as well go straight to Göran and resign.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tekla braced herself and turned her head towards Tariq. He had left his sentry post and was

now standing right next to her.

“You did the right thing.”

She must’ve misheard. She forced herself to look him in the eyes. That usual, sarcastic Tariq

smile had made way for a serious, honest expression.

“I would’ve done exactly the same. It’s pulmonary embolisms and thrombolysis is exactly the

right thing to do in that situation. Brave, and tough. But spot on.”

Was he winding her up? It didn’t seem like it. Instead, he’d given her actions his blessing.

“We’ll take her down for a CT scan,” said Tekla. “She probably has a haemorrhage.”

195

Everyone was looking at Tekla, but no one said anything. The situation was tense, but under

control.

“Go and write the referral,” said Tariq. “I can stay here. And by the way… nicely done –

dealing with that idiot dad in A&E last week.”

Tekla couldn’t believe her ears.

“Right up my street.”

“Thanks,” Tekla managed to blurt out. She turned to the clock on the wall: 12.30. Half an

hour to go until lunch with Monica Carlsson.

196

Tuesday, 11th June

BIBLIOTEKSGATAN, ÖSTERMALM

Tekla looked on as her Hospital Director slipped languidly out of the enormous white Land

Cruiser and planted her high heels onto the newly-swept pavement on Biblioteksgatan.

“I hope you fancy a little extra something!” She called through the noise of the traffic

coming from nearby Birger Jarlsgatan.

Tekla had run out of A&E, flung herself into a taxi and dropped two bombs from the lip

balm tube on the way. The effects were just kicking in. She mumbled to herself:

“You can never have too much coffee.”

Patisserie Vienne was full of people. A waitress showed them to an unoccupied table next to

a pillar. Monica Carlsson stopped in her tracks.

“Out of the question.”

The waitress looked confused.

“We’re going to sit by the window.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Uh-uh. You’re just going to make sure it happens. Booked for four, one o’clock.”

The poor waitress looked bewilderedly at her iPad, then looked around and spotted a

solution.

“Just one minute.”

“Max.”

Monica looked at Tekla.

“Have you had the chance to recover? After the attack?”

“You mean… the attack in ICU?”

“Have there been other attacks in the past few days?”

“I’m fine.”

“And the burns victim?”

“Oh. Nothing new. Neither improvement nor deterioration. He’s had his endotracheal tube

removed though.”

197

The waitress showed them to a window-table by the door.

Monica walked towards it and mentioned in passing that she wanted a cappuccino.

“And the same for this young lady, and two croissants. They’d better be fresh.”

Once they’d sat down, Monica put her phone on the table and straightened her serviette.

“Right,” the Hospital Director said loudly. “No PTSD then? No. Doesn’t look like it. Steady,

Northern Swedish material. Or should that be from Jämtland? What was it actually like, growing

up in the country? I’m from Gothenburg myself. Grew up around the centre of town. Well, I

suppose that might be obvious.”

Tekla had a thousand questions, but she couldn’t spit out a single one of them. The coffees

arrived and she gulped down a few big mouthfuls.

“Might not be the right moment for the family history,” Monica Carlsson offered. “We’ll

have to do that some other time. Tell me more about what happened instead.”

“Tell you what?” Tekla was having to use two hands to lift the mug to her lips without

shaking. She’d lost count of how many bombs she’d flung down her throat into an empty

stomach.

“The attack, on Sunday.”

“Oh right.” Tekla realised that she had to work on the assumption that Monica Carlsson

basically new about events before they’d even occurred. “Yes, it was weird.”

“Bumbling idiots,” Monica sighed loudly.

Tekla could think of at least three sets of people the Hospital Director might be thinking

about.

“The ICU doctors are doing their best, I’m sure.”

“The Police.”

“Ah.”

“How can they fail to catch someone who comes into my hospital and tried to take the life

of one of our patients. Not only that, he was injured, as I understand. You stuck a…”

“Pair of scissors.”

“… pair of scissors in his leg. Well done Tekla. But it’s implausibly inept of the police to let

him escape.”

Tekla dared not contradict her.

Monica’s gaze took on a more thoughtful air.

“The Nobel Hospital is crumbling away. Have you noticed?”

“Not exactly.”

“You get changed down in the basement?”

198

“Yes.”

“So you’ll have seen those cracks in the foundations. And you cannot have failed to notice

the smell.”

“It was hard to miss.”

It looked as if the Director was composing herself before saying something important. All

these bizarre meetings with Monica Carlsson – Tekla knew that there was an agenda. She had

several ideas on what it could be about, but none seemed more likely than the others. Maybe she

was about to find out right now?”

“So good that you didn’t get hurt.”

“I might have acted a bit hastily.”

“You should’ve run faster.”

“How do you mean?”

“You should’ve caught that bastard. Sneaking into my building and trying to murder an

intubated patient. The cheek of it!”

Tekla felt dazed. Was this a reprimand for not having acted even more forcefully?”

“But you know every cloud…” Monica went on, who now had a glint in her eye.

“Sometimes.”

“No, it’s a law of nature. Although sometimes you do have to strain to see the light in all

that darkness. That’s what my old dad used to tell his congregation.”

“And you’re good at that?”

Monica’s face cracked into a broad smile.

“We got three patients more than NSK.”

“From the fire, you mean?”

Tekla waited for the next part, but none came. The abrupt jumps from one subject to

another were making her tired.

“Great that you could make it.”

Tekla couldn’t hold back any longer. She took a chance.

“What was it you wanted to talk…”

“Have you heard anyone bad-mouthing Göran?”

“Göran?”

“Any of the doctors said anything critical of him? If so, I want you to come straight to me.”

What was this all about? Was Tekla to be some kind of spy for the Hospital Director?

“No, I can’t say I have heard anything.”

“Can’t say?”

199

“I haven’t heard anyone say anything bad about Göran.”

Monica undid one of the buttons on her silk blouse.

“I take it you do speak to your colleagues?”

“We discuss clinical cases.”

Monica smiled and looked around. Then at the time.

“Five minutes.”

“What’s happening in five minutes?” Tekla asked anxiously.

“You have a brother, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What does he do?”

Tekla assumed that Monica Carlsson knew all about Simon. Was this all to do with him?

Tekla felt a cramping sensation in her guts.

“There!” Monica said suddenly and got to her feet.

Tekla spotted two people, a man and a woman, entering the café. They were both in their

fifties and wearing expensive suits. Monica Carlsson shook their hands nonchalantly – it was

plain that they had met before.

“This is Tekla Berg, who I was telling you about. Great hero at Söder Tower. She

singlehandedly saved the lives of several people. A real Nobel doctor.”

The woman shook her hand, and Tekla cursed herself for not having had the chance to wipe

the sweat away.

“The city is so grateful. Really.”

The woman looked to mean every syllable. The man was more reserved but he also stretched

out his hand. He had an unnatural sun tan that was verging on orange, reminiscent almost of

Donald Trump.

Monica Carlsson waved to the waitress who took their orders – a freshly squeezed juice for

her and a double espresso for him. Tekla noticed a black BMW parked on the pedestrianized

street, its chauffeur loitering by the door, phone in hand.

“As you know, Åsa is the Finance Minister of the Stockholm region.”

Tekla had never heard of the woman. Much less seen her. She nodded cautiously.

“You might recognise Otto too?”

Tekla must’ve let slip a look of surprise.

“No, it has to be said you keep yourself to yourself. Otto is a business consultant, he does a

lot of work for the Confederation of Swedish Industry, among others.”

The man looked slightly uncomfortable but he continued to listen.

200

“Tekla, have you ever heard of PPP?”

“Maybe.”

“Public-Private-Partnerships. A tendering system. I’ve been… for some time I’ve been in

discussions with Åsa and Otto here about Nobel Hospital’s future.”

Tekla listened as she tried to piece the situation together. This day was getting weirder and

weirder. Åsa Malmborg looked tense. Ill at ease with the situation. Tekla got the impression that

Monica Carlsson was the one pulling the strings and that Åsa would actually really rather be

somewhere else. Åsa Malmborg stopped fiddling with her phone and stared straight at Tekla.

“You did so incredibly well last Thursday, unbelievable. Have you recovered?”

“You mean from the fire?”

“It must’ve been awful.”

The politician made every word sound as if it had come from deep inside.

“It’s always tough when people are suffering.

Monica Carlsson cut in: “It is part of our job though.”

Tekla glanced briefly at the tie-wearing consultant as he sipped at his espresso. Suddenly, as

if she’d heard a bell that no one else could, Åsa Malmborg stood up and offered Tekla another

handshake.

“It really was good to meet you Tekla,” She nodded to Monica and Otto, then left the café.

“I have to get going myself,” Otto said and got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch, Monica. Call

me later.”

Tekla stayed put.

“Have you ever noticed how the clothes make the man?” asked Monica.

“He looked to be wearing an expensive suit.”

“The shoes. It’s all in the detail. They must cost ten thousand and you can only buy them in

London.”

“I didn’t see his shoes.”

“At the hospital though, you see things there, don’t you Tekla?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Monica Carlsson ran her fingers through her hair, placing a few errant strands back in the

white stripe. As though she had a mirror in front of her.

“Unfortunately, there are also others who see things,” Monica chuckled. “And I’m not

talking about that clown Göran Collinder.”

The Director’s eyes narrowed. A stiff smile appeared.

“Now we need to get back to work. I’m afraid I can’t give you a lift.”

201

“That’s fine. Thanks for the coffee.”

Monica Carlsson grabbed the waitress and paid. Out on Biblioteksgatan she stopped

suddenly.

“Tekla, you’ve seen what it looks like down there, haven’t you?”

Tekla looked over in the direction of the large car that was waiting for Monica. It looked

new.

“The hospital.”

“Oh right.”

“It’s falling down. And the Region doesn’t have the muscle to refurbish it. Something drastic

needs to happen before the building collapses. You know Anita Klein-Borgstedt, right?”

The constant non-sequiturs were making Tekla dizzy.

“We are colleagues.”

“Anita is the union rep at Nobel, and needs to agree to the future procurement.”

“Procurement?”

“Private money, from business. Otherwise we might as well wait for the next century. And

the union are the ones who can stop the whole thing. The union, at Nobel Hospital, is Anita

Klein.

The penny dropped.

“Nod, if you understand what you are going to do?”

Tekla didn’t have time to finish nodding before Monica Carlsson had disappeared towards

her Land Cruiser. She could feel vibrating inside her pocket and she pulled out her phone.

Finally, a sign of life – a new text from Simon!

Meet me at Ringen shopping centre, it said.

202

Tuesday 11th June

RINGEN SHOPPING CENTRE, SKANSTULL

Where in Ringen were they supposed to meet? Simon hadn’t answered when she rang back. Nor

had he responded to any of her texts. The mall wasn’t that big but it did have two entrances. She

was nervous, but she was also angry. He was going to get plenty of shit for not getting in touch.

For making her so worried. Because he was a complete shambles. Tekla thought to herself that

she’d have to move back and forth, not stop, and that way she would probably find him in the

end. The place was hardly Bluewater.

She kept her phone in her hand, in case he called. The battery indicator showed 7%. She

took two Serax and swallowed them, dry. The pills got stuck in her throat but eventually

dissolved.

Tekla had just walked past the newsagents on the corner of Ringvägen and Götgatan when

she spotted two men, or at least their backs. One had a black hoodie and dark hair, the other a

white sports coat with a hood. Suddenly it felt like she was treading on soft sand, one of her legs

gave way but she managed to catch herself and straighten it. She regained control and started

weaving between people. She was almost certain that one of the men – the one in the hoodie –

was Simon.

Tekla swerved around a pushchair just as Simon turned towards her. They made eye contact.

Her pulse rocketed. A mixture of nerves, rage and energy washed over her. His toothy grin.

Those darting eyes. A hand raised in greeting.

At that moment a dark van mounted the kerb just outside the main entrance. Simon looked

stunned. For several long seconds, Tekla thought that perhaps they’d been waiting for someone

who had now turned up. She continued towards them.

A man with a leather waistcoat, shaved head and a plaster cast on his left arm jumped out of

the van and took a few quick strides towards Simon, who instinctively turned around and started

running towards Ringen’s main entrance. Tekla started running too. At the same time, she saw

Simon’s mate lose his balance, and how another man with a long, plaited goatee, white t-shirt and

leather jacket swiped him up with ease.

203

Tekla heard the bang as the mate’s head hit the car door.

Tekla ran through the doors.

Simon was lying on the floor outside a kitchenware shop with the cast-man on top of him.

“Simon!” she screamed.

Simon looked up. She could see the mixture of terror and surprise in his eyes.

The plaster cast man turned around, and Tekla noticed that he was older than she’d first

thought.

“You stay away,” he roared.

Tekla kept going, like a rhino heading for its prey at full pelt.

It was like hitting a tree trunk.

The man easily pushed her away while simultaneously using his one free hand to pluck up

Simon and drag him away. It looked like he was moving polystyrene.

People around them were backing away and Tekla saw that many of them were getting their

phones out. To film, or to call the police?” She flung herself after the man, caught up with him

and grabbed his leather waistcoat. Judging by the surprise on his face when he turned around, he

must’ve counted her out.

“Let him go!” she screamed.

The plaster-cast-man easily upended Tekla. She bashed her hip in the fall, but the pain only

registered as a little jolt through her body. Suddenly she could hear people screaming like mad all

around her. Then she realised why: the man was standing over her, aiming a pistol at her head.

Simon was hanging underneath his bad arm, like a trapped ragdoll.

“What’s it to be?” the man snarled.

Tekla didn’t move. She felt no fear, just pure, unadulterated rage. At the same time her brain

was processing various options.

“Best if you stay there, that way no one will get hurt.”

In her peripheral vision, Tekla could see people fleeing in panic.

“Good girl,” said the man, and started backing away.

She stayed there until she saw him disappearing off towards the street. She then quickly got

to her feet, looked around for an implement and grabbed hold of a large frying pan from a

display.

“Watch yourself!” cried a woman carrying a baby in a harness on her tummy. “The police are

on their way.”

Tekla ran out onto the street and saw the van with its side door open. Simon’s mate was

lying on the floor holding his face, and bleeding heavily.

204

The two gang members were both hoisting Simon into the vehicle as Tekla ran over and

swung the frying pan towards the plaster cast guy’s back. She avoided hitting his head, well aware

of the types of injuries that could cause. She only wanted to stop what was happening.

The pan hit him square on the back and it echoed and the moist, slapping noise that resulted

from iron on leather echoed between the buildings.

He stumbled, but that was it.

Tekla was completely paralysed as he turned around. She hadn’t planned any further than

this, but she didn’t need much more time to contemplate when she saw the fist coming towards

her. Instinctively she turned her face away and the plaster cast hit her neck with a dull thud. It fell

like she’d been hit by a falling tree. Her body was pushed to the tarmac but she managed to get

her hands out and break her fall. When a large boot landed right in her guts the air ran out and

everything went black.

She heard someone laughing just above her face.

“You stubborn little whore. Are you completely fucked in the head?”

Tekla battled for air. She turned her face to the ground and curled up to defend herself from

more kicks and punches. She heard footsteps getting further away and when she looked up she

could see the man’s leather trousers disappearing around the front of the van and how the door

was pulled shut with a slam.

Tekla hauled herself towards the car, swallowing the vomit that was forcing its way up. The

engine revved. She was crawling towards the back of the vehicle when she saw the side door

open and Simon’s friend being shoved out. He landed on his feet, looked around and picked

something up before running off. Tekla just had time to turn and note the registration before the

van disappeared. Then she crumpled into the gutter, and let the vomit come.

Someone crouched down beside her.

“Are you okay?”

She wiped her mouth with her top and tried to sit up, but her head was spinning and her

neck was throbbing.

“Come on. We’ll help you,” said one voice, and Tekla saw three teenage girls crouching

around her. They helped her into a sitting position and then held on to her body.

“Thanks,” she said.

Now came the sound of the sirens. Tekla sat still and felt her neck with her fingers. It was

tender. Yet she was able to move both her fingers and her toes. No numbness. No paralysis.

A woman bent down and started asking questions.

“Are you okay? I’m a nurse. Can I examine you?”

205

Tekla waved dismissively.

A police car stopped right by Tekla on the road. In the background, more cars could be

heard arriving.

A female officer with a red plait came over and placed a hand on Tekla’s shoulder.

“How’s it going?”

“You need to stop that van. Number plate BOA 110.”

“What happened?”

“Didn’t you hear? You have to…”

“Lots of people have called about this incident. We’ve got several units out.”

“But do you have the reg number?”

A male officer now crouched next to them. He had a notepad and pen in his hand.

“Say it again.”

“BOA 110.”

“Okay. I’ll ring this in,” the man said as he stood up. The woman stayed put.

“So what happened?”

“I came here to meet my brother and as I caught sight of him a van turned up with two men

inside, they grabbed him and his friend.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Simon Berg.”

“And you?”

“Tekla.”

“Berg?”

“Yes.”

Tekla felt sick again and knelt forward.

“Do you need to throw up?”

“Maybe.”

“The ambulance is on its way. Are you in pain?”

“He gave my neck a good whack.”

The policewoman put on a pair of latex gloves and ran her fingers over Tekla’s head.

“No blood.”

“He hit my neck.”

“Might be best if you lie down.”

“No.”

Tekla heard the ambulance arriving.

206

“But you need to find the van. They took Simon.”

“And his friend, right?”

“No they let him go. He ran off that way.”

Tekla pointed towards the metro station on Ringvägen.

The male officer returned, accompanied by two paramedics carrying a large red bag.

“Could you have got that registration wrong?” he asked.

Tekla could see the plate in front of her.

“No. I’m certain. Have you found it?”

“It wasn’t a Volvo Duett, was it?”

“A black panel van, I said. Make… I never saw.”

“So you might have made a mistake?”

“No.”

“Could be stolen plates,” the female officer chipped in. “Do you know why someone would

want to kidnap your brother?”

“No.”

“What does he do for a living?”

Tekla pondered a moment.

“A bit of everything. He paints.”

“Artworks?”

Tekla smiled.

“He’s a painter. Amongst other things.”

“Is he involved in any kind of criminal activity?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But he might?”

Tekla stayed silent.

“Does he do drugs?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you wouldn’t be surprised if he did?”

“You seem to have already decided who my brother is.”

“No. I’m just asking a few questions.”

“Find that van instead.”

Tekla saw a police van pull up. More police emerged. Once of the paramedics asked Tekla to

sit on the stretcher so that she could be examined.

“Thanks, but there’s no need.”

207

Now she spotted someone she recognised, over by the police van. Magnus. Shit, Tekla

thought. She really didn’t want to meet him like this.

“I’ve got to go.”

“I think it’s best if you stay here and…”

“Are you forcing me to stay?”

“No, it’s just that…”

“Good.”

She started walking away from the police van, and stumbled towards the entrance to

Skanstull metro station. Her neck ached but the nausea was slowly disappearing.

What the hell could’ve happened? What had Simon got himself dragged in to?” And who

were the bikers? She tried to convince herself that they were just people he’d done deals with.

Maybe he owed them money? Or had he done something else stupid? It didn’t have to mean he

was in danger.

Yet at the same time, they’d been armed and had kidnapped someone in broad daylight from

a shopping centre on Södermalm. Who does a thing like that?

Tekla pulled a bomb and two ten-mil Serax out of her pocket. She didn’t care if anyone saw.

She leaned her head against the tiled wall by the turnstiles and closed her eyes. Trying not to

think about anything, but just seeing Simon’s silhouette being pushed into the van. His ruffled

hair. His pleading stare. Anxiety. Fear. Panic.

208

IV

209

Twenty-four years earlier.

ÖSTERSUND HOSPITAL

Simon rifled through his dad’s white bedside drawer. Eventually he found the Zippo lighter, put

it in his pocket and gave Tekla a stern but somehow anxious stare. Waiting, as if to see whether

she was going to grass him up, but she was far too busy crying and holding her dad’s hand. Tekla

looked around at her surroundings. She’d been in that room many times that year. Studied the

yellow paint on the walls, which looked almost to be covered in a thin film of water running from

the ceiling. The cupboard in the corner, full of his dirty clothes. The bedside table on wonky

wheels, completely covered with Simon’s drawings.

Tekla could visualise every square millimetre in that room. She could not, however, recall a

single scent, and that frustrated her. Simon said it smelt acrid, ‘like a mixture of sour diarrhoea

and engine oil.” Tekla couldn’t summon any engine oil. Not even any poo. It was like she could

see the orchestra in front of her but was unable to hear a note.

Liver tests. Not because she ever saw his test results, but she remembered the look in her

mother’s eyes as she tore up the envelope from the hospital. And her comment:

“No. No more misfortune in this family. What shall we have for dinner, Tekla?”

Her dad probably never saw his test results. He didn’t want to. He realised what was going

on, but why would he want to know? He knew where things were headed. And he wasn’t about

to waste time worrying. He had the new shed to finish. And it would soon be time for the

highlight of the year: Elk-hunting season. What was it about that hunting that was so fantastic?

Tekla had gone along many times, but was somehow never really present. Not in the way Dad

and his friends were. They got this look in their eyes, a joy she only saw in Dad on the odd

occasion he would look almost sorrowfully at their mum. She was his everything. But she

reciprocated his love in a peculiar way. It was only after his death that Tekla realised what a life

her mother had led. Life with an alcoholic. A person who so single-mindedly sets about

dissolving their body from within, every day, regardless of her prayers and pleas for him to stop.

Now Tekla understood: Mum had known the ending of their film for many years.

210

Tekla wandered forward a few days in her memory. Might have been that he’d just passed

faeces? That they’d giving him lots of laxatives, in an attempt to flush out toxins that the liver

could not stand up to dealing with. Or had they given him something that suddenly,

momentarily, made him a little more alert? It could also have been chance.

Tekla was alone with her father, the room was quiet and still, except for the ticking of the

clock on the wall. The morphine pump on a trolley next to the bed was silently working away.

The dripping from the bag of antibiotics made no sound. Not even the hi-tech mattress beneath

him emitted any noise, despite vibrating at regular intervals to prevent bedsores. Tekla had felt

the fascinating contraption herself while lying next to her motionless father and running her

fingers through his greasy hair. It had turned grey in a matter of weeks.

But what did bedsores matter? Even Tekla had thought about how pointless that was. So

unnecessary to have an expensive mattress – probably a complete waste of resources. He was

going to die, after all. The doctors had more or less promised her that. It was the only promise

they had confidently been able to make.

Despite all that came a moment of clarity and a perfectly wonderful, alive presence.

“Hello love.”

“Does it hurt?”

“The drain?” He smiled and brushed her cheek. “No. I’m getting some serious medication.”

He pointed to the morphine pump. “Don’t you worry. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.”

“Look at you. You’re so grown up. It feels like I’ve been lying here, asleep, like Sleeping

Beauty… and then I wake up to see my little girl… grow up overnight.”

Tekla sat in silence. She didn’t know how you talked to someone who was dying. And yet all

that stuff she’d wanted to say during the weeks he’d been gone… she wished she’d written it

down.

“Don’t cry darling. You’ve got Mum, and Simon.”

“I don’t want to be with Mum. You know that.”

“Don’t say that. She loves you.”

“She loves her cigarettes.”

He laughed.

“Well, maybe you’re right. She really ought to cut down. But you know her mother, she’s

eighty-eight now and she’s smoked twenty a day her whole life.”

“Not when she was a child.”

“Maybe she didn’t start until she was eight.”

211

Tekla smiled and wiped away the tears.

“Come here,” her dad said.

Tekla bent over her dad’s large, swollen abdomen and hugged him. She tried to avoid

breathing in, she thought he smelt disgusting. There was something sort of sweet on his skin that

made her feel sick. Tekla could remember the nausea, but she couldn’t summon the smell.

Her father held on to her and stroked her short hair.

“But you’ve got Simon. Always will have.”

“He just teases me.”

“Teasing? But he’s ten. Do you still do that at ten?”

“He’s not ever going to stop.”

“You’ll always have your brother. Remember that.”

“Not forever. He’ll die one day too.”

“That’s true. But so will you. I think the two of you should get really, really old together.”

“I’ll try. I’m never going to drink alcohol.”

She regretted that instantly. What was the point in twisting the knife now? A dying person,

who’s done this to themselves. Consciously or subconsciously. Addiction or no. It was his own

hand that had raised the bottle to his lips on all those nights. It was his mouth that had opened

and swallowed all those thousands of litres of beer. It was those stick-like legs that had trudged

off to the state owned off licence to buy the bottles. That brain that had decided to plough on,

keep working in the factory, work until his body could take no ore. And at the same time: Tekla

had never seen any letters from debt-collectors. Never heard her parents arguing about missing

money at the end of the month. Somehow, in some magical, tragic way, they’d managed to keep

Dad’s wheel of addiction spinning all that way.

Her dad let go and clasped her face with his cold hands. He fixed her red-eyed stare with his.

“If I could rewind the tape, I’d do things differently.”

“Do it then.”

“Rewind the tape?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t got one of those machines.”

“Shame.”

He stroked his daughter’s hair again.

“Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll take care of him.”

212

“Simon?”

“He’s going to need your help.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. He isn’t as strong as you. More easily influenced by what other

people tell him to do. You’ll have to keep an eye on him. Not just for now, but later too, when

you’re both grown up.”

“He doesn’t need my help.”

“You know that he does. Always has done.”

“Maybe. But he’ll be grown up soon.”

Her dad smiled.

“He’ll never be grown up.”

“Maybe not.”

“So promise.”

“I promise.”

“What do you promise?”

“To take care of Simon. To protect him from harm. To…”

“That’ll do. That’s enough, my brave little knight.”

She lay there for a long time, on her dad’s chest. His breathing was getting wheezier.

“Dad?”

He was breathing deeply. She panicked.

“Dad?!”

He looked up.

“You mustn’t die.”

“You do what you’ve always done,” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Be the person you are.”

“But I can’t cope without you. What’s going to happen to the boat? And the nets?”

“You can row yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“With Simon’s help, you’ll manage.”

Her eyes were stinging from all the tears.

“You’ll be able to row far. Further than you think.”

“But if the boat capsizes? I can’t swim.”

“Don’t you worry.”

213

“I am.”

Tekla would never forget his last words:

“Next summer, I’ll teach you to swim.”

214

Wednesday 12th June

GULLMARSPLAN, STOCKHOLM

Tekla fell asleep in the foetal position just as the first rays of sunlight struck the roof of the

spherical Globe arena, a few hundred metres from her apartment. When the alarm clock woke

her up, she put on the television and for a moment she had something other than Simon to think

about: it had been established that the cladding used on Söder Tower was a kind of plastic that

burned out of control. An investigation had been launched to establish who was responsible for

the unauthorised construction. Everyone was chasing culprits. They still hadn’t found a van.

“The police are investigating several lines of enquiry…”

Tekla turned off the television and slumped into the divan sofa. She called Simon’s mobile

but just got the answerphone. What was she thinking – that those bikers would just have released

him after a ‘little chat’? Why would they kidnap him in broad daylight in that case? It didn’t add

up. Or maybe everything had just got out of hand because Tekla had been there and caused a

scene? Who was she trying to kid. Fuck him.

She played the events through in her head: Simon’s back as he was pushed into the van. The

plaster-cast coming towards her head. The police officer she’d just spoken to had, ‘nothing to

add.” They were hardly about to deploy the National Task Force to look for Simon, that much

she knew. The police had been pleasant and professional. In their world, though, he was

probably just a junkie who only had himself to blame. So how was she going to find him?”

Once again she replayed the film from yesterday. Studied the men. The one with the goatee

was the younger by several years. He had a gold emblem on his jacket but Tekla couldn’t make

out what it depicted. A big hat, perhaps? No, she couldn’t say for sure. The other man, the one

with his arm in plaster who’d hit her, was older and looked more worn out. His pale blue eyes

looked empty and cold. He’d had a black leather waistcoat and a belt with a large silver skull-

shaped buckle. His boots were stout but she didn’t recognise the style – they weren’t Doc

Martens anyway. He had a Finnish accent. But if they were false plates, how would they ever be

able to identify him? Was there anything distinctive about him? She went through various

explanations. One: Simon’s semi-criminal past. As far as she knew, he’d only been caught once –

215

receiving a fine for intent to supply hashish. She had, however, recently begun to fear that he

might be taking heavier and more expensive things than hash. Maybe there was a debt? Two: The

plaster-cast-man. If she was able to identify him, might that be a way to find Simon? As soon as

she got to the hospital she was going to get to work on that.

She stared at her watch and realised that she was going to be late for work. Ringing in sick

was not an option. She would lose it just walking around the apartment, waiting for the police to

call. She pulled on yesterday’s clothes and headed for the hospital.

As soon as she passed through the eastern entrance at Nobel Hospital, Tekla could smell

that the stench had increased, and down in the basement it was even worse. Even if she had

more important things to worry about, she couldn’t shake off the uncomfortable sensation that

something was threatening the hospital’s very existence.

In A&E, it was almost a relief to be able to identify the odour of E. Coli diarrhoea from the

toilets over by the isolation cubicles. Plenty of patients with chest pains had started to turn up.

The poor old folk hadn’t managed to drink enough fluid in the heat, but they kept taking their

beta blockers and their heart failure tablets like clockwork, following doctor’s orders. The result

was that they were getting increasingly dehydrated, their renal scores increased and they started

feeling their angina. Eventually and without fail, the heart attacks struck. There were twenty-five

yet to be seen patients in the department and Tekla realised she was going to need a ball from the

lip balm tube. Her body was aching and she was struggling to keep her thoughts together. Her

eyelids were very heavy. The noise level around the office was so high that it drilled its way into

her ear canal and she could feel a dark migraine marching forth. The toilets were occupied so she

went into Resus Room Two and pulled down the blinds. Hurriedly, she grabbed a glass of water,

screwed off the bottom of the tube and shook out a little bomb, which she then washed down

with a few gulps of water. Since they were made of ordinary toilet paper, twisted so that the

contents wouldn’t fall out, she’d often wondered whether those making the balls simply licked

the paper and screwed up on end. She decided to believe that the used a drop of water instead.

She turned around and noticed that there was a gap in the blind – she hadn’t turned the vanes.

There was no one outside. She left the room.

The amphetamine’s effects were just as impressive every time. After a few minutes she was

not even troubled by the sight of Hampus Nordenskiöld’s slicked-back hair as he arrived for the

morning handover. Tekla greeted the three medical with a listless wave. Apparently she’d agreed

to them shadowing her that day. She thought about Anita and how she needed to talk to her

about the tendering process.

216

Tekla noted that over the past week, she had raised her dose from a maximum of four to

today’s five bombs. She needed to try and rein that in. Her thoughts constantly turned to Simon.

The Police did not seem to be taking his kidnapping seriously. So who could help her? She

remembered Astrid’s brother Magnus, and his invitation to ‘grab a drink some time.’ It was really

not in her nature to take the initiative in such a way, yet she was certainly curious to meet him

again. Was he as nice as he seemed when they met at Nytorget? He was in any case the only

police officer she knew. And right now she needed one. Tekla sent Astrid a text message to ask

for Magnus’ number.

In the meantime she was going to try and track down more information about the man with

his arm in plaster. Tekla sat down at a computer and started sifting through all the patients who

had presented at A&E with trauma to their left hand or arm over the last three weeks. Very few

injuries required a cast for longer than that. She went through the log, day by day, checking all the

search results. She knew she wasn’t allowed to access any patient records but she also knew that

the risk of getting caught was very small. She found thirty-five radius fractures that had been set,

but all but three of the patients were over seventy. Of the three younger ones, two were women

and the young man was a skateboarder in his twenties. None of them matched the man outside

Ringen. She would have to extend the search to other hospitals, but first of all she wanted to

check in on the man in ICU.

In the long corridor beyond the entrance hall, Tekla met people with their hands in front of

their faces, and a few children screaming ‘it stinks’ at their browbeaten parents. In ICU it was

cooler and less stuffy. Her mouth was dry because she’d stopped breathing through her nose.

Tekla spotted Eva Elmqvist, wearing a bright blue dress and black compression tights. She

thought to herself how she’d end up looking like a collapsed umbrella if she ever wore anything

like that to work.

She sat down on a shiny orange stool next to the ICU doctor.

“Are you coping?”

Eva looked around.

“Well we’ve got our steady stream of overdoses coming in.”

“What’s the theory?” asked Tekla.

“That the junkies have started cutting the heroin with fentanyl.”

“Which is hard to comminute with the heroin,” Tekla chipped in. “Results in brutal

overdoses.”

“Exactly,” said Eva.

“And how’s Miguel getting on?”

217

Eva pushed her reading glassing up onto her wild hair.

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“He died last night.”

“What happened?”

“He started fitting again yesterday. The dialysis had worked well and the acidosis had been

under control for several days. And then it wasn’t.”

“And I heard that it actually was quinine.”

Eva paused. She looked inquisitively at Tekla from behind a large lock of hair that covered

half of her face.

“And I know who cracked the case. But yes, Linköping confirmed that. We had to get our

unit manager to get them to turn the tests around so quickly. It can take weeks otherwise.

Months, sometimes.”

“Anything else?” Tekla asked, flapping her hospital top to fan her sweaty ribcage.

“Fentanyl itself and diphenhydramine. Fentanyl is of course about a hundred times more

potent than morphine, and it has the same pathway as heroin.”

“Opiates and opiates.”

“Quite.”

“But the other, diphen…” Tekla played innocent. In reality she was able to pull up the only

online review article concerning diphenhydramine. She compared it to what Eva was telling her.

“Diphenhydramine, an antihistamine. Same thing there. Used for bulking out in order to…”

“… reduce the amount of heroin required – the most expensive component,” Tekla

interrupted. “And the anti-histamine gives a pleasant drowsiness.” Tekla looked out across the

ward, every cubicle was occupied. When she looked to make eye contact with Eva once again she

saw the surprise in her colleague’s face and realised her mistake.

“Exactly,” said Eva. “But you knew…”

“No. Well yes, I did know a little bit about the antihistamine.”

“You are a very special doctor, Tekla.”

“I don’t know about that. But what a cocktail.”

“A real witches brew.”

It felt strange to hear Eva Elmqvist say that – the words teenagers always used to describe an

unpalatable mix of spirits from whatever they could get hold of. Eva was so prim and proper,

constantly spitting out academic articles, surely she hadn’t been the type to go raiding her parents’

drinks cabinet in her youth?

218

“And the convulsions?” Tekla asked.

Eva shrugged dejectedly.

“Possible delayed response to the diphenhydramine. Or permanent damage to his heart,

after all the shit he’s put into himself. Or a heart attack thanks to the burden on his whole body.

It doesn’t matter so much now that he’s chilling down in the mortuary, eight storeys down.”

“Nine.”

“Eh?”

“Nine storeys down.”

Tekla knew that because she actually liked going to see Bill and Bull, the technicians down in

pathology.

Eva stood up, revealing sweat patches under her large bust.

“You’ll have to excuse me but I’ve got another nine overdoses to look after. And that’s after

we sent three to the great hospital across town, and another to Södertälje. Everywhere’s full

though. More than full. Fucking junkies. Can’t they keep an eye on their gear? Oh, and the

ambulances have run out of naloxone.”

She ran a shaky hand through her hair.

“I’m guessing you can’t help me out with any ICU beds?”

“Fraid not,” Tekla said, noticing how much friendlier Eva was towards her when Anita

wasn’t there.

“We just have to hope the police catch whoever’s selling this rat poison.”

“By the way, did you try physostigmine?” Tekla asked.

Eva looked suspiciously at her young colleague from A&E – a department several places

lower down the pecking order than her own.

“Did I also mention that he had anticholinergic syndrome?”

“Oh… No but I thought…”

“But as a matter of fact, yes, we did, yesterday, after someone called and suggested it to one

of our nurses. Without giving a name. And it worked.”

Eva shook her head, and a shrug of her shoulders made it clear that she wasn’t interested in

finding out how Tekla knew all that.

“Bye then,” Tekla said, and left ICU. She was thinking about all the heroin overdoses.

Terrified that one day she’d be standing in A&E, and they’d bring in Simon’s cold body. Dead

from an overdose. Before she’d made it back to A&E, her phone buzzed. A text from Astrid.

Here’s my bro’s number. Great. I knew you were a good match ;)

219

Tekla reluctantly fired off her question to Magnus. A knot immediately formed in her

stomach. When was the last time she’d actually met a guy? She batted the thought away. Started

thinking about her meeting with Eva in ICU instead. She was going to have to get better at

concealing her thought processes and conclusions. Why didn’t her brain work like it was

supposed to? For the past week, she hadn’t been able to sort her pictures into order before going

to bed. The rolodex was in a mess and it flickered when she closed her eyes. Tekla, though,

wasn’t about to give up. For a few long seconds she thought about what would happen if she did

get caught ploughing through patient records from across the city. Dear Hampus. He wouldn’t

hesitate to go and tell Göran if he found out. Or Tariq. But then perhaps she’d been given his

‘blessing’? She wasn’t entirely sure. He had definitely shown a different side to himself after

Tekla’s handling of the pulmonary embolism that turned into cranial bleed.

An hour to go until that day’s meeting with Rebecka Nilsén. Ragna seemed to have things

under control so Tekla found a computer, took a deep breath and clicked in the box ‘other care

providers.’ This brought up every hospital in Stockholm and she started going through the last

three weeks’ emergency admissions to surgical and orthopaedic wards. One thought occurred to

her: since Monica knew exactly what she was up to, perhaps she could now see Tekla’s data

breach? For now, she couldn’t bring herself to worry about that. And, if it was the case, she was

going to find out the next time she met the Hospital Director.

220

Wednesday, 12th June

ICU, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“How’s… it… going?” Tekla asked, as if she’d just crawled broken the world record for the fifty-

metre crawl.

“Maybe you should breathe a bit?” Rebecka Nilsén suggested with a silky-smooth voice.

Tekla tried to bring her pulse down. She had interrupted Security Service-Marcus and Police-

Rebecka in the middle of an intense discussion. And at that same second she realised that the

stress of approaching the burns unit was gone, now that she knew the Simon was not the badly-

burned patient.

“You do know that your duty of confidentiality extends beyond the clinical,” Rebecka said as

she took off her mint-green blazer. Her scrawny shoulders looked like little oranges under the

dress straps.

Tekla nodded. Breathed deeply.

“The dental records showed up nothing. We’ve been through lots of the clinics on

Södermalm.”

“So you still don’t know who he is?” She noticed now that the patient’s tracheal tube had

been removed, and that he was breathing on his own. “Is he responding to stimuli?”

“They’re going to do another scan of his skull this afternoon,” said Rebecka. “To check his

brain functions.”

“Whether he’s a vegetable or not?” Marcus Safidi chipped in from his corner of the room.

“You might call it that, if that feels right,” Tekla said without making eye contact. She

couldn’t fail to see Rebecka’s smile though. “But you still haven’t ruled out the terrorism line of

enquiry?”

“On the contrary,” said Marcus.

“How do you mean?”

Marcus seemed to be deciding how much he could reveal.

“We have had the results from the blood of the man you chased through the service

tunnels.”

221

“And?”

“No matches. But the CCTV images gave us a lead…”

“Oh do you have to be so obtuse,” Rebecka cut her colleague short. “He had tattoos on his

hand that betrayed definite links to Russia, perhaps former FSB, and he acted professionally

when he realised that his plan to escape via a window went to pot. He also knew that way

through the basement out to the staff car park.

“FSB?” asked Tekla.

“Russian security services.”

“But what would be the connection to our burns victim?”

Marcus was acting as if he was alone in the room with Tekla.

“We’re working on it.”

Rebecka Nilsén seemed incredibly frustrated by her Security Police colleague’s taciturn

approach.

“They run a lot of the organised crime in the city.”

“Who, the FSB?” asked Tekla.

“Indirectly, yes. There is one so-called Vor in Stockholm, or Vor v zakone, thief-in-law, and

he runs everything like a large business. We can’t touch him, he’s whiter than white. Never gets

anywhere near drugs or weapons. His tax returns are faultless.”

Rebecka smiled to herself. “I think his official job is translator of Russian literature. But he

basically has control of the entire heroin market as well as a good chunk of amphetamine sales

through more or less organised gangs under his control.”

“And what about the connection to FSB?”

“You could say that they are his clients.”

“Russian organised crime controls a third of Europe’s entire heroin supply,” Marcus filled in.

“And a large proportion of the arms smuggling,” Rebecka went on. “As well as human

trafficking and currency smuggling.”

“Unbelievable,” said Tekla, completely absorbed by this new information. “And the FSB…”

“All that crime is the FSB’s biggest revenue stream,” said Marcus.

“Putin then?” Tekla asked, letting her thoughts wander.

“All sanctioned at the highest level,” Rebecka replied with a smile.

“And this is no secret,” Marcus reassured her. “It’s all there, on the record.”

“Which of course the Security Police guy had to point out,” Rebecka teased.

Tekla looked over at the burns victim again.

222

“So we’re hoping he’s going to wake up,” Tekla stated matter-of-factly as she stared at the

whole in the bandages where a mouth was hidden away.

Marcus lowered his voice even further, to discernable effect.

“We would like to interrogate him.”

“By we, Marcus here means NOD. SEPO are only present as observers.”

Once she’d left Rebecka and her brightly-coloured clothes in ICU, Tekla checked her phone

and saw that Magnus had replied:

Love to! Come round for a drink tonight.

223

Wednesday 12th June

A&E MEETING ROOM, NOBEL HOSPITAL

“Can you stay behind after the staff meeting?” Göran asked. Tekla thought it felt more like an

order than an enquiry, and Göran looked very annoyed. “A report has come in that you have

been accessing patient records without authorisation.”

“I…”

“Not now,” Göran held up his hand as he cut her off. “After the meeting. But this doesn’t

look good Tekla. It doesn’t look good at all.”

More doctors filed into the meeting room and sat down. Several had brought their lunches

with them. Tekla slumped into a chair by the wall. The students noticed her unusual behaviour

and stared intently at the empty chair by the large table.

“Welcome. Right, we’ll start with…”

“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.

Göran looked up from his papers.

“Aha, an esteemed visitor is joining us for lunch,” Göran said stiffly. No one could’ve

missed the fact that he shrunk several centimetres in height.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” Monica said, closing the door behind her. She took a spot by the

wall and let her gaze pan across the table. Tekla stared at the floor.

“Okay, we’ll just run through this quickly then,” Göran continued. Tekla had never heard

him rattle through the clinic’s planned educational programme so quickly before. He rounded off

the meeting and the doctors left the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tekla watched as Monica approached and addressed Göran,

who nodded sharply, glared in Tekla’s direction and then followed the doctors out. Tekla was

confused.

“I was just passing this way,” Monica said as she sat down in the chair where Göran had

been sitting. She looked around in distaste. “Crikey, you’ve got no air down here. How do you

put up with it?”

224

“That might be why the staff meetings are so short,” Tekla said as she sat down a safe

distance away, two chairs down. She noted the hospital director’s bright yellow skirt and black

shoes. And if there was one thing she’d learned about Monica Carlsson, it was that she was never

‘just passing’.

“Is he going to survive?”

“Who?” Tekla asked as she instantly felt a chill run down her spine.

“The burns victim in ICU,” said Monica. She took something out of her blazer pocket and

popped it into her mouth.

“Aha.”

“Who else did you think I meant?” Monica asked Tekla with an inquisitive stare.

“I see so many patients that…”

“Is he going to survive?”

“It’s hard to say. Above all it’s his kidneys that have taken a pounding from the widespread

injur…”

“Does it stink this badly in ICU? It’s been a while since I visited our flagship.”

Tekla saw the modern interior of ICU in front of her.

“I haven’t noticed.”

“But you’ve noticed the stench down in the cauldron?”

Tekla couldn’t help smiling.

“What?” Monica asked and Tekla now saw that the director of the Nobel Hospital was

stuffing herself with salty dummies for lunch.

“You said the cauldron.”

“Don’t you call it that, A&E?”

“Yes but,”

“You’re surprised I know about it?”

“Well yeah.”

Tekla had an urge to ask Monica whether she ate liquorice because of low blood pressure –

perhaps she had Addison’s – but she didn’t dare to get that personal.

Monica slowly ran her fingers through her short fringe.

“That’s why we need to get a good deal in place. And quickly.”

“You mean PPP?”

“This building is rotting from the inside out. Can’t you feel that, as a doctor?”

“I tend to focus on people.”

“I understand you have been fraternising with Tariq.”

225

“How do you mean?”

Monica fixed Tekla’s eyes with her stare.

“Dr Berg. For now I am the one asking the questions in our little relationship.”

“I just mean that I haven’t given much thought to why the building smells so bad,” said

Tekla. “You know, I assume that the hospital management have things under control.”

Monica Carlsson stood up from her chair.

Here it comes, thought Tekla. No I’ve crossed a line.

Monica half-limped across the room and stood in front of an oil-painting depicting former

Director Ralf Bergström, born 1902.

“All these men,” Monica sighed.

“I’m with you there.”

“So why are you’re hanging out with Tariq?”

Tekla would have paid handsomely to find out where Monica got her information from but

she realised that asking would be pointless.

“He is kind of difficult to avoid.”

“A bit like the stink in this building,” Monica said under her breath. “Nose plugs just don’t

cut it.”

Tekla smiled at the analogy.

“But you haven’t spoken to Anita yet, I hear.”

“Did I say that?”

Monica turned around.

“No, you didn’t.”

Tekla could feel the headache taking hold.

“I’ll get onto it this week.”

“It’s rather more urgent than that.”

“I’ll talk to her today.”

“Good,” said Monica as she adjusted the dark green silk blouse underneath her blazer. Tekla

guessed that Monica was as sweaty as everyone else in this heat.

“Tekla?”

“Yes?”

“Did you find what you were looking for this morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“In Kungsholmen Hospital’s patient journals? Which you’re not allowed to access unless

there’s a specific patient you need to follow up.”

226

Tekla froze. But there was no reason to lie.

“No, I couldn’t get in.”

“Was this the man you were looking for?”

Tekla took the post-it note and read it. A name and a national ID number. She wondered

whether Monica Carlsson would ever cease to amaze her.

Monica walked over to Tekla, and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“And forget about Göran. There’ll be no disciplinary.”

Monica took a salty-liquorice from her pocket.

“Would you like one?”

“No… thanks,” Tekla managed.

Monica stuffed the dummy-shaped sweet into her mouth and started to head towards the

door.

“Call me when you’ve spoken to Anita.”

227

Wednesday 12th June

GRÖNVIKSVÄGEN, BROMMA

Victor picked up the black bag containing the pH-tests and headed out to the pool monster.

Sitting on a chair beneath the overhanging roof next to the pool, Victor’s ninety-four-year-old

mother Marina gazed out at the water, which had now acquired a golden, rusty brown colour. It

filled Victor with sorrow. As though his own mother was staring out over times long since past.

From a distance, it looked to Victor like she was asleep, but standing over her he realised that she

was wearing headphones and was immersed in another world. She woke up, and pulled off her

headphones when she saw him.

“Victor! My malysj. I want to talk to you about something.”

He smiled. Kissed her on the top of the head. Closed his eyes. Her grey hair lay combed

over her knitted cardigan, its red and white pattern reminiscent of a Chinese dragon.

“Mamuchka. What can I do for you?”

“This new Filipino, she must not use the strong washing powder. It smells of chemicals.

She’s ruining the sheets.”

“I will talk to Coco.”

“Good enough for me.”

The old woman nodded firmly at her only son and put the headphones back on. Victor

guessed it was classical music. She’d told him she actually wanted to listen to audiobooks but he

hadn’t managed to get hold of any in Russian. You could forget Uzbek. Russian would work.

Until then, Shostakovich would have to do.

“Victor. How is Nina?”

Victor lifted the headphones.

“Nina? Why do you ask, Mamma?”

“She’s not happy, I can see that.”

Victor stared out at the pool. He had to agree with his old mother. Something wasn’t right

with Nina. She hadn’t been herself of late.

“I wouldn’t worry mamuchka. I think she’s just too busy.”

228

“Tell her to do less then,” Marina said, as she pointedly put the headphones back on and

resumed staring at the wall.”

Victor grabbed a pH stick and dipped it in the pool. At the bottom he could see the

expensive robot vacuum cleaner that scoured for dirt around the clock. The stick showed a pH

of 7.9 – three tenths two high. Why couldn’t he manage something as simple as a pool?

He heard Sardor beeping his horn from the street below. It was time to get to grips with

Northside Network. No escalation of violence. No more dead Albanians.

“I bought SoftCare, active acid,” Victor sighed, sitting in the front seat. “I checked with one

of Nina’s contacts who’s supposed to have the best cared for pool in the whole of Djursholm.

Whatever his name was told me that I should use SoftCare so now I’ve stocked up.”

“Well then you should be happy,” said Sardor.

“I am happy.”

“Who are you trying to kid?”

Sardor accelerated up Alviksvägen, up towards Ålstensskolan.

Victor saw two mothers jogging towards them, each pushing one of those sporty pushchairs.

“Sardor?”

“Yes?”

“How is your sister actually getting on?”

“No idea.”

“But what do you think?”

“We don’t talk, so how would I know how she is? She’s probably got her work cut out

flogging expensive waterfront homes and looking after her spoiled husband. That’s without

mentioning the properties they’re buying around the world.”

“Have they bought something else? Besides that house in Rio?”

“I don’t know. But how many houses do you need?”

Sardor drove past Äppelviken, and had to slow down every other minute to allow pushchairs

and tired school kids over the zebra crossings.

“Whatever you say, she’s the one who’s going to take over when I am gone,” said Victor.

Sardor slowed by Alléparken, pulled up alongside the kerb and turned to his father.

“Why are you talking about dying?”

“There’s no need to worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

229

“But it is important that you hear this,” said Victor. “Nina is clean. She has never had

anything to do with our operations, doesn’t appear in any registers, and that’s how it’s going to

stay. She’s the one who will eventually make us legit. All this shit disappears with me.”

“I wonder what Central think about that?” Sardor said with a mocking smile.

“You leave Central to me.”

“And lucky for you I don’t have any kids,” said Sardor.

“What do you mean?”

“So my criminal genes don’t get passed on.”

“Now you’re not being fair.”

“But that’s what you’re saying.”

“I am not saying that,” said Victor, looking really crestfallen.

“But that’s how it feels!” said Sardor, who then had to clear his throat.

Victor’s heart was breaking, and he put his hand on Sardor’s arm.

“Sardor. Listen to me. You’re shortcomings as a son are down to my failure as a parent.”

“It’s in the genes.”

“No,” Victor stopped him. “I know that you try to keep me happy. And you have been so

fantastically loyal. I also know that you’re on top of the heroin, the speed, the whores and the

weapons. But that’s precisely why it has to be like this.”

“Because?” asked Sardor.

“Because that’s all you can do. You barely know what escalate means. How are you going to

make it out in the real world? Much less run a real business.”

“Then let me do what I’m best at,” said Sardor.

“In a different world,” Victor said, putting his hand on his forehead. “In a different world,

my son. There has to be an end to all the violence. Kamila, Emily and Kate shouldn’t have to be

looking over their shoulders when they come of age. I have killed and hurt far too many people.

Made orphans of people. Let anarchy reign out on the streets. As you get older, you see more

clearly in the rear view what you should have done differently. And you are my greatest failure.

But it isn’t your fault.”

Sardor stared into nothing. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.

“Of course you will be getting your share of the inheritance though,” said Victor.

“But Nina is the one who’ll be taking over?”

“Yes. And you need to accept that.”

They sat in silence for a second. Then Victor said:

“And you know that I dream of more grandchildren. It’s never too late.”

230

Sardor floored the gas, swerved out onto Alviksvägen and positioned himself aggressively

close to a Volvo V90.

“Not going to happen.”

Sardor edged dangerously close to the Volvo.

“You can have children late in life. You just need to find…”

“Leave it!” Sardor snarled.

“Anyone would think you didn’t like women,” Victor chuckled.

Sardor overtook the Volvo and came close to a head-on collision with an oncoming car.

“Take it easy!” said Victor.

“Nina’s going to take the lot!” screamed Sardor.

Victor put his wrinkled hand on top of Sardor’s.

“No she isn’t. And you’ll do as I tell you. I know that you keep your word.”

Sardor knew that he had no choice. He slowed down for a red light by the Alvik

roundabout. His breathing was heavy.

“Right?” Victor asked. “You’ll do as you’re told?”

“I promise.”

“What do you promise?”

“That we’re going to phase out the drugs and the whores and let Nina take over with her

legal operations. Property and stuff. White as snow.”

“So you swear?”

“Yes.”

“On?”

“Great Grandma’s grave,” Sardor said, exiting the roundabout and heading towards

Ulvsunda industrial estate.

“That’s more like it,” said Victor.

231

Wednesday, 12th June

BLUE OYSTER THAI RESTAURANT, ULVSUNDA INDUSTRIAL ESTATE

“Welcome!” Victor said, holding on to Zog Biba’s hand for a few extra seconds. The leader of

the Lions sneered at Sardor who was standing alongside collecting in everyone’s weapons.

“So you can’t mow us down with the cameras switched off. No thanks.”

Victor let go of the hand and welcomed Tony Nordström of Jakan Crew along with two

companions.

“If we wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up this morning. Look at this like an

ordinary family Christmas dinner. You don’t take weapons home to your mum’s, do you?”

Tony Nordström demonstratively removed his leather jacket in front of Zog Biba, then

pulled up his black t-shirt to show Sardor that he didn’t have anything stuck in his waistband.

“Come on Biba,” said Tony, patting his tattooed stomach. “I could eat a horse.”

The Albanian overlord finally nodded to his black-clad followers to hand over their

weapons. They lifted their blazers and allowed themselves to be frisked. Sardor lined up a haul

pistols, cartridges, knives and mini Uzi’s into a neat row, and showed them the way into Blue

Oyster’s dining room. Sardor had booked the entire restaurant.

“Not that many people find their way out here at that hour anyway,” the owner had said as

he accepted a wad of cash the day before. “Especially not during a heat wave when everyone

wants to drink beer in town.

Gang after gang arrived, exchanging terse greetings and staring sceptically in towards the

restaurant.

A long table, in the middle of the gloomily decorated restaurant, was now fully occupied.

The atmosphere was tense and sweaty, but full of expectation.

“So,” Victor said, running his hand over his white shirt, undoing the button on his blazer

and picking up a glass of chilled red wine: “We would also like to welcome Jimmy Chu, No Way

Out, Rickard Jakobsson, K-Men, and Christian Jensen from the Red Bears. Great that you could

make it at such short notice. I know that you’re all busy businessmen.”

232

Christian Jensen and the Red Bears’ vice president “Count” Holmström were necking beer

straight from the bottle, Zog Biba stuck to water. The long table was neatly laid with napkins

folded into swans, pink flowers between the plates and condiments poured into little individual

dishes. Rickard Jakobsson and his two K-Men looked warily at Jakan Crew on the opposite side

of the table and waited for what was next.

“You’ve come straight from work, I assume,” Victor said, making eye contact with each and

every one of them while he spoke, “So I think we’ll start with the food. The Treaty of Versailles

wasn’t sealed on empty stomachs.” Somewhat confused, Rickard Jakobsson scratched at his red

beard, his eyelids hanging as heavily as ever.

“We are offering a Thai buffet today,” Victor continued in a chirpy tone. “There is beer and

wine, just ask a waiter. Are The Lions going to start?”

Zog Biba looked menacingly at Victor, but eventually the Albanian stood up and hung his

coat over the padded backrest of his chair. He walked slowly over to the buffet, accompanied by

two men in black shirts.

Victor took a deep breath and let his breath slowly hiss out through his nose. He continued

to nod in various directions around the table, where twelve of Northside Network’s leading

figures were sitting, along with three representatives of Skärholmen biker club The Red Bears.

Sardor walked around the table, helping the staff to distribute beer and wine bottles.

One gang at a time, they went over to the lavish buffet. Tony Nordström’s boys from Jakan

Crew sat down with two overloaded plates each and started shovelling the food down, alternating

between mouthfuls of spring rolls and green curry with bamboo shoots. Tony nodded at Victor,

he looked to be satisfied where he was sitting. He raised his glass in a private toast.

“Hardly Guide Michelin is it,” said a less satisfied Jimmy Chu, adjusting his blue sunglasses

as he passed Victor. Jimmy was as tanned as ever and his brilliant white t-shirt strained across his

sinewy muscles.

“I’m sorry, but we needed to make sure we weren’t disturbed,” Victor said as he gave the No

Way Out leader a pat on the shoulder. “Grand Hotel was already booked for the Police

Federation’s annual meeting.”

Tony Nordström laughed out loud, and even Christian Jensen seemed to come to life.

Eventually Victor sat down at the head of the table and asked Sardor to get him a plate of

food. Sardor looked around the table to see whether anyone had noticed the humiliating request.

“First of all, I want to express my condolences for Lorik’s passing,” Victor said earnestly,

looking up to the far end of the table. Zog Biba put his fork down and folded his arms across his

chest. He stared threateningly at a floral bouquet in the middle of the table.

233

“It was…”

“Fucking unnecessary.” The Albanian boss interrupted, grabbing the table top with both

hands. Victor wondered for a second whether he was about to upend the table.

Only Jakan Crew’s men continued eating in silence. All the others sat still and waited

nervously to see what was going to happen next. Sardor put a plate down in front of Victor and

then backed away, towards the brightly-coloured mural of a golden temple.

“I absolutely agree,” Victor said, shaking his head. “But it was just business. Business, plain

and simple. It is important not to involve feelings when…”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Biba interrupted. “You haven’t lost a family member.”

“Pusho ne paqe,” Victor said with his hand on heart, and he noticed Zog Biba’s surprise. “May

he rest in peace. It was entirely our fault. The responsibility lies with me, and I regret not giving

my son a better upbringing. He is hot-headed – not always a bad thing. This time, though, he

went too far.”

The only one not looking in Sardor’s direction was Rickard Jakobsson, who’d just found a

chicken skewer to dip in the peanut sauce.

Zog Biba and his black-clad lions looked ready to stand up at any second. Zog spoke up:

“You killed the wrong guy. Lorik wasn’t even at Kvarnen.”

“You don’t know that for sure…” Sardor began but immediately backed down when Victor

raised his hand.

“I am so very sorry,” Victor said, looking in Zog’s direction. “I notice that you’ve your sons

on a tighter rein. Pune e mire, well done.”

“And what the fuck are you doing with your H?” Rickard Jakobsson from K-Men suddenly

snarled. He snapped a prawn cracker in half. “It’s cut with some shit. The junkies are dropping

like flies around town.”

“Thank you for raising that,” Victor said, reaching out to one side of the table. “We are

aware of the problem, and we are looking for the culprits.”

“Look harder,” Rickard said as he took a bite of the chicken skewer.

“Oh we will,” replied Victor. “Eje and Sardor will be working around the clock over the next

few days to clean things up. And since you raised this sensitive issue, I assume that you will all

stop dumping your prices just because our product has temporarily been compromised.”

Tony Nordström leaned back in his chair and rolled his muscular shoulders. Then he said,

with a smile:

“Or is Rickard planning to take the chance to grab territory, like he did when we ran out of

Charlie last year?”

234

Two of Rickard Jakobsson’s men scrambled to their feet. They looked like they wanted to

settle things there and then but the K-Men leader wasn’t as daft as he looked. He smiled and

made a calming gesture towards his men, who sat down again.

“We are not going to behave like some corrupt politicians,” said Victor. “All of us are men

of our word. If you promise to stop cutting prices then we – the Umarovs – pledge not to

increase our reach north of Järva.”

“We’ll put the price of H back up tonight,” Rickard Jakobsson said, flinging his muscular

arms wide.

“Then we’ll do the same,” Jimmy Chu followed up. “Even if the food is dreadful.”

A ripple of laughter.

Victor looked over to Zog Biba at the far end of the table. The Albanian had followed the

conversation grimly. Victor stood up slowly and walked around the table. He stopped a metre

from the Albanian gangland boss.

“Miku im, my friend. I have three children I do everything for. Perhaps a bit too much

sometimes.” Shaking his head, Victor turned to Sardor. A dense silence now fell over the dimly-

lit restaurant. Everyone was following Victor Umarov’s every move. “So I know what family

means. If anyone ever laid a finger on my children I would… Well, you understand. With all of

my Uzbek heart I beg you to forgive my son for his mistake. We have all made mistakes, the

important thing is to admit them, ask forgiveness, and then move on. I will offer you one

hundred per cent of the cocaine market in Stockholm in compensation if you let this go and do

not step up the violence. None of us wins from more blood being spilled.”

The Lions’ leader, Zog Biba, got to his feet, walked over to Victor and embraced his Uzbek

host.

The others around the table began to applaud.

Victor held up one hand, which silenced the congregation. He looked at Sardor.

“And we will fish up Lorik’s body so that you can give him a proper burial. Isn’t that right?”

Sardor nodded.

“Sardor will sort that,” Victor said as he shook Zog Biba by the hand.

Victor went and sat down, took his first mouthful of food and realised that he was seriously

hungry.

When everyone had left the restaurant, Sardor and Victor went out into the car park. It was a

pleasant, mild June evening. The sun had set but it was still light.

“How do you feel?” asked Victor.

“Okay.”

235

“Are you sure?”

Sardor waved Victor away. “Stop nagging.”

“I had to give them something so that the violence didn’t continue. We’ve got bigger fish to

fry.”

“Eje was going to talk to all the dealers,” Sardor said, avoiding Victor’s stare.

“Good.”

Victor’s breathing was heavy. He was tired.

“How are you?”

“Oh it’s not a big deal.”

“Maybe.”

“You think?” asked Victor.

“I don’t know, but you’d be better off getting it checked out.”

“I will. And listen, Sardor.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to get in touch with Central and ask them to send more arms.”

Sardor looked at Victor in surprise.

“What for?”

Victor smiled.

“Do you seriously believe that Zog Biba is going to be satisfied with a bloated corpse and a

bit of coke?”

236

Wednesday 12th June, evening

BJURHOLMSPLAN, SÖDERMALM

“It really is a hidden gem on Södermalm,” Magnus said as he looked out of the window at

Bjurholmsplan below. “No one knows about this park because there aren’t any bars or

restaurants around. Just families playing with their kids and singles lying on blankets and reading

books. Red wine or brandy? I didn’t make the off license so that’s all I can offer.”

“Brandy,” Tekla replied. She had taken three extra Serax and dug out a black blouse that

didn’t see much use.

Magnus half-filled a glass with amber liquid and poured a glass of red for himself.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you much when we met at Nytorget. That was silly. Sometimes I just

want to forget that I’m a cop.”

Tekla smiled and shook her head.

“Why’s that?”

“When we met, with my sister, I’d just had a few really rough shifts and I just wanted to be

myself, not Officer Magnus. Or Dolph, as my colleagues call me.”

Tekla’s brandy stuck in her throat and she started coughing hard.

Magnus burst into a loud chuckle and for a second the angst in Tekla’s stomach disappeared.

After everything that had happened, it felt liberating to hear a hearty laugh.

“Do you mind if I don’t call you Dolph?”

“Not at all. I hate it.”

Tekla already felt intoxicated and she noticed that the Serax and the alcohol were combining

and magnifying each other’s effects.

“Are you from Stockholm?” asked Magnus.

“Far from it.”

“So I know who not to ask for tips about going out then?”

“Even if I’ve been here a year, I can barely find my way around beyond Södermalm,” said

Tekla.

“You don’t need to know about anything else.”

237

“Is it that bad?”

“That good,” Magnus said, taking big gulps of wine. “Söder has everything you need. I’ve

lived all over town but Söder is best.”

“Where did you grow up?”

Magnus seemed to hesitate.

“North of the city.”

“That’s my biggest blind spot. Anything north of the city is Arlanda Airport in my world.”

“So where are you from then?” wondered Magnus.

“Jämtland. A little place called Edsåsdalen.”

“Well then, I want to hear all about elk hunts and surströmming parties.”

“You know what we call people who duck when they hear an engine backfire?

Magnus shook his head.

“Stockholmer on an elk hunt.”

Magnus almost choked on the wine as he laughed out loud again. “I would probably have

thrown myself on the ground!”

Tekla continued talking. About Edsåsdalen. About her dad’s job at the factory. About her

mum, who was basically a housewife but who was still never really present. About how she

actually wished her mum had gone to work and she’d been able to be with Dad all the time. How

she loved going up to the meadows with him to scythe the grass, or prepare for the hunt, to paint

the boat by the lake, to chop the winter’s firewood. Every little moment with Dad was

harmonious. His happy nature, funny stories and his love of nature were contagious. The fact

that he drank too much wasn’t something she really saw. She only noticed it indirectly. Tekla told

Magnus about how her mum would nag her dad: her screaming at breakfast and dinner times.

Her complaints about them not having any money, about how they couldn’t go on holidays ‘like

everyone else’. Her mother’s desire to get out and see the world wasn’t something Tekla could

understand. They had everything they needed after all: the lakes full of fish, the forest full of

berries and mushrooms, the lawn for football and tag, the trees to climb in.

“So it sounds like you and your mum didn’t have a great relationship,” Magnus offered with

a smile.

Tekla smiled back.

“You could say that.”

“So you never travelled?”

Looking back, she could only remember a single trip. And Mum hadn’t even been on it.

Tekla drank some brandy.

238

“Once. We went to Portugal. Don’t ask me how Dad had got the money together for the

trip. Maybe he borrowed it. Anyway it was me, Dad and my little brother. Dad had his guitar with

him and I mostly remember him just sitting by the pool playing Cornelis Vreeswijk songs. “Isn’t

this wonderful?” he called out to us. We ate breakfast on the terrace, under a pergola with vines

growing on it. We had freshly-pressed apple juice and fresh bread rolls that Dad had bought

before we woke up. You could eat them as they were, with nothing on, but Dad insisted we have

Nutella on them, even though we didn’t want it. “We’re on bloody holiday,” he laughed and I

remember how he breathed in the smoke from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. There

was another smell, a bit more sour, a sweaty odour, but I tried to avoid that by breathing with my

mouth open.”

In reality, Tekla couldn’t remember the smells at all. That had always been her greatest

source frustration – the mental images were razor sharp, but she couldn’t recall the smells. That

was why she was obsessive collector of smells. Dad’s white shirt lay folded in a shoebox in the

wardrobe. Along with hundreds of other objects from childhood. All so that she could preserve

the smells of those important memories. And whenever she was recounting things that had

happened to her she would usually embellish the story with precise little olfactory memories that

she thought might fit with the image.

She looked at Magnus, who was listening intently. He had a slightly mischievous smile on his

wine-stained lips.

“What?”

“Nothing. Carry on, you’re such a good story teller. What a memory!”

Tekla looked out of the window, and fixed her gaze on the enormous tree in the middle of

Bjurholmsplan. She felt exposed and revealed. Naked. At the same time though, talking to

Magnus about her childhood felt surprisingly easy.

She drank thirsty gulps of the brandy.

“Dad had tinned mackerel on his roll. I’d burnt my back so badly that I could peel off great

scales of skin from my shoulders and I was drinking the Coke that Dad had bought. We never

used to get pop otherwise, when Mum was around, but now we got to pig out. Everything was

like one long dream. At least until he got out the bottle of whisky. I heard the top come off, the

glugging splash from the glass and then the silence. His ‘ah’ marked the end of that beautiful day.

I always made my excuses straight after dinner, I’d say I was tired. Then I’d get into bed and put

the pillow over my head. My imagination could take over. I can’t actually remember why Mum

wasn’t there.”

“Maybe she was working?” asked Magnus.

239

“I doubt it.”

“Your brother then, are you close?”

Tekla closed her eyes. Stared right into Simon’s face. He looked somewhat troubled. His

large eyes wide. A fag in his mouth. Stubble, and a big skull in one ear. She felt her throat tighten.

“We’ve always been really close. Pseudo-twins, isn’t that what you call it when there’s less

than a year between siblings?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Tekla knew. She could see the webpage in front of her. Mumsnet forum, a discussion thread

from the 26th of December 2008.

“But we haven’t been in touch for a while. We fell out last spring…”

“Family is tough. The closer you are, the harsher the tone can get. And Christ can we argue,

me and Astrid. We’re world beaters.” Magnus laughed and shook his head. “But maybe you can

talk it through?”

Tekla contemplated whether the time was right to tell him about the kidnapping.

“He’s shady though. Does drugs.”

“Oh no. Has he been at it long?”

“Since his teens.”

Tekla could feel Magnus staring at her, seemingly deciding how much he could get away with

asking. Maybe he was a bit more subtle than he first appeared. As a police officer, he knew full

well that many addicts also sell the stuff.

“Something’s happened, I can see that just looking at you,” said Magnus.

Tekla nodded. Magnus didn’t need to say it, she could see what he was thinking: your

brother’s a dealer who’s fucked things up for himself.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Tekla felt sick. Drunk.

“Maybe another time.”

She didn’t want to ruin the enjoyable evening by talking about the events outside Ringen.

Her reason for wanting to see Magnus had been replaced by a new motive. And what, by the

way, was Magnus going to do that the police weren’t already doing?

“Do you have someone to talk to?” Magnus asked. “A partner?”

Tekla was caught up in her thoughts.

Magnus said apologetically: “And there I go, being far too personal. Brain fade. Typical me.

Clumsy as a bloody buffalo. My problem has always been…”

“Don’t worry. But no, no one. Not my thing.”

240

“Your thing?”

“Relationships.”

“Never?”

She could see Magnus battling to avoid saying something crude.

“Partner. That’s more likely to make me think about policemen sitting in a car, both drinking

black coffee out of paper cups and watching an address in the pouring rain.”

“Sounds like lots of films, yes,” Magnus smiled.

“I’m just trying to say that it’s been a long time since I had a relationship. I mean… they

come and go.”

“You’re talking to an expert. At fucking up relationships,” said Magnus, letting his shoulders

slump slightly. “The only girl I get on with is my sister.”

“She seems really nice.”

Tekla felt their knees brush against each other.

“It’s hard to find the time too,” Tekla said, and noticed that she was actually getting a bit

closer to the truth. “Work, research, career.”

“And then keeping on top of the physical decline.” Magnus pinched his love handles.

“You don’t seem to have any trouble staying in shape,” Tekla replied.

“You haven’t seen me naked.”

Tekla looked in surprise at the bulky man.

“Relax,” Magnus smiled, apparently regretting what he’d just said. “I’m not going to eat

you.”

Tekla hesitated: “Is it okay if I do this?” She picked up her scarf and dipped it into the

bottom of the brandy glass.

Magnus laughed.

“You need some perfume do you?”

“A little keepsake.”

Magnus’ smile drooped slightly. He looked at Tekla, intrigued.

“You’re so great. You have – as my old kickboxing instructor would’ve put it – a good

intensity to your personality.”

Tekla stuffed her scarf into her pocket. It was destined for a shoebox in her wardrobe.

They both sat there in silence for a minute. Tekla was enjoying the evening light coming

through the window and making the walls inside the flat shimmer in beautiful red-orange hues.

Magnus brought out two glasses of water and a bowl of peanuts.

241

“Have you spoken to your brother?” he said, breaking the silence. “You said you’d fallen

out.”

“No,” Tekla said as she drank some of the water.

“What’s his name?”

“Simon.”

“Does he live in Stockholm?”

“Yes. Until he…”

Tekla hesitated.

“Until what?” asked Magnus.

She steeled herself. Felt like she had nothing to lose by telling him.

“He disappeared yesterday, he was abducted.”

Magnus put down his glass.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. But I’m guessing he was involved with some shit. Maybe pushing.”

“Has he… do you know if he’s using heavy drugs.”

“Not exactly, but lots of things point to that.”

“Even though you haven’t seen him for a while?”

“That’s why. When he goes quiet, it’s always because he’s done something he’s ashamed of.”

“In front of his big sister.”

“Who can be pretty hard, yes,” said Tekla, feeling a lump gather in her stomach.

“What are the police saying?”

“That they’re looking for the van he disappeared in,” Tekla replied, picturing the man with

the plaster cast. She hadn’t had time to follow up on the name Monica had given her: Johan

Holmström.

“Kidnapping isn’t really my line of work,” said Magnus, “but basically they quickly instigate a

group to run the case, depends a little bit on the circumstances. And he hasn’t been in touch? No

texts?”

“Nothing,” Tekla sighed. “But phones can be tracked, right?”

“It’s not that easy. Lots of rules around that. The ones who do it are in the intelligence

group.”

Tekla didn’t want to go any further.

“I can check how it’s going, if you like?”

“Please.”

“Then I’ll need his details.”

242

Tekla wrote down Simon’s name and ID number on a serviette. She noticed Magnus’

surprise when he saw Simon’s name.

They sat silently for a while, each in a world of their own.

“I’d say we’ll come up with something to find your brother,” Magnus said, staring grimly

into space. “The police probably know he’s used drugs, that must be in the records. But you

think he’s selling drugs himself?”

“Maybe,” Tekla sighed.

“But you don’t know whether he belonged to a gang?”

“No.”

“No idea?”

Tekla contemplated mentioning Johan Holmström.

“No.”

“So chances are he’s probably having problems with a few slingers.”

“Slingers?” asked Tekla.

“The second-last link in the chain,” replied Magnus. “The ones sitting on maybe a kilo or a

few hundred grams, the ones supplying the street dealers. The distribution itself is often handled

by gangs. Above them are others, running things. At the top of the pyramid is an Uzbek family.

The boss is named Victor Umarov, but no one can get near him. Then the gangs have loads of

lackeys, we call them slingers, youths or little gangs who in turn hand out packages to the dealers

who sell on the street. Your brother could be a slinger, or a dealer.”

“And I’m guessing the police think he’s only got himself to blame.”

“Maybe not that cynical, but yeah. I’ll check with my contact in the drug squad. But we can

do a bit of investigating ourselves, I know where the slingers usually hang out.” Magnus necked

what was left in his glass and stood up.

“What are you doing?” asked Tekla.

“We’ve got work to do.”

“Now?”

“What are we waiting for? Besides, I need a piss.”

Tekla’s head spun as she got up. If she was going to make it through tonight she was going

to need another bomb.

“Are you always this impulsive?” she asked.

“Life is short,” Magnus said as he returned from the loo.”

“We’ll take my car.”

243

Tekla did wonder about the wisdom of a policeman driving under the influence but said

nothing. She followed Magnus down to Ringvägen, where his car was parked, and jumped in.

244

Wednesday evening, 12th June

HÖGDALEN SHOPPING PRECINCT

It was ten o’clock by the time they parked up by the hotdog stand in Högdalen. They’d rinsed

one addict in Björnsträdgård, someone Magnus ‘had one over on’. After that, they’d met up with

two plain-clothes detectives from the Drug Squad’s gang dealing unit, who work around Sergels

Torg. They sat and ate dinner at a hamburger joint on Vasagatan. They didn’t know a Simon

Berg. But as they said: ‘it’s not like these guys use their real names.” They laughed coldly. Tekla

breathed out when they finally got back into Magnus’ BMW.

Magnus scoured the pedestrianized street, looking for someone.

“Do they recognise you around here?”

Magnus smiled.

“Well I hardly melt into the crowd, do I?” His eyes fixed on something over by the entrance

to the metro station. “There.”

Once they’d passed the florists, Magnus suddenly started running. Tekla did the same. She

could now see that they were chasing a youth wearing a bomber jacket.

Magnus caught up with him by the supermarket entrance, shoved him in the back so that he

stumbled forwards and landed on his side. Magnus flung his heavy bulk over him and put his

knee in the guy’s back, who was being smeared across the tarmac like a beetle. He was now lying

spread-eagled with his limbs pointing in four different directions.

“Are you going to calm down soon?” Magnus asked, while simultaneously waving off a

dozen or so bystanders who were watching the action from a safe distance. “I’m a police officer.”

Tekla gave them a corroborative nod. That seemed to have the desired effect on the crowd,

which dispersed. It wasn’t the first time violence had graced their district centre.

“Right then Bullseye. Are we going to talk or wrestle?”

The guy seemed to have calmed down. He sat up as Magnus eased off.

“Chill, you fucking…”

“Now now,” Magnus cut in. “You know you mustn’t use bad language.” He waved Tekla

over.

245

The guy was no more than twenty years old. Shaved head and a beautiful face. Blue eyes

staring at her sceptically. A gold earring in one ear. Tekla felt a mixture of fascination and

tenderness.

“Bullseye here sells for the Red Bears biker gang. And he smokes quite a lot of hash himself.

No heavy stuff though. Isn’t that right?”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“And, because I’ve been nice to you before, you’re going to tell us about something.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” The guy brushed the dirt from his black jeans. He looked neither

worn-out nor scarred. Tekla got the impression that he might even be quite sporty. Maybe he was

selling to help make ends meet for the family. You could always hope.

“Oh I think you do. Last time round I let you keep a few little bags with some white stuff in.

Isn’t that right?”

Bullseye turned his head away, revealing a few tattoos sticking out above his white t-shirt.

“Do you know a Simon Berg?”

Tekla shivered at the mention of her brother’s name on the street like that.

“Come on Bullen. Simon? Me might be a slinger, or else he’s a dealer.”

“The guy with the big canines?” asked Bullseye.

Tekla held her breath.

“He’s usually around the Green Line towards Farsta.”

“When did you last see him?”

The guy shrugged. “Last week maybe.”

“Where?”

“Slussen. We were going to top up.”

“You mean meet your slinger?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s the slinger’s name? What’s this bloke called? Give me a number?”

The young guy squirmed and held his hand tight into his body.

“You’re joking? You know what…”

“I know it doesn’t work like that. You leave a message on a mobile phone, someone calls

you back… sort of thing?”

They sat in silence for a moment until whispered:

“From what I heard, he’d fucked up.”

“Simon?” asked Magnus.

“Yes.”

246

“How?”

Tekla crouched down. Her pulse had gone through the roof.

“He fucked up so they picked him up by Ringen yesterday.” Bullseye started to get to his

feet. “Gotta do one.”

Magnus let him go. He quickly disappeared round the corner.

“Are you okay?” asked Magnus.

“Bit shaken.”

“But not surprised.”

“Not really. You were good at getting it out of him.”

“I know how these guys work. Give and take. But they only give so much, so they can

survive on the street.

Tekla reflected on what she’d seen and heard.

Fucked up.

Magnus continued: “So now we know who he works for.”

“The Uzbeks.”

“But it’s not the Uzbeks your brother meets,” said Magnus. “There are lots of middlemen.

We call them slingers, as I said. The ones higher up in the hierarchy who are sitting on bigger

packages. A biker gang in Skärholmen, the Red Bears, do the heavy lifting. So he probably has

some contact within the club. That’s if he’s a slinger himself. Or just a smaller dealer. We don’t

know.”

Tekla wondered what to do. Should she just head to Skärholmen and knock on the door?

“How do you know all this?”

“It’s our job. I know people in the Drug Squad. We talk.”

“Which are the important gangs, the ones dealing in Stockholm?”

“There are all sorts. From sole traders to gangs of over twenty. Often very young. Some

organise themselves, others important from some uncle in Afghanistan or Colombia. There’s

constant competition for customers. Prices get slashed, maybe locally by some lone wolf in

Rågsved, some other gang reckon that’s their turf and they have to mark their territory. They

threaten the lone wolf’s sister at a hairdressing salon in Skärholmen, the loner pays a few

Georgians who then shoots a member of the gang while he’s sitting in his car on the way to the

gym. And then the violence spreads along this chain of drugs. It’s really hard to get a handle on

all of it but the gangs in Hjulsta, Akalla, Tensta and around there have got together and seem,

unfortunately, to be cooperating.”

“Is that good or bad?”

247

“It depends who you ask. For the Uzbeks, it’s not good. They think they’re in control of the

whole city, but we’ve had wind of several arms deals in the offing.”

“You think it could get violent?”

Magnus looked resigned.

“Who knows.”

“But if we know that he’s dealing for the Uzbeks, who work with the Finns in Skärholmen,

shouldn’t we call the police and say so, so that they can see if he’s there? Do a raid or whatever

it’s called.”

“Leave it to me. But don’t get your hopes up,” said Magnus. “The chances that they’re

holding him in their premises in Skärholmen are pretty slim. And he might already be back on the

streets, dealing. You said before that he was shady.”

Tekla nodded.

“And hard to get hold of.”

Tekla nodded again.

“I’ll check and see if I can find anything,” Magnus continued. “But it’s getting late now so

maybe we can carry on tomorrow?”

“I’m grateful for all the help I can get,” Tekla replied, as she realised that she too needed to

sleep if she was going to be able to work the next day. “I’ll keep trying to get him on the phone.”

“Are you okay?” asked Magnus.

“No.”

“I can imagine. I’m really sorry that…”

“I could feel it was something like this.”

“And now you know.”

“Yes,” Tekla said despondently.

They started walking, both deep in thought.

Fucked up.

Tekla shuddered.