The Rabbit Hunter

‘I believe you, but I still need to know what you were doing in that house.’

‘I already told them everything,’ she whimpers.

‘Tell me,’ Saga says gently.

Sofia slowly raises her stiff arms to wipe the tears from her eyes.

‘I work as an escort, and he contacted me,’ she replies in a thin voice.

‘How did he contact you?’

‘I advertise, and he wrote an email explaining what he was interested in.’

The young woman sits up slowly, and accepts another piece of chocolate.

‘You had pepper spray with you. Do you usually have that?’

‘Yes, usually, although most people are pretty kind and considerate … I actually have more trouble with people falling in love with me than people getting violent.’

‘Is there anyone who knows where you’re going, who can come if you need help?’

‘I write the names and addresses in a book … and Tamara, she’s my best friend, she’d already had him as a client and didn’t have any trouble.’

‘What’s Tamara’s last name?’

‘Jensen.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘She moved to Gothenburg.’

‘Do you have a phone number?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know if it works.’

‘Do you have other friends working as escorts?’

‘No.’

Saga takes a few steps back and looks at Sofia. She thinks she’s telling the truth about her work.

There’s nothing that contradicts her story, even though there’s little that backs it up.

‘What do you know about your client?’

‘Nothing. He was just prepared to pay a lot of money to be tied up in bed,’ Sofia replies.

‘And did you tie him to the bed?’

‘Why do you all keep asking the same thing? I don’t get it. I’m not lying. Why would I lie?’

‘Just tell me what really happened, Sofia,’ Saga says, trying to catch her eye.

‘He drugged me and tied me to the bed.’

‘What did the bed look like?’

‘It was big. I don’t remember much about it. Why does that matter?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing.’

Forensics have been through her computer, mobile phone and the notebook with the addresses – there’s nothing that suggests Sofia realised her client was Sweden’s Foreign Minister.

Saga looks at the young woman’s drained face. It occurs to her that Sofia could be sticking to her original story a little too well. It’s almost as if she’s avoiding certain details in order not to be found out telling lies.

‘Was there a car parked outside the gate when you arrived?’

‘No.’

‘What did he say on the intercom when you rang the bell?’ Saga asks.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ Sofia says, her voice close to breaking. ‘I get that he’s rich and important, but I don’t know anything about him, just that he said his name was Wille. But it’s normal for men to use fake names.’

Saga knows that if Sofia is part of some radicalised group and sympathises with their goals, she’s not going to confess anything. But if she has been tricked or forced to participate, there’s a chance she might open up.

‘Sofia, I’m listening, if there’s anything you want to tell me … You haven’t murdered anyone, I already know that, and that’s why I think I can help you,’ Saga says. ‘But to be able to do that, I need to know the truth.’

‘Am I being charged with anything?’ Sofia asks blankly.

‘You were present when the Swedish Foreign Minister was murdered, you lay tied up in his bed, you threw a chair to break his window, and you stepped in his blood.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Sofia whispers, and her face turns white.

‘So I need some answers … I understand you might have been tricked or coerced, but I’d like you to tell me what your mission was yesterday evening.’

‘I didn’t have a mission. I don’t know what you mean.’

‘If you’re not prepared to cooperate with me then there’s nothing I can do for you,’ Saga says firmly, and gets up from her chair.

‘Please, don’t go,’ the young woman says desperately. ‘I’ll try to help you, I promise.’

11

Saga lets Sofia beg her not to leave as she walks over to the door.

‘If anyone’s threatening you or your family, we can help,’ Saga says, opening the door. ‘We can organise a safe-house, new identities, you’d be all right.’

‘I don’t understand, I … Who’s threatening us? Why would …? This is crazy.’

Saga wonders once again if Sofia really was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that still begs the question: why would a professional killer leave a witness behind?

If she really is a witness, she must have seen something that could help the investigation. When she was questioned before, she wasn’t able to give a description of the killer. She just kept repeating that his face was hidden, that the whole thing happened so quickly.

Saga needs her to start remembering genuine details. The tiniest thing could open up memories she’s blocked out due to shock.

‘You saw the murderer,’ Saga says, turning around.

‘But he was wearing a hood. I already said that.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’ she asks, closing the door again.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What was his nose like?’

Sofia shakes her head, and a crack in her lip starts to bleed.

‘The Foreign Minister was shot. You turned around and saw the killer standing there with the gun in his hand.’

‘I just wanted to get away. I started to run but I fell, and then I found that alarm, which …’

‘You need to tell me what the perpetrator looked like when you turned around,’ Saga says.

‘He was holding the pistol with both hands.’

‘Like this?’ Saga asks, demonstrating a two-handed grip.

‘Yes. He was staring straight ahead, past me … He didn’t care that I was there. I don’t even know if he saw me. Everything happened in a matter of seconds. He was behind me, but he ran past and grabbed hold of …’

She stops speaking and frowns, staring ahead of her as if seeing events unfold in her mind’s eye.

‘He grabbed him by his hair?’ Saga asks gently.

‘Wille fell to his knees after the second shot … The murderer was holding him by his hair, and he pressed the pistol against one of his eyes. It was all so unreal.’

‘He was bleeding a lot, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he scared?’ Saga asks.

‘He seemed terrified,’ Sofia whispers. ‘He was trying to buy time, saying the whole thing was a mistake. He had blood in his throat and it was hard to hear, but he was trying to say it was a mistake, that he should let him live.’

‘What were his exact words?’

‘He said … “You think you know everything, but you don’t …” and then the murderer said … really calmly, that … that “Ratjen opened the door”. No, hold on, he said: “Ratjen opened the door” … and “hell will devour you all”, that’s what he said.’

‘Ratjen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could it have been any other name?’

‘No … well … I mean, that’s what it sounded like.’

‘Did it seem like the Foreign Minister knew who Ratjen was?’

‘No,’ Sofia replies, closing her eyes.

‘Come on, what else did he say?’ Saga asks.

‘Nothing. I didn’t hear anything else.’

‘What did he mean about Ratjen opening the door?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is Ratjen the one doing this? Is he responsible for unleashing hell?’ Saga asks loudly.

‘Please …’

‘What do you think?’ Saga asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Sofia replies, and wipes tears from her cheeks.

Saga walks quickly towards the door. She hears Sofia calling after her.

12

The driver’s face is immobile as he glances in the rear-view mirror to check that the vehicle behind him is still following closely.

The sound of the engine runs through the Prime Minister’s custom-made Volvo like a comforting purr.

A year ago the Security Police decided that the Swedish Prime Minister needed an armoured, reinforced vehicle. It has twelve cylinders and 453 horsepower, and can do one hundred kilometres an hour in reverse. Its windows are designed to stop bullets from high-velocity weapons.

The Prime Minister is sitting on the spacious leather seat in the back of the car with the finger and thumb of his left hand gently massaging his closed eyelids. His dark-blue suit is unbuttoned, and his red tie hangs crookedly across the front of his shirt.

Saga sits beside him, still in her leather bodysuit. She hasn’t had time to change, and she’s hot. She feels like unzipping the bodysuit down to her waist, but doesn’t because she’s still naked underneath.

The head of the Security Police, Verner Sandén, sits in the front seat. His hand is curved over the back of the seat, and his long frame is twisted so that he can look at the Prime Minister while he briefs him on the situation.

He runs through the chronology in his deep voice, from the time the Code Platinum was declared, to the accelerated examination of the crime scene and the ongoing reports from the forensics team.

‘The house is back to its original state. There’s nothing to indicate what happened there last night,’ Verner concludes.

‘My thoughts are with the family,’ the Prime Minister says in a low voice, turning to look out of the window.

‘We’re keeping them out of this. Naturally, we’re maintaining the highest level of secrecy.’

‘You say the situation is dire?’ the Prime Minister asks as he replies to a text.

‘Yes, there are specific circumstances that led us to request an urgent meeting with you,’ Verner replies.

‘Well, as you know I’m travelling to Brussels this evening. I really don’t have time for this,’ the Prime Minister explains.

Saga can feel her butt cheeks sticking to her leather bodysuit.

‘We’re dealing with a professional or semi-professional killer who sticks within the framework of his brief,’ she says, trying to raise her butt a little.

‘The Security Police are always prone to grand conspiracy theories,’ the Prime Minister says, looking down at his phone again.

‘The killer used a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer that cools the percussive gas,’ she says. ‘He killed the Foreign Minister with one shot through his right eye. Then he picked up the empty shell, leaned over the dead body, put the pistol to the left eye, fired again, picked up the shell, then turned—’

‘What the hell?’ the Prime Minister says, looking up at her.

‘The killer didn’t trigger any of the alarms himself,’ Saga goes on. ‘But even though the alarms were blaring loudly enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, and even though the police were on their way, he stayed to dig the bullets out of the wall and wooden floor before leaving the villa. He knew where all the security cameras were, so there’s no footage of him anywhere … And I can tell you now that forensics aren’t going to find anything that could lead us any closer to him.’

She stops speaking and looks at the Prime Minister, who takes a swig of water, puts the heavy glass back down and wipes his mouth.

The car glides towards north Djurgården. To their left is the great grass expanse of Gärdet. In the seventeenth century the area was used for military exercises, but today the only people around are a few joggers and dog-walkers.

‘So it was an execution?’ he asks in a hoarse voice.

‘Yes. We don’t know why yet, but it could be blackmail. The killer could have been trying to get classified information,’ Verner explains. ‘The Foreign Minister could have been forced to make some sort of statement on film.’

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ the Prime Minister whispers.

‘No. We’re convinced this is an act of political terrorism, even though no one has claimed responsibility overnight,’ Verner replies.

‘Terrorism?’

‘There was a prostitute in the Foreign Minister’s home,’ Saga says.

‘He has his problems,’ the Prime Minister says, wrinkling his long nose slightly.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Drop it,’ he interrupts.

Saga glances at the Prime Minister. There’s a distant look in his eyes, and he’s clenching his jaw. She wonders if he’s trying to come to terms with what’s happened. His government’s Foreign Minister has been murdered. Maybe he’s thinking back to the last time that happened.

On a grey autumn day in 2003, then Foreign Minister Anna Lindh was out shopping with a friend when she was attacked by a man who stabbed her in the arms and chest.

The Foreign Minister had no bodyguard with her, no personal protection. She was badly wounded and died in the operating room.

Sweden was different back then. It was a country where politicians still believed they had the right to proclaim socialist ideals of international decency.

‘The woman who was being used by the Foreign Minister,’ Saga goes on, looking the Prime Minister in the eye. ‘She heard a fragment of conversation which leads us to believe that this is the first in a number of planned murders.’

‘Murders? What sort of damn murders?’ the Prime Minister asks, raising his voice.

13

The Prime Minister’s Volvo rolls across Djurgårdsbrunn’s narrow stone bridge, then turns left alongside the canal. The grit on the road crunches beneath the tyres. Two ducks wade into the water and swim away from the shore.

‘The killer mentioned Ratjen as some sort of key figure,’ Verner says.

‘Ratjen?’ the Prime Minister repeats questioningly.

‘We believe we might have identified him. His name is Salim Ratjen, and he’s serving a long prison sentence for narcotics offences,’ Saga explains, leaning forward to free her damp back from her leather bodysuit.

‘We see strong links between last night’s events and a Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz, who leads a terrorist group in Syria,’ Verner adds.

‘These are the only images we have of Ayad al-Jahiz,’ Saga says, holding up her phone.

A short film clip shows a man with a pleasant, mature face. He has a grey-flecked beard and glasses. He is looking into the camera as he speaks. It sounds like he’s addressing a group of attentive schoolchildren.

‘He has drops of blood on his glasses,’ the Prime Minister whispers.

Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz concludes his short speech and throws his arms out in a benevolent gesture.

‘What was he saying?’

‘He said … “We have dragged unbelievers behind trucks and troop carriers until the ropes came loose … Our task now is to find the leaders who support the bombing and shoot them until their faces are gone”,’ Saga replies.

The Prime Minister’s hand is shaking as he wipes his mouth.

They drive across another bridge and up towards the marina.

‘The security service at Hall Prison recorded a call that Salim Ratjen made to an unregistered mobile phone,’ Verner says. ‘They discuss three big celebrations in Arabic. The first party coincides with the date the Foreign Minister was killed … the second is supposed to take place on Wednesday, and the third on October seventh.’

‘Dear God,’ the Prime Minister mutters.

‘We have four days,’ Verner says.

Branches brush the roof of the car as they turn abruptly and start to head back towards the Kaknäs Tower.

‘Why the hell weren’t you keeping this Ratjen under closer surveillance?’ the Prime Minister asks, pulling a paper napkin from the box in the car door.

‘He has no previous connections to any terrorist networks,’ Verner replies.

‘So he was radicalised in prison,’ the Prime Minister says, wiping his neck.

‘That’s what we believe.’

The rain is getting heavier and the driver turns on the windshield-wipers. The blades sweep the tiny droplets from the glass.

‘And you think that I might be … one of these celebrations?’

‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Saga replies.

‘So you’re sitting here telling me that someone might murder me on Wednesday,’ the Prime Minister says, unable to conceal his agitation.

‘We need to get Ratjen to talk … we need to know what his plans are before it’s too late,’ Verner replies.

‘So what the hell are you waiting for?’

‘We don’t believe Salim Ratjen can be questioned in a conventional way,’ Saga tries to explain. ‘He didn’t respond when he was questioned five years ago, and didn’t say a single word during his trial.’

‘You have ways and means – don’t you?’

‘Breaking someone down can take many months,’ she replies.

‘I have a fairly important job,’ the Prime Minister says as he scrunches up the napkin. ‘I’m married, I have two children, and …’

‘We’re very sorry about this,’ Verner says.

‘This is the first time you’ve really been needed – so don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do.’

‘Ask me what we should do,’ Saga says.

The Prime Minister looks at her in surprise, then loosens his tie slightly.

‘What should we do?’ he repeats.

‘Tell the driver to stop the car and get out.’

They’ve reached Loudden, and the gloomy oil depot. The long spine of the pier is almost invisible in the grey rain.

Although the Prime Minister still looks uncertain, he leans forward and talks to the driver.

It’s raining harder, a chill rain that splashes the puddles. The Security Police driver stops right in front of one of the oil tanks.

The driver gets out and stands a couple of metres from the car. The rain darkens his pale beige uniform jacket in a matter of seconds.

‘So what should we do?’ the Prime Minister asks once more, looking at Saga.

14

Work is over for the day in Unit T of the high-security prison at Kumla, and fifteen inmates are jostling for space in the cramped gym.

No kettlebells, dumbbells, bars or any other equipment that could be used as a weapon is permitted.

The inmates move aside when Reiner Kronlid and his bodyguards from the Brotherhood come in. Reiner’s power is based on the fact that he controls the flow of all narcotics in the unit, and he guards his position like a jealous god.

Without him saying a word, a skinny man gets off his exercise bike and quickly wipes the saddle and handlebars with paper towels.

The static fluorescent strip-lights reveal the shabby walls. The air is heavy with the smell of sweat and tiger balm.

As usual, the group of old junkies is standing outside the dividing Plexiglas wall, and two Albanians from the Malmö gang are loitering by the folded table-tennis table.

Joona Linna finishes a set of pull-ups, lets go of the bar and lands softly on the floor. He looks over at the window. Dusty sunlight fills the gym again. His grey eyes look like molten lead for a few seconds.

Joona is clean-shaven, and his blond hair is cut short, almost in a crew-cut. His brow is furrowed, his mouth set firm. He’s wearing a pale blue T-shirt, its seams stretching over his bulging muscles.

‘One more set before we switch to a wider grip,’ Marko says to him.

Marko is a wiry older prisoner who has taken it upon himself to act as Joona’s bodyguard.

A new inmate with a thin, birdlike face is approaching the gym. He’s hiding something against his hip. His cheekbones are sharp, his lips pale, and his thinning hair is pulled up in a ponytail.

He isn’t dressed for the gym. He’s wearing an open rust-red fleece jacket that reveals the tattoos on his chest and neck.

The thin man passes beneath the last security camera mounted in the ceiling and enters the gym, then stops in front of Joona.

One of the prison guards outside the Plexiglas turns, and the baton hanging by his hip swings against the glass.

A few of the inmates have turned their backs on Joona and Marko.

The atmosphere becomes tense, everyone moves with a new wariness.

The only sound is a high-frequency hum from the ventilation.

Joona stands underneath the pull-up bar again, jumps, and pulls himself up.

Marko stands behind him with his sinuous tattooed arms hanging by his sides.

The veins in Joona’s temples throb as he pulls himself up again and again, raising his chin above the bar.

‘Are you the cop?’ the man with the thin face asks.

Small motes of dust drift gently through the still air. The guard on the other side of the Plexiglas exchanges a few words with an inmate, then starts to walk back towards the control room.

Joona pulls himself up again.

‘Thirty more,’ Marko says.

The man with the thin face is staring at Joona. Sweat glistens on his top lip, and is dripping down his cheeks.

‘I’m going to get you, you bastard,’ he says with a strained smile.

‘Nyt pelkään,’ Joona replies calmly in Finnish, and pulls himself up again.

‘Understand?’ the man grins. ‘Do you understand what the fuck I’m saying?’

Joona notices that the new arrival is clutching a dagger by his hip, a homemade weapon made from a long, thin shard of glass bound with duct-tape.

He’ll aim low, Joona thinks. He’ll try to get below my ribs. It’s almost impossible to stab someone with glass, but if it’s held by splints under the tape it can still penetrate the body before it snaps off.

A few other inmates have gathered on the other side of the Plexiglas, looking into the gym with curiosity. Their body language betrays a restrained eagerness. They just happen to stand in the way of the cameras.

‘You’re a cop,’ the man hisses, then looks at the others. ‘You know he’s a cop?’

‘Is that true?’ one of the onlookers says with a smile, then takes a swig from a plastic bottle.

A crucifix swings on a chain around the neck of a man with haggard features. The scars on the insides of his arms are frayed from the ascorbic acid he’s used to dissolve the heroin.

‘It is, I fucking swear,’ the prisoner with the thin face goes on. ‘He’s from National Crime, he’s a fucking pig, a dirty cop.’

‘That probably explains why everyone calls him “the Cop”,’ the man with the plastic bottle says sarcastically, and chuckles silently to himself.

Joona keeps doing pull-ups.

Reiner Kronlid is sitting on the exercise bike with a blank look on his face. His eyes are perfectly still, like a reptile’s, as he watches the scene play out.

One of the men from Malmö comes in and starts to run on the treadmill. The thud of his feet and the whine of the belt fill the cramped room.

Joona lets go of the bar, lands softly on his feet and looks at the man with the weapon.

‘Can I give you something to think about?’ Joona says in his Finnish-accented Swedish. ‘Feigned ignorance is born of confidence, illusory weakness is born of—’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ the man interrupts.

After his time in the Paratroop Unit Joona received enhanced training in unconventional close combat and innovative weaponry in the Netherlands.

Lieutenant Rinus Advocaat trained him for situations very similar to this. Joona knows exactly how to deflect the man’s arm, how to crush his throat and windpipe with repeated blows, how to twist the glass knife from his grasp, how to jam it into his neck and break off its point.

‘Stab the cop,’ a member of the Brotherhood snarls, then laughs. ‘You don’t have the nerve …’

‘Shut up,’ a younger man says.

‘Stab him,’ the other man laughs.

The prisoner with the thin face squeezes the makeshift knife and Joona looks him in the eye as he comes closer.

If Joona is attacked now, he knows he’s going to have to stop himself from following through with the sequence of movements that are imprinted in his body.

During his almost two years in prison he’s managed to steer clear of serious fights. His only aim has been to serve his time and start a new life.

He just needs to deflect the arm, twist the weapon from the man’s hand and knock him to the floor.

Joona turns his back on the newcomer with the knife. As he exchanges a few words with Marko, he can see the man’s reflection in the window looking onto the yard.