The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble

Home, she thought.

She just wanted to go home. Take her clothes off, grab a quick shower to get rid of the sweat and blood. A handful of pills and then sleep, wonderful fucking sleep.

But it didn’t turn out to be that easy. And of course it was Henke’s fault.

She’d tried his home number but the line had been disconnected. The same thing with the two most recent mobile numbers he’d given her. She couldn’t get hold of her idiot little brother, which only made her more angry.

What had he actually said?

She tried to remember what his exact words had been, but it was practically impossible. He had at any rate confessed to throwing the stone. But how the hell could he have know that she was in the car? Was this some sort of elaborate, delayed revenge?

No, that sounded crazy, she realized that as soon as she had thought it. No matter how messed up her and Henke’s relationship was, he’d never set out to hurt her on purpose. So what was this all about?

Why had he dropped a stone on their car from a bridge, or at least claimed to have done so?

‘Kronoberg,’ he had said, but that had turned out not to be true. Just to be sure she had called Södermalm and the Western District too, but neither of them had a Henrik HP Pettersson in custody.

Had he been lying to her?

He could very well have been, that had happened far too many times in the past. But there was something about his voice, something … it sounded stupid to use the word when you were talking about Henke, but nonetheless … something honest. As if he really believed he’d been arrested. The only way she’d get any answers to any of her questions was to get hold of her little brother.

The question was: where the hell was he?

He ran. First in sheer panic. Along the dark corridor, towards the door – although he was prepared to bet it was locked. Then relief as it opened onto a stairwell.

Stone steps down into the darkness, more unlit corridors along the way. His steps echoed on the concrete walls. Finally, at last, a way out.

Damp night air hit him as he crossed the street to get as far away as possible from that corridor. A quick glance over his shoulder, then one more just to be sure.

Suddenly he felt soft grass under his feet and it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. Large black trees splayed towards the night sky above him, and ahead of him was an iron railing and some unkempt gravestones.

Kronoberg Park, close to the Jewish Cemetery. Only a block or so from where he’d thought he was to start with.

His legs were working by themselves. Up the hill, through the park and finally out onto Polhemsgatan. The most western of the police’s three copper-coloured towers in front of him. For a few moments he considered carrying on to the entrance down on Kungsholmsgatan, knocking on the copper doorway and handing himself in. But before he’d had time to make a decision his legs were already carrying him out onto Fleminggatan, then right, towards the city centre.

His head was spinning as his feet drummed on the tarmac.

Tramp, tramp, tramp.

The monotonous sound calmed him down a bit. The whirlpool in his head gradually slowed down and the panic slowly released its iron grip of his chest.

Tramp, tramp, tramp.

A set-up!

Tramp, tramp, tramp.

The whole thing had been a fucking set-up!

Tramp, tramp, tramp.

The more he thought about it, the better he could see how it all fitted together. He had thought that three thousand points was a bit too much just for throwing a stone at a car, even if it was a cop-car.

And he’d been right!

The stone, the car, the cops – all of that had been secondary, or a sort of prologue. The assignment, the real assignment, had been all about him. A sort of evaluation, really.

Or a test …

Only a very small number of people are qualified for this level …

They had tested him to see if he had what it took. If he could handle the storms up on the summit.

And the result, ladies and gentlemen?

He had fucked up.

Big time.

9

I lost the Game

‘Okay Rebecca, we’ve been through the details a couple of times now, but could you say a bit more about how you feel?’

She had to stop herself from looking up at the ceiling.

How she felt?

Standard-issue psycho-babble of the sort she’d heard so many times before, and it had never led to anything positive.

Did he really want to hear the truth?

That she felt like shit?

And even if she was entirely honest and told her whole story, and turned her feelings, thoughts and reflections inside out – was that going to help? Could it make everything undone? Hardly, so she’d have to pull out the tried and tested mask.

‘Thanks, but I feel fine, in myself,’ she managed to say, with something that was supposed to be a helpful smile.

She glanced at the time, twenty minutes or so since they started the debriefing talk, and she’d be lucky to get away with anything less than half an hour.

It had been Rebecca who’d insisted on the eight o’clock appointment. She wanted to get the conversation with Anderberg out of the way, so she could head over to Maria Trappgränd before her layabout brother had even opened his eyes …

Anderberg sighed and leafed through his notes.

‘Have you had a chance to talk to anyone else about what happened? Friends, family, colleagues, maybe?’

He looked at her over his narrow glasses.

‘No,’ she said, slightly too abruptly, then realized her mistake at once and tried to correct herself. ‘No, I haven’t had time to talk to anyone yet, it only happened last night, after all, and I wanted to see you first.’

A little smile to top off the lie ought to do the trick?

Nice save! Anderberg was thinking.

A smart girl, this one, but not smart enough to catch him out, at least not the day after such a traumatic experience as the one she’d just been through. A car crash and her partner in intensive care, that wasn’t the sort of thing you could just shrug off.

This was the second time in just a couple of weeks that they’d met, and his earlier concerns about Rebecca Normén hadn’t exactly decreased. As far as he understood it, she had once again acted in an irreproachable manner, but this time she didn’t seem anywhere near as composed.

In contrast to their previous conversation, this time she sounded mostly like a robot, as though she were on autopilot. That wasn’t a good sign. If he couldn’t get her to open up and let go of some of her feelings now, things would look very different and his report would be considerably easier to write. He’d seen tougher officers than her snap as a result of unprocessed experiences, and he had no desire to add Rebecca’s name to that tragic list.

‘But you do have someone you can talk to if you need to? Sometimes it can take a few days after an experience like this, then suddenly a whole load of things come bubbling up. You can have my number, of course, but it’s important to be able to talk to other people, above all family and friends,’ he went on.

She nodded mutely.

‘But you don’t have any problems on that front?’

He looked at her again over the rim of his glasses.

She took a deep breath and made an effort to sound composed.

‘No, I don’t.’

Anderberg nodded and leafed through his notes again.

‘You’ve got a Henrik Pettersson listed as your closest relative. Is that your partner?’

She was on the point of jumping out of her chair! Anderberg wasn’t stupid, that much was clear.

A bit of harmless chat and then bang, straight to her weak point. Evidently her usual defence wasn’t working, so she had to choose her words carefully …

Another deep breath. Careful now, Normén!

‘Henrik’s my brother. Normén was Mum’s maiden name, I took it after …’ She bit her lip involuntarily.

‘… she passed away,’ she concluded, with what she hoped was a sad smile.

The psychologist nodded.

‘So you’re close to your brother?’

‘Not any more,’ slipped out of her mouth.

Shit, the lack of sleep and headache were taking their toll, and Anderberg wasn’t just anyone. Today it was unusually difficult to keep her guard up, mainly because in her mind she was already knocking on Henrik’s door. She had to regroup and try a new tactic.

‘Do you feel like talking about it?’

Anderberg had evidently caught a scent of something. She had to tread carefully now.

She shrugged to give herself a couple more seconds to think. What the hell could she say?

No, dear shrink, I don’t feel like telling you about my useless petty criminal little brother who doesn’t give a shit about anything and wrecks everything he touches, but to whom I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life.

‘Things were pretty tough when we were growing up,’ she said instead, hoping that a few serious but now harmless confidences would throw him off track.

Anderberg nodded encouragingly, evidently interested.

‘Well, to start with it was mainly Dad, I suppose. But after a while he dragged Mum down with him, you could say. Especially after she got ill.’

She took a deep breath before going on.

‘Dad was pretty unusual. He was quite a bit older than Mum when they got married. It was his flat and he already had his set routines. Everything had to be exactly the way he wanted, down to the smallest detail, and Dad would get furious about the tiniest things. A set of keys in the wrong place or a mark on the bathroom mirror were enough to set him off. When he was home the rest of us had to tiptoe around so as not to make him angry or upset,’ she said. ‘Henke, my little brother, is three years younger than me. When things were bad at least we had each other. I used to protect him, comfort him, and take him out so that things could calm down. I suppose you could say we provided each other with a bit of stability.’

She smiled unconsciously.

‘I used to take him with me whenever I could, I didn’t want him to be left at home alone with Dad. You never knew what might happen, and if anything did happen, for some reason my little brother would always get the blame, maybe because he was smallest and weakest. Dad didn’t exactly hold back, especially not after a few drinks, and even if Mum did her best she never really dared to stand up to him and take our side when there was trouble. She probably had to deal with enough of his moods as it was … But Dad never laid a finger on me, on the other hand. I was safe, somehow, men of his generation didn’t hit little girls, so maybe that’s why I started trying to protect Henke?’ She shrugged her shoulders and caught Anderberg’s nod of encouragement.

He had evidently taken the bait. But to her surprise she also discovered that she didn’t have any problem going on …

‘Henke was very patient, always tagging along, never complaining, even if he mostly had to play girls’ games. Sometimes he got to be the doll while I and the other girls in the block dressed him up. Mummy, Daddy, baby and all that … All the stuff we weren’t getting at home.’

She smiled again and looked down at her lap thoughtfully.

The psychologist didn’t push her; actually he was looking quite pleased.

It was ironic really, that everything she had tried to hide so far had turned into the perfect smokescreen now. A new line of defence now that the old one seemed to have crumbled. She hadn’t talked about this for … well, it must be thirteen years now, and it felt pretty good to let it out.

A quick glance at the time, twenty-five minutes done. Now she just had to round this off and catch the southbound underground train. Get back into the saddle.

‘But you’ve had less contact since you grew up?’

His tone was friendly, more supportive than questioning.

She nodded in confirmation.

‘Yes, I’m afraid we lost a bit of our connection when I moved out. Dad had died suddenly the previous year and Henke was sixteen by then, so it felt fairly safe to leave him with Mum. It’s true she was also fairly ill by then and spent most of her time in bed. But I’d met a boy and we moved in together. First love and all that.’

She shrugged her shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant.

‘I suppose I’d been managing the household pretty much alone, and looking after Mum as well, so I thought it was Henke’s turn to take more responsibility now that Dad was out of the picture … My boyfriend and I sorted out a flat for them on Södermalm, near Mariatorget. Less space and closer to the hospital. And visits from home-help to make things easier. I was in love and I was in a hurry to get away, let go of the responsibility once and for all. I let myself get caught up in my relationship with Dag instead, and Henke probably felt a bit left out. Like I’d abandoned him. After all, he was used to having me there, the two of us against the world. And he didn’t exactly get on with my boyfriend, so …’

She stopped herself. This was dangerous territory, best not to get tangled up in a load of unnecessary lies.

‘In any case, it only lasted a couple of years, then Mum died of cancer. Henke’s still living in the flat, but our relationship never really recovered … You could say that we’re working on it …’ she concluded with a settled expression.

Most of what she’d said was actually true. From a purely technical point of view, she hadn’t lied, just withheld certain details. The question was whether the story held up?

Anderberg nodded in empathy, evidently happy with the confidences he had managed to elicit.

‘So you still see each other, you and Henrik?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, with a smile of relief. ‘In fact, I’m going to see him once we’re done here.’

… and I’m going to wring his bloody neck! she added silently to herself.

Whoever was ringing on his doorbell was a stubborn bastard. He’d tried pulling the pillow over his head, pretending he wasn’t home so the fucker would go away. But oh no. The idiot out there was worse that any Jehovah’s Witness. He or she was pressing the bell at painful, almost tortuous intervals, and had been doing so for at least ten minutes already. HP had had plenty of time to keep track.

First ten seconds of insistent ringing, rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!

Then ten seconds’ pause.

Then once more, rrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg!

It was driving him mad. In the end he had no choice but to go and open up.

Red-faced and wearing just a pair of jogging pants that he fished up from a chair on the way, he angrily opened the door to give the bastard a piece of his mind. And a moment later, without him quite understanding what had happened, he was lying flat on his back on the hall rug.

Anderberg had bought her new defensive tactic, hook, line and sinker … There was nothing that worked better with shrinks than a bit of tragic childhood. The psychiatrist had been overjoyed at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had praised her honesty, called her a strong person and agreed to let her return to duty the following week. A few days of rest would suit her fine, it would give her time to get a few little things sorted out …

It took her almost ten minutes to get him out of bed. It had been enough to open the letterbox slightly and listen to the sounds in the flat to know that he was at home. Even if the bedroom was at the far end of the flat, the distance wasn’t far enough for anyone to mistake the sound of snoring.

She’d used the tried and tested police tactic with the doorbell: ten seconds ringing, ten silence, then more ringing.

No-one could put up with that for long.

She heard him come padding out into the hall and moved to the side to escape the peephole. As she had guessed, he was planning to throw the door open, and seeing as she was already holding the handle on the outside it didn’t take much to let him start to open it, then give it a serious tug from her side and bring him lurching into the stairwell. Then, while he was still shocked and trying to regain his balance, all she had to do was shove him gently in the chest to send him flying back onto the hall rug.

A quick stride in and she could pull the door closed behind her.

Basic police tactics, exercise 1A.

‘What the fuck are you doing, Becca?’ he whined when he had got to his feet and worked out who the intruder was.

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said curtly and gestured towards the kitchen.

‘Have you got any coffee in the flat, or do you spend all your money on other plant products?’

She’d already picked up the sweet smell of hash from the flat through the letterbox.

He didn’t answer, just walked into the kitchen ahead of her and started rattling about in the sink.

‘Will Nescafe do?’ he muttered, waving a brown glass jar.

‘Not really, but okay,’ she replied, shoving a pile of old Metros off one of the kitchen chairs.

She saw that the flat was a complete mess. Clothes and all sorts of other stuff piled up in heaps. Old newspapers, full ashtrays and dirty glasses practically everywhere she looked. The walls and ceiling were yellow with cigarette smoke, and the greasy, overflowing plastic washing-up bowl in the sink told her it was a long time since any washing-up had been done. This was a couple of degrees worse, even, than Mum’s final days. It looked like a junkie’s squat, with the possible exception of the flatscreen television and the computer she had glimpsed in the living room.

How the hell could he live in this sort of filth?

‘So … how are you, sis?’ he asked a few minutes later, feebly and less grouchily as he served them instant coffee in mismatched mugs.

‘Depends what you mean,’ she replied abruptly. ‘Life in general or my current state of health?’

‘Er … you know,’ he nodded towards the plasters on her head. ‘After the crash, I mean.’

She sighed.

‘Oh, I’m okay, thanks for asking. A bit of a headache, some minor bruising and a few days off sick, but that’s pretty much it.’

‘And your partner?’

Her eyes narrowed but she couldn’t miss the embarrassed tone of his question. He certainly seemed concerned, almost for real.

‘A bit better, thanks, I called this morning and he’s making progress. Looks like he’s going to make it.’

‘Thank God!’

Both his body language and tone of voice told her he really meant it.

The question was: who was he most relieved for? She was pretty sure it wasn’t Kruse.

‘Okay, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, maybe you’d like to explain to me what the hell happened yesterday? I called three different custody units for your sake and pretty much got laughed at each time.’

He looked down at once.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered.

‘Nothing?’ she repeated as sharply as she could.

‘Just a drunken prank, I’d had a few beers at Kvarnen and then had a smoke round at a friend’s. I saw it all on the news and heard it was you. When the others found out my sister was a cop they got me to call you and say I was the one who threw the stone and all that … They probably didn’t think I’d actually do it. And I shouldn’t have done.

‘Sorry!’ he added, looking up with a silly smile. ‘It was really stupid and immature, I know.’

He threw his arms out in a disarming gesture.

She didn’t answer, just looked at him for several seconds.

Henke had always been good at stretching the truth, making things up, telling white lies, or just lying through his teeth. First to their parents when they were little, mostly to Dad, of course: No, Daddy, I’ve got no idea where you left your wallet. Then to his teachers at school, and eventually to the rest of the world, with one exception. It wasn’t until after everything had happened and he had got out of prison that he started lying to her as well, which probably wasn’t that strange if you thought about it. Most of the time he was very good at it, so good that it usually took her a few days to work out that she’d fallen for one of his lies again. But not today.

Today there was something missing.

To start with, this lie lacked the right details and was far too easy to demolish with a few facts, such as the fact that the Security Police would never release her name to the media, so he couldn’t have known she was involved if he had seen anything about the crash on television. And she seriously doubted that a load of dope-heads would be sitting watching the news …

Oddly, his pathetic story only made her more annoyed. As if he were trying to blow her off and declare her an idiot at the same time. But then she realized that the details were of only secondary importance.

The main thing that was missing was his usual convincing smile and the glint in his eye that always made her believe him. His little brother look, she called it. Henke was nowhere near as self-confident as he usually was, she could see that clearly. That wasn’t just morning tiredness visible in his face. He also had a black-eye and a plaster over his nose that she had seen but not really picked up on until she started looking at him properly.

He’s been beaten up, her police instincts told her, but the big sister in her hoped that he’d just fallen down some stairs. But whatever the cause was, Henke looked worn out, shaken, almost as if he was seriously worried about something, which was unusual for him, to put it mildly. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost say he was … frightened?

‘Don’t lie to me, Henrik,’ she said calmly, trying to catch his wandering gaze.

‘What d’you mean, I’m not lying!’ He held up his hands and ran through his usual routine. But it wasn’t anywhere near as convincing as it usually was.

He could hear how unbelievable it all sounded. But what the fuck was he supposed to do? Tell the truth?

He’d broken rule number one once already, and twice in twenty-four hours would definitely not be a good idea.

Besides, what were the odds on her believing him?

I’ve been playing a reality game, they tested me and I lost. Sorry you got in the way, my bad!

As if!

It was fucking bad luck that he happened to hit her. Of all the cop-cars in the city, he had to go and hit his sister’s. What were the odds of that?

Actually …

Shit, he was stupid! What a complete fucking moron for not realizing …! Luck had nothing to do with it!

He flew up from his chair, grabbed her arm and tried to drag her towards the door.

‘You have to go!’ he muttered firmly, while she pulled against him.

‘Let go, Henke, what are you on about now?’

‘Please!’ he begged when he realized she was far too strong and he’d never manage to get her out by force.

‘Please, Becca, you have to go. Right now!’

She shook free of his grasp quite easily. What the hell was he up to now? He suddenly seemed to have gone mad. How much dope was he smoking these days, unless he’d moved on to something heavier?

‘Please, Becca, I’m begging you. You have to leave. I’m in a bit of trouble but it’ll get sorted, I promise. But if you don’t go … they’ve got people … You have to leave, right away!’

He could hear how frightened he sounded, but made no effort to do anything about it. He really was terrified. They’d used her to test him. Manipulated him into hurting his own sister, the only person that he … well … cared about.

And just for fun!

The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. Yesterday everything had been far too hazy, but now he’d had time to sleep on it, he realized what it was all about. What he really was. A pawn in the Game, no more, no less. A fucking pawn!

And there he was, imagining he was some sort of superstar, when he was just one of the crowd. A pathetic little pawn that could easily be sacrificed so the Game could move on. And that was exactly what they had done. The footage of him spilling his guts to Bolin the pretend cop were probably already out there.