Bubble(11)
Erman was dead, he had died by fire when the Game finally caught up with him almost two years ago. They had incinerated his cottage, his remains were found in the embers. The poor sod had tried to live outside the connected world like a hermit but by the time HP went to see him out in the sticks he had definitely wandered the wrong side of the fine line between clear-sighted genius and total wacko madness. In spite of that he had certainly been very useful. Opening HPs eyes and getting him to see what the Game was really about. And not just its most superficial and singularly unappealing levels: the Ants keeping watch, digging out information and recruiting suitable players to carry out the various tasks. Then the betting, while the tasks were filmed and broadcast live and exclusive online for internet gamblers.
No, what Erman had told him, combined with his own experiences, had also made him understand the considerably darker aspects of the Game, and what it was really capable of. No matter what the blokes mental state might have been, HP still owed the lunatic backwoodsman quite a bit, and even if he had tried to convince himself that Ermans death wasnt really his fault, his excuses all rang pretty hollow. It was more than likely his own guilty conscience and lack of sleep, edged about with a bit of general-purpose paranoia, that had got him seeing ghosts in broad daylight.
There was no other explanation.
Or rather, there simply couldnt be any other explanation, he corrected himself as he kicked off his trainers and lay down on the sofa.
He landed on something hard and, after a few acrobatic manoeuvres interspersed with a lot of swearing, managed to dig out the remote control from behind his back, and zapped through a range of dreary daytime television programmes.
On the coffee table he found a half-empty box of Marlboros. He lit one and tried to direct the column of smoke towards the lamp-hook in the ceiling.
That was when he noticed it. High up, on top of his Billy bookcase, it was lying there like a little black box. A solitary, abandoned book.
From where he was lying, all he could see was a bit of the spine, so presumably you couldnt see any of it if you were standing in front of the bookcase, which would explain why the cops had missed it.
He twisted his head and squinted as he tried to work out what book it was, but the writing was too small. It was definitely a library book, though, he could see the white classification letters at the bottom of the spine. Three letters, probably Hce – Foreign Fiction …
So the plods had missed an item of stolen property right in front of their noses, and instead filled their boxes with perfectly legitimate porn and dog-eared paperbacks.
He tried to mimic Hellströms slightly nasal voice: Henrik Pettersson, you are being held on suspicion of crimes against the state for not returning your library books on time. How do you plead?
Guilty as charged, fuckface!!!
He grinned and blew another column of smoke, this time aimed towards the top of the bookcase.
Suddenly he realized he was hungry. How long was it since he last ate? Properly, rather than just stuffing his face over the sink with a micro-bombed Gorby pie?
He couldnt actually remember …
But the rumbling from his stomach was a good sign, as if the old library book had made his brain jump track and return to more solid ground. A shower and a bit of decent food would probably do wonders for his mood. Chinese, or why not a serious kebab down at the Jerusalem? Mmm!
He glanced at the clock on the television: 10.25.
A bit early for lunch, hed have to hold out at least another half hour. Shower first, then. He stood up, but instead of going straight to the bathroom, he went over to the bookcase, stretched up on tiptoe and reached for the book.
His fingertips just managed to catch the edge and he shuffled the book a few centimetres closer.
The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. A definite favourite, he must have read it at least ten times. In all likelihood the book was from the library down in Bagarmossen, which meant that the theft had passed the statute of limitation some ten years ago, if not more.
On the basis of this new information, my client wishes to change his plea to – not guiltyyy!
He reached up a bit further, got a better grip with his fingertips and tried to grab hold of the book. But instead he lost his balance and the book slipped over the edge of the bookcase. The object on top of it fell with it, hitting him hard on the head before tumbling to the floor.
A phone.
A shiny, silvery phone, with a glass touch-screen.
The passcard was white and, unlike the one she had borrowed from Runeberg a couple of days before, it didnt contain any visible information at all. No name, no logo, and certainly no photograph of its owner. Just a small, plain white card that had appeared in a padded envelope with no senders name given.
Presumably the anonymity was another security measure. A bulky window-envelope with a bank logo on it reeked of credit card, and thus must increase the risk of it being stolen by several hundred percent.
They clearly took security very seriously.
She handed her driving licence to the man on the other side of the counter, and he inspected it carefully before typing her ID number into the computer.
It was the same man as before but, even though only a few days had passed since her last visit, he showed no sign of recognizing her. If anything, he actually seemed even more formal that before.
Thank you.
He handed her licence back to her.
Are you familiar with the procedure?
No.
He moved to the corner of the counter and pointed at the door behind him.
Ill open the door for you, and when youre inside the airlock you run your card through the reader. Then the far door opens and you can get into the vault …
She nodded to show that she understood.
Inside there are a number of rooms containing safe deposit boxes. The doors are kept locked, but the one containing your box will be unlocked. Then you will have to use your key to open the right compartment.
You do have your key with you?
Absolutely, she replied, patting the bag hanging from her shoulder while she did her best to suppress a smile.
Judging by the look on his face, she didnt quite succeed.
Inside the compartment is a metal box. Usually clients take the box into one of the private booths at the end of the vault. Theres less risk of being disturbed there than out in the vault itself …
He paused for a moment, but something in her expression seemed to prompt him to go on.
The booths arent covered by surveillance cameras … he added.
I understand, she replied curtly.
He pressed a button and the dark steel door behind him swung open.
Rebecca stepped inside the little airlock. In front of her, only a metre or so away, was another metal door, even sturdier than the one she had just passed through.
She turned her head slightly and glanced at the security camera in the ceiling, and tried to look as calm as possible. She actually had a perfectly legitimate reason for being there, so why was she so nervous?
The door behind her closed and the sound made her jump.
Calm, now, Normén!
She took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then slowly breathed out.
Then she ran the passcard through the little reader. For a couple of seconds there was total silence. Then the steel door in front of her swung open.
The vault was considerably more exclusive than she had been expecting. Discreet uplights around the concrete walls and a faint smell of lemon, both presumably intended to alleviate any hint of nuclear bunker and being shut in. It worked fairly well.
A curved path of fluorescent paint on the shiny marble floor led her between a row of barred gates. In the rooms beyond she could see a great number of brass-coloured lockers. At the far end of the vault were what looked like changing-room doors. Presumably the booths mentioned by the guard.
A green lamp was shining above the fourth gate on the left-hand side. She took hold of the handle and the gate swung open without a sound. The room within was small, probably no more than a couple of metres square. Another of the spherical cameras stared down from the ceiling but she did her best to ignore it. So, which of the two hundred or so compartments in the room was hers?
She ran her fingers over the doors: 115, 120, 125 … There it was, almost at the bottom of the row.
She knelt down, pulled the large bunch of keys from her bag, then inspected the brass door carefully. One of the medium-sized doors, about thirty centimetres square?
The keyhole was fairly wide, which meant she could dispense with a good number of the keys, but there were still about a dozen that might fit.
She glanced up at the camera, and imagined she could see the lens moving to zoom in on her. As if they already suspected that she shouldnt be there, that the box and its contents werent actually hers and belonged to someone else.
No, she really did have to try to calm down. The bank had contacted her, and had sent her a passcard. And as for Henke, he clearly wasnt bothered enough about his possessions not to leave her to pay the bill for their safekeeping.
In other words, she had every right in the world to open the box.
She gave the camera another quick glance, then leaned forward and selected the first key of the ones she thought most likely.
Too big, much too big. Which meant she could dispense with that one, and another which was even bigger.
She tried a slightly smaller key. It went into the hole, but once it was in it just spun round without getting any purchase. So she discarded that one and another that was even smaller.