But the bus driver showed no sign of braking, and actually seemed to be accelerating instead.
HP could see the traffic-lights now – green.
Fuck!
He must be seventy-five metres behind the bus, and cars were rushing past him on all sides with their horns blaring.
His legs ached from being hit, his lungs were burning with the sudden exertion, but he had no intention of giving up, at least not while he still had the bus in sight.
He veered across the road and carried on along the pavement. Far ahead the bus finally seemed to have stopped at Mariatorget. Yes!
He ran even faster, crossing Torkel Knutssonsgatan as he approached the back of the bus.
Fifty metres.
Forty.
Thirty.
Hi, Nina Brandt here!
Hi Nina, can you hang on …
She put the phone down, stood up from her desk and closed the door to her office.
There, now I can talk.
Is everything okay, Becca?
Absolutely fine, she lied. A few too many balls in the air, maybe …
So youre keen to get back to the Firm … ?
She forced out a laugh.
Well, not just yet, at any rate … Have you managed to find out anything? she added quickly before Nina had time to go on.
Not really …
Rebecca breathed out silently.
Theres no record of the revolver in the system. Its never been reported stolen, nor registered in connection with any crime.
Okay, good.
But my contact up in Forensics would still like to take it in for some test shots.
Okay, what for?
Because its a .38 calibre manufactured before 1986 …
What … ?
Come on, Rebecca, the revolver is at least in theory a potential OPW …
Im not with you, Nina …
An Olof Palme Weapon.
A short silence followed as Rebecca tried to take in this information.
But the killer used a 357 Magnum? Holmér went on television and said …
She must have seen the image at least a hundred times over the years. The press conference, with the county police commissioner confidently waving two powerful revolvers.
Well, Holmér managed to get most things wrong, including the gun. Look, Rebecca, the .38 and the 357 have the same sized bullets, only their length is different. Some makes of .38 can be used to fire 357 ammunition, which is why Forensics are so keen to test-fire all old guns that match the OPW profile. My friend in Forensics could deal with it next week …
Okay, sure … Listen, Im going to have to call you back, Nina, Ive got a call waiting … Thanks a million for your help, she added. Ill be in touch next week and we can have lunch together …
She clicked to end the call, put her mobile down on the desk and leaned back slowly. Then she opened the desk drawer and took out some sheets of paper. Since her visit to the bank vault shed found it impossible to fit together any of the pieces of the puzzle shed found in the box.
Not until the copy of the contract for the safe deposit box arrived.
She had been certain it was Henkes box. And she had been wrong. The agreement had been set up in 1986, and her and Henkes names had been listed in the section for other individuals with access to the deposit box.
In other words, Henke probably knew as little about the box as she did.
The reminders about the overdue payments must have been sent to both of them, the only difference being that his stack of unopened post had probably been seized before he had time to open it. So, the boxs secrets werent Henkes after all, but belonged to the person who was listed as the principle name on the contract. The person who had owned the bunch of keys before Henke inherited it.
Erland Wilhelm Pettersson.
Their father.
When he was twenty metres away the buss indicator lights began to flash.
He put all he had into it.
The bus pulled away from the stop.
Ten metres left.
Eight.
Five.
The distance stopped shrinking.
Then it began to grow again as the bus picked up speed on the long slope down towards Slussen.
Fuck!
His stomach clenched and he felt the first convulsion and tried to swallow it. Forcing his legs to carry him forward …
The square outline of the back of the bus was getting smaller and smaller.
The second retch almost reached his mouth.
The bus disappeared out of sight.
But he couldnt give up now.
He didnt manage to catch the third convulsion, and had to take a few stumbling steps to avoid throwing up on his trainers.
The bus must have pulled up outside the underground station at Slussen at least a minute ago, which meant that he was going to get there too late. The bus would already have set off for Skeppsbron and on into the city centre.
But hed just have to take a chance.
Hed seen the Erman lookalike at Slussen station last time, so maybe thats where he was going this time as well?
With a bit of luck hed manage to catch up with him before he got inside the ticket hall.
All he needed were a few seconds at close range …
He veered off right, up into Götgatsbacken, then forced his aching legs round the corner of the City Museum.
His stomach was letting him know it was ready for a new salvo, but at that moment Ryssgården opened up in front of him and he stopped abruptly. He coughed up a mouthful of bitter vomit from his throat and spat it out from the side of his mouth. His lungs were burning and his heart was thumping so hard that he couldnt help squinting with pain, but he didnt take his eyes off the square. He was out there somewhere, among the crowd.
Well, he ought to be.
Unless …
He wasnt …
Fuck!
His pulse gradually slowed down, which helped the cramps in his stomach subside.
He took a few steps out into the square. Still no sign. Either Erman was already inside the station, or else he had carried on towards the city centre on the bus.
Just his sodding luck!
The adrenalin kick was starting to fade and all of a sudden he felt almost faint. He leaned his hands on his knees, gathered another gob of saliva and spat it out on the cobbles.
Disgusting! someone hissed off to his right, but he ignored them.
The cobbles beneath his feet seemed to be slowly turning clockwise, as sweat poured down his back, soaking the waist of his trousers and removing the last pale patches on his t-shirt.
He lowered his head a bit closer to his knees to improve the blood flow. He stood like that for a couple of minutes, trying to recover.
When the ground had stopped spinning he straightened up, took a deep breath and turned round.
And that was when he caught sight of him. Inside the glass box of the lift, just nine, ten metres away. White shirt, smart trousers and a pale jacket slung casually over one shoulder.
In spite of the unfamiliar clothing, in spite of the fact that the man was clean-shaven, considerably thinner and seemed perfectly normal, he looked a fuck of a lot like Erman.
Disconcertingly similar, in fact …
He needed to get a bit closer, to make absolutely sure.
HP took a few unsteady steps forward, then a few more, but at that moment the lift began to move downwards. He speeded up, forcing his legs to obey him.
The mans feet disappeared into the ground, then his legs, torso, and, just before his head vanished below street-level, HP looked into the mans eyes.
Fucking hell …
Why on earth did Dad have a secret safe deposit box with false passports, thousands of dollars in cash and a large-bore revolver?
If theyd been in a spy novel the answer would have been obvious, but this was her dad, for Gods sake. A perfectly ordinary Swede with an ordinary job, a flat in Bagarmossen, and a wife and two children.
There were five passports in total spread out on the desk in front of her.
There was the South African one, then one each from Switzerland, Canada, Belgium and Yugoslavia. They all had various foreign entry stamps in them, mostly from the USA, but there were also some from other countries. On the last but one page of the Canadian passport she also found an old black and white photograph that was almost stuck between the pages. It showed some sixty or so young men in uniform, posing around a tank. The letters UN were painted on the turret in large white capitals.
Blue berets, Cyprus 1964, someone had written on the back in old-fashioned handwriting that looked so much like her dads that her heart skipped a beat.
The focus of the photograph wasnt great and a lot of the faces were blurred. But one of the men, squatting in the front row, had a very familiar look to his nose and eyes. Had her dad served with the United Nations? And if he had, why hadnt he ever mentioned it?
She knew hed been in the reserves when he was younger, that was how he and Uncle Tage had got to know each other, and the meetings of the veterans association were one of the few things that used to put him in a good mood. But the fact that he might have served abroad and never mentioned it seemed very odd. Okay, so he hadnt been the talkative type, but at the very least he ought to have had one of those pennants, certificates or some other souvenir, like the things all her colleagues who had served with the UN usually adorned their offices with.
She had been through her childhood home in her head several times now, but couldnt recall ever seeing anything like that. Mums collection of Spanish bullfighter dolls and jubilee plates were pretty much the only ornaments theyd had in the house, and there had been nothing among Dads possessions after his death that gave any clue. Apart from his shirts and suits, a few bits of heavy furniture and his worn out typewriter, his remaining possessions had fitted into a plastic bag.