I found a mobile phone on a train, a shiny silvery thing with a glass touch-screen, and through that I got invited to play a game. An alternative reality game that altered my reality forever. But I broke out, or at least I tried to …
Someone had shopped him, that much was obvious. Sent in the film clip and gave the Security Police his name.
The clip was hardly a new Zapruder film, captured by some tourist who had got more than he had bargained for. The cameraman had focused specifically on him, had known exactly where he was going to be. Which must mean that the film came from the Game.
But the Game had nothing to gain from getting him locked up – on the contrary. Theyd already got their hands on him again and they needed him out in the open if he was to stand any chance of fulfilling the task they were asking of him. Were trying to force on him.
He had actually considered trying to get himself locked up. Come up with some poxy little crime that would land him inside for a few months and quite literally get him out of the Game. But, like so many of his other brilliant ideas, he had chosen to park it for the time being. Prison really wasnt his thing.
Been there, done that …
Fucking lucky that Sandels bloke showed up.
He had called four of the biggest law firms, asking for their most famous lawyers, and each time he got stuck with some snippy little underling who gave him a half-hearted promise that theyd be in touch. Hed decided to make do with some junior lawyer from the B-team and a few nights on a hard bunk.
But suddenly Sandels had popped up like a jack-in-the-box …
Maybe the lawyer had got fed up of life in the country with his family, and was grateful for an excuse to come into the city and see his mistress?
A stroke of luck, anyway. Unless it wasnt …
Either way, he had been severely roughed up, banned from travelling, and the cops had seized his passport.
But at least he was out.
He took a few more deep breaths, then set off towards the tobacconists a few blocks away.
They had let him go far too easily.
They could hold a suspect for seventy-two hours, and in terrorism cases the court usually followed the Security Police line and agreed to remand suspects. Yet Henke had been held for less than thirteen hours. That couldnt only be down to the fact that hed got hold of a famous lawyer.
Stigsson. How long has he been with the Firm? she asked Runeberg when they were sitting in the police canteen.
Why do you ask?
I thought I knew most people in the Security Police, but hes new to me …
Runeberg shuffled slightly, enough for her to notice.
Okay, he isnt new, he was actually my supervisor back in the day. But then he worked abroad for years. UN, OSCE, that sort of thing, but right now were pulling in all available resources. Have you had a letter yet, by the way?
A letter?
Anyone on leave of absence is being asked to return to duty to cover the wedding. Were going to need every trained bodyguard weve got. Were already stretched as it is, with all these rightwing Sweden Democrats needing protection from the voters. How about it? It would only be a couple of weeks …
She shook her head.
Not at the moment, Ludvig, were only just getting things sorted at Sentry. Its a bit of a muddle with all the new staff and the buy-out. Ive got more balls in the air than I care to think about …
It suddenly dawned on her that he had managed to change the subject.
Okay, its more or less like this, he said. New general director and all that. Well, will you promise to think about it? Do you want more coffee, by the way, theyre about to close?
She shook her head and stood up.
I have to get home, Micke will have dinner ready and Im already late.
Okay, he said, pushing his chair back. How have things been going on the home front … ? I mean, after …
Tobbe Lundh? Oh, we got through it. Mickes the forgiving sort.
Good. Runeberg looked away for a few seconds. Well, I have to show you out. New bosses, new routines, you know how it is.
HP emerged from the tobacconists, tore the cellophane from the packet of cigarettes and pulled out a Marlboro.
His hands were still trembling slightly, but that was probably due to his nicotine withdrawal. Well, that was his preferred explanation …
A couple of deep drags on the pavement to calm the worst of the pangs, then he set off towards the underground. Time to go home and inspect the damage. The cops had no doubt turned his flat upside down. Good job he had nothing there that he was worried about.
He opened the door to the underground station then, without deigning to look at the ticket booth, jumped over the barrier as he usually did, and carried on towards the escalator.
On the way down he was passed by a tall, platinum blonde woman roughly the same age as him. Mostly out of habit he watched the movement of her hips for a few seconds before returning to the maelstrom of thoughts in his head.
He had to try to make some sort of sense of whatever the fuck was going on, and who had grassed on him. And, above all, why …
But first he had to get a few hours sleep.
He got to the bottom of the escalator and strolled slowly along the platform towards an empty bench.
The blonde was sitting a short distance away. The music in her massive headphones had to be seriously absorbing, because she was staring ahead of her with a glassy look in her eyes, and didnt even seem to have noticed him.
Never mind, women were the least of his problems right now, and besides, to judge by her black nail varnish, fringe and gloomy clothes, she looked like she was probably a bit emo. Not really his cup of tea …
A faint gust of wind against his legs made him turn his head towards the opening of the tunnel. He got slowly to his feet as the train thundered into the station.
Well, it was still good to see you, Normén, Runeberg said as they approached the reception area. Even if the circumstances could have been rather happier …
He held his card up to a little black reader beside the door. It looked new – the pale outline of the old card-reader was still visible on the wall behind it.
Runeberg pulled at the handle, but the door remained locked. He muttered something and repeated the procedure, with the same result.
Bloody security system, he muttered. Two years of planning, millions of kronor, and the crap still doesnt work properly …
Taking it more slowly, he repeated the procedure for a third time, and suddenly the lock clicked. Over by the reception desk two people appeared to be having a heated discussion with the guards. Runeberg quickly ushered Rebecca past them and off towards the main door.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Runeberg was quicker.
Ill be in touch … He gestured towards the ceiling and it took her a couple of seconds to realize that they were standing right beneath the dark globe of a little camera. Just like the card-reader, it looked very new.
She frowned and for a few seconds they stood opposite each other without speaking. Then she gave him a quick hug and opened the door.
Bye, Ludvig, she said as she left, but for some reason Runeberg didnt answer, just pulled an involuntary grimace. It only lasted a fraction of a second, then his face went back to normal. But for the second time in just a few hours she couldnt shake the feeling that something wasnt right.
The note was on his front door, and he came close to just crumpling it up and throwing it down the stairwell. A little greyish-white scrap of recycled paper, with a tiny bit of tape to hold it up, just like all the ones that had gone before it. Please dont play loud music at night, or We would like to remind you of the housing associations rules about blah blah blah …
A nocturnal Nescafé visit by the anti-terrorism squad had probably made the committee shit themselves. He could easily imagine the discussion downstairs in the communal area. We need to let our feelings be known, Gösta. Use capital letters this time …
In previous years he had always just moved the notes onto the Goats door. Which probably wasnt a very nice thing to do, in the pale light of hindsight. The little hash pixie was already paranoid enough. It still seemed a bit odd that he hadnt said anything about moving out, or knocked on his door to ask for help.
But on the other hand he hadnt exactly been very sociable himself in recent months, and hed long since cut the wires to the doorbell.
Oh well, his new and as yet unknown neighbour might as well have a little welcome message.
He pulled the note off and fixed it to the door of the neighbouring flat. His hands were still shaking slightly, which irritated him more than he was prepared to admit.
There, welcome to Housing Association block number 6, mofo!
He stepped back and was just about to turn away when he realized that the note didnt look the same as usual. Instead of the chairmans old mans handwriting, this note was written in rounded, almost feminine letters.
He peered suspiciously at the message for a few seconds. Admittedly, he could do with a bit of instant salvation, but a subscription to Watchtower was hardly going to help.
At least the cops had had the decency to fix the door, he noted. More or less, at any rate. Two of the locks were completely buggered, but the third seemed to have survived pretty much unscathed.
The crooked frame creaked in complaint as he pushed the door open.
Just as he stepped inside he thought he heard a noise from the neighbours door, and for a few moments he imagined someone was about to come out.