Lars Kepler - The Sandman

‘What are you thinking?’ Saga asks.

‘That it was raining the first time we had sex,’ he says quietly.

She remembers that afternoon very well. They had been to a matinee at the cinema, and when they emerged onto Medborgarplatsen it was pouring with rain. They ran down Sankt Paulsgatan to his studio, but still got drenched. Stefan has often talked about the unembarrassed way she got undressed and hung her clothes over the radiator, then stood there picking out notes on his piano. He said he knew he shouldn’t stare, but that she lit up the room like a ball of molten glass in a dark hut.

‘Get in the shower,’ Saga says.

‘There isn’t time.’

She looks at him with a little frown between her eyebrows.

‘Am I alone?’ she suddenly asks.

He smiles uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Am I alone?’

Stefan holds out a towel and says calmly:

‘Come on, now.’

It’s snowing as they get out of the taxi at the Glenn Miller Café. Saga turns her face towards the sky, shuts her eyes and feels the snow fall on her warm skin.

The cramped premises are already full, but they’re in luck and find a free table. Candles flicker in frosted lanterns and the snow slides wetly down the windows facing Brunnsgatan.

Stefan hangs his coat on the back of a chair and goes over to the bar to order.

Saga’s hair is still wet and she shivers as she takes off her green parka, its back dark with damp. The people nearby keep looking round and she’s worried they’ve taken someone’s seats.

Stefan puts two vodka martinis and a bowl of pistachio nuts on the table. They sit opposite each other and drink a silent toast. Saga is about to say how hungry she is when a thin man in glasses comes over.

‘Jacky,’ Stefan says, surprised.

‘I thought I could smell cat-piss.’ Jacky grins.

‘This is my girl,’ Stefan says.

Jacky glances at Saga but doesn’t bother to say hello, just whispers something to Stefan instead and laughs.

‘No, seriously, you’ve got to play with us,’ he says. ‘Mini’s here as well.’

He points to a thickset man who’s making his way towards the corner where an almost black contrabass and a half-acoustic Gibson guitar stand ready.

Saga can’t hear what they’re saying; they’re talking about some legendary gig, a contract that’s the best so far, and a cleverly put-together quartet. She lets her eyes roam round the bar as she waits. Stefan says something to her as Jacky starts pulling him to his feet.

‘Are you going to play?’ Saga asks.

‘Just one song,’ Stefan calls with a smile.

She waves him off. The noise in the bar subsides as Jacky takes the microphone and introduces his guest. Stefan sits down at the piano.

‘ “April in Paris”,’ he says simply, and starts to play.

Saga watches Stefan half-close his eyes and her skin breaks out in goosebumps as the music takes over and shrinks the room, making the subdued lighting soft and shimmering.

Jacky starts to play gently ornate harmonies, and then the bass joins in.

Saga knows that Stefan loves this, but at the same time she can’t forget the fact that they’d arranged to sit and talk, just for once.

She’s been looking forward to this all week.

Slowly she eats the pistachio nuts, gathering a heap of empty shells and waiting.

A peculiar angst at his walking away from her like that makes her feel suddenly chill; she has no idea where the feeling has come from. She knows that she’s being irrational, and keeps telling herself not to be childish.

When her drink is finished she moves on to Stefan’s. It’s no longer cold, but she drinks it anyway.

She looks over at the door just as a red-cheeked man takes a picture of her with his phone. She’s tired, and is considering going home to sleep, but she’d really like to talk to Stefan first.

Saga has lost track of how many numbers they’ve played. John Scofield, Mike Stern, Charles Mingus, Dave Holland, Lars Gullin, and a long version of a song she doesn’t know the name of, from that record with Bill Evans and Monica Zetterlund.

Saga looks at the heap of pale nutshells, the toothpicks in the martini glasses and the empty chair opposite her. She goes over to the bar and gets a bottle of Grolsch, and when she’s finished it she heads to the bathroom.

Some women are adjusting their make-up in front of the mirror, the toilets are all occupied and she has to queue for a while. When one of the cubicles is finally free she goes in, locks the door, sits down and just stares at the white door.

An old memory makes her feel suddenly impotent. She remembers her mother lying in bed, her face marked by sickness, staring at the white door. Saga was only seven years old and was trying to comfort her, trying to say everything would soon be all right, but her mum didn’t want to hold her hand.

‘Stop it,’ Saga whispers to herself as she sits on the toilet, but the memory won’t let go.

Her mum got worse and Saga had to find her medication, help her take her tablets and hold the glass of water.

Saga sat on the floor beside her mother’s bed looking up at her, fetching a blanket when she was cold, trying to call her dad each time her mum asked her to.

When her mum finally fell asleep Saga can remember switching off the little lamp, curling up on top of the bed and wrapping her mother’s arms round her.

She doesn’t usually think of it. She usually manages to keep her distance from the memory, but this time it was just there, and her heart is beating hard in her chest as she leaves the toilet.

Their table is still empty, the empty glasses are still there, and Stefan is still playing. He’s maintaining eye contact with Jacky, and they’re responding playfully to each other’s improvisations.

Maybe it’s the drink or her memories affecting her judgment. She forces her way through to the musicians. Stefan is in the middle of a long, meandering improvisation when she puts a hand on his shoulder.

He starts, looks at her, then shakes his head irritably. She grabs his arm and tries to get him to stop playing.

‘Come, now,’ she says.

‘Get your girl under control,’ Jacky hisses.

‘I’m playing,’ Stefan says through gritted teeth.

‘But the two of us... We’d agreed...’ she tries, feeling to her own surprise that tears are rising to her eyes.

‘Get lost,’ she hears Jacky snarl at her.

‘Can’t we go home soon?’ she asks, patting the back of Stefan’s neck.

‘For God’s sake,’ he whispers sharply.

Saga backs away and manages to knock over a glass of beer on top of one of the amplifiers, and it falls to the floor and shatters.

Beers splashes up onto Stefan’s clothes.

She stands still, but his eyes are focused solely on the keys of the piano, and the hands racing across them as sweat runs down his cheeks.

She waits a moment, then returns to their table. Some men have sat down in their chairs. Her green parka is lying on the floor. She picks it up with trembling hands, and hurries out into the heavy snow.

Saga Bauer spends the whole of the following morning in one of the Security Police’s generously proportioned meeting rooms with four other agents, three analysts and two people from admin. Most of them have laptops or tablets in front of them, and a grey screen is currently showing a diagram illustrating the extent of non-wireless communication traffic across the country’s borders during the past week.

Under discussion are the analytical database of the Signals Intelligence Unit, new search methods and the apparently rapid radicalisation of thirty or so Islamists who are in favour of violence.