Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘Who the hell is this Milan, anyway?’

Milan has steered clear of Police Headquarters for the past six years. The only time Joona has seen him was on a film from a surveillance camera. He was in the background of a shady underworld fight, acting weirdly and then shooting a man in the back.

Milan Plašil works for the drugs squad, usually on long-term surveillance and infiltration jobs, and he has the largest network of informants in the whole of Stockholm.

‘He’s pretty smart,’ Joona replies.

There are rumours that he has a child with a woman in the Bosnian mafia, but no one really knows. Milan has become a grey, shadowy figure. Always living in the liminal world of the infiltrator, and always having a hidden agenda, has made him a stranger to everyone.

‘You might think he’s unarmed, but he’s probably got a Beretta Nano strapped round his ankle,’ Joona says.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because he’d sacrifice us if we posed a risk to his undercover work.’

‘Should I be worried?’ Margot wonders.

‘Milan’s kind of unusual, so it would be best to keep your distance,’ Joona repeats.

He leaves her on the other side of the street and carries on alone past the imposing buildings, to the end of the bridge, then down the steps to the bottom of the first flight, where the addicts usually hang out.

The air is thick with the smell of stale urine, the ground covered with cigarette butts and the remnants of a broken green-glass bottle.

The steel arches of the bridge are covered with spikes to stop pigeons landing there, but the entire concrete foundations are still hidden beneath a thick layer of droppings.

A shadow approaches along the walkway. Joona realises that it’s Milan, leans his stick against the wall and waits for him to climb up to the landing.

Milan Plašil is thirty years old, with shaved hair and dark, canine eyes. He’s thin as a teenager, and dressed in a shiny black tracksuit and expensive trainers.

‘I’ve heard about you, Joona Linna,’ Milan says, glancing down towards the water.

‘I need to find a place called the Zone.’

‘You usually carry a forty-five.’

‘Colt Combat.’

‘She can’t stand up there,’ Milan says, nodding up the steps.

Joona sighs when he realises that Margot has followed him, and turns round to call to her.

‘Margot? Come down!’

She looks over the railing, hesitates, then comes down the steps with her hand on the rail.

‘The Zone,’ Milan repeats.

‘It’s somewhere that’s existed for more than ten years, probably south of Stockholm, but we don’t know for sure...’

‘You can stop there,’ Milan says to Margot when she has almost reached the landing.

‘It’s a place where you can buy serious drugs and sex,’ Joona says.

‘If I say something, I want a kiss on the lips,’ Milan smiles.

‘OK,’ Joona says.

‘Her too, she needs to do it as well.’

‘What?’ Margot asks, peering at them.

‘I want a kiss,’ Milan says, pointing at his lips.

‘No,’ she laughs.

‘Then you have to look at my cock,’ he says seriously, and pulls his trousers and underpants down.

‘Sweet,’ she says without batting an eyelid.

‘Shit, I’m only messing about, yeah? I get it, you’re National Crime, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Armed?’ he asks, pulling his trousers back up.

‘Glock.’

Milan laughs silently and looks down at the walkway. A swarm of tiny insects is hovering in the air by the side of the steps.

‘The only place that’s at all like your description used to be out in Barkarby,’ he says, giving Joona a quick glance. ‘Club Noir, that was its name. But it’s gone now... This is neither the country nor the time for big brothels. The most usual sort these days is a flat with a couple of girls from Eastern Europe, all done on the Internet, loads of links in the chain, no one’s ever guilty of a fucking thing...’

‘But this place did exist?’ Joona says.

‘Before my time. It’s not there any more, it can’t be, no one ever mentions it...’

‘Who do we ask?’

Milan turns towards him. A faint shadow of a moustache makes his lips look even thinner. His small black eyes are set deep, close together.

‘Me,’ he replies. ‘If it’s possible to buy heroin there, I’d know about it... unless it’s a tiny Russian enclave.’

‘So where do people buy heroin?’ Margot asks.

‘If you don’t have any contacts, Sergels torg is still the place to go. Nothing changes... Medborgarplatsen and Rinkeby shopping centre too... A lot’s been getting through lately... from Afghanistan, but it gets repackaged several times along the way. Once again, no one’s ever guilty...’

Milan rubs his nose hard, spits close to Margot’s feet, then repeats that the Zone doesn’t exist.

Erik has had a terrible headache for two days. He’s spent the morning reading Rainer Maria Rilke’s poetry while a morose man tunes the grand piano that’s just been brought in through the terrace doors.

Erik looks up as Joona Linna emerges from the study. He’s changed into a tracksuit and disappeared into the hall when there’s a ring on the door.

‘Erik’s bought a grand piano,’ an excited girl’s voice says.

‘You must be Madeleine,’ Joona says.

Erik puts his book down when he hears their voices, and quickly goes into the toilet and rinses his face. His hands are shaking, and he feels a pang of angst as he looks into his own bloodshot eyes. The three photographs, the smell of plastic in the meeting room, Sandra’s green eyes and Maria Carlsson’s generous smile are chasing through his mind.

When he returns Jackie and Madeleine are already standing in the living room in front of the piano, whispering and giggling. Jackie folds her white stick away and puts her hand on her daughter’s shoulder when he walks in.

‘Are you trying to impress me?’ she asks.

‘It’s really, really lovely,’ Madeleine says.

‘Try it,’ Erik says shakily.

‘Has it been tuned after the move?’ Jackie asks.

‘That was part of the deal,’ he replies.

Madeleine sits down on the stool and starts playing one of Satie’s nocturnes. She moves her fingers softly, and her little body is upright and focused. When she finishes the last note she turns round with a big smile on her face. Erik applauds and can almost feel tears welling up in his eyes.

‘Wonderful... how can you be so good?’

‘It’s going to need to be tuned again fairly soon,’ Jackie says.

‘OK.’

She smiles and runs her fingers over the shiny black of the closed lid. Her hand looks like it’s made out of stone in the reflection in the varnish.

‘But it sounds very nice.’

‘Good,’ Erik says.

Madeleine tugs at his arm.

‘Now I want to hear the robot play,’ she says.

‘No,’ Erik protests.

‘Yes!’ both Madeleine and Jackie laugh.

‘OK, but you’ve set a very high standard,’ Erik mumbles, and sits down.

He puts his fingers on the keys, feels himself shaking and stops himself before he’s even started.

‘I mean, Maddy... I’m so impressed,’ he says.

‘You’re good too,’ she says.

‘Are you this good at football?’

‘No...’

‘I bet you are,’ Erik says warmly. ‘I was thinking of coming early, so I have time to see you score a goal tomorrow.’

The girl’s face stiffens and she looks upset.

‘What?’ Jackie asks.

‘When I pick Maddy up after her match,’ Erik replies.

Jackie’s face goes pale and turns hard.

‘That was yesterday,’ she says in a heavy voice.