Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘Mum, I... I can make my own...’

‘Did you walk on your own?’ Jackie asks.

‘I don’t understand,’ Erik says. ‘I thought—’

‘Be quiet,’ she interrupts. ‘Maddy, did Erik not turn up after the match?’

‘It was fine, Mum,’ the little girl says, and starts to cry.

Erik merely sits there with his hands hanging, feeling his headache throb. He suddenly feels sick again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I can’t understand how—’

‘You promised me!’

‘Mum, stop,’ Madeleine cries.

‘Jackie, I’ve had such a ridiculous amount to—’

‘I don’t care!’ she yells. ‘I don’t want to hear!’

‘Stop shouting,’ Madeleine sobs.

Erik kneels down in front of her and looks her in the eye.

‘Maddy, I thought it was tomorrow, I got it wrong.’

‘It’s OK—’

‘Don’t talk to him!’ Jackie snaps.

‘Please, I only want to—’

‘I knew it,’ she says, and her dark glasses flash angrily. ‘Those pills, they weren’t Alvedon, were they?’

‘I’m a doctor,’ Erik tries to explain, standing up. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Fine,’ Jackie mutters, as she pulls Madeleine towards the door.

‘But this time it—’

She walks into a table that had to be moved to make room for the piano. A vase of dried flowers falls and breaks into three large pieces.

‘Mum, you broke—’

‘I don’t care!’ Jackie snaps.

Madeleine looks scared as she follows her mother, crying and hiccoughing.

‘Jackie, wait!’ Erik pleads, trying to follow them. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble with my pills, I don’t how it happened, but—’

‘Do you think I care? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now? Because you take drugs and put my daughter in danger? I can’t trust you now, you must see that, surely. I don’t want you anywhere near her.’

‘I’ll call a taxi,’ Erik says heavily.

‘Mum, it wasn’t his fault. Please, Mum—’

Jackie doesn’t answer, tears are streaming down her cheeks as she leads her daughter outside.

‘I’m sorry, I ruin everything,’ Madeleine sobs.

Where Mäster Samuelsgatan crosses Malmskillnadsgatan, the tall buildings form a canyon that forces the wind to become gusty and hard. Dust and rubbish swirl about restlessly around the little bronze girl whose downturned eyes have been surrounded by prostitutes for more than three decades.

Erik has come with Joona so that he’s close at hand if they manage to find Rocky. He’s sitting in the Mozzarella restaurant and has just ordered a cup of coffee.

He’s already called Jackie and left two messages for her, apologising and then trying to explain that there might be a patient stalking him.

He takes a sip of his coffee, and sees his worried face reflected in the window facing the street. He can’t understand how he’s managed to ruin everything. Being alone after Simone left hadn’t scared him, but then he’d been given another chance, Cupid had crept to the edge of his cloud and fired another arrow his way.

He gets out his phone, looks at the time, then calls Jackie for a third time. When her recorded voice asks him to leave a message, he closes his eyes and speaks:

‘Jackie... I’m so very sorry, I’ve already said that, but people do make mistakes... I’m not going to make any excuses, but I’m here... I’ll wait for you, I’ll practise my étude... and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make you start trusting me again.’

As Erik puts his phone down on the table, alongside his cup, Joona stops next to two women standing against a blank concrete wall. Leaning on his stick, he tries to strike up a conversation with them, but when they realise he isn’t a customer they turn their back on him and begin talking to each other in low voices.

‘Do you know somewhere called the Zone?’ he asks. ‘I’ll pay well if you can tell me where it is.’

They start to walk off and Joona limps after them, trying to explain that the Zone might be called something else officially.

He stops and turns to walk in the opposite direction. Further ahead, close to the Kungsgatan towers, a thin woman gets into a white van.

Joona passes some scaffolding, and sees a pile of discarded latex gloves and condoms beside the wall.

A woman in her forties is sitting in the next doorway. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail and she’s wrapped in a thick jacket. She’s wearing a pair of stained red shorts, and her legs are bare and covered in scabs.

‘Excuse me,’ Joona says.

‘I’m going,’ the woman slurs.

She stands up with the manner of someone who is used to being moved on, her coat falls open, revealing her cropped T-shirt, and she looks up.

‘Liza?’ Joona says.

Her eyes are watery, and her face is wrinkled and tired.

‘They told me you were dead,’ she says.

‘I came back.’

‘You came back.’ She laughs hoarsely. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

She rubs her eyes hard, smearing her make-up.

‘Your son?’ Joona says, leaning on his stick. ‘He was with a foster-family, you were going to start seeing him again.’

‘Are you disappointed in me?’ she asks, turning her face away.

‘I just thought you’d packed this in,’ he replies.

‘So did I, but what the hell...’

She takes a few unsteady steps, then stops and leans on an overflowing rubbish bin.

‘Can I get you a coffee and a cheese roll?’ Joona asks.

Liza shakes her head.

‘You have to eat, don’t you?’

She looks up and blows some strands of hair from her face.

‘Just tell me what you want to know.’

‘Do you know a place called the Zone? It sounds like a lot of girls work there, it’s pretty Russian, it’s existed for ten years or so, and you can get hold of heroin fairly easily there...’

‘There used to be a place out in Barkarby — what the fuck was it called?’

‘Club Noir... that’s gone now.’

A flock of sparrows takes off from the trees.

‘There’s the massage parlour out in Solna, but...’

‘That’s too small,’ Joona says.

‘Try the Internet,’ she suggests.

‘Thanks, I’ll do that,’ he says, and starts to walk off.

‘Most men are OK,’ she mutters.

Joona stops and looks at her again. She’s standing unsteadily with her hands on the rubbish bin, licking her lips.

‘Do you know where Peter Dahlin hangs out these days?’ he asks.

‘In hell, I hope.’

‘I know... but if he hasn’t got there yet?’

She bends over and starts scratching her leg.

‘I heard he’d moved back into his mum’s flat in the Fältöversten building, over at Karlaplan,’ she says quietly, and stares at her nails.

Erik pulls up in the car park beneath the shopping centre at Fältöversten, and as they walk towards the lifts Joona explains that he’s not allowed to be there.

‘I’ve got a restraining order,’ he says, and his smile makes Erik shiver.

On the sixth floor they walk along a dull corridor with names on letterboxes, dusty doormats, prams and trainers.

Joona rings on a door bearing an ornate brass sign with the name Dahlin on it.

After a while a woman in her twenties opens the door. There’s a frightened look in her eyes, she’s got bad skin and her hair is in old-fashioned rollers.

‘Is Peter watching television?’ Joona asks, walking in.

Erik follows him and closes the door. He looks around the drab hall with floral embroidery on the walls, as well as colour photographs of an old woman with two cats in her lap.

Joona pushes the glass door open with his stick, walks straight into the living room and stops in front of an older man sitting on a brown leather sofa with two tabby cats. He’s wearing thick glasses, a white shirt and red tie, and his wavy hair has been combed over a bald patch in the middle of his head.