Ларс Кеплер: The Rabbit Hunter

‘She said you wouldn’t listen to any offer from the Security Police... That’s why I decided to come in person.’

‘I’d be more inclined to consider the job if I didn’t think you were withholding vital information from me.’

‘What is there to conceal? The Security Police think you can help them identify Salim Ratjen’s contact on the outside.’

‘I’m sorry you wasted your time,’ Joona says, then gets to his feet and starts walking towards the door.

‘I can get you pardoned,’ the Prime Minister says to his back.

‘That would require government approval,’ Joona says, turning around.

‘I’m the Prime Minister.’

‘As long as I feel I’m not being given all available information, I’m going to have to say no,’ Joona repeats.

‘How can you claim to be unaware of what you don’t know?’ the Prime Minister asks, obviously irritated.

‘I know you’re sitting here even though you should be in Brussels for a meeting of the European Council,’ Joona says. ‘I know that you gave up smoking eight years ago, but now you’ve suffered a relapse, judging by the smell on your clothes and the mud on your shoes.’

‘Mud on my shoes?’

‘You’re a considerate man, and because your driver doesn’t smoke you got out of the car to have a cigarette.’

‘But...’

‘I’ve noticed you checked your phone eleven times, but you haven’t answered any messages, so I know there’s something missing, because there was nothing in that report I read that indicates there’s any real urgency.’

For the first time, the Prime Minister looks lost for words. He rubs his chin and seems to be thinking hard.

‘We believe we’re dealing with a number of planned murders,’ he says eventually.

‘A number?’ Joona repeats.

‘The Security Police removed that from the report, but there seem to be three murders planned, at least to start, and the next one is believed to be planned for Wednesday. That’s why it’s urgent.’

‘Who are the likely targets for these attacks?’

‘We don’t know for sure, but the information we do have suggests precise and well-planned executions.’

‘Politicians?’

‘Probably.’

‘And you think one of them might be you?’ Joona asks.

‘It could be anyone,’ the Prime Minister replies quickly. ‘But I’ve been led to believe that you’re our best option, and I’m hoping you’ll accept the job. And if you do actually manage to discover information that helps stop these terrorists, I’ll see to it that you get your old life back.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Joona replies.

‘Listen, you have to do this,’ the Prime Minister says. Joona can tell that he’s really scared.

‘If you can get the Security Police to cooperate fully with me, then I promise to identify the people responsible.’

‘And you understand that it has to happen before Wednesday...? That’s when they kill their next target,’ the Prime Minister says.

The Rabbit Hunter is walking restlessly around the large shipping container in the crooked glare of the fluorescent ceiling light.

He stops in front of a few open crates and a large petrol can. He presses his fingers to his left temple and tries to calm his breathing.

He looks at his phone.

No messages.

As he walks back to his equipment he steps on a laminated map of Djursholm lying on the floor.

He’s put his pistols, knives and rifles in a pile on a battered desk. Some of the weapons are dirty and worn, while others are still in their original packaging.

There’s a pile of rusty tools and old mason jars full of springs and firing pins, extra cartridges, rolls of black bin bags, duct-tape, bags of zip ties, axes and a broad-bladed Emerson knife, its tip honed as sharp as an arrowhead.

He’s stacked boxes containing different types of ammunition against the wall. On top of three of them are photographs of three people.

A lot of the boxes are still closed, but the lid has been torn off one box of 5.56x45mm ammunition, and there are bloody fingerprints on another.

The Rabbit Hunter puts a box of 9mm pistol bullets in a crumpled plastic bag. He examines a short-handled axe and adds it to the bag, then drops the whole thing on the floor with a loud clang.

He reaches out his hand and picks up one of the small photographs. He moves it to the edge of one of the container’s metal ribs, but it falls off.

He puts it back carefully and looks at the face with a smile: the cheery set of the mouth, the unruly hair. He leans forward and looks into the man’s eyes, and decides that he’s going to cut his legs off and watch him crawl like a snail through his own blood.

And he’ll watch the man’s son’s desperate attempts to tie tourniquets around his father’s legs in an effort to save his life, and maybe he’ll let him stem the flow of blood before going over and slicing his stomach open.

The photograph falls again and sails down amongst the weapons.

He lets out a roar and overturns the entire desk, sending pistols, knives and ammunition clattering across the floor.

The glass jars shatter in a cascade of splinters and spare parts.

The Rabbit Hunter leans against the wall, gasping for breath. He remembers the old industrial area that used to be between the highway and the sewage plant. The printing works and warehouses had burned down, and beneath the foundations of an old cottage was a vast rabbit warren.

The first time he checked the trap, there were ten small rabbits in the snares, all exhausted but still alive when he skinned them.

He regains control of himself. He’s calm and focused again. He knows he can’t give in to his rage, can’t show its hideous face, not even when he’s alone.

It’s time to go.

He licks his lips, then picks a knife up off the floor, along with two pistols, a Springfield Operator and a grimy Glock 19. He adds another carton of ammunition and four extra magazines to the plastic bag.

The Rabbit Hunter goes out into the cool night air. He closes the door of the container, pulls the bar across it and fastens the padlock, then walks to the car through the tall weeds. When he opens the boot a cloud of flies emerges. He tosses the bag of weapons in beside the bin-bag of rotting flesh, closes the boot and turns towards the forest.

He looks at the tall trees, conjures up the face in the photograph, and tries to force the rhyme out of his head.

In the Salvation Army’s offices at 69 Östermalms Street, a private lunch meeting is underway. Twelve people have made one long table out of three smaller ones, and are now sitting so close that they can see the tiredness and sadness in each other’s faces. The daylight shines in on the pale wooden furniture and the tapestry of the apostles fishing.

At one end sits Rex Müller, in his tailored jacket and black leather trousers. He’s fifty-two years old, still good-looking despite his frown and the swollen bags under his eyes.

Everyone looks at him as he puts his coffee cup back down on the saucer and runs a hand through his hair.

‘My name is Rex, and I usually don’t say anything, I just sit and listen,’ he begins, then gives an awkward little smile. ‘I don’t really know what you want me to say.’

‘Tell us why you’re here,’ says a woman with sad wrinkles around her mouth.

‘I’m a pretty good chef,’ he goes on, and clears his throat. ‘And in my line of work you need to know about wine, beer, fortified wine, spirits, liqueurs and so on... I’m not an alcoholic. I maybe drink a little too much. I do stupid things sometimes, even though you shouldn’t believe everything the papers say.’