Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

It takes just a couple of seconds for him to realise that it’s petrol.

What he thought was a black bag is actually the lawnmower’s petrol tank.

‘Please, wait, I’ve got lots of money... I promise, I can transfer all of it,’ he gasps, coughing from the fumes.

The masked man walks around and tips the last of the petrol over Nils’s chest, then drops the empty container on the ground in front of the wheelchair.

‘God, please... I’ll do anything...’

The man takes out a box of matches and says some incomprehensible words. Nils is hysterical, and he can’t make sense of what the man is saying.

‘Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it...’

He tries to loosen the strap over his thighs, but it’s tangled and is now too tight to take off. His hands jerk as he tugs at it. The man calmly lights a match and tosses it onto his lap.

There’s a rush of air, and a sucking sound, like a parachute opening.

His pyjamas and hair burst into flames.

And through the blue glare he sees the masked man back away from the heat.

The childish nursery rhyme rolls through his head as the storm rages around him. He can’t get any air into his lungs. It’s as if he’s drowning, and then he feels absolute, all-encompassing pain.

He could never have imagined anything so excruciating.

He leans forwards in the foetal position and hears a metallic crackling sound, as if from a great distance, as the wheelchair starts to buckle in the heat.

Nils has time to think that it sounds like the jukebox is searching for a new disc before he loses consciousness.

The inmate from Hall is on his way towards D-block, where the atmosphere is tense.

Through the reinforced glass, the guards can see that for once Joona is eating breakfast at the same table as the leader of the Brotherhood, Reiner Kronlid. The two of them talk for a while, then Joona stands up, takes his coffee and sandwich, and goes to sit at another table.

‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ one of the guards asks.

‘Maybe he’s heard something about the new guy.’

‘Unless it’s about being granted leave?’

‘His application was approved yesterday,’ the third guard nods. ‘First time for him.’

Joona looks over at the three guards who are watching him through the glass, then turns towards Sumo and asks the same question he just asked Reiner.

‘What can I do for you tomorrow?’ he asks.

Sumo has already served eight years for a double murder, and now knows that he killed people over a misunderstanding. His face is a picture of grief these days. He always looks like he’s been crying but is trying to hold it together.

‘Buy a red rose... the best one you can find. Give it to Outi and tell her she’s my rose, and... And say sorry for ruining her life.’

‘Do you want her to come out here?’ Joona asks, looking him in the eye.

Sumo shakes his head, and his gaze slides towards the window. He stares at the grey fence topped with barbed wire, and the monotonous, dirty yellow wall beyond it.

Joona turns to the next man at the table, Luka Bogdani, a short man whose face is locked in a permanent state of derision.

‘How about you?’

Luka leans forward and whispers:

‘I want you to check if my brother’s started to get rid of my money.’

‘What do you want me to ask?’

‘No, fuck it, no questions. Just look at the money, count it. There should be exactly six hundred thousand.’

‘I can’t do that,’ Joona replies. ‘I want to get out of here, and that money’s from a robbery, and if I—’

‘Fucking cop,’ Luka hisses, and sends his coffee cup flying.

Joona walks on around the tables in the dining room. He asks them all what he can do for them when he’s outside. He memorises greetings and errands as he waits for Salim Ratjen to arrive.

Joona told the Prime Minister that he needs thirty-six hours’ leave, starting on Monday, in order to infiltrate Ratjen’s organisation.

‘That won’t leave you long in here to find out what he knows,’ the Prime Minister had warned.

Joona didn’t tell him that the limited amount of time was an advantage.

Before leaving the visitors’ room, Joona had asked how far he was allowed to go in extreme circumstances. The corners of the Prime Minister’s mouth had twitched slightly when he replied:

‘If you can stop the terrorists, you can do pretty much whatever you need to.’

Reiner Kronlid gets up from his table, wipes his mouth nervously, then stares at the hallway and airlock. He stands there stiffly, his neck tense, before licking his lips and sitting back down again. The others at the Brotherhood’s table lean forward as he talks.

Joona sees the light in the hallway behind the reinforced glass dim as a grey shadow appears.

The lock whirrs and two guards hand over Salim Ratjen.

Salim Ratjen’s face is round and intelligent. His thinning hair is combed across his head, and his moustache is streaked with grey.

He is carrying his belongings in a grey, prison-service duffle, and is careful not to look anyone in the eye.

One of the guards takes him first to his cell, then the dining room.

Salim sits down on the empty chair next to Magnus Duva with a bowl and mug.

Joona stands up and goes over to them. Looking at Magnus, he sits down by their table and asks what he can do for him while he’s outside.

‘Go and see my sister and cut her nose off,’ Magnus says.

‘She sends you money every month,’ Joona says.

‘Don’t forget to film it,’ Magnus says.

Salim listens, eyes lowered, as he eats his muesli.

Reiner and two of his men stand talking in front of the window to the control room, blocking the view for the few moments required.

The other two members of the Brotherhood walk across the dining room, their muscled arms hanging stiffly by their sides. One of them has a tattoo of a wolf encircled by barbed wire. The other has a dirty bandage around his hand.

This is the wrong time for a murder, Joona thinks, and turns towards Salim Ratjen.

‘Do you speak Swedish?’ Joona asks.

‘Yes,’ Salim replies without looking up.

The men head off towards the bathrooms.

‘You might have figured out that I have some leave soon, and I’m asking everyone in the block if there’s anything they want me to do for them outside... We don’t know each other, but you’re probably going to be here for a while, so I’ll ask you too.’

‘Thanks, but I’m OK,’ Ratjen says in a low voice.

‘Because I’m an infidel?’

‘Yes.’

The plastic spoon trembles in Salim Ratjen’s freckled hand.

Chairs scrape the floor and the two Malmö guys get up on the other side of the room. Imre with the gold teeth is almost six foot six, and Darko looks like a sixty-year-old miner.

Reiner’s group start complaining noisily that the coffee is weak. They turn towards the window.

‘You can’t fucking fool us!’ one of them yells. ‘Before the Albanians got here there was always enough coffee!’

Behind the glass the two prison guards get ready to go in and calm things down.

The men from the Brotherhood start to head towards Salim. They pull up their hoods and keep their backs to the security cameras.

They’re not armed, they just want to intimidate him.

Joona stays where he is, realising that they’re about to strike. Salim controlled a lot of the drug trade at Hall, and Reiner Kronlid needs to scare or kill him straight away in order to show him who’s in control.

‘You’ll be put in the laundry room to start, but you can choose to study instead,’ Joona says calmly. ‘We’ve got a study group if you’re interested. This year three of the guys got their GCSEs, and—’