Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

The first of the two men shoves Salim, and his chair topples over, taking him with it. His bowl hits the floor, sending its contents flying.

Salim tries to get up, but the second man kicks him in the chest and he stumbles back into the chairs behind him.

His right leg flies out and the sole of his shoe slips on the spilled food.

Joona sits where he is, drinking his coffee.

The guys from Malmö appear and force their way into the scrap. They’re a head taller than everyone else. They push the men from the Brotherhood away, talking in Albanian with smiles on their lips.

The prison guards rush into the dining room to separate the men.

Salim gets to his feet. He tries to look unconcerned, tries to hide his fear as he rubs his bruised elbow and sits back down again.

Joona hands him a paper napkin.

‘Thanks.’

‘You got some milk on your shirt.’

Salim wipes the smear and folds the napkin. Joona feels like the attack was feigned, some sort of diversionary manoeuvre.

He glances over at Reiner, trying to read his reaction, and concludes that a second wave is on its way.

The guards are talking to the two attackers, who are swearing blind that Salim Ratjen provoked them.

The situation has already been defused by the time the rapid response team comes rushing in, batons and pepper spray at the ready.

Joona knows that his only chance of getting close to Salim and his organisation before Wednesday is to exploit the fact that Salim was moved from Hall without warning.

There he had presumably built up a network to protect himself and communicate with the outside world.

He probably knew his plot might be discovered, but he wouldn’t have thought he’d be transferred.

If he has actually been directing the terrorist group from inside the prison, he is now completely cut off.

As an operational leader, he would have to find a new messenger at once, set up a new network of contacts if he is to be in a position to give the go-ahead for the murder on Wednesday.

If the Security Police are right, Salim Ratjen is in a desperate situation.

Joona looks at Salim, who is sitting with his hand around his cup. A pale film has settled on the dark-brown surface of the coffee.

‘I wouldn’t drink that,’ he says.

‘No, you’re right,’ Salim says.

He quickly thanks God for the food and stands up.

Joona tells Salim to give the study group some serious thought.

They all have ten minutes to get ready before they have to go off to the laundry room and the workshops, or to their studies.

When Joona gets back his cell has been ransacked: the bed has been pulled apart, his clothes are all over the floor, and his letters, books and photographs have been stepped on.

He goes in and hangs the photograph of his daughter Lumi back up, pats her cheek and then gets to work cleaning up the mess.

He picks up the letters he’s saved and smooths them out, but stops, Valeria’s first letter in his hand, remembering that he received it at Christmas. They had eaten their Christmas dinner, no alcohol of course, and then Santa Claus showed up.

‘Ho, ho, ho, are there any naughty children here?’ he had asked.

When he sat in his cell that evening and read Valeria’s first letter, it felt like the most wonderful Christmas present:

Dear Joona,

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years. The answer’s simple. I just haven’t dared to get in touch before. I’ve only plucked up the courage now because you’re in prison.

We both know that we chose very different paths in life. Maybe it wasn’t all that much of a surprise that you joined the police, but I never had any idea that I’d end up going in the opposite direction — you know that. I didn’t think I had it in me, but things happen, you pick a path that winds off in front of you, and leads you to a place you never wanted to be.

I’m a different person today, I live a normal life. I’m divorced, with two grown-up sons, and I’ve been working as a gardener for many years now. But I will never forget what it’s like to serve time.

Maybe you’re married. Maybe you have lots of kids who come and visit you all the time, but if you’re feeling lonely I’d like to come and see you.

I know we were very young when we met, and we really only had that last year in high school, but I’ve never stopped thinking about you.

Very best wishes,

Joona folds the letter and puts it with the others. He picks the bedsheets up from the floor and shakes them. He doesn’t dare think about the fact that the Prime Minister’s mission could lead to a pardon.

Being locked up and the feeling of impotence that goes with it would quickly become overwhelming if he started to fantasise about freedom. He’d start dreaming of going to Paris to see Lumi, of seeing Valeria, of visiting Disa’s grave in Hammarby Cemetery, of going up north to where Summa is buried.

He stifles his longing as he makes the bed, stretching the sheets over the mattress, plumping the pillow and putting it back in place.

After studying for three hours, Joona and Marko are let out of the library and start to walk back through the tunnel for lunch.

The security system at Kumla is based on limiting both the range of the inmates’ movement and the opportunities for contact between individuals.

The prisoners are responsible for getting themselves from one place to another, section by section, in order to prevent any trouble spreading between the different wings. Violence still flares up, but tends to die down in the same place it started before it can spread.

They reach the T-junction, where Salim and the guys from Malmö are already waiting for the door to be opened. Imre presses the button again.

Salim looks at the old mural from the 1980s: a pale beach with a young woman in a bikini.

‘While you were busy washing twenty tons of underwear, I got my high-school diploma,’ Marko says with a smile.

Instead of answering, Salim writes ‘Fuck you’ on the woman’s back with a stub of pencil.

After lunch the inmates are allowed an hour’s exercise in the yard. That’s their only time outside, when they can feel the wind on their faces, watch a butterfly float past in the summer, crunch the ice on a puddle in the winter.

When Joona gets out he sees that Salim is alone. He’s standing with his back against the fence.

The yard isn’t particularly large. It’s framed by buildings on two sides, and fences on the others. Further back is the tall wall, and beyond that the electric fence.

You can’t even see the treetops over the top of the wall, just the grey sky.

Two prison guards are watching the inmates.

Most of them are smoking; some of them talk in groups. Joona usually spends his time running, but today he walks with Marko, taking care to stay close to Salim, but not too close.

Joona and Marko pass the battered greenhouse. Reiner is standing by the volleyball net facing one of the security cameras. The rest of the Brotherhood are huddled together talking.

Joona knows that there’s a serious risk of trouble, and has already told Marko to get the guards if anything happens.

They pass the thin strip of sunlight reaching over the wall, and their long shadows stretch all the way to Salim Ratjen, who’s still standing with his back to the fence.

Marko stops to light a cigarette. Joona keeps walking, and as he passes Salim he takes a step towards him.

‘Why would you want to do me a favour?’ he asks, looking at Joona with sombre, golden-brown eyes.

‘Because then you’ll owe me when I get back,’ Joona replies matter-of-factly.