Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

‘So he was aiming with his right eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he had his left eye closed?’

‘He was looking with both.’

‘I see,’ Joona says, thinking about how unusual the technique is.

Joona also fires with both eyes open. It gives him better peripheral vision in delicate situations, but you have to practise diligently to be able to do it correctly.

He continues asking questions about the way the killer moved. He runs her through the way the killer’s shoulders were angled when he shot from a distance, how he moved the pistol to his other hand so he wouldn’t lose his line of fire when he picked the shells up from the floor.

She tells him again how slow everything seemed, the shot to the eye, how the body fell backwards at an angle, with one leg stretched out and the other bent underneath, then how the killer stood over the body and shot him in the other eye.

Leaving his pistol on the table, Joona stands up and gets two glasses from the little kitchen area. He’s thinking about how the Foreign Minister’s killer didn’t have to switch magazines.

But if I was in his shoes I would have done that right after the fourth shot, so I had a full magazine in the pistol when I left, he thinks to himself as he pours the Coke.

They drink, then both put their glasses down carefully on the table. Joona picks up the pistol and waits while Sofia wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘After that last shot... did he replace the magazine in the pistol?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says tiredly.

‘You have to loosen the catch and slide the magazine into your hand, like this,’ Joona says, demonstrating. ‘And then you insert a fresh one.’

The sound makes her shake. She swallows and nods.

‘Yes, that’s what he did,’ she says.

Joona is driving slowly down the bumpy gravel track to Valeria’s nursery, thinking about Sofia’s description of the killer: he shoots with both eyes open, takes his bullets and shells away with him, and inserts a full magazine in his pistol before he leaves the house.

In order to fire a single-action firearm, the hammer has to be cocked manually to feed the bullet into the chamber.

There are a number of different ways of doing that. Swedish police officers place their left hand over the hammer, aim at the floor and pull back, upwards.

But the killer put his thumb and forefinger over the pistol, and instead of pulling back he thrust the pistol forward in order to be able to fire immediately. That isn’t a technique that comes naturally, but once you’ve learned it, it can save you valuable seconds.

Joona remembers once examining some old footage from Interpol, a security camera recording of the murder of Fathi Shaqaqi outside the Diplomat Hotel in Malta.

The attack was carried out by two Mossad agents from a spearhead unit known as Kidon.

The grainy black and white footage shows a man with his face concealed feeding bullets into the chamber in precisely that way. He shoots the victim three times, then gets on a motorcycle driven by another man and rides away.

Everything Sofia described reinforces the idea that the killer received first-class military training.

Throughout the course of the attack the pistol never wavered from head-height, and its barrel was always aimed in front of him.

Joona can see the man in his mind’s eye, how he fires, runs and changes magazine, all without losing his line of fire.

He is reminded of the Polish special forces unit, GROM, or the US Navy Seals. Yet the killer still chose to remain at the scene far longer than necessary.

He isn’t frightened or anxious, he just lets time pass as he observes his victim’s death-throes.

Joona looks at his watch. In three hours he will be conveying Salim Ratjen’s message to his wife.

He parks outside Valeria’s little cottage with its leafy garden and picks up one of the two bouquets from the passenger seat. The branches of large weeping willows touch the ground. The late summer air is warm and humid. There’s no answer when he knocks at the door, but the lights are on, so he goes around the back to look for Valeria.

He finds her in one of the greenhouses. The glass is misted with condensation, but Joona can see her clearly. Her hair is pulled up in a loose knot, and she’s wearing a pair of faded jeans, boots, and a tight red fleece jacket with mud-stains on it. She’s moving several heavy pots containing orange trees. She turns around and sees him.

Those dark eyes, that curly, unruly hair, that slender body.

It’s as if he’s gone back in time.

Valeria was in the same class as him in high school, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was one of the first people he ever told about his dad’s death.

They met at a party, and he walked her to the door. He kissed her with his eyes wide open, and can still remember what he thought: no matter what happened to him in the future, at least he had kissed the most beautiful girl in school.

‘Valeria,’ he says, opening the door to the greenhouse.

She keeps her mouth closed to stop herself from grinning, but her eyes are smiling. He hands her the bouquet of lily-of-the-valley. She wipes her hands on her jeans before taking it.

‘So you got leave to come and apply for an apprenticeship?’ she asks, looking him up and down playfully.

‘Yes, I...’

‘Do you think you’d be able to handle normal life when you get out? Working as a gardener can be pretty tough at times.’

‘I’m strong,’ he replies.

‘Yes, I believe that,’ she smiles.

‘I promise you won’t regret it.’

‘Good,’ she whispers.

They just stand there looking at each other for a while, until Valeria lowers her gaze.

‘Sorry I look like this,’ she says. ‘But I have to load fifteen walnut trees... Micke and Jack are picking the trailer up in an hour.’

‘You look more beautiful than ever,’ Joona says, following her into the greenhouse.

The trees are in big, black plastic pots.

‘Is it OK to lift them by their trunks?’

‘Better to use this,’ she replies, pulling out a yellow trailer.

Joona lifts the first walnut tree onto the trailer and Valeria pulls it backwards through the door and up the path. The bright green foliage trembles as Joona lifts the trees onto the trailer.

‘Nice of the boys to help out,’ Joona says after he’s put the pot down with a heavy thud.

They get more trees and put them on the trailer. The leaves rustle and soil spills onto the grass path.

Valeria clambers up into the trailer and shoves the trees further in so there’ll be room for all of them.

She gets down, blows the hair from her face, brushes her hands, and sits down on the towbar of the trailer.

‘It’s hard to believe they’re grown-ups,’ she says, looking at Joona. ‘I made my mistakes, and the kids grew up without me.’

Valeria’s amber eyes darken and turn serious.

‘What matters is that they’re back now,’ Joona says.

‘But I can’t take that for granted... considering what I put them through while I was locked up in Hinseberg. I let them down so badly.’

‘They should be proud of the person you’ve become,’ Joona says.

‘They’ll never be able to forgive me completely. I mean, you lost your dad at a young age, but he was a hero. That must have meant a lot, maybe not at the time, but later.’

‘Yes, but you came back. You could explain what had happened, the mistakes.’

‘They don’t want to talk about it.’

She lowers her gaze and a line appears between her eyebrows.

‘At least you’re not dead,’ he says.

‘Even though that’s what they told their friends because they were so ashamed.’