Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

Joona looks at the grains of grit on the windowsill.

Ten little rabbits.

The police are dealing with a killer harbouring a sort of rage that in certain circumstances makes him crack and start killing the people he holds responsible.

He’s either selecting his victims very precisely, or is targeting a specific group, killing as many members of it as possible.

What initially tends to look coincidental usually turns out to be the exact opposite.

Joona looks at the grains of grit in the window, then walks impatiently across the floor, over to the door, then back to the window, eight paces in total.

If this killer is picking his targets carefully, and if he fits the definition of a spree killer, then there’s still something that doesn’t make sense, he thinks.

There’s a gap in the logic.

Without doubt, they’re dealing with an intelligent murderer: he cut a hole in the glass door of the Foreign Minister’s home to evade the alarms, he knew where the cameras were, and left no evidence behind.

And the countdown in the rabbit rhyme suggests that he’s already decided who’s going to die.

He’s planned ten murders — and starts with the Foreign Minister.

Why does he do that?

That’s where the problem is.

It doesn’t make sense.

The killer must have realised that the police would devote a huge amount of resources to their hunt for him. He must have realised that his plan would become a great deal harder to carry out if he started with that murder.

The spree killer starts with the Foreign Minister, Joona thinks. And plans to move on to a high-school teacher in Skövde.

The Foreign Minister and the teacher, he thinks.

Very carefully, Joona touches the first two grains of grit, then puts his finger on the third, and suddenly knows the answer to the riddle.

‘The funeral,’ he whispers, then walks over to the door and bangs on it.

That’s why he killed the Foreign Minister first. His funeral is a trap. One of the people on the killer’s list is an even harder target than William Fock.

The murderer knows that it will take a funeral of this calibre to lure his next target into the open.

‘Hello! Come here!’ Joona calls, knocking on the steel door. ‘Hello!’

The spyhole goes dark and Joona moves away. The rectangular hatch opens and he sees the bearded guard’s face through the thick glass.

‘What’s going on?’ the guard asks.

‘I need to make a phone call,’ Joona says.

‘This is the isolation unit, and that means—’

‘I know,’ Joona interrupts. ‘But I don’t want to be here, I want to get back to D-wing, I haven’t asked to be isolated.’

‘No, but the management committee thought you needed protection.’

‘Protection? What happened?’

‘This is none of my business,’ the man says, lowering his voice. ‘But Marko’s dead... I’m sorry. I understand that you were friends.’

‘How could he...?’

Joona falls silent, thinking of how Marko said he’d take the blame for the fight in the yard so that Joona wouldn’t lose his leave. The last Joona saw of his Finnish friend was when the guards knocked him out and cuffed his hands.

‘The Brotherhood?’ Joona asks.

‘That’s being investigated.’

Joona takes a step closer, but stops and holds up his hands when he sees the fear in the man’s face.

‘Listen to me, it’s extremely important that I make a phone call right now,’ Joona says, trying to sound composed.

‘Isolated status is reconsidered every ten days.’

‘You know I’m entitled to call my lawyer whenever—’

The guard slams the hatch shut and locks it. Joona goes over to the door and slaps his hand over the spyhole just as it turns dark. He hears a thud on the other side of the door, and realises that the bearded man has stumbled back and hit the wall behind him.

‘More people are going to die!’ Joona shouts, hitting the door. ‘You can’t do this! I need to make that call!’

Joona takes aim and kicks the door so hard that the walls shake. He kicks again, and sees a thin trickle of cement dust fall to the floor from the side holding the hinges.

He picks up the chair with both hands and smashes it against the window as hard as he can. One leg snaps as it hits the bars and clatters onto the desk. He does it again, then lets the chair fall to the floor and sits down on the bunk with his hands over his face.

The evening light slants in through the windows of the orangery, settling in stripes on the kitchen floor.

The strips of potato start to quiver as Rex lowers the cage into the hot olive oil.

DJ is standing by the island prepping the dill.

‘I’m a suspect,’ Rex says as he watches the fries slowly colour.

‘If you were, you’d be lying strapped to a bench with a wet towel over your face,’ DJ jokes.

‘Really, though,’ Rex says. ‘Why else would the Security Police come here if they hadn’t identified me on the security-camera footage?’

‘Because you were the Foreign Minister’s friend.’

‘I think he was murdered.’

‘Then I can give you an alibi,’ DJ smiles, and scrapes the dill into the bowl of shrimp.

‘But... it would be a scandal.’

‘It can’t be,’ DJ says. ‘Even if the recordings were made public... You have no idea what a response we got to your television interview. Everyone loves the idea of you two playing pranks on each other.’

‘I’m so bad at lying,’ Rex mutters, lifting the potatoes from the oil.

‘We’ll go to the funeral tomorrow, and then we’re in the clear,’ DJ says, rinsing the heavy knife.

‘Yes,’ Rex sighs, noticing that DJ has somehow ended up with dill in his blond beard.

‘We’ve got the situation under control. It’s fine. The only thing that bothers me is that damn fight,’ DJ says.

‘I know.’

‘Rex, I’m so sorry I came here. I panicked.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rex says.

‘Surely we’d know if the man had died?’

‘Well, you don’t know for sure that he...’

‘I’ve been through all the news bulletins, everything.’

‘What did he want from you?’

‘I don’t feel like talking about it,’ DJ says, shaking his head.

‘What is it?’

‘No, it’s nothing,’ DJ whispers, and turns away.

‘You need to talk to me,’ Rex says to DJ’s back.

‘I will,’ he replies, and takes several deep breaths. Sammy comes into the kitchen without a shirt on.

‘DJ?’ Rex says.

‘Later,’ he says quietly.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ Sammy asks with a smile.

‘Lots of secrets,’ Rex says with a wink.

Sammy goes over to the French balcony, opens the door slightly and lights a cigarette.

‘Are you still thinking of going to that party out in Nykvarn?’

‘Yes,’ Sammy nods, clicking to make his lighter produce a transparent flame.

‘As long as you’re home in time for the funeral.’

Sammy takes a deep drag, making the cigarette crackle, then exhales the smoke through the gap in the door before looking at Rex.

‘I’d come home tonight but there are no buses after nine o’clock,’ he says.

‘Get a taxi,’ Rex suggests. ‘I’ll pay.’

Sammy inhales deeply again, then scratches his cheek with his thumb.

‘You can’t get a taxi out there in the middle of the night... it’s not exactly Café Opera.’

‘Do you want me to pick you up?’

‘How?’

‘Don’t forget you’ve got the award ceremony tonight,’ DJ says, setting the table.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be staying at Lyra’s tonight?’

‘Yes,’ DJ says.

‘Can I borrow your car, then?’