Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

She lowers her eyes and he looks at her pretty face, quivering eyelashes, her mouth and the tip of her chin.

By the time the bottle is finished Rex knows that her name is Edith. She’s more than twenty years younger than him, and she works as a freelance journalist for one of the big news agencies.

She laughs when Rex tells her about his enforced AA meetings, the living dead around the table who can only think about one thing as they confess their sins.

‘Are you supposed to be sitting here?’ she asks seriously.

‘I’m a rebel.’

They’ve finished the second bottle, and Rex has just told her that his grown-up son does all he can to avoid him, and is out every night.

‘Maybe he’s a rebel too,’ she suggests.

‘He’s just being smart,’ Rex replies, picking up her beer-glass.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I need to go home and sleep,’ he mumbles.

‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ Edith says, licking the tiny red-wine stains from the corners of her mouth.

It’s raining hard as he calls for a taxi and stands by the window, looking out into the alleyway.

‘Are you going to stay?’ Rex asks when the taxi appears outside.

‘I’ll take the bus,’ Edith says.

‘Why not come along, if we’re going in the same direction?’

‘I live in Solna, so...’

‘Well, then you’ll practically be home if you come with me,’ he declares.

‘OK, thanks,’ she says, and follows him out.

Inside the taxi some sort of slow cabaret music is playing. Edith sits with her hands in her lap, a little smile on her lips. She is gazing out through the windshield over the taxi driver’s shoulder.

Rex leans back and thinks how pathetic he is, studying his son’s face and tone of voice for signs that Sammy has started to like him.

They’re never going to be close, it’s far too late for that.

The car turns into Luntmakar Street, slows down and comes gently to a halt.

‘Thanks for this evening,’ Rex says, undoing the safety belt. ‘Time for my beauty sleep now.’

‘You promise?’ Edith asks.

‘Absolutely,’ he says, pulling his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘I thought you said you were a rebel,’ she smiles.

‘An old rebel,’ he corrects in a tired voice.

Rex leans forward to use the card reader between the seats. Edith moves slightly to make room for him, but he is still struck by the warm scent of her body.

‘Shall I come up with you and make sure you get to bed OK?’ she asks.

Rex leads Edith through the flat and out to the orangery beside the roof deck. The pale leaves of the olive trees press against the glass roof and the tendrils of the sugar-snap peas have twined around the little marble table.

Edith looks out across the city for a while before sitting down on one of the sheepskin armchairs among all the plants. Rex pours her a glass of red wine, and a large single malt whisky for himself.

He sits down on the other armchair, enjoying the relaxation offered by the alcohol and the knowledge that he can sleep in tomorrow. The Foreign Minister’s funeral isn’t until later in the day, so he can safely allow himself a little more to drink.

‘In this country you end up with a diagnosis the minute you reveal yourself to be the slightest bit human,’ he says, then drinks some whisky. ‘You know... I’m neither anonymous, nor an alcoholic. I only go to those meetings because my boss wants me to.’

‘I promise not to say anything,’ she smiles.

‘What’s your boss like?’ he asks.

‘Åsa Schartau... I’ve worked for her for three years, but she’d fire me in an instant if I ever swore,’ Edith admits.

‘If you swore? Why?’

‘She thinks it sounds coarse. Actually, I don’t really know.’

‘Well, you can swear now,’ he says, refilling his glass.

‘No...’

‘Go on, swear away,’ he teases.

‘OK, she’s a fucking cunt,’ Edith says, then blushes hard. ‘Sorry, that’s unfair.’

‘But it felt good, didn’t it?’ Rex asks.

‘It felt unfair.’

‘Then it probably was,’ he says quietly.

‘I like Åsa. She might not have much of a sense of humour, but she’s extremely professional.’

Thoughts of Sammy are thundering through Rex’s head, and he can no longer hear Edith. He’s staring fixedly across at the rooftops.

‘I should probably go home now,’ Edith says, looking at the time on her phone.

‘Do you have time to taste my chocolate mousse before you go?’ he asks, filling his glass again.

‘That sounds dangerous,’ she laughs.

He wobbles slightly when he stands up and leads her into the large kitchen. He takes the mousse out of the fridge, puts the bowl on the white table and hands her a spoon. She leans forward and he finds himself staring at her low-cut top. The lace on her bra has some of her foundation on it, and her breasts push together as she sinks the spoon into the mousse.

Rex puts his reading glasses on, then plays Corelli’s Concerto Grosso on the speaker system.

He feels giddy as the alcohol courses through his system and the melodic baroque music fills the room. It occurs to him that he’ll have to take a taxi to pick Sammy up from his party.

‘Since you’re a journalist,’ he says. ‘Have you heard anything about an assault out in Axelsberg?’

‘No,’ she replies curiously.

‘Some drunk who got into a fight,’ he says, and realises that he’s saying too much.

‘Why are you wondering about that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know... a friend of mine saw something, but... forget it.’

Rex gets a bottle of Pol Roger from the champagne cooler and sees that it’s the exclusive Winston Churchill blend.

‘I should go,’ Edith mutters.

‘Shall I call a taxi?’

He tries to tuck his glasses in his pocket but misses, and he hears them fall to the floor and break.

‘I can get the bus from Odenplan. It’s not a problem.’

He opens the bottle, tensing as the cork pops, then gets out two glasses for them and starts to pour, waiting for the bubbles to subside before half-filling them. He sees the hesitant look in her eyes.

‘I won tonight,’ he says.

‘Do you want me to stay?’

She strokes his cheek and a tiny frown appears between her pale eyebrows.

‘I have a boyfriend,’ she whispers, taking the glass.

‘I understand.’

They drink and she leans forward to kiss his closed mouth, very softly, then looks at him seriously.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says, refilling their glasses.

He tries to see what the time is, but has trouble focusing on his wristwatch.

‘I like kissing,’ she says quietly.

‘Me too.’

He touches her cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, returns her smile, then leans over and kisses her. She parts her lips and he feels her warm tongue. He caresses her back and buttocks as they kiss. She starts to pull at his belt before they both stop.

‘Just so you know, I don’t track down celebrities in order to sleep with them.’

‘Me neither,’ he smiles.

‘But I like you.’

‘That’s where the similarities between us end — I can’t pretend to be very fond of myself,’ he says, looking away and pouring more champagne.

He drinks as Edith adjusts her clothes, takes her phone out of her bag, dials a number and inserts her earpiece.

‘Hi Morris, it’s me. I know, sorry, but I haven’t been able to call... Yes, well, Åsa doesn’t seem to think I have a life. That’s what I was about to say: I need to be at work early tomorrow, so I’m going to stay over at hers. There’s no point getting mad... I know, but... OK, bye, then. Big kiss.’