Lars Kepler - Hunter

‘Seriously, though,’ Jeanette says, drumming the steering wheel lightly with one hand. ‘Who cares about principles? This is your life, the only one you’ve got, and you’re not seeing anyone else.’

‘Is that your advice as a psychologist?’ Saga smiles.

‘I really believe that,’ she replies, looking at Saga.

It’s late evening by the time they reach Nyköpingsbro, an all-night restaurant situated on a bridge over the highway.

Jeanette drives around the car park until they find Tamara’s old Saab. They block it in with the BMW, then go into the restaurant.

The restaurant is almost empty. Saga and Jeanette walk around the tables anyway, but there’s no sign of Tamara. They pass a deserted ballpit trapped behind a smeared glass screen, next to a green sign with tourist information.

‘OK, let’s go outside,’ Jeanette says in a low voice.

It’s dark in the car park. The air is cold and Saga zips up her leather jacket as they walk past the tables and benches. A few magpies are scrambling around on top of the overflowing dustbins.

Saga and Jeanette walk towards the lorry park as a blue articulated lorry pulls up in front of them. The vehicle’s weight makes the ground shake. It turns and parks wheezily beside the furthest lorry.

There are nineteen lorries parked on this side of the bridge. Beyond them the murky darkness of the forest takes over. The roar of the highway comes in waves, like exhausted surf on a beach.

It’s dark and strangely warm between the vehicles. The smell of diesel mixes with urine and cigarette smoke. The hot metal clicks. Dirty water drips from a mud flap.

Someone tosses a bag of rubbish under a trailer and clambers back up into the cab.

Cigarettes glow in various places in the darkness.

Saga and Jeanette walk around the huge vehicles. The tarmac is covered with oil-stains, empty chewing-tobacco tubs, Burger King wrappers, cigarette butts, and a tatty porn magazine.

Saga crouches down and looks under one of the trailers. She sees people moving around between the lorries further away. One man is peeing against a tyre. They can hear a muted conversation, and somewhere a dog is barking.

One lorry, smeared with dirt, starts up beside them and idles for a while to get the engine warmed up. Its red tail-lights illuminate a pile of empty bottles at the edge of the forest.

Saga crouches down again to look under the rusty vehicle frame, and sees a woman climb out of one of the cabs. Saga’s gaze follows her thin legs as she totters away on platform boots.

Saga and Jeanette hurry towards the woman in high heels just as the articulated lorry rumbles out from the lorry park. It turns heavily on its axis and passes so close that they have to press up against another lorry to avoid getting crushed.

The huge tyres crunch past.

A hot cloud of exhaust fumes in the air and Jeanette coughs quietly.

Some distance away a man calls out, then wolf-whistles.

They walk around the other lorry and catch sight of the woman in platform boots. She’s standing with her hands cupped around a cigarette, the glow of the lighter reflected on her face. It isn’t Tamara. The woman’s eyes are red-rimmed, and she has deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her mouth.

Her thin hair has been bleached, but the roots are completely grey.

She’s wearing a low-cut top and a suede skirt.

The woman is standing next to a Polish lorry and saying something to the men in the cab. She takes a deep drag on the cigarette and suddenly teeters backwards, almost falling between the cab and trailer. Saga and Jeanette hear the men in the lorry explain in English that they aren’t interested in paying for sex. They’re trying to be polite, saying that all they want to do is call their children to say goodnight, then get some sleep.

The woman waves them aside dismissively and moves on. She’s just knocked on the door of another cab when Saga and Jeanette catch up with her.

‘Excuse me, but do you know where Tamara Jensen is?’ Saga asks.

The woman turns stiffly towards them and brushes her hair from her face.

‘Tamara?’ she repeats hoarsely.

‘I owe her some money,’ Jeanette says.

‘I can give it to her for you,’ the woman says, unable to hold back a smile.

Saga laughs.

‘Is she here?’

The woman points towards the back of the restaurant.

‘I’ll check,’ Saga says.

Jeanette stays by the lorries and watches Saga walk between the big vehicles, a thin silhouette against the light from the restaurant.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she says, turning back towards the prostitute.

‘Listen, I’ve already found salvation,’ the woman replies automatically, tottering once more.

The engine of the lorry beside them roars into life. It wheezes and then slowly starts to move forward, spreading hot diesel fumes. The back tyre rolls straight over a glass bottle. There’s a crash as pieces of glass fly out with considerable force. Jeanette feels her calf sting. She touches her torn tights with her fingers, then looks at them and sees that they’re covered in blood. When she straightens up again the woman has vanished.

Saga walks past the restaurant and around the public toilets and showers. The glow from the yellow petrol station sign is visible through the trees. The rear of the restaurant is littered with rubbish: old milk cartons, strips of toilet paper, and the remains of scattered food.

Tamara is sitting on the ground leaning against the wall, holding a freezer-bag over her nose and mouth.

‘Tamara?’

The woman crumples the bag and slowly lowers it. Her eyes roll backwards and a deep sigh emerges from her lips.

‘My name is Saga Bauer, and I’d like to talk to you about your best friend, Sofia Stefansson.’

Tamara looks at Saga as a string of saliva runs down her chin. Her hair is greasy and her face is grey and shut-off, like someone who’s unconscious.

‘This is my best friend,’ she says, raising the plastic bag.

‘I know you know Sofia.’

Tamara coughs. She almost topples sideways, but puts her hand down to steady herself and inhales deeply from the bag again.

‘Sofia,’ she mumbles, and nods vaguely.

‘Is she an escort?’

‘She thinks she’s better than other people, but she’s just a stupid cow who doesn’t understand anything.’

Her eyes close and her head sinks onto her chest.

‘What is it she doesn’t understand?’

‘The perks of the job,’ she whispers.

‘Have you ever seen her when she’s with clients?’

Tamara sighs and opens her eyes again. She realises that she’s got a tied condom stuck to her wrist, grabs it and throws it on the ground.

‘I’ve got a really weird taste in my mouth,’ she says, looking up at Saga. ‘If you want to get me something to drink, we can talk.’

‘OK.’

Tamara coughs again, struggles to her feet and squints at Saga.

She’s very thin. Her hands and cheeks are covered in tiny scabs, and her lips are cracked and dry. A hair slide that’s lost its ornament is hanging down over her forehead.

There’s very little about her that resembles the smiling woman on the website.

Tamara starts to move, hunched over, her head drooping. When they get inside the restaurant she stands still for a moment, swaying, as if she’s forgotten where she’s going, then walks towards the counter.

‘I want a chocolate milkshake … and French fries with ketchup … and a large Pepsi … and this,’ she says, putting a big bag of car-shaped sweets on the counter.

Jeanette Fleming is walking along close to the trucks in the direction she thinks the prostitute went. Closer to the edge of the forest it’s so dark between the vehicles that she has to hold her hands up to feel her way. The air reeks of diesel, and the lorries are radiating heat like sweating horses. She passes one cab with check-patterned blinds over the windows.