Литагент HarperCollins - MemoRandom

‘Can you tell me about your last memory, from the time before the crash, David?’

‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘No problem,’ he added after thinking for a couple of seconds. But it wasn’t true. It didn’t even come close.

The time before the crash … His heart was suddenly galloping in his chest.

A stroke.

Car crash.

The time before …

December 2013.

The time before the crash …

December.

20 … 13!!

Fucking hell!!!

‘It doesn’t matter, David,’ Dr Vestman said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s rewind a bit,’ she went on. ‘That often helps. Try telling me what your name is.’

‘David Georg Sarac,’ he said quickly. The words helped ease his panic slightly.

‘And how old are you, David?’

‘Thirty-five!’ He breathed a short sigh of relief. It worked when he didn’t try to think. If he just let the answers come out automatically.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Birkastan. Rörstrandsgatan, number 26. Third floor.’

‘Family?’

‘Mum and Dad are dead. My twin sister, Elisabeth, lives in Canada.’ He paused.

‘Ontario,’ he added, and suddenly felt much calmer. He wasn’t some fucking vegetable, as he’d begun to suspect. His brain was sluggish, sure, but he wasn’t completely gone. All this would soon be over, and everything would fall back into place.

‘A number of your friends and colleagues have been to see you. A lot of people care about you, David. Could you tell me something about your work?’

‘I’m a police officer,’ he said.

‘What sort of police officer, David?’

‘The Intelligence Unit. I handle informants …’ He suddenly broke off. New feelings were suddenly running through him. It took him a few seconds to identify them. Discomfort, shame. A growing sense of danger.

His headache instantly redoubled its efforts, forcing him to close his eyes. For a few seconds he thought he was going to be sick. The words broke free and bounced around inside his head.

What.

Sort.

Of.

Police.

Officer?

‘And what does that involve?’ the doctor asked. ‘Handling informants, I mean.’ Her voice sounded very distant all of a sudden. What was her name again? Dr …?

You’ve had a stroke, you crashed your car in the Söderleden Tunnel, and you’re in the hospital. Today is Thursday, December 12, and the doctor’s name is … something beginning with V. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, could hardly keep his eyes open.

‘It’s okay, David, there’s no rush. You’ve already made very good progress. Get some rest and we’ll carry on tomorrow.’

He heard the stool scrape as the doctor stood up. He could feel himself slowly slipping into sleep.

‘Secrets,’ he muttered when she was almost at the door. ‘I collect secrets.’

The young man groaned cautiously, but the sound from the cinema screen drowned him out. That the young blonde woman had tied a scarf around his eyes a short while before meant he was missing the film. But to judge by the expression on his face, he didn’t seem to mind.

Natalie Aden, who was sitting in the row in front, turned around and leaned over the back of the seat, zooming in on the man’s face with the camera on her cell phone. She made sure the blindfold was clearly visible and waited until she could get a picture where he didn’t look quite so happy before pressing the button. Satisfied with the result, she silently got up. The blonde looked up from the man’s lap, not that that meant interrupting what she was doing, and Natalie gave her a curt nod. On her way out of the cinema she glanced at the time. Quarter past three in the afternoon, an hour and twenty minutes left of the film. Plenty of time. Hötorget was full of market traders and people aimlessly wandering about. It took her a while to reach the café, where she ordered a latte and settled down at one of the window tables. She got her laptop out of her rucksack, plugged in her cell phone, and transferred the picture she had taken in the cinema. She had written the message in advance, so attaching the image and sending the whole thing off took less than thirty seconds.

An hour and eight minutes left until the film was over, and around about … now, the message ought to have reached its recipient. Her chat status was green, so she was sitting in front of her computer at her pretend job. Her long lunch with her girlfriends would have ended an hour ago, the wine buzz would be fading, and it was still a bit too early to head home. Regardless of the money, Natalie couldn’t understand how anyone could bear to live that sort of fake life.

She opened another tab on her browser and logged into a Western Union account. The balance was showing as zero, but that would soon change. She reached for her latte and leaned back in her chair, wondering about getting something to eat. She knew she shouldn’t. She had already exceeded her ration of points for the week. Maybe time to try the 5:2 diet instead?

Her phone buzzed. A cellular number she didn’t recognize. She inserted her hands-free earpiece.

‘Hello,’ she said in a clipped tone of voice.

‘Hi, Natalie!’

The man on the other end of the line sounded amused, as if she had already said something funny. Telesales manual, page one, heading ‘customer contact.’ She was about to hang up.

‘How did you catch him? Facebook? Instagram? Some other social network for the young and rich?’ the man said.

‘What?’ Natalie was taken aback.

‘Hans Wilhelm Sverre Wettergren-Dufwa, or Wippe to his family and friends.’

Her brain locked for a couple of seconds, then her pulse started to race.

‘Side parting, Canada Goose jacket, Burberry scarf, final year at Östra Real high school,’ the man on the phone went on. ‘Registered as living at the family’s simple four-room pied-à-terre at Karlaplan. Daddy good for a few hundred million. And right now, little Wippe’s got his cock in your friend Elita Brogren’s mouth, over at Filmstaden.’

Natalie leaped up from her chair and closed her laptop. She had to warn Elita, tell her to get out of there at once.

‘How much were you hoping to take Wippe’s mum for?’ the man said in her ear. ‘Two hundred, two hundred and fifty thousand? Or have you raised the rate?’

Natalie grabbed her jacket and felt along the hands-free cord for the disconnect button.

‘Sit down, Natalie!’ The voice in her ear was suddenly very stern.

She stopped and looked around quickly. The man was watching her from somewhere nearby. Maybe he was even inside the café. A cop, a private detective, maybe even a victim out for revenge? Whoever the man was, he liked playing games. Her heart was pumping like mad in her chest. She glanced at the exit.

‘Please, sit down, Natalie,’ the man said, somewhat more gently. ‘If I’d wanted to harm you, I’d hardly call to warn you in advance. All you have to do is listen.’

Natalie hesitated. The most rational thing she could do was get out of there. But there was something in the man’s voice that told her she wouldn’t get very far. She pulled her chair out and sat down.

‘Good,’ the man went on. ‘The fact is, we’re impressed by you, Natalie. This whole idea is brilliant. You track down rich people’s children through social media, and use a fake profile to insinuate yourself into their network. Then you can just take your pick. You google the parents and have a word with your little admirer in the Tax Office until you find a suitable victim.’

The amused tone was back in the man’s voice again. Natalie looked around cautiously, trying to figure out where he might be. And what the whole of this little game was about.