Литагент HarperCollins - MemoRandom

‘I trusted you, David,’ Bergh said. ‘I didn’t ask any questions, I let you run your own race.’ A little drop of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed in front of Sarac. ‘Up to now the results have been fantastic, but now you’ve got to explain what’s going on. The missing list, and your crash. That can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s after you, David. And after your informant.’

Sarac swallowed again, trying in vain to moisten his mouth and lips.

‘Do you remember what job you were working on?’ Bergh hissed. ‘Was it weapons, drugs? What instructions had you given your informant? Who was he targeting? For Christ sake, you must remember something!’

More voices in the corridor, closer this time. Bergh spun around toward the door.

The scrap of paper in Sarac’s hand gradually unfurled. He could see some of the writing. But it wasn’t the nurse’s even handwriting he could see. There was something written on the back of the paper. Jagged capitals that looked as if they had been written with a lot of effort.

EVERYONE IS LYING

DON’T TRUST ANYONE!

Bergh turned back to Sarac, who quickly slid his hand back under the covers. The voices in the corridor were clearly audible now. One of them belonged to Dr Vestman.

‘You have to hand him over, David,’ Bergh hissed in his ear. ‘I can protect him, you – the whole department. But you have to give me Janus!’

The smell of perfume lay heavy in the little entrance hall to the chapel. About fifty people in total, Atif estimated. Considerably more than he had thought at first. A seventy-thirty split between men and women. Almost all of them were younger than he was; a few of them didn’t look like they were even twenty-five. More than half the men had gym-pumped bodies and a swaggering walk. They were also relatively smart and well turned out. There were a couple in tracksuits and a few more in jeans and hoodies, with T-shirts underneath with gang symbols on them. But most of them were, like him, dressed in cheap black suits from Dressman. Diamond earrings, gold necklaces and bracelets – all the predictable gangster accessories. Atif didn’t recognize any of the men, but he still knew exactly who they were. Or rather, who they were trying to be.

Did I used to be like that? Did you, Adnan? Silly question …

They had all shaken his hand, fixing their eyes on him and giving it a good squeeze. To show that they didn’t back down for anything, never showed any cowardice. But at least half of them had had sweaty palms and not even their overwhelming aftershave could hide the smell of fear. The first of them had made the mistake of attempting some sort of ghetto hug. But Atif had been prepared, locked his lower arm, and stopped the man halfway. He had given him a quick look, which the man had been smart enough to pick up. The rest of them figured out the rules, even the women.

It was different with Cassandra; she hugged them all and took her time over it. She let them kiss her on both cheeks and seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention in her role as the grieving widow.

He had exchanged a few words with Cassandra’s parents and some of the older guests. Naturally they had all said nice things about Adnan. How pleasant and considerate he was, how much he loved his family. Atif had listened, knowing full well that they weren’t just the usual funeral clichés. Adnan had been an easy person to like, he always had been. Open, cheerful, funny, loyal. He could think of a whole heap of adjectives.

Atif slid over to the coffee machine in one corner of the hall, put in a ten-kronor coin, and waited as the machine set to work. He tried to force his mind to change track. Soon he would be sitting on the plane.

A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.

‘Atif, my friend.’

With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.

‘Abu Hamsa!’

He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighbourhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money – no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.

‘Envy, boys …’ he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. ‘Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!’

Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suited him, calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single grey hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.

‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,’ he hissed in Arabic. ‘Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.’

‘Thank you, Abu Hamsa,’ Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.

‘How long are you staying, my friend?’

‘I’m going back the day after tomorrow.’

‘Ah, so you’re not looking for work?’ Abu Hamsa smiled.

Atif shook his head, which seemed to make the little man’s smile even wider.

‘Wise decision. Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honour anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.’

Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.

‘You can hardly blame them.’ Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.

‘How so?’

‘You still have a certain … reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.’

‘Like I said, I’m going back first thing next week,’ Atif said, still without looking away from the young men. ‘And whatever a load of snotty kids think about that, well—’ He broke off, realizing that his tone of voice was getting harder. ‘You must forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound unpleasant,’ he said, and looked back at the little man.

‘No problem, my friend. I understand. Not an easy situation, this. Your brother, his little girl. What’s her name again? I’m starting to get old, I was at her naming ceremony and everything …’

‘Tindra,’ Atif said, noting how his voice softened as he said it.

‘Little Tindra, yes, that was it. Losing your father so young, in that way …’ Something in Abu Hamsa’s voice made Atif frown, and the little man noticed. ‘I … I assume you know what happened?’

Atif nodded. ‘Cassandra told me.’

‘And you know the details?’

‘The boys were unlucky,’ Atif said. ‘An unmarked cop car saw them driving away from the security van. Evidently one of them hadn’t taken his balaclava off in time, so the cops followed them and called in backup. The rapid response unit went in just as they were changing cars, and shots were fired. Adnan and Juha were killed, and Tommy was left a vegetable.’