The Man Who Watched Women (40 page)

After that she had packed enough clothes for a week. She had rung Valdemar and asked him to come straight home. She didn't want to be alone. She had told him that her mother wasn't feeling too good, and that she was thinking of going to stay with her for a while. He suggested going with her, but she talked him out of it. This was her mother, and it was ages since they had spent time together. It was nothing serious. In fact, it was more or less a reason to get away from work, go and see her for a while … He swallowed the lie without even noticing it.

Probably because she was a good liar. Really good. She wondered when that had happened. She used to think that honesty was so important.

But that was when the truth didn't hurt.

So many times she had wanted to tell Vanja the truth.

So many times she had been on the point of doing so.

But the lie which had started out as a convenient, protective device had been fed by thousands of tiny white lies, until it had become the reality.

From the start, Valdemar had wanted to tell Vanja the truth once she was old enough to understand, but Anna had kept putting it off. She had constantly postponed the revelation, weeks, months, years, until the weight of the truth was so great that it would crush everything. Until it was quite simply too late.

‘You're the only father Vanja needs,' she had eventually told her husband, and they had left it at that. They had grown so close, Vanja and Valdemar. Was it because he had made that extra effort? Was it so no one could ever question his commitment, his love? Whatever it was, it had worked. Vanja loved Valdemar more than she loved Anna. More than she loved anyone.

They complemented each other so beautifully. Over time Valdemar had given up protesting, and he had become complicit. Because he loved Vanja like his own daughter.

But one day a few months ago he had appeared at her door. Sebastian Bergman.

With some letters from a time long gone.

She had said no and closed the door. Hoped he would just disappear.

That hadn't happened.

He had been working with Vanja in Västerås, Anna discovered. And now he was working with her again.

Vanja disliked him intensely. That was the only positive point, and the only thing that was still protecting the truth. Everything else was sheer chaos. Anna had a secret within the secret. She was the only one who knew that Sebastian was Vanja's father. She had always kept that information from Valdemar.

Tried to protect him.

Or perhaps she hadn't trusted him.

He wasn't like her. He had more of a problem with liars. So the only time he had asked who the father was, she had said that it was irrelevant. That she had no intention of ever telling anyone, and if that was a problem for him, for them, he should put an end to their relationship there and then.

He had stayed. Never asked again.

He was a good man.

Better than she deserved.

Now she might be in mortal danger, and still she had to lie. Perhaps it served her right. Perhaps that was how it would end.

The telephone rang. The sound made Anna jump. Another cold call, trying to sell a broadband package this time. She quickly said no and put the phone down. She thought she recognised the voice. From yesterday. The man who had called so late, wanting to talk about pensions. She stopped dead. Did she really recognise the voice? She went cold all over, grabbed the receiver again and looked at the caller display to see if it gave a number for the person who had called.

Withheld.

Both just now and last night.

Did it mean anything? No doubt she was just being paranoid. But she couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something about the voice. It had sounded the same both times: quite old, weary, slightly hoarse, not at all the way cold callers usually sounded. They normally had young, positive voices, keen to offer something. Not this one. He wanted something else. He gave up too easily. As if the fact that she had answered was enough for him. As if he were satisfied with the knowledge that she was at home.

Anxiously she went over to the window and looked down at the street. Saw nothing. But what would she be looking for? She went to the front door and locked the seven-lever mortice deadlock. Left the key in the door.

Decided to finish packing and call a cab.

She might as well go to the station right away.

Ralph had spent the last ten minutes trying to find a parking place. He drove past Storskärsgatan via De Geersgatan a couple of times on his quest. The first was a dead end and the second was a one-way street, so he had to drive around in a big circle via Värtavägen in order to get back. He hated the fact that he was so obviously driving round and round. The same silver car driving past over and over again could attract the attention of some nosy neighbour. And yet there was no alternative. He needed the car. Preferably parked as close as possible. It made him feel less exposed. It meant there was less time during which he could be identified. That was the advantage of residential areas; parking wasn't a problem. In general this new target seemed much more troublesome than the first three. He had had less time for observation. He had been able to log their activities over a period of several days, but the limited results available on this occasion suggested that the safest time was in the mornings between seven thirty and eight thirty, after her husband had left and before she travelled two stops by bus or walked to the care home where she worked.

At the same time, he was more courageous now. Better. Stronger. Before the first one he had been overcome by nerves several times, and had aborted his mission because of small disturbances: a neighbour's window was open, a cyclist passed by just as he was getting out of the car, a child started crying somewhere. A couple of times he had simply lost his nerve altogether and gone home.

But by the time he got to number three things were getting easier, and with the last one, the Willén woman, he had begun to improvise, to be braver. All within the prescribed framework, of course, but he had allowed the situation to take its course, trusted his instincts. It had been a liberating feeling, which made him feel even more strongly that he was up to the task. He was an experienced man now. A man with power. On a mission that few people would accomplish as well as him. If anyone.

Many of the separate elements were actually more challenging than he could have imagined when they were no more than advanced fantasies. The first time he had cut through the throat he had felt sick. The sound of the skin as it was torn apart was strange and unexpectedly fleshy, and the blood that spurted out was so hot and sticky that he panicked for a moment. But he had started to get used to it. Developed his abilities. The last time he had actually dared to look her in the eye as her life drained away. A potent feeling. If there was a God, which he very much doubted, that was probably how he regarded us. A being free of those surging emotions that clouded the judgement. It would be like observing the death throes of an ant. Interesting. But no more than that. It was just a person; the ritual and the task were more important than all of humanity.

The aspect that still caused him the greatest problem was the sexual element. He knew he needed to do it. Had to do it. It was part of the ritual. But he didn't enjoy it. To tell the truth, he could only just manage it. It was demanding and repulsive. He found it difficult to maintain his erection. Too many noises, too difficult to push his way in. He didn't even like women. They were too curvy, with their flabby breasts and bottoms and their smells.

Around him.

On him.

Inside him.

That part took all of his concentration. He didn't like being close to anyone. Not in that way. Not at all. But he couldn't miss it out. That would be cheating. A defeat. Failing to follow in the footsteps of the Master.

He turned into De Geersgatan for the third time, but still couldn't find anywhere to park. He was starting to get worried about the time. He should already be inside the apartment, well under way. He had been to one of the DIY superstores on the outskirts of the city, one of those that opened at six o'clock in the morning, and had bought a pair of white overalls. He needed an excuse to get into her apartment, and turning up as a painter who was going to do the stairwell seemed like a good idea. He had also bought a few cheap tins of paint and a cap which he could pull right down over his face. It should work.

Trolle had noticed him the second time he drove past. The same car, the one he had seen before. Japanese, silver. The driver wearing sunglasses and a cap. Seemed to be looking for a parking space. Close to Storskärsgatan. Trolle put down the bottle of water and his hand instinctively went to his pocket. The Taser was there. He took it out. The black plastic was warm, and it felt comfortable in his hand. His pulse rate increased, and he tried to think through his options. Calling the police was one of them. He had never had any problems with Torkel. On the contrary; throughout his decline and fall, Torkel had never judged him. He hadn't agreed with everything Trolle had done, but that was hardly surprising. Some things had been completely crazy. But even so, Trolle had always felt supported by his colleague. They didn't see each other anymore, but that was hardly Torkel's fault. It was Trolle who had withdrawn, but somewhere deep down he had convinced himself that they still respected one another.

However, a call to Torkel would put Sebastian in a precarious position.

Why was the man picked up outside the apartment block where Vanja's mother lived?

And what was Trolle doing there?

He really didn't want to do Sebastian any harm. Not now that he knew how alike they were. It was almost as if he could atone for his own mistakes if he sorted this out.

But however he looked at things, Sebastian's secret would be in danger. He had to intervene. Simply chasing the man would mean that he would get away, and other women would be at risk. Trolle had to act. Take him out. Then work out a plan.

It was up to him.

And only him.

It felt really good. Better than for a long, long time.

The car drove past for a third time, and Trolle made up his mind. He was holding all the trump cards. The man in the silver car didn't know about him. He had the element of surprise on his side. He started the car and slowly pulled away a couple of minutes later. Parked illegally on a crossing a few metres further down, on De Geersgatan.

Got out of the car and walked back.

Now there was a parking space available for someone who was looking.

He was convinced the man in the Toyota would take it.

Ralph spotted the space when he was still on Värtavägen. It was perfect. Only thirty metres from the entrance to her building. But if he was unlucky somebody else would grab it, so he put his foot down and shot through the traffic lights on Valhallavägen just as they turned red. A quick right turn, then right again. He slowed down; he didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. The space was still there. He parked carefully. Looked around. Everything was quiet and peaceful. He was annoyed at being late; it was almost eight o'clock. He felt for the Mora knife in his belt. It wasn't the one he would use later; the carving knife was wrapped in its plastic bag inside his sports bag as usual. But a smaller knife was useful at the start. As soon as the door opened. A hand over the mouth, a knife to the throat. Shock and mortal fear. It usually worked. He felt the painter's overalls were a good disguise, because he could carry the knife quite openly. Craftsmen always had a knife.

He undid his seatbelt and was about to get out of the car when the passenger door was yanked open and someone got in. An old man. He looked scruffy, with longish grey hair and a big black coat. But his eyes were burning. He wanted something. In his hand he was holding a black plastic object that looked like a broken torch.

‘It's over,' the man said, trying to press the peculiar object against Ralph's neck. He heard an electrical fizzing and a faint ticking sound; he brought his right arm up in a reflex action and managed to knock aside the attacker's arm. The old man wasn't as quick as Ralph. The black thing that was making a noise hit the headrest, and he suddenly realised what it was.