The Rabbit Hunter

‘Thanks.’

‘Sammy, we need to talk.’

‘OK,’ his son says, clamming up instantly.

‘I don’t ever want to have to go through this again,’ Rex begins.

‘It can’t have been much fun,’ Sammy says, turning his head away.

‘No,’ Rex replies.

‘Dad’s a celebrity,’ Sammy says with a crooked smile. ‘Dad’s a superstar TV chef, and he doesn’t want a failure for a son, a faggot who wears make-up and …’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ Rex interrupts.

‘You don’t have to put up with me for long, just a few weeks,’ his son says.

‘I hope we can still have a reasonable time together – but you have to promise to try.’

Sammy raises his eyebrows.

‘What? How am I supposed to try? Is this about Nico?’

‘This isn’t some kind of moral debate,’ Rex explains. ‘I don’t have an opinion, I believe that love just happens between people.’

‘Who’s talking about love?’ Sammy mutters.

‘Sex, then.’

‘Did you love Mum?’ Sammy asks.

‘I don’t know. I was very immature,’ Rex replies honestly. ‘But now, in hindsight, I can see that she was the person I should have stayed with … I would have liked to have lived my life with the two of you.’

‘Look, Dad, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t get it. What do you want from me?’

‘No more stomach pumps, for a start.’

Sammy gets slowly to his feet and goes to hang the towel up.

‘I thought Nico was counting the pills he was giving me,’ he says when he comes back. ‘But there were too many.’

‘Count for yourself in the future.’

‘I’m weak-willed. And it’s actually OK for me to be weak,’ he replies quickly.

‘Then you won’t make it. There’s no place for weakness in this world.’

‘OK, Dad.’

‘Sammy, it’s not like I’m making this up – that’s just the way it is.’

His son is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. His cheeks are flushed and he swallows hard.

‘Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous,’ Rex says.

‘Why not?’ Sammy whispers.

24 (#ulink_5f898265-b07c-5442-8a25-d34e99130d24)

No terrorist organisation has claimed responsibility for the murder, but the Security Police don’t think that’s strange given the specific nature of the attack. The underlying reason for shooting the Foreign Minister is to frighten a small group of high-ranking politicians rather than terrify the general population.

On Sunday they continue evaluating the forensic evidence and the thousands of lab results. Everything points to the fact that they’re dealing with a highly professional killer. He didn’t leave any fingerprints or biological evidence, he didn’t leave any bullets or cartridges, and he doesn’t appear in any security-camera footage.

They have several of his boot imprints, but they’re a type that are sold all over the world, and analysis of the dirt on them hasn’t come up with anything.

Saga is sitting with Janus, who’s the head of the investigation, and a few colleagues in one of the conference rooms of the Security Police Headquarters. Janus is wearing a pale green, tie-dye T-shirt. His almost white eyebrows take on a pinkish tone when he gets agitated.

Security around government buildings has been tightened and key individuals have more bodyguards, but they’re all aware that this might not be enough.

Stress levels in the conference room are high.

Salim has been isolated at Hall Prison in preparation for his transfer to Joona’s unit. No one believes that isolating him will prevent more murders, because even if he can’t give any further orders it’s possible that the first three have already been arranged.

Right now almost all of their hopes are pinned on Joona gaining his confidence inside the prison. If he fails, their only real option is to wait and see what happens on Wednesday.

‘We’re dealing with a meticulous killer. He doesn’t make any mistakes, doesn’t get carried away, doesn’t get scared,’ one of the men says.

‘Then he shouldn’t have left a witness alive,’ Saga says.

‘This is all assuming he isn’t just a pimp who thought the Foreign Minister had gone too far this time,’ Janus smiles, blowing his red hair away from his face.

Jeanette and Saga have conducted three more interviews with the witness, but nothing new has emerged. She’s sticking to her story, and there’s nothing to suggest that she’s lying. But they haven’t been able to verify the fact that she’s a prostitute.

No one else in the business knows Sofia, but the investigators have managed to trace Tamara Jensen, who now appears to be the only person who might be able to confirm her story.

Tamara’s number was in Sofia’s mobile phone, and by using three base-stations to trace her phone they’ve managed to identify an exact location: Tamara’s movements are restricted to a small area just southwest of Nyköping.

She isn’t married, and she hasn’t moved to Gothenburg, as Sofia claimed.

She’s still advertising on a website that says it offers an exclusive escort service in the Stockholm area. The photograph shows a woman in her mid-twenties, with lively eyes and shiny hair. Her presentation promises cultured company for social events and trips, nights and weekend packages.

Saga is navigating while Jeanette drives the dark grey BMW. The two women always enjoy each other’s company even though they’re very different in both personality and appearance. Jeanette’s hair is held in place by a silver clasp, and she’s wearing a light grey skirt and white jacket, thick tights and pumps with a low heel.

They’re talking and eating liquorice from a bag in the centre console.

Saga is telling Jeanette how her ex-boyfriend, Stefan, sent her lots of drunken texts from Copenhagen yesterday, wanting her to go to his hotel.

‘Well, why not?’ Jeanette says, helping herself to another piece of liquorice.