She fumbled for the memory stick on the chain round her neck. He was still gripping her, far too hard. When he saw what she was doing, he wrenched at the chain and it broke. The memory stick fell onto the tarmac and he dived after it.
There would be no better chance of escape than this.
She ran faster than she had ever run before, her sandals slapping on the tarmac. If she could just get out onto Sukhumvit she’d be safe.
‘Stop!’ shouted the man from behind her. ‘Stop!’
But naturally she did not stop, convinced as she was that it would be the most dangerous thing she could possibly do. This man had been employed by someone, and his assignment was not just to rob her. She had realised almost at once what was strange about his behaviour. Muggers do not usually go through a handbag hunting for a USB stick. And how could he have known? How did he even know there was a USB stick to look for?
She ran all the way back to the hotel, taking a route that meant she could keep to the bigger streets all the way. She did not know exactly when he had given up the chase, but he stopped shouting after she put on a spurt along Sukhumvit. She did not turn round until she was in the hotel lobby, almost fainting and drenched in sweat. He was not there.
She sank to the lobby floor in despair.
A security guard and one of the receptionists came dashing over. Was she all right? Could they help her?
She wished with all her heart she could have laid the whole story in their open arms. She was tired now, incapable of summoning up the inner resources to see her project through. Coming on this trip alone suddenly seemed like a really stupid idea. What had she been thinking? Hadn’t she understood the risks, sensed imminent danger?
‘I’ve been robbed.’
The hotel staff were dismayed. Robbed? In broad daylight in Bangkok? A white woman? They looked shocked, said they had never heard of such a thing before. The female receptionist went to get some water and the guard to ring the police.
As she drank, the receptionist enquired kindly whether she needed anything else.
‘No,’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘I’d just like my key so I can go up to my room and wash.’
The receptionist disappeared off to the desk and the guard paced impatiently up and down the lobby.
‘The police will be here within half an hour,’ he assured her.
She tried to look grateful, well aware that the police could hardly help her in any significant way.
The receptionist returned. She looked worried.
‘Pardon me, but what room number did you say it was?’
‘214,’ she said wearily.
She gulped some more water, picked herself up and went over to the desk.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said the receptionist. ‘In 214 we have a man who booked in the day before yesterday. Are you sure you have the right number?’
Suddenly she could not breathe. She stared at the hotel logo, which was all over the reception area to remind guests where they were.
Manhattan Hotel. The hotel where she had been staying for the past five nights.
Panic rose inside her. The hotel staff were now observing her with watchful eyes. She tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke.
‘Sorry,’ she said with an effort. ‘I must have got mixed up. You’re right, I don’t remember my room number.’
‘Miss, we want to help you, but your name is not on our computer. Not for any room.’
She swallowed hard.
‘Okay, then perhaps you’ve registered me as having checked out, by mistake.’
The receptionist gave an unhappy sigh.
‘According to the computer, you have not been staying here at all.’
A few seconds passed. She blinked to hold back the tears.
She looked the receptionist entreatingly in the eye.
‘But you must recognise me. I’ve been going in and out of this hotel for several days now.’
The receptionist exchanged glances with the guard, looked as though she wanted to ask something. Then she shook her head.
‘Sorry, miss,’ she said, appearing genuinely sorry. ‘I have never seen you before. And no one else here has, either. Would you like me to help you ring for a taxi?’
STOCKHOLM
Peder Rydh tried to keep his anger in check as Joar and Alex set off for the Ahlbin sisters’ house at Ekerö. Alex had left him the job of going through the emails that had come to light and working with the technical section to try to establish who had sent them. Fredrika had been entrusted with finding out as much as possible about Jakob’s activities with refugee organisations. Even that seemed more exciting than poring over lousy emails.
Peder took out his mobile and tried ringing his brother Jimmy. There was no answer and Peder threw the phone onto his desk. Of course he hadn’t answered, everything else was going down the pan, so why not that, too?
A sense of guilt set in almost immediately. He should be glad Jimmy was not answering his phone, because it meant he was too busy doing something he enjoyed more.
‘Jimmy’s lucky having a big brother who cares about him so much,’ said the carers at the assisted living unit whenever Peder went there.
It sometimes seemed as if the unit was the only place on earth where Peder still made a good impression and felt welcome. Jimmy had lived there since he turned twenty, and seemed happy. It made his world the size he could handle and he was surrounded by people like himself who could not manage on their own.
‘You have to remember that in spite of any setbacks, you’re still living an enormously privileged life,’ his mother would say.
Peder knew what she meant, but it still bothered him to hear her say it. Fredrika Bergman, for example, hadn’t got a sibling who had suffered brain damage at the age of five in a stupid game that went wrong; did that mean she was less duty-bound than Peder to make the most of herself and her life?
Sometimes when he was sitting with one of his little boys on his lap he would think about how incredibly fragile life was. Indelible images from childhood reminded him of the accident with the swing that had destroyed his brother’s life and underlined how easily something could be irrevocably lost if you were not careful.
Careful. Trustworthy. Aware.
God knew when he had last been any of those things.
His mother, who functioned more or less as a nanny to the twins, had started watching him with a worried look when he got home late smelling of beer or went for drinks after work three evenings in a row. Something had happened to him to make him less considerate and more neglectful. It had happened when the boys were born and Ylva was sucked into that goddamn post-natal depression that went on and on.
But now it was as if he was the one who couldn’t get his health back on track, not her. When they first separated he had felt strong and responsible. He had broken out of an impossible situation and done something radical to improve his life.
But it had all gone to hell in a handcart.
As usual he just gritted his teeth. At least at work he had other things to think about.
He went through the checklist he had put together of all the threats sent to Jakob Ahlbin’s church email account in the past two weeks. The tone grew more hostile as time went on, and the threats seemed to have started after the clergyman intervened in some dispute that the sender felt was none of his business. The emails were not signed with a name, but with the initials SP. The initials also featured in the email address used to issue the threats.
Peder frowned. He was not sure what SP stood for.
He read the emails again. The first was dated 20 January.
Dear Reverend Scumbag, we advise you to back off while you still can. SP
Back off from what, wondered Peder.
The next email had come a few days later, 24 January.
We damn well mean it, vicar. Keep away from our people, now and for ever. SP