A white beam flashes on in the darkness, lighting up his face — and Jan recognizes him.
It is Ivan Rössel, with the other Angel in his hand. He is several years older than he was in the newspaper pictures, with dark furrows lining his long, narrow face. The curly hair is halfway to his shoulders, and is dark grey now.
Jan coughs. ‘Rami,’ he whispers, looking at the Angel. ‘I gave that to Alice Rami.’
‘You gave it to me,’ Rössel says.
‘Rami was supposed to come down in the lift and—’
‘Nobody else is coming down,’ Rössel interrupts him. ‘There’s just you and me.’
Then he gives Jan a shove and holds the razor blade against his throat. ‘Come along, my friend,’ he says. ‘We’re going to get out of here... and we’re going to hide that in the lift.’
Rössel points to Carl’s body. ‘Grab hold of his arms.’
Another shove, and Jan begins to move, as if he were in a trance. He reaches out with his bound hands and manages to get a grip on the dead guard’s upper body. He bundles it back into the laundry lift.
‘Push him in.’
Jan leans into the lift, struggling with the heavy body. Lifeless arms, dangling legs. It all has to go in.
He notices Carl’s belt. The clip for the tear-gas canister is empty, but next to it there are a number of white plastic loops, ready to slip over someone’s wrists.
As Jan pushes the body into the lift, he removes a couple of these from Carl’s belt and tucks them under his jumper, without Rössel spotting anything. He steps back, and Rössel slams the hatch shut.
‘Let’s go.’
There is nothing Jan can do. He is forced to walk ahead of Rössel, out of the laundry, through the tiled rooms. It is impossible to stop; Rössel keeps shoving him hard in the back, and he can feel the razor blade against his throat every time Rössel moves his right hand.
Jan moves through the basement like a sleepwalker. His eyes are hurting, his hands are covered in blood.
What has happened? How can this have happened?
Ivan Rössel was squeezed inside the lift along with Carl. And Carl was dead, slaughtered by Rössel.
And Rami? She was the one who was supposed to come down in the lift, but...
‘Don’t get lost,’ Rössel says as he pushes Jan through a doorway. ‘Follow the bits of paper if you don’t know the way.’
But Jan does know the way. They carry on along the corridors without meeting anyone. Then straight through the safe room, and out into the corridor leading back to the pre-school, where the lights are still on.
Jan stops by the lift. He turns his head. ‘They’re waiting for you in the visitors’ room,’ he says. ‘You do know that, don’t you? A family... They want to talk to you about their missing brother, John Daniel...’
Rössel shakes his head. ‘They don’t want to talk,’ he says. ‘They were going to kill me up there, that was the plan. Carl sold me down the river.’
‘No, they just want to know where—’
‘They were going to murder me, I know it.’ Another shove, and Rössel moves him away from the lift and over towards the stairs. ‘You’re the only person I trust right now, my friend. And we’re going to get out of here.’
Rössel’s voice remains quiet and clear. A teacher’s voice, accustomed to giving instructions and providing explanations.
He nudges Jan up the stairs to the door of the Dell. ‘Open it.’
Jan hesitates, but takes out the key card and opens the door.
They walk past the staff lockers, where Rami’s picture books lie hidden. And Jan’s diary. He was going to show them all to her tonight; he had been so looking forward to it.
Andreas has left a cap and a raincoat hanging on a hook; Rössel puts them on. Then he kicks open the front door and leads Jan outside. The night air is cold, colder than before, but it soothes Jan’s eyes.
He blinks away a few tears and looks around. Red and blue lights are flashing over in the hospital car park. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances. The fire drill is well under way — if it is actually a drill, of course. Rössel does smell of smoke.
Rössel doesn’t stop; he doesn’t even glance across at the vehicles. ‘Have you got a car?’ he asks.
Jan nods. It is parked within sight of the pre-school, and it isn’t locked.
Once they reach the Volvo Rössel pats down Jan’s trousers and removes his mobile phone. It disappears into the raincoat pocket.
A swift slicing movement with the razor blade, and suddenly Jan is able to move his hands.
‘Into the car, my friend.’ Rössel opens the driver’s door, bundles Jan behind the wheel and chucks the Angel on the seat next to him. He slams the door and climbs into the back seat, behind Jan.
The stench of Rössel — smoke and petrol and tear gas — is acrid within the confines of the car.
‘Drive,’ he says.
Rami? Jan thinks, gazing at his hands on the wheel.
‘I can’t drive. I can’t see a thing.’
‘You can see the road. Drive away from the hospital. Just keep going straight ahead until I tell you otherwise.’
Jan makes one last effort to understand what has happened: ‘Where’s Rami?’
‘Forget her,’ says Rössel. ‘There is no Rami in the hospital. It was me you were talking to. All the time.’
‘But Rami must have—’
Rössel presses the razor against his windpipe. Jan can feel the blade trembling.
‘Drive. Otherwise you’ll end up like Carl. Ear to ear.’
Jan doesn’t say another word. He starts the car and puts his foot down.
Rössel keeps the razor just below Jan’s chin, and it is this threat that takes Jan away from St Patricia’s, away from the wall and the Dell. Away from the chance of ever seeing Alice Rami again.
Away from the lights of the town, and into the darkness.
52
Jan is driving a murderer through the night. A murderer who is holding a razor to his throat. But a murderer who somehow cares about him, Jan realizes: Rössel reached out and turned up the heat, then asked, ‘Too hot?’
‘No.’
The gentle hum of the heater is quite soporific. Out on the streets it is bitterly cold, but inside the car it’s as warm as a summer’s day. The razor blade is still in place.
‘Turn right here,’ Rössel says.
Jan turns right. His eyes are still smarting, but his vision is gradually improving.
There are few cars out and about; the only vehicles they meet are a couple of taxis.
‘Straight on,’ Rössel instructs. Jan drives straight on.
They head away from the centre and through the middle of a deserted industrial estate. Jan doesn’t attempt to think, he just drives, and eventually they are on the motorway that leads to Gothenburg. That too is almost deserted.
‘Put your foot down.’
A lorry thunders past on its way out of town, and the lights of farmhouses are visible among the trees on both sides of the road, but these are the only signs of human life tonight. It is Friday, and people are at home. There is no police surveillance on the motorway.
‘We’re out of town now,’ Rössel says. ‘Out in the country.’
Jan doesn’t say anything. He maintains a steady speed, but after ten minutes Rössel leans forward with a new order: ‘Pull in over there.’
Jan sees the entrance to a lay-by and picnic area, illuminated by a couple of lights but with no sign of any other cars. He pulls in and brakes immediately; he wants to keep the car close to the lights, and Rössel doesn’t object.
‘Switch off the engine.’
Jan obeys, and there is silence inside the car. Total silence.