He had felt the bonds around his wrists beginning to chafe. Once when they were younger, he and Abraham had played a war game. Abraham had hurled himself at Simon and tied his hands behind his back with a skipping rope. It hadn’t been much fun, and they had never done it again. In the car it hadn’t been a game. His hands were tied behind his back for real this time.
Simon was terrified.
Why hadn’t he got on the bus and left Abraham behind?
The only thing he knew for sure was that they were in serious trouble. Abraham hadn’t said a word when Simon got into the back seat. Not until the car stopped at the traffic lights. Then he had yelled:
‘He’s got a gun, Si!’
And Simon had thrown himself at the door, fumbling with the handle, trying to get it open so that he could jump out. But the door was locked, and he was going nowhere.
‘Fasten your seatbelt and sit still!’ the driver had bellowed, and Simon had done as he was told, trembling with fear.
‘Sorry,’ Abraham had whispered, turning to look at Simon.
‘And you shut your mouth,’ the man said.
Another apology, just as bizarre as the first.
Simon had wanted to say that everything was okay, that it didn’t matter. That he forgave his friend. But he didn’t dare say a word.
He didn’t know what the man driving the car wanted; all he knew was that they weren’t heading for the tennis centre. They had set off in a completely different direction. They had stopped once, when the man tied their hands and made Abraham move into the back seat.
It was like being in some horrible film, the kind Simon’s mum and dad wouldn’t let him watch. The mere thought of his parents gave him a burning pain in his belly. He wanted to go home. Right now.
The man hadn’t driven particularly fast. He actually looked relaxed, which frightened Simon even more. After tying them up he had dug out their mobiles, switched them off and removed the batteries. Simon had no idea why, but he realised it wouldn’t make any difference if he could reach his phone; it was useless anyway.
The car had driven up onto an impressive bridge, and all at once Simon recognised the location. They were heading out towards the big palace where the king and queen lived. Why?
They passed the palace without stopping. Eventually the man turned off the road and along a smaller track that led straight into the forest. Simon had travelled a great deal with his parents, and he had never seen as many forests as there were in Sweden. Especially not in Israel, where all his relatives lived. In Israel there were only towns and sand. And the sea. Wild and blue.
The car stopped and the man told them to get out on Abraham’s side. It might have been warm sitting in the back with their coats on, but it was freezing cold standing in the snow. They couldn’t see the palace.
‘Come with me,’ the man said.
Only then had Simon noticed the large van parked a short distance away. A black van, without any windows. The man led the way and opened the back doors.
‘Get in.’
His voice was deep, and he spoke English. Simon wished he hadn’t understood what the man was saying; it would have been easier to kick off. But not the way things were; they both did exactly as they were told. Not even Abraham was going to take on someone who had a gun.
Inside the van it was dark and cold. There were no seats, just a hard rubber mat on the floor. You couldn’t see the driver’s seat, because someone had put up a wall between the front and the back of the van.
When they were standing in the van, Simon realised the man wasn’t coming with them. He was still outside in the snow. The two boys automatically backed away when he switched on a torch and shone it in their faces.
And then he said the words that made Simon lose all hope of getting home any time soon.
‘You can sit down over there under those blankets.’ He pointed towards the corner. ‘You’ll be staying here until daylight.’
Then the tears came, and Simon couldn’t stop them.
Over an hour had passed since then, and he was still crying.
‘I’ve been so stupid,’ Abraham sobbed. ‘I believed him when he said he wanted to talk to us about tennis.’
Simon didn’t answer. What would he have thought if he’d got in the car first? He didn’t know.
‘He said it was a coincidence,’ Abraham went on. ‘He said he was going to email us tonight to ask if we wanted to meet up tomorrow, and then he was driving along and he just happened to see me. I swear that’s what he said.’
Simon still didn’t speak.
‘I want to go home,’ Abraham whispered.
‘Me too.’
Then they both fell silent.
And outside it grew colder and colder.
The underground car park was both cold and dark as Alex Recht walked over to the car with Fredrika. She looked excited and pensive at the same time. Alex could almost always read Fredrika Bergman’s body language; she was a mistress of non-verbal communication, and had the ability to project several different moods simultaneously.
Alex focused on the fatal shooting outside the Solomon school, and ran through the latest information. Many of his colleagues had been hard at work; witnesses had been interviewed, leads followed up. But so far there were still more questions than answers. A lot more.
A mantra kept on pounding in his brain.
The first few hours are the most important. Always and without exception.
‘The perpetrator was lying on a roof on the other side of the street,’ Alex said as they got in the car and fastened their seatbelts. ‘It’s difficult to interpret the evidence because of the wind and snow, but the indications are that he – or she – was lying on his or her stomach when the shot was fired. The killer then disappeared the same way he or she got in – through the attic. We’ve spoken to the residents’ association, and apparently people sometimes forget to close the outside door behind them when they come in from the street, so the killer didn’t necessarily need the entry code or a key to get in.’
‘But surely the door leading to the attic must have been locked,’ Fredrika said.
Alex drove out of the grubby car park.
‘I’m afraid not. They’re in the process of carrying out some renovations, and the workmen need access to all parts of the building. According to the chair of the association, the attic door is left open all day, and locked in the evening.’
‘In that case there must be a pretty good chance that someone saw the perpetrator arriving or leaving. If there are workmen all over the place, I mean.’
Alex shook his head, his expression grim.
‘Apparently not.’
They had found very few traces of the killer. No fingerprints or footprints inside the building, which was interesting given that his or her shoes must have been soaking wet from the snow.
‘But we’ve got footprints on the roof?’ Fredrika said.
‘Nothing of any use. The weather more or less destroyed them before the police got up there. The only thing we have is an indentation in the snow, which as I said indicates that the perpetrator was probably lying on his or her stomach.’
The news that they hadn’t managed to track down the dead woman’s boyfriend worried Alex.
‘He wasn’t in the apartment when the police arrived; we’ve tried his registered mobile number, but there’s no answer. As far as we know, he’s unemployed at the moment.’
‘But is he a suspect?’ Fredrika asked. ‘Do we think he shot his girlfriend?’
‘To be honest, no. Admittedly he has a record as long as your arm, but this shooting is too clean for someone like him. However, I still need to be able to eliminate him from our enquiries. We’ve shown a picture of him to the witnesses who were on Nybrogatan at the time of the incident and just beforehand; no one has seen him. On the other hand, we don’t know how long the killer was waiting for Josephine to come out. We’ve issued an appeal asking anyone who was passing in the hours before the shooting to come forward, but that’s going to mean interviewing a hell of a lot of people. I’m not sure it’s going to be much help, to say the least.’