The first dilemma arose in Södertälje. There was no signal, and they were approaching the turn-off for the European highway. The E20 westbound or the E4 south? Bullet gestured with his hands.
‘Gothenburg or Malmö?’ he asked. ‘Right or straight ahead?’
The alternatives coursed through the golden one’s mind while the damn junction rushed ever closer. If the thieves had got hold of the money, the E4 would’ve been the obvious choice. They would have been on their way to Europe. But now they probably had to test the key, so there was no reason to choose Malmö over Gothenburg. Gothenburg was bigger, after all. But then, maybe they’d realised that it was a foreign key and, in that case, wouldn’t heading south, towards Copenhagen, be more likely? What was closest if they kept going straight? Nyköping, Norrköping, Linköping? And to the right? Strängnäs, Mariefred, Eskilstuna, Örebro. Christ, no, not Kumla. That settled it.
‘E4,’ he said, and Rogge had just enough time to turn left and continue southwards.
The second signal came soon after Norrköping. They had just passed the second turn-off onto the European highway and opted against the E22 towards Västervik and Kalmar. A brief signal they couldn’t determine the direction of. Still, they were on the right tracks. Bullet shouted and screamed in frustration.
‘Fucking hell, can’t we step on the gas a bit?’ asked Rogge.
‘No,’ said the golden one.
Nothing happened on Vätternvägen. They passed Gränna and Visingsö. They were close to giving up. Not a squeak. Had they lost the signal for good now? Did Bullet’s bloody handiwork even work? They knew that Jönköping would be the test. A meeting point of roads going in all directions. The 33 towards Nässjö, Vimmerby, Västervik. The 30 towards Växjö, Kalmar and the whole of Blekinge county. The E4, continuing on to Värnamo, Ljungby and Skåne county. The 40 towards Borås and Gothenburg. Was it Gothenburg after all?
‘Nothing?’ asked the golden one.
Bullet shook his head. They were in Huskvarna. The last descent down towards Jönköping.
‘We’ll have to fill up soon, Nicke,’ said Rogge. ‘The warning light’s on.’
‘Bullet, you bastard, can’t you speed that thing up somefuckinghow?’ Danne moaned from behind. ‘Turn it right up?’
‘You don’t know a thing, you bloody idiot,’ Bullet snapped.
‘Shut up,’ the golden one said calmly.
Everyone shut up.
Not Gothenburg. He had decided against that. He stuck to his guns. Not Västervik. Also dropped. Växjö? That way, they would have a whole load of places to choose from: Karlshamn, Ronneby, Karlskrona, maybe Kristianstad. Though that would have been the E22 anyway.
‘Stay on this one,’ he said.
They stayed on the E4. In Skillingaryd, the fuel was dangerously low.
‘Stop here,’ he said before they pulled up into the petrol station staff’s line of sight.
‘We’ve gotta fill up,’ said Rogge.
‘We need money,’ he said, pulling on the gold-coloured hat, taking his pistol off safety and jumping out of the van.
‘Are you going alone?’ said Bullet through the window. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘It’s not good, it’s the best. Wait here.’
They waited. After five minutes, he came back, a plastic bag in his hand.
‘You can fill up now,’ he said, pulling off the hat. ‘I don’t think you’ll need to pay.’
They filled up. Back out on the E4, Bullet suddenly shouted: ‘I’ve found it again. Christ, it’s here. They must’ve stopped. I’ve got the direction. They’re going south on the E4. Not far ahead.’
‘Step on it?’ said Rogge.
‘Stick to the limit,’ said Niklas Lindberg calmly, shoving the gold hat into the glovebox.
Bullet’s face scrunched up again. He shouted: ‘Fuck, I had it!’
21
THE UNEXPECTED FLAW in their plan dawned on them much too late. Two cars, each on a different course through Sweden. A rusty old Datsun and a dazzlingly white Ford Focus, one of last year’s award-winning models. Not until six hundred kilometres separated them did the fact that it was Midsummer weekend cross their minds. Not a single bank would be open in the whole of Sweden. They were left to their respective ghosts. The ones they had told themselves they would never have to be alone with again.
It would be a Midsummer weekend that neither of them would ever forget. And never again have to repeat.
He was lying in a sad hotel bed just outside of Orsa, listening to the distant Midsummer celebrations from down on the shore of Orsasjön. The sounds were being sent like severely distorted electrical impulses from his eardrums to his brain. They pierced almost mockingly. A sound that cut and ripped. Orsa’s musicians were stabbing at the taut strings of his nerves with their bows. Pressing a pillow to his ears didn’t help, either. The sound was being distorted from within, that much he understood. It echoed like festivities do for someone on the outside. He wondered how long the little boy would have to be tied to the tree while the party continued down by the beach. Midsummer. They were letting him take part. For the first time, he had been invited. He had actually been invited.
He had trembled with happiness as he walked through the stretch of woodland by the waters of Edsviken. This would be the turning point. He took the route past the den. He stopped, standing motionless alongside the pathetic little patchwork of boards that had shielded him from the world whenever everything collapsed in on him. When had it done anything else? He had sat there, whittling boats from bark with an urgency that blocked out everything else. He had filled the den with increasingly elaborate bark boats until there was almost no room left for him. He was like Emil of Lönneberga, carving away in the woodshed. Though utterly devoid of all humour and warmth. And now, he was on his way to a Midsummer party with the rest of his class. He had been invited and finally, finally, finally been accepted.
He stood in front of the den and knew that it had saved his life. He went up to it and pulled it down. It didn’t take much. A couple of kicks and it fell like a house of cards. A steady stream of bark boats came tumbling out. He said goodbye to that part of his life and welcomed another. A better one. Because it was impossible to imagine a worse one. He set off through the wood. He caught sight of the party down by the water. They were drinking. He stood still for a moment at the edge of the wood. Took a few deep breaths, straightened his new summer clothes and trudged over to them. They welcomed him with laughter and shouting. He welled up with happiness. They took hold of his arms, held them behind his back, tied him to a tree and forced him to drink until he was sick. He stood there like a half-dressed maypole, his smart new summer clothes covered with bright green vomit. The maypole was ready.
He turned over in the sad little hotel bed and fished a newspaper, Expressen, from the bedside table. He read the article that had caught his eye once again, drawing rings around the words in ballpoint pen. The headline said: THE SISTERS THAT VANISHED INTO THIN AIR. He picked up his mobile phone.
She was lying in a sad hotel bed in Falkenberg, on the other side of the country, and couldn’t hear a sound. The little west coast town seemed to be completely empty. Not a sound. She stared up at the ceiling and then at the briefcase, lying open on the floor. Imagine if she made contact. But there was no contact to make. There was only her and a bed. For several years, she hadn’t been able to sleep in beds. They had scared the life out of her. Almost literally. She could still hear. Something within her could still hear the footsteps on the stairs. Though the sound was faint now, almost gone, as though the hearing was the last thing to leave her. She didn’t hear the door opening in that unmistakable way that should have been soundless but wasn’t; on the contrary, it echoed through her, and she knew that it would echo through her for the rest of her life. That was why it was going to be so short. A short life. That was why she experienced such immense pleasure from not hearing the door open. She couldn’t feel the sheet being pushed to one side, either. Not that first scream, the quiet, almost silent scream of mad desperation, nor the other, more shrill, more wholehearted, but also more self-reproaching.