The computers had run out of power, their screens jet black. He tried the first of the mobile phones. It had run out, too. There was a hint of life in the second.
As he keyed in Hultin’s number, he tried to make sense of what had happened. He managed to raise his arm, looking at his watch. Christ, he thought. Twenty-five to four. It was all over.
Rather than growing desperate, he tried to think. There was one thing that Ludvig Johnsson had stressed during their attempt at a joint investigation, and one thing only. That Bullet Kullberg was the weak link.
‘Hultin,’ said a voice in his ear.
‘Where are you?’ asked Nyberg, not recognising his own voice. It was a feeling he knew well.
‘Gunnar? Where are you?’
‘Grillby. But to hell with that. This is important.’
‘We’re at the station. We just got back. We’ve been in Gnesta, talking to Lindberg’s girlfriend. They split up six months ago, and had only ever seen one another in Kumla. Didn’t give anything new.’
‘Ludvig’s gone after Bullet. Check.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Hultin. ‘Are you coming?’
‘As fast as I can,’ said Nyberg, hanging up.
He tried to get to his feet once again. It went better this time. Though God only knew if he could drive.
The only thing he knew was that he would never see Ludvig Johnsson again.
That was absolutely certain.
Sorrow coursed through him like hot lava.
Hultin, Hjelm and Chavez arrived at the desk by the cells in the police station in record time. The guard looked tired. Not again. Get a life, guys. Yes, Detective Superintendent Ludvig Johnsson had been there. In sweaty jogging clothes. Yes, he’d been in with Kullberg for almost an hour. No, no one had been there since.
They ran down the cell-lined corridor. The guard ran alongside them. It was a long time since his legs had done any running.
He let them in.
Bullet Kullberg was bound to the chair with four leather belts. His face was swollen and bruised, his nails sticking out at unnatural angles from his fingers. His trousers were around his ankles, his genitals black and blue. A strip of silver tape had been stuck over his mouth.
His eyes were closed.
Hultin tore the tape from his mouth. Bullet woke. He looked at them, alarmed.
‘Don’t kill me,’ he said faintly.
Hjelm looked into his eyes. His gaze had changed.
‘He’s been drugged,’ he said.
‘Christ,’ said Chavez.
‘Ludvig seems to have taken it personally,’ said Hultin. ‘OK, hello. Agne. We’re not going to kill you. Take it easy. Just tell us what you told Johnsson. Then we’ll save Lindberg.’
‘You were right,’ said Bullet, looking strangely at Hjelm and Chavez. ‘I was a nerd at school. Shitty Agne. I went by the name Shitty Agne the whole time I was at school. Always Shitty Agne. My name isn’t Agne, you bastards.’
‘What did you tell Ludvig Johnsson?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Come on, Bullet.’
‘I said that there’d never been any parade of girls looking at my hairless dick. Never. But I remember when they tied my hands behind my back with a towel and hit my dick until it was blue. Look how blue it is.’
‘That was Ludvig Johnsson who did that, Bullet,’ said Chavez. ‘No one’s calling you Agne any more.’
‘No,’ Bullet panted. ‘No. My name’s Bullet. I’m the toughest guy you’ll ever meet.’
‘Bullet!’ Hjelm shouted. ‘Focus! Where’s Nicke?’
‘Valhallavägen 88, obviously. What do you think, you arseholes? That’s it.’
They left. Running through the police station.
‘Time?’ asked Hultin.
‘Five past,’ said Chavez.
‘The National Task Force?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Where are they?’
‘The stadium,’ said Hultin, keying in a number. ‘Hello? Task Force? We’ve got an address. Valhallavägen 88. Top floor, probably. It’s vital that he doesn’t get a chance to press the detonator. Everything else is irrelevant.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Hjelm.
He was sitting on the balcony. In his hand lay the miniature calculator, one single red button. He ran his thumb gently down one side of it. All power gathered in a single point. That was how it should be. It was a simplification. People couldn’t cope with democracy. The democratic era had been the bloodiest in the history of mankind. That spoke for itself. A simple, pure way of life. That was all he wanted. But it meant breaking a few eggs.
He looked down towards Stockholm Stadium. A perfect view. They really did have resources. He was impressed, and that didn’t happen too often. Not since February ’86.
The ceremony began. It was a fine summer’s day, but rain clouds loomed in the distance. The weather would soon change.
It really would.
First the music – it was strangely distorted when it reached him. Then the procession. Presumably Sweden would be leading the other countries. The flag would explode. This had been in the works for so long. The flag would be torn to shreds. The proudest thing they had.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand. Like cramp. When he looked down, a wasp was hanging from his thumb. He put the detonator down on the table and squashed the wasp with his middle finger. The pain spread through his hand.
Ironic, he thought, hearing the click.
The click of a gun being taken off safety.
He turned, looking back towards the flat. In the doorway stood a bald man dressed in running clothes. He was pointing a gun at him.
‘I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, waiting for you to put that thing down,’ said Ludvig Johnsson.
‘A wasp stung me,’ said Niklas Lindberg.
‘The police force, saved by a wasp. So ironic.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Move towards it and I’ll shoot. Come this way, slowly.’
Niklas Lindberg was motionless. His pistol was jammed into the top of his trousers. He wouldn’t have time to grab it. But the detonator? There would have to be a… victim. Posthumous recognition.
He tried. His hand moved quickly.
Ludvig Johnsson emptied the magazine into him. His hand reached the edge of the table but no further. It sank downwards.
Johnsson stood still, breathing heavily.
Hanna, Micke, Stefan – my gift to you.
He went out onto the balcony and carefully, carefully took hold of the little black device with the red button.
Just then, the door burst open. The National Task Force stormed in.
They saw the man on the balcony. In a flash, they saw the detonator in his hand. And they shot him.
They shot so many bullets into him that it would never be possible to count them. His body went limp, and they kept shooting. His body was thrown backwards towards the edge of the balcony, and they kept shooting. They kept shooting even as it floated down through the Stockholm air like a mediocre skydiver, hitting the pavement of Valhallavägen with a dull, inhuman thud.
On the table next to the dead Niklas Lindberg, the detonator lay.
It had fallen red side up.
Down in Stockholm Stadium, the opening ceremony was in full swing.
48
GUNNAR NYBERG SANG. He sang as though his life was at stake. He was standing at the edge of the choir in the beautiful Kungsholmen church, putting every ounce of his being into it. His bass tone risked overpowering the rest of the choir.
‘The Time of Blossoming Now Arrives’.
Simple as that.
At Ludvig Johnsson’s funeral, he had sung solo. A short Verdi aria. One of many songs at the hero’s funeral. Detective Superintendent Ragnar Hellberg had given a magnificent speech, and not a single irregularity was mentioned. On the contrary, the police corps had finally found its long-sought-after hero. The story was doctored to suit the tabloids, in firm control of the country’s dramaturgy. Johnsson had tracked down Lindberg himself, rendered him harmless and been shot by him in the process. He had died a hero’s death.