Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

beneath her eyes is grey, and she has traces of dirt under her short nails.

      ‘You used to be able to order pastries from a bakery outside,’ Joona says, pouring coffee.

      ‘I need to start thinking about my figure for when you get out,’ she replies, with one hand on her stomach.

      ‘You’re more beautiful than ever,’ Joona says.

      ‘You should have seen me yesterday,’ she laughs, her long fingers touching an enamel daisy hanging from a chain around her neck. ‘I was out at the open-air pool in Saltsjöbaden, crawling around in the rain preparing the beds.’

      ‘Yoshino cherry trees, right?’

      ‘I picked a variety with white flowers, thousands of them. They’re amazing … every year in May it looks like a snowstorm has hit just those little trees.’

      Joona looks at the cups and the pale blue napkins. The light from outside is falling in broad stripes across the table.

      ‘How are your studies going?’ she asks.

      ‘It’s exciting.’

      ‘Does it feel weird to be training for something new?’ she asks, folding her napkin.

      ‘Yes, but in a good way.’

      ‘You’re still sure you don’t want to go back to police work?’

      He nods and looks over towards the window. The dirty glass is visible between the horizontal bars. His chair creaks as he leans back, disappearing into the memory of his last night in Nattavaara.

      ‘What are you thinking?’ she asks in a serious voice.

      ‘Nothing,’ he replies quietly.

      ‘You’re thinking about Summa,’ she says simply.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Because of what I said about a snowstorm.’

      He looks into her amber-coloured eyes and nods. She has the peculiar ability to almost read his mind.

      ‘There’s nothing as quiet as snow after the wind has dropped,’ he says. ‘You know … Lumi and I sat with her, holding her hands …’

      Joona thinks back to the strange calmness that settled on his wife before she died, and the absolute silence that followed.

      Valeria leans across the table and puts her hand to his cheek without saying anything. He can see the tattoo on her right shoulder through the thin fabric of her blouse.

      ‘We’re going to get through this – aren’t we?’ she asks quietly.

      ‘We’re going to get through this,’ he nods.

      ‘You’re not going to break my heart, are you, Joona?’

      ‘No.’

       16

      Joona feels a lingering joy after Valeria has left. It’s as if she brings him a small portion of life every time she visits.

      He has almost no space in his cell, but if he stands between the desk and the sink he has just enough room to do some shadow-boxing and hone his military fighting techniques. He moves slowly and systematically, thinking of the endless flatlands in the Netherlands where he received his training.

      Joona doesn’t know how long he’s been practising, but the sky is so dark that the yellow wall that encloses the prison is no longer visible through the barred window when the lock clicks and the cell door opens.

      Two guards he hasn’t seen before are standing in the doorway, looking at him rather anxiously.

      He thinks it must be a search. Something’s happened, maybe an attempted escape that they suspect he’s involved in.

      ‘You’re going to see a defence lawyer,’ one of the guards says.

      ‘What for?’

      Without answering they cuff his hands and lead him out of the cell.

      ‘I haven’t requested a meeting,’ Joona says.

      They walk down the stairs together and on down the long hallway. A prison guard passes them silently and disappears.

      Joona wonders if they’ve realised that Valeria has been using her sister’s ID when she visits him. She has a criminal record of her own, and wouldn’t be allowed to see him if she used her own name.

      The colour and style of the pictures along the walls change. The harsh lighting shows up the shabbiness of the concrete floor.

      The guards lead Joona through security doors and airlocks. They have to show the warrant authorising the transfer several times. More locks whirr, and they head deeper into a section Joona isn’t familiar with. At the far end of the hallway two men are standing guard outside a door.

      Joona immediately recognises that they’re Security Police officers. Without looking at him they open the door.

      The dimly lit room is completely bare apart from two plastic chairs. Someone is sitting in one of them.

      Joona stops in the middle of the floor.

      The light from the low-hanging ceiling lamp doesn’t reach the man’s face. It stops at the pressed creases of his trousers and the black shoes, wet mud visible beneath their soles.

      Something is glinting in his right hand.

      When the door closes behind Joona the man stands up, takes a step forward into the light and tucks his reading glasses in his breast pocket.

      Only then does Joona see his face.

      It’s Sweden’s Prime Minister.

      His eyes are cast in darkness, and the shadow of his sharp nose lies like a stroke of black ink across his mouth.

      ‘This meeting has never taken place,’ the Prime Minister says in his characteristic hoarse voice. ‘I haven’t met you, and you haven’t met me. No matter what happens you’ll tell people you had a meeting with your defence lawyer.’

      ‘Your driver doesn’t smoke,’ Joona says.

      ‘No,’ he replies in surprise.

      The Prime Minister’s right hand moves aimlessly towards the knot of his tie before he continues.

      ‘Last night my government’s Foreign Minister was murdered in his home. The official story is that he died after a short illness, but we’re actually dealing with an act of terrorism.’

      The Prime Minister’s nose is shiny with sweat, and the bags under his eyes are dark. The leather bracelet carrying the emergency alarm slips down his wrist as he pulls the other plastic chair forward for Joona.

      ‘Joona Linna,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make you a highly unorthodox offer, an offer that is only valid here and now.’

      ‘I’m listening.’

      ‘An inmate from Hall Prison is going to be transferred and placed in your unit. His name is Salim Ratjen. He was convicted of drug offences, but found not guilty of murder … The evidence suggests that he occupies a central position in a terrorist organisation, and that he may even be directing whoever carried out the murder of the Foreign Minister.’

      ‘Background information?’

      ‘Here,’ the Prime Minister replies, handing over a thin folder.

      Joona sits down on the chair and takes the file with his cuffed hands. The plastic creaks as he leans back. As he reads he notices that the Prime Minister keeps checking his phone.

      Joona skims the report from the crime scene, the lab results and the interview with the female witness in which she says she heard the killer say that Ratjen