LITMIR.BIZ

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      A ping from the laptop woke him from his lethargy. He’d left the mobile in the shop and hadn’t had time to get a new one, so Messenger was his only contact with the outside world, and the only person who had his address was the Mangster, a.k.a. Farook.

      Farook says: Salaam-Aleikum, brother HP!

      Badboy.128 says: Hi Manga.

      Farook says: How are things out in the model village?

      Badboy.128 says: Pretty good, actually, say thanks to your aunt!

      Farook says: will do!

      Farook says: Have talked to some mates and one of them knows a bloke who might be able to help us.

      Badboy.128 says: Sweet, should I call?

      Farook says: No, you can’t get hold of him, only way is to meet him. Supposed to be a bit odd. Clever as fuck but a bit odd, yeah?

      Badboy.128 says: Computer nerd?

      Farook says: Yes and no, a real wiz a couple of years ago, I’ve actually heard of him, but these days he lives somewhere in the back of beyond off the grid, supposed to be allergic to electricity, that’s why no-one can call him.

      Badboy.128 says: Doesn’t sound too damn promising …

      Farook says: My mate says this bloke was involved in that server I found in the mobile, that he configured it and organized the whole set-up.

      Badboy.128 says: Okay, I’m in!

      Badboy.128 says: So what do we do?

      Farook says: My mate’s going to contact the bloke and sort something out, he’s a bit of a recluse as well but my man thinks it’ll work. I’ll MSN you instructions when it’s sorted.

      Badboy.128 says: ok fine.

      Farook says: one more thing …

      Badboy.128 says: Shoot, mr Pathfinder!

      Farook says: please please don’t send me that file with the bouncing smileys, I have to reboot the machine just to get rid of them!!!!

      Badboy.128 says: you mean these?

      She read the message over and over again, without really understanding it.

      Rebecca,

      I and my family have nothing to say to you.

      Pernilla

      Nilla had replied to her email. And was blowing her out, pretty much as she’d expected. But there was just one problem. She’d never sent the email, just saved it in her Drafts folder to think about it. But when she checked the email had gone and she found it in the Sent folder, fired off yesterday afternoon apparently, just before they had shooting practice.

      Nilla,

      There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, something I’ve put off for far too long.

      Could we meet for a short chat at a time and place that suits you?

      Sincerely,

      Rebecca Normén (formerly Pettersson)

      Her own words, exactly as she remembered them, down to the last comma.

      How the hell had that happened?

      She remembered that she had had the computer on yesterday, but could an email really send itself? Was there some sort of automated function that sent drafts after a day or so?

      She didn’t think there was, but on the other hand you never knew with the police computer system.

      So what should she do now? She didn’t really have much choice. The notes were pretty clear. If she was going to get to the bottom of everything, she’d have to talk to Nilla, whether Nilla wanted to or not.

      Just to be on the safe side she phoned her answer machine to explain to herself why she shouldn’t just back down.

       11

       Name of the Game

      Another bastard boiling hot day! Global warming must be on overtime judging by how long this heat-wave’s been going on, HP thought as he tugged his sticky t-shirt away from his chest.

      The northbound commuter train, a couple more stations and then a bus.

      But then what?

      He had the name of the bus stop on a bit of paper; get out and wait was the instruction. In the middle of nowhere, you could hardly find it even on Google maps. HP sighed and rubbed his sweaty neck.

      From what little he had been told, the bloke he was going to see didn’t seem to have a complete set of cutlery in his drawer, but on the other hand this was HP’s best and actually only chance of getting somewhere and making any sort of sense of this whole fucking mess.

      He got off the train and peered cautiously along the platform. Another three passengers had got off with him. An elderly couple and a fifteen-year-old homeboy with a back-to-front cap and his trousers halfway down. He waited on one of the benches for them all to leave, then, when he was entirely alone, he wandered off towards the bus station.

      He stopped on purpose at the wrong bus stop, saw his bus come, and it was only when it was about to pull away that he sprinted over the road and forced the irate driver to brake hard and let him on. If anyone had been following him, he’d have lost them by now, either here or when he did the platform trick at South Station half an hour or so before. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

      After thirty-five minutes on the bus he was there. But despite counting the bus stops and, just to make sure, asking the driver, he still wasn’t sure he was in the right place. Because this truly was the middle of fucking nowhere. An isolated bus stop on a narrow seventy-km/h road, open fields in all directions and hardly a building in sight.

      There was a smell of dry earth, straw and something else natural that HP couldn’t quite identify. And of course there was no-one there to meet him …

      He lit a fag and chilled for a while but the sun was burning the back of his neck and soon his grimy t-shirt was clinging to his back with sweat.

      He must remember to nick a pair of shorts.

      A few cows were mooing in the distance and on the horizon he saw a little yellow plane coming towards him over the treetops. The plane was pulling a long banner and HP couldn’t help smiling.

      He hadn’t seen that sort of advert since he was little. Hadn’t the internet and commercial television killed off advertising with real banners? But, on the other hand, this was the arse-end of nowhere and you could probably get away with anything round

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