LITMIR.BIZ

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covering the tarmac, settling like a blanket on the car windshield. Headlights reflecting off the snow. Blinding him, sticking into his head like knives.

      ‘W-winter,’ he said.

      ‘Well done, David, that’s right.’

      Sarac leaned his head back on the pillow. He felt suddenly relieved. At least he wasn’t completely gone. If he could just calm down a bit, if only this bastard headache could let up a bit, everything would become clear.

      ‘Do you know what year it is, David?’

      ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘2011.’

      Doctor Vestman said nothing, just made a small note. But something in her body language had changed.

      ‘No, no, sorry! 2012. Obviously, I meant 2012,’ he quickly corrected himself.

      She looked up. Smiled again, the same irritating, sympathetic smile as before.

      ‘It’s December 2013, David.’

      ‘W-what?’

      ‘It’s Thursday, December twelfth, 2013.’

      ‘Impossible. I mean …’ Sarac struggled once more to sit up, trying to push back against the mattress with his feeble right hand and almost losing his balance. He slumped back against the pillow instead. His headache shifted up a gear, then another. He screwed his eyes shut a few times. Then he slowly opened them. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling were flaring.

      ‘Can you tell me about your last memory, from the time before the crash, David?’

      ‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘No problem,’ he added after thinking for a couple of seconds. But it wasn’t true. It didn’t even come close.

      The time before the crash … His heart was suddenly galloping in his chest.

      A stroke.

      Car crash.

      The time before …

      December 2013.

      The time before the crash …

      December.

      20 … 13!!

       Fucking hell!!!

      ‘It doesn’t matter, David,’ Dr Vestman said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s rewind a bit,’ she went on. ‘That often helps. Try telling me what your name is.’

      ‘David Georg Sarac,’ he said quickly. The words helped ease his panic slightly.

      ‘And how old are you, David?’

      ‘Thirty-five!’ He breathed a short sigh of relief. It worked when he didn’t try to think. If he just let the answers come out automatically.

      ‘Where do you live?’

      ‘Birkastan. Rörstrandsgatan, number 26. Third floor.’

      ‘Family?’

      ‘Mum and Dad are dead. My twin sister, Elisabeth, lives in Canada.’ He paused.

      ‘Ontario,’ he added, and suddenly felt much calmer. He wasn’t some fucking vegetable, as he’d begun to suspect. His brain was sluggish, sure, but he wasn’t completely gone. All this would soon be over, and everything would fall back into place.

      ‘A number of your friends and colleagues have been to see you. A lot of people care about you, David. Could you tell me something about your work?’

      ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said.

      ‘What sort of police officer, David?’

      ‘The Intelligence Unit. I handle informants …’ He suddenly broke off. New feelings were suddenly running through him. It took him a few seconds to identify them. Discomfort, shame. A growing sense of danger.

      His headache instantly redoubled its efforts, forcing him to close his eyes. For a few seconds he thought he was going to be sick. The words broke free and bounced around inside his head.

      What.

      Sort.

      Of.

      Police.

      Officer?

      ‘And what does that involve?’ the doctor asked. ‘Handling informants, I mean.’ Her voice sounded very distant all of a sudden. What was her name again? Dr …?

      You’ve had a stroke, you crashed your car in the Söderleden Tunnel, and you’re in the hospital. Today is Thursday, December 12, and the doctor’s name is … something beginning with V. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, could hardly keep his eyes open.

      ‘It’s okay, David, there’s no rush. You’ve already made very good progress. Get some rest and we’ll carry on tomorrow.’

      He heard the stool scrape as the doctor stood up. He could feel himself slowly slipping into sleep.

      ‘Secrets,’ he muttered when she was almost at the door. ‘I collect secrets.’

       4

      The young man groaned cautiously, but the sound from the cinema screen drowned him out. That the young blonde woman had tied a scarf around his eyes a short while before meant he was missing the film. But to judge by the expression on his face, he didn’t seem to mind.

      Natalie Aden, who was sitting in the row in front, turned around and leaned over the back of the seat, zooming in on the man’s face with the camera on her cell phone. She made sure the blindfold was clearly visible and waited until she could get a picture where he didn’t look quite so happy before pressing the button. Satisfied with the result, she silently got up. The blonde looked up from the man’s lap, not that that meant interrupting what she was doing, and Natalie gave her a curt nod. On her way out of the cinema she glanced at the time. Quarter past three in the afternoon, an hour and twenty minutes left of the film. Plenty of time. Hötorget was full of market traders and people aimlessly wandering about. It took her a while to reach the café, where she ordered a latte and settled down at one of the window tables. She got her laptop out of her rucksack, plugged in her cell phone, and transferred the picture she had taken in the cinema. She had written the message in advance, so attaching the image and sending the whole thing off took less than thirty seconds.

      An hour and eight minutes left until the film was over, and around about … now, the message ought to have reached its recipient. Her chat status was green, so she was sitting in front of her computer at her pretend job. Her long lunch with her girlfriends would have ended an hour ago, the wine buzz would be fading, and it was still a bit too early to head home. Regardless of the money, Natalie couldn’t understand how anyone could bear to live that sort of fake life.

      She opened another tab on her browser and logged into a Western Union account. The balance was showing as zero, but that would soon change. She reached for her latte and leaned back in her chair, wondering about getting something to eat. She knew she shouldn’t. She had already exceeded her ration of points for the week. Maybe time to try the 5:2 diet instead?

      Her phone buzzed. A cellular number she didn’t recognize. She inserted her hands-free earpiece.

      ‘Hello,’ she said in a clipped tone of voice.

      ‘Hi, Natalie!’

      The man on the other end of the line sounded amused, as if she had already said something funny. Telesales manual, page one, heading ‘customer contact.’ She was about to hang up.

      ‘How did you catch him? Facebook? Instagram? Some other social network for the young and rich?’ the man said.

      ‘What?’ Natalie was taken aback.

      ‘Hans Wilhelm Sverre Wettergren-Dufwa, or Wippe to his family and friends.’

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