Hunter - Ларс Кеплер Joona Linna

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of chilled beer.

      ‘Rex?’

      ‘No one needs to know,’ he says with a wink.

      ‘Don’t do it,’ DJ says calmly.

      ‘Are you going to start too?’ Rex says, smiling, and puts the glass down. ‘I’m sober, but it’s pretty ridiculous. Everyone’s just decided that I have a problem without asking me.’

      They finish their meal, pay, and walk down to the hotel jetty, where DJ’s motorboat, a Sea Ray Sundancer that’s seen better days, is moored.

      It’s a warm evening, almost impossibly beautiful. The water is still, the sun is setting slowly, and the clouds are lit with golden light.

      They cast off and slowly pull away from the jetty, rocking through the wake of another boat. They head carefully into the main waterway. The hillside on the port side is strewn with ornate wooden houses.

      ‘How’s your mum these days?’ Rex asks, sitting down beside DJ on the white leather seat.

      ‘A little better, actually,’ he replies, accelerating slightly. ‘The doctors have switched her medication and she’s not feeling too bad now.’

      His voice is drowned out by the roar of the engine when they reach open water. White foam whips up behind them, the bow lifts up and the hull strikes the waves. They keep accelerating, and the boat starts to plane and shoots off across the water.

      Rex stands up unsteadily and starts to pull on the water-skis that are tucked behind the seats.

      ‘Aren’t you going to take your suit off?’ DJ shouts.

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’ll get soaked.’

      ‘I’m not going to fall in!’ Rex shouts back.

      He starts unrolling the line, then feels his phone buzz in his inside pocket. It’s Sammy, and Rex gestures at DJ to slow down.

      ‘Hello?’

      He can hear music and voices in the background.

      ‘Hi, Dad,’ Sammy says, with his phone very close to his mouth. ‘I just thought I’d check what you’re doing tonight.’

      ‘Where are you?’

      ‘At a party, but …’

      The swell from a large yacht makes Rex sway. He loses his balance and sits down on the white leather cushion.

      ‘Are you having a good time?’ he asks.

      ‘What?’

      ‘I’m out at Dalarö with DJ, but there’s some of last night’s sole in the fridge … You can have it cold, or heat it up in the oven for a few minutes.’

      ‘I can’t hear you,’ Sammy says.

      ‘I won’t be late,’ Rex tries to shout.

      He can hear loud music over the phone, the thud of a heavy bassline, and a woman shouting something.

      ‘See you later,’ Rex says, but the line has already gone dead.

       19

      It’s late at night when the taxi rolls down Rehns Street and stops in front of an ornate wooden door. Rex has borrowed some dry clothes from DJ, and has his wet suit in a black bin-bag. He’s supposed to appear on television early the next morning, and should really have been asleep hours ago.

      Rex makes his way inside, shivering as he presses the button for the lift. It doesn’t move. He steps forward and peers up into the lift shaft. The cabin is standing motionless on the fifth floor. There’s a creaking, scraping sound. The cables are swaying and he wonders idly if someone is moving out in the middle of the night.

      He waits a little longer, then starts to walk up the stairs, the bag of wet clothes over his shoulder like he’s Santa Claus.

      When he gets halfway up he hears the lift creak as it starts to move. It passes him on the third floor, and through the grille he can see that it’s empty.

      Rex reaches the top floor, sets the bag down and catches his breath. As he puts the key in the lock he hears the lift come back up and stop at his floor.

      ‘Sammy?’

      The doors slide open, but the lift is empty. Someone must have pressed the button for the sixth floor, then got out.

      Rex walks through the flat without turning the lights on, wondering if it’s worth checking to see if Sammy has left any of the sole before he goes to bed. The floor glints silver in the gloom, and through the glass door to the deck he can see the city’s carpet of lights spread out below.

      Rex opens the fridge and has time to register that Sammy hasn’t touched the fish when his phone rings.

      ‘Rex here,’ he answers hoarsely.

      The receiver crackles. He can hear heavy music in the background, and someone whimpering.

      ‘Dad?’ a voice whispers.

      ‘Sammy? I thought you’d be home by now.’

      ‘I’m not feeling too good,’ his son slurs.

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘I lost my stuff, and Nico’s pissed off at me … I don’t know. For fuck’s sake, just stop it, will you?’ he says to someone at the other end.

      ‘Sammy, what’s going on?’

      Rex can’t hear what his son says, his voice is swallowed up by the noise, then there’s the sound of dishes breaking, and a man starts shouting.

      ‘Sammy?’ he says. ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.’

      ‘You don’t have to …’

      There’s a loud noise, as if Sammy has dropped his phone on the floor.

      ‘Sammy?’ Rex shouts. ‘Tell me where you are!’

      A lot of crackling, then Rex hears someone pick up the phone again.

      ‘Come and get him before I get really sick of him,’ a woman with a deep voice says.

      With his heart pounding, Rex makes a note of the address, calls a taxi and runs downstairs. When he gets outside in the cool air he tries calling Sammy again, but there’s no answer. He tries at least ten more times before the taxi pulls up in front of the building.

      The address the woman gave him is on Östermalm, the wealthiest part of Stockholm, but the building on Kommendörs Street turns out to be public housing from the 1980s.

      Loud music is streaming from a door on the ground floor. There is a strip of tape across the letterbox that says ‘More ads, please’.

      Rex rings the doorbell, then tries the handle, opens the door and stares into a small hallway full of shoes. Loud music reverberates off the walls. The flat smells like cigarette smoke and red wine. There’s a pile of coats on the worn hardwood floor in the hall. Rex goes into the dimly lit kitchen and looks around. The counter is littered with empty beer bottles. The remains of a bean stew have dried onto a pan, and the sink is overflowing with plates and improvised ashtrays.

      A man dressed in black wearing heavy makeup is sitting on the kitchen floor drinking from a plastic bottle. A young woman in denim shorts and a bright pink bra stumbles over to the counter, opens one of the cabinets and takes out a glass. The cigarette between her lips wobbles as she concentrates on filling her glass from a box of wine.

      She taps her ash onto the pile of dirty plates as Rex pushes past her. She slowly exhales a plume of smoke, following him with her eyes.

      ‘Hey, chef, could you fix up an omelette?’ she says with a smile.

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