icing on the cake was when the cops got back from the doughnut shop or wherever they’d been and discovered their ride had been wrecked. All of it carefully documented by the cameraman who even managed to catch some of the swearing before he had to break off and run for his life.
Praise was raining down on twenty-seven’s comments section and HP could only agree with it. It was totally fucking cool, and pretty damn ballsy too! Maybe a bit too adventurous for him, but what the hell? On the other hand, it had to be less risky to fuck with the cops in Sweden than in the States. Over there you could easily get your head blown off if you were unlucky, and that sort of thing didn’t happen much here at home, at least not very often.
‘Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you?’ Bang, bang!
He finished his Dirty Harry imitation in front of the steamed-up bathroom mirror, holstered his finger, then dutifully ran a comb a couple of times through his long, greasy hair and inspected the results with satisfaction as he blinked at his reflection.
‘Looking good, Louis!
Feeling good, Billy-Ray!’
A quick check of his pockets. Cash – check, cigs – check, keys – check. He picked up the mobile on his way out. It was time to play. Game on!
She had grabbed a coffee in the Sture Gallery, then cruised quickly past all the twenty-year-olds with daddy’s credit card crowding round the boutiques along Biblioteksgatan, then turned to head along Hamngatan towards the main underground station at T-Centralen. Even though it was the height of the holiday season, the Friday rush-hour traffic was almost at a standstill and the exhaust fumes were mixing with the summer smells of tarmac, cigarette smoke and food.
It was almost evening but she still had a couple of hours of her shift left. She had been planning to go to the gym, but she didn’t really feel like it. Even if the incident on the quayside was more than twenty-four hours ago her body still felt sluggish. Almost as if the adrenalin rush had left her with a hangover. But if these were the after-effects that Anderberg had warned her about, she could certainly put up with them.
She decided to head off towards the block housing Police Headquarters anyway. Her occupational injury form would be waiting in her pigeon-hole and it made sense to get that out of the way before she started with the Alpha group. So, the blue underground line to Rådhuset.
She headed diagonally across Sergels torg towards the entrance to the underground station.
In spite of all manner of schemes from the police and social services, she noted that the junkies were still dutifully at work in their market-place around the doors. Not even the latest well-lit renovation had scared them away and these days their presence didn’t seem to surprise anyone, even the tourists ignored them.
It was as if the poor bastards had become a fixed element of the urban scene. Whatever, it was nice to get into the cool of the station concourse.
She showed her police badge at the turnstile and took the escalator down towards the blue line.
The escalator up towards T-Centralen. He latched onto a mother with young children and snuck through the open gate for pushchairs, just as he had done on his way in. Then quickly across the station concourse and out through the doors to Sergels torg.
Even though it was evening the heat hit him like a wall. A couple of junkies were slumped drowsily under the shelter of the roof, it looked like they’d had thin pickings that day. Presumably the dealers went on holiday as well? HP thought he recognized one of them and nodded curtly as he went past, but the look in the bloke’s eyes was so glassy that he probably couldn’t see further than the end of his nose. Smack was a load of fucking shit, no doubt about that. He was more than happy with Miss Mary Jane. It was an absolute joke that the law made no distinction. No-one had ever overdosed on dope as far as he was aware.
He walked across the uncovered part of the square, then went down the slope to the underground shopping level, and a few minutes later he was standing in front of the doors with the golden handles.
A quick check of his watch. 18:43. He was two minutes early.
He wasn’t used to wearing a watch.
When he’d received his instructions and realized that he’d need a watch, he’d spent at least half an hour hunting through his boxes. Eventually he had managed to dig out a shabby old Casio which had to be at least ten years old, but somehow it was still working. He had called the speaking clock and to his surprise the number still worked: ‘At the third stroke it will be eighteen forty-five precisely …’
The flashing LED light on the mobile interrupted his thoughts. He opened the new message expectantly.
Welcome to your second assignment, HP!
Today’s mission, if you choose to accept it,
is worth 400 points.
Do you want to continue?
He clicked Yes at once.
Four hundred points, almost three thousand kronor, and a serious jump from the swamp at the bottom of the list of hundred-pointers.
Excellent!
Take the lift up to the book shop.
Don’t forget to carry the phone with the camera facing out.
Press the button below when you’re in position.
An icon marked ‘Ready’ appeared at the bottom of the screen.
HP discovered that the palms of his hands were already clammy with excitement. This was seriously fucking cool!
He was a secret agent, a man on a mission. ‘Pettersson, Henrik Pettersson.’
He opened the doors, went down the escalator, cruised through the mere mortals looking at espresso machines and ridiculously overpriced chocolate, turned the corner to the lobby where the lifts were and pressed the up button. A couple of minutes later he got out on floor 3, turning his face away from the security camera out of habit and gliding in among the bookcases.
He clicked on ‘Ready’.
The reply came at once.
Follow the White Rabbit!
At first he just stared uncomprehendingly at the screen, then after a couple of seconds the penny dropped.
Of course! A bit cheesy, maybe, but still pretty cool! Whoever it was who designed the assignments, at least they seemed to have a sense of humour …
Grinning, he started searching the bookcases, running his fingers along the books until he found the one he was looking for. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the reference bible for all film-buffs. He pulled out the book and leafed through the pages. In his excitement when he made his discovery he almost dropped the white plastic card on the floor. ‘Floor 5, 18:55’ was written on it in ink, but otherwise the card was blank.
HP frowned. He knew the department store inside out, it was unbeatable for distracted tourists, or if you just wanted to kill a couple of hours people-watching. He was one hundred per cent sure there were only four floors. A quick glance at the Casio told him he had three minutes to solve the mystery.
The
