Babylon by Camilla Ceder Page B

black in the hallway. I thought . . . I went back home. What could I do? What else could I do?’
    ‘You just went home? Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?’
    She shrugged helplessly. ‘No. I don’t know, I cycled through the park, through Slottsskogen. As I said, it was the middle of the night.’
    ‘And when you got home?’
    ‘I drank more wine. Eventually I fell asleep.’
    Rebecca began to wail. Beckman grabbed hold of her upper arm. ‘Rebecca.’
    The shock brought Rebecca back to her senses. She tore her arm free and buried her face in her hands. Her breathing became a series of long drawn-out sobs.
    To Beckman’s surprise, she felt a sudden surge of sympathy. ‘Rebecca.’
    ‘My client needs a break.’
    Beckman switched off the tape with a sense of relief. She too needed some air. Those dry sobs were hard to bear.

16
    The house in question turned out to be a terraced house with a red front door and Samuelsson–Nykvist on the letterbox. That fitted. Preparation was the key; the difference between a job well done and a job botched. Between success and a cock-up. Torsen would have sold his mother for the cash this job could bring in. And it would put an old ghost to rest. Knud’s ghost.
    Knud had been clean for many years. He’d sorted his life out. Got a job in a museum. None of the new lot even knew who he was. And it was far more about who you knew than what you knew in this business. Knud should have understood that himself. In this situation, the fact that they’d spent a short time together inside meant nothing. OK, they’d got on well and done a few things together afterwards. Before Knud decided to stick to the straight and narrow. It was all so long ago.
    Torsen could write a fucking book about everything that had happened since then. He still carried the marks of it; marks on his skin and marks deep inside. It was stupid of Knud to think he could ring up after years of silence, just like that – ‘A little job for me, for old times’ sake’ – coldly counting on Torsen’s help.
    Knud had hardly any contacts left. What he did have was attitude. It shone through his mates-from-the-old-days chat. As if he had just touched a pile of shit, Knud had discreetly wiped his hand on his trousers after shaking Torsen’s hand.
    What bothered Torsen was the companion Knud had forced on him. Young, moody, annoying. He had a crazed look in his eyes, as if he was on something. He was off-hand and way too mouthy.
    ‘Just like you in the old days,’ Knud had said, but that was bullshit.
    Before his body let him down and the bigger jobs dried up, Torsen had always known how important it was to cover your tracks.
    ‘Fucking idiot,’ he hissed as the lad blundered inside, running ahand through his spiky hair. Shedding two or three hairs on the carpet, no doubt.
    Torsen swayed in the doorway as he pulled on his gloves. He wasn’t a hundred per cent today, definitely not. But so far, the job seemed straightforward. In and out. There was no one home. They’d parked the car a few streets away. They knew what they were looking for. They wouldn’t have the usual hassle of several journeys to the car.
    The lad was a risk. But he hadn’t a clue what was going on, beyond the fact that he would get a few thousand for a quick job. He knew they were in a house in Sweden where some guy had hidden a number of items Knud wanted to get his hands on. And Knud had been very specific: Don’t touch anything else. Don’t waste time on mobile phones or any of that crap. Get in, pick up the stuff, get out.
    Torsen felt slightly better. He resisted the urge to give the lad a slap. The more methodically they went to work, the quicker they would find what they had come for.
    Then he would need a fix. And a lie down.
    ‘I’ll take the attic. You take the cellar.’
    ‘Aye aye.’
    Aye aye. Still, he was in no state to do the job on his own. It was age, it was the dope, it was the other thing clawing at his body.