KIM SLEIZNER WOKE IN a cold sweat; the sheets on his bed were damp. It was only ten past four. He could sleep for two more hours and still have time for a long shower and a good breakfast before the press conference.
He could hardly wait. At last the spotlight would be aimed at what truly mattered: the real criminal — the killer who had taken the lives of six Swedes and two Danes.
Soon the papers would have something serious to write about, instead of dwelling on his private life. He gazed out the window and looked east. It was still dark, unusually dark for July, but the sky wasn’t quite as dim over near Sweden. No matter what, today was a new day full of possibilities.
He watched a ship pass along the canal on the way to Langebro. He got carried away in a fantasy where he raced to the garage, took the car to the bridge, and hopped onto the ship’s deck so he could leave all this shit behind and start a new adventure, never to return.
His heart was still pounding, but he didn’t understand why. He hadn’t had a single cup of coffee all day yesterday, and everything was going as planned. Dunja was out of the picture and soon he would be going public with a news item that would silence the criticism around him in one blow. He ought to feel confident, but he only felt anxious.
He took a few deep breaths before bending down as far as he could and standing up again, taking another deep breath; he extended his arms above his head and brought them down in a circle, just as he’d seen Viveca do when she was practising yoga in front of the TV. He tried again, but the movements didn’t seem to have any effect on him.
He gave up and walked over to his desk, turned on his laptop, and checked to see if he had received any new emails.
Three of them had managed to make it through the spam filter.
July 10, 2010, 2:12:40 a.m.
viveca.sleizner@gmail.com
Talked to the realtor, who will be by to look at the apartment at one o’clock today. I expect it to be nice and clean, and for you to stay away. — V
July 10, 2010, 3:32:51 a.m.
jens.duus@politi.dk
The picture has been printed, framed, and uploaded to our server with the password Kb48Grtda7.
See you!
Jens
Sleizner had no idea why Jens Duus always insisted on using such complicated passwords. In just a few hours it would be passed along to every journalist in the country so they could log in and download the picture, and he knew that at least a third of them would type in the wrong combination of letters and numbers.
July 10, 2010, 3:51:10 a.m.
niels.pedersen@politi.dk
http://politiken.dk/
The message didn’t contain anything other than a link to Politiken. Sleizner looked at the clock and realized that this email had just arrived. Who was Niels Pedersen? He didn’t think he knew anyone by that name. He clicked on the link.
He couldn’t believe his eyes; he was flummoxed, absolutely flummoxed.
They had already gotten a hold of the picture he had made sure to have framed and prepared so that he was the one to make it public.
HERE HE IS!
The Swedish police have released a picture of the Class Killer, Torgny Sölmedal, and say they are hot on his trail. A source tells us, “He should soon be in custody.”
Sleizner went to Berlingske’s website and discovered the image there, too.
THE SWEDISH POLICE HAVE MADE GREAT STRIDES IN
THE HUNT FOR CLASS KILLER TORGNY SÖLMEDAL!
They had even identified him! Dunja must have leaked it — it couldn’t have been anyone else. But how the hell had she done it? She was worse than a fucking cockroach. No matter how hard he stomped on her, she just kept running around. He had made sure to block her email account, of course, and yet she had managed to get her hands on the picture that was the centrepiece of his entire press conference; the counterpoint to all the rumours that he was going to announce his resignation.
He would have to cancel, which would mean a major loss of prestige. Hammersten would start to wonder what was going on, but he had no choice. Without the picture he had nothing to bring to the table, and the whole discussion would end up revolving around his potential resignation. No matter how he looked at the situation, he came to the same conclusion: that filthy fucking little whore had won and he was down for the count.
But he had gotten up before. He wasn’t out of the running just yet — not by a long shot.