Restlessness is often the cause of poor judgement. That applied to me too. I didn’t want to go back to the office after Madeleine and I parted. It was too late; I’d soon be going home anyway. But I realised I didn’t want to be there either.
‘Take care,’ Madeleine said as she gave me a hug.
And then she was gone.
I wanted to call after her, say I might need her help again. But I knew that wouldn’t be fair. It was clearly dangerous for other people to be anywhere near me. Madeleine was one of the few people I respected and liked. I didn’t want to drag her into this mess if I could help it.
So what was I going to do if I wasn’t going to go home or back to the office? Belle and Lucy were waiting for me. Following my new custom, I fished my mobile from my pocket and sent Lucy a text.
‘Going to be late. Need to sort something. M.’
Then I dug out another phone number: Veronica’s, the woman I’d met at the Press Club. Our encounters felt so distant now, as if they belonged to a different century. We’d met only twice. Since then I hadn’t had time to see her, seeing as all hell had broken loose. What was rather more surprising was the fact that Veronica hadn’t contacted me either. I’d guessed she was the sort of woman who had problems with relationships in which sex didn’t mean love. But her not phoning seemed to indicate otherwise.
Since Lucy and I got on that plane to Texas I hadn’t spared other women so much as a thought. But that had changed now. Impatience was running through my body like an itch. I’ve always found fresh energy from having sex. With as many women as possible. That’s why I prefer to define myself as single, and it’s why I don’t want to have a partner or get married. Whenever the stress or boredom get too much, I need the opportunity to relieve the pressure.
Veronica was a good option. We’d already met and I knew she was good at sex. It wouldn’t require any tedious preliminary work to get her into bed. The only thing holding me back was the memory of how we had met. I’d first encountered her when I was out having a drink with Didrik Stihl. My intention had been to pump him for information, but that hadn’t gone particularly well. Whereas, in contrast, my pick-up techniques worked rather well. Veronica had been stuck with a boring date and was more than happy to let herself be led astray.
I stifled a sigh and put the phone to my ear. It started to ring. The fact that I had bumped into Veronica while I was having my last friendly meeting with Didrik was irrelevant. She was a completely separate chapter from an entirely different book. And I was horny and restless. I needed sex (with someone other than Lucy), and I needed it right away.
A voice answered after just two rings. A very mechanical voice, belonging to one of the phone companies’ automated systems.
‘This number is not in use,’ the voice said. ‘Please check that you have dialled correctly.’
I stared dumbly at my phone. There was no question that I had misdialled – the number was already in my list of contacts. Puzzled, I called again. And got the same message.
Under normal circumstances I would merely have shrugged and moved on to the next name on the list, because I’m rarely if ever short of someone to fuck. But just then the circumstances were very far from normal. I had stopped believing in fate and coincidence. Maybe there was a perfectly natural reason why Veronica had changed her number. Natural and harmless. Unless the truth was rather different. Natural, but potentially life-threatening.
I’d become paranoid, I had to admit. But I couldn’t afford any more mistakes or misjudgements. I needed to know who I could trust and who I should write off. So I hailed a taxi and went round to Veronica’s. At least there was nothing wrong with my memory. I’d been to her flat on Södermalm twice. I very rarely take women back to mine. If Belle were to wake up in the middle of the night she mustn’t find me in the bedroom with a – to her – unknown, naked woman. Or on the kitchen table. Or standing up against the wall.
One of my mobiles buzzed. I’d soon have to get myself a handbag. My trousers were stuffed full of mobiles to a degree that could only be described as unattractive.
To my surprise I found a text message from Elias. He’d spoken to Bobby’s girlfriend. She was prepared to meet me.
‘Can she come to your office tomorrow?’ he wrote.
I confirmed that that would be fine, and thanked him for his help. He didn’t reply.
The taxi pulled up outside Veronica’s door. It struck me that I didn’t know her surname. Berntsson? Bertilsson? No matter, I knew I had to ring the third bell from the top on the entry-phone. I pressed it again and again. No answer.
My heart-rate speeded up and I took several deep breaths to stay calm. There was no reason to panic. Obviously Veronica was at work. But my anxiety refused to accept rational arguments. It was squirming through me like a worm. Did I even know what her job was? Was there anywhere else I could get hold of her?
Just to put my mind at rest. Just to help me calm down.
I didn’t give a damn about whether or not I got to have sex. Lucy was still the best I knew; I didn’t need to look for someone else to practise relaxation techniques.
I tried ringing one of Veronica’s neighbours. No answer. I tried again and heard an elderly woman’s voice through the speaker.
‘Yes?’
I never need to lie in order to sound important or authoritative. Telling people what my job is always does the trick. There was no reason to do anything different this time. But I did try to say as little as possible about myself.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘My name is Martin, I’m a lawyer. I’m trying to get hold of your neighbour, Veronica. It’s urgent.’
Silence.
‘Veronica?’ the woman said.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s no Veronica here.’
Shit. Pissing fucking shit.
I hesitated, but only for a moment.
‘Could I possibly come in?’ I said.
‘By all means,’ the voice said. ‘Come up and ring the bell. The name on the door is Svensson.’
There was a buzz and the door opened.
There was a lift, but I chose to take the stairs. It was Lucy who got me started on that. You should never miss any opportunity to exercise your buttocks and thighs. Sure enough, one of the doors on the third floor was marked Svensson, whereas the door Veronica and I had gone through was unmarked. Had that been the case when I was last there? I couldn’t remember.
I hardly had time to ring the bell before the door marked Svensson opened. An elderly woman welcomed me in with a twinkling smile. I liked her instinctively. She was old – she had to be over eighty – but extremely spry. It’s important to make a distinction between people’s physical and mental age. There are thirty-year-olds who behave as if they were seventy, and ninety-year-olds who never seem a day over forty-five.
‘Harriet,’ the woman said, shaking my hand.
‘Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to impose like this. Like I said, I’m trying to contact Veronica next door.’
I pointed towards the door to the neighbouring flat.
Harriet stepped out onto the landing and followed my finger with a look of surprise.
‘There’s no one called Veronica living there,’ she said.
‘There was a few weeks ago,’ I said.
She shook her head firmly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not right.’
I did my best not to lose my grip. Panicking wouldn’t help.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay. Let me put it like this: a few weeks ago I paid a visit to that flat. I was there in the company of a woman who called herself Veronica. Tall and blonde, very attractive. She had keys to the flat and there was nothing to suggest that she hadn’t been there before. Does she sound like anyone you’ve seen coming and going?’
I tried to remember what the flat had looked like. Small, just two rooms, bedroom and living room. White walls, fully tiled bathroom. Kitchen cabinets from Ikea. Neutral, timeless furniture. Green plants and soft sheets. Pictures on the walls, but not many photographs. I ransacked my memory. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became: I hadn’t seen a single photograph. The only things in the flat that could be described as personal were a few items of clothing tossed on the sofa and bed. I should have opened the fridge. To see if it was empty.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve seen the woman you’re talking about. She seemed very nice. But I only saw her here a couple of times. Like all the others who use that flat.’
‘All the others?’ I said dumbly.
Harriet nodded.
‘This building is owned by a housing cooperative, and I’m on the committee,’ she said. ‘All the flats belong to members of the cooperative. Apart from that one, which is used as shared accommodation for guests. So your young lady must know someone who lives here in the building, who let her borrow it while she was visiting. We don’t have a member called Veronica.’
I nodded as my pulse quickened. It would be such a relief to find that everything had a logical explanation. I had lied to Veronica, telling her my house was suffering from damp and that we’d have to meet at hers. The fact that she may have lied to me in turn didn’t necessarily have to mean anything funny. Maybe she hadn’t even been lying: the flat could well have been her home on the days when she and I met. She was under no obligation to tell me where she really lived.
‘Perhaps you should go round knocking on my neighbours’ doors,’ Harriet said with a wry smile. ‘To find out which one of them she knows.’
Naturally I didn’t do that. But I did go up and down the stairs, looking at the names on all the doors. I didn’t recognise any of them. When I eventually left the building I still had the distinct feeling that I had been tricked.