Alicia was pacing restlessly around Stella’s apartment. Or was it grander than that? She was unsure what it took to move a home up a notch in the hierarchy. Perhaps the living room with its high window and the view of the Klarälven River were good enough. The water below was frozen and through the thin curtains she could see the lights on the bridge by the opera house illuminating the snow-covered ice.
Alicia sat down on the Howard sofa. She knew it was called that because her sister had yelled at her on one occasion when she’d fetched ice cream from the kitchen to eat it there.
“Do you know how much that Howard sofa cost?”
Stella had emphasized the prefix—Howard—not the sofa, and she had run to get a towel to place on the upholstery.
Now the freezer had been plundered again, this time for a pack of macarons in pastel shades that Alicia had put on the counter to defrost. It had been them or the booze in the cupboard.
For several minutes, she simply sat there, staring into the darkness. She hadn’t dared turn on any lights. There was a risk the neighbors might start asking questions if they saw lights on in the apartment at night.
When a car drove at high speed down the narrow street outside, she hurried over to one of the windows. It wasn’t the police this time either, just some car nut driving a classic American make with a Confederate flag painted on the hood.
She drew the curtains, returned to the sofa, and turned on the TV. It was just after closing time at the nightclub, and Ratko ought to be there soon. He had to be there soon, she corrected herself. She needed him, and he had promised to be there for her.
After channel hopping for a while, she gave up on the TV and switched her attention to her cell phone instead. Against her better judgment, she opened Instagram and scrolled down her feed. Weirdly, Ratko hadn’t posted in hours. On nights he was working at Safir he usually filled his account with photos of platinum blondes showing off on the dance floor and guys with too many shirt buttons undone.
Alicia sent a message: Are you on your way? I’m still up.
She put away her phone, only to get it out a minute later. Ratko hadn’t answered.
She scrolled through her contacts and was about to call him when she heard footsteps in the stairwell outside. Alicia leapt off the sofa and went into the hallway. Ratko must have been let in through the main door and not needed to use the intercom.
The footsteps stopped and Alicia saw the door handle moving. Moving with infinite slowness, it angled downward. As if the person on the other side was figuring out whether the door was locked or not.
She realized right away that something was up. If it had been Ratko then he would have just rung the bell.
Alicia hurried back to the living room where she stood in the middle of the floor. From the hallway, she heard a click as the bolt in the lock changed position. The intruder must have used a pick or a key. After the night when she’d had to kill Birger Falk, she had most definitely not forgotten to lock the door.
It had to be the police.
Forensics had probably already gone over her bedroom at home and found blood residue that matched the body in the Volvo. It hardly required the skills of a master detective to figure out that Alicia was hiding out in her sister’s apartment.
She looked around for somewhere to hide and crept into the small gap between the wall and the sofa. She felt in her jeans pocket, looking for her cell.
It wasn’t there.
She looked over the back of the sofa and saw her phone on the coffee table. The police were in the kitchen now and would probably find her if she tried to reach for it.
Alicia sank back behind the piece of furniture. She could do nothing but pray to a higher power that Ratko wouldn’t reply to her message so that the screen lit up like a Christmas tree in the darkness. She laid her cheek against the parquet and peered through the crack under the sofa. Before long, she saw a pair of men’s shoes enter the living room. A beam of light from what must have been a flashlight swept back and forth across the highly polished floor.
Alicia knew nothing about police methods except what she’d seen in the movies. But shouldn’t they have sent at least two people to arrest her? And why wasn’t this man turning on the lights and yelling at her to come out with her hands over her head? Instead, he was sneaking around the apartment like a common thief, leaving the lights off.
Alicia was startled when he turned on his heel and headed for the sofa. She held her breath and wished her heart would stop pounding in her ribcage. Each beat was like a hammer blow and she felt as though the vibrations would reveal her hiding place.
Then the man stopped right in front of her. Alicia heard him open one of the zips on the sofa cushions. As if he were looking for something without finding it.
Shortly after that, the beam of light disappeared to another part of the room. Alicia realized he must have his back to her and she peeked once again over the top of the sofa. Despite only catching a brief glimpse of the man, she recognized him immediately.
That suit.
The broad shoulders.
The contours of the shaven head.
It really was the police who had broken in.
Well, actually—a cop. The one who had told her Stella was dead and that she’d seen examining the Volvo out at Hammarö.
Nothing made sense to Alicia. What on earth was he doing by Stella’s big display cabinet? The flashlight was lying on one of the shelves and he seemed to be occupied with something that required both his hands.
She crouched down again and wished he would be done soon with whatever it was he’d come here to do. Her cell phone was still on the table and it might start vibrating if Ratko decided to call her on his way over from Safir.
Finally, the shoes moved. They headed for the doorway to the kitchen and disappeared from her field of vision. Shortly after that, she heard the front door opening, closing, and then being locked.
Alicia exhaled. She was alone again. It was still a long time before she dared leave her spot behind the sofa. Her body needed time to process that the danger had passed. The hammer was still pounding blow after blow inside her chest.
But then she was overcome by curiosity. She picked up her cell from the table, switched on the flashlight and went over to the cabinet. Her phone cast a pale light onto the piece of furniture, but it revealed no secrets. The champagne glasses were neatly lined up in rows inside the glass doors and there was a stack of pretentious books about modern art on the sideboard.
Alicia put her hand on the cover of the one on top. A fine layer of dust adhered to her fingers. She did the same with the white speaker that melted so discreetly into the background that she’d almost missed it. This time no particles stuck to her skin.
Had the man wiped it down?
That was one possible conclusion.
She turned the speaker around and saw the screwheads on the back. Next to one of them there was a notch in the plastic as if someone had slipped while using a screwdriver.
Alicia went into the kitchen and searched the drawers. In the cutlery drawer, she found a Swiss army knife and returned to the cabinet. She carefully unscrewed the cover from the speaker and lifted it off. In the cavity in front of the bass membrane she found a bag of white powder.
Alicia opened the plastic bag and dipped her little finger into it. She licked the tip of her finger and recognized the bitter, chemical taste. She had managed to say no to it throughout her life—with a few exceptions.
It was cocaine.
The room was spinning and she was neither drunk nor high.
What the hell had the policeman been playing at?
Why was he planting drugs in Stella’s apartment?