THE FOG AND the dusk. What would he have done without them?
With them on his side, he was able to glide through Helsingborg harbour as though wrapped in a big invisibility cloak. The coastguard ship that had been out looking for him since last night, KB 202, was berthed just fifty yards away on his left, next to Parapeten. But he couldn’t even see that far.
For almost three hours, he’d bobbed around in the lifeboat from MS Vinterland with the engine turned off so as not to give away his position. At times, he’d been on the brink of discovery. But luck had been with him, and he hadn’t had to do anything but sit still, letting them pass him by in the milky fog.
Or maybe luck was the wrong word. Maybe it was a reward for his hard work. After everything he’d been through, he deserved to have things go his way, and for the first time in a long time, he was genuinely proud of himself.
He turned right after passing the first pier and continued towards a small gravel beach where he could pull the boat up and cover it with a tarpaulin.
Pretty much everything had gone wrong, and sure, he’d had moments of doubt. He had no problem admitting it. But he’d turned defeat after defeat to his advantage, and in the end, the complications had been the best part.
It almost felt as though the whole thing had been a big test. A challenge to find out if he was worthy of the dice’s grace. There could be no doubt about it now. He hadn’t just completed his task. He’d done so with flying colours.
The tide had turned the moment a big freight ship had blocked him from police view. After taping the throttle down, he’d been able to move up alongside the ship, which had been moving unusually slowly, and as though someone was rolling out a red carpet for him, there had been welded steps all the way up the side of it.
About an hour later, he’d left his hiding place and made his way up to the bridge, where the sword had finally been on his side when the female captain had decided to play the hero.
After that, she’d danced to his tune and done his bidding. It hadn’t been long before he could see the Hallberg-Rassy without binoculars, and after rewrapping the captain’s wound and making sure she wasn’t about to bleed out, he’d covered the last bit in one of the freighter’s lifeboats.
The sun had been high in the sky and the fog that a few hours later would blanket everything in grey candyfloss had yet to announce itself. There had been no chance of a covert approach, so he’d decided to stand up in the open boat and smile and wave to the man in the yacht instead, like the fond reunion it actually was.
The man had, predictably, sped up and tried to contact the police. But apparently his mobile hadn’t been able to make contact with a mast, and before he could get the shortwave radio up and running, the lifeboat had pulled level with the Hallberg-Rassy.
He’d calmly explained to the man that the dice had chosen him, and that neither one of them could change that. To his surprise, the man had listened and let him climb aboard while he made it clear that the best thing he could do in the present situation was to give up without unnecessary resistance, which would only prolong his own suffering and possibly even inflict some on his family as well. The man had nodded without protest, and after that everything had gone his way. There had been no more fumbling with the sword. Instead, the sharp weapon had felt like a natural extension of his arm, and he’d been able to swing it freely.
The whole thing had been like a dance in which the choreography comes naturally. Every swing had landed exactly where it should, and to minimize the man’s suffering, he’d started with his head. Seven swings it had taken him, and the thudding sound when the head finally hit the teak floor and the sight of blood spurting out of the man’s severed carotid arteries had spurred him to keep hacking away until there wasn’t so much as one whole body part left.
The only disruption had been the wife’s hysterical screaming once she woke up and realized what was happening. It had been so annoying he’d eventually had to pause halfway through to knock her unconscious. At least the kid had been smart enough to stay calm and let him have at it.
On the way back to Helsingborg, he’d washed his hands and face clean of blood, but his clothes were unsalvageable. Luckily, the harbour was deserted, and he didn’t see a living soul until he crossed the tracks via the overpass towards the Helsingborg District Court and turned down Carl Krooksgatan, and even then they were only fleeting shadows in the twilit fog, completely unaware of who they were passing.
Out on the water, he’d pondered where to go now that he’d been identified by the police. It didn’t take a PhD to realize they were going to assume he was on the run and doing everything in his power to lie low, which was the only sensible course of action. Maybe that was why the dice had decided he should do the exact opposite.
The workday was over, but the night was still relatively young, so they might still be there, examining his flat. Meanwhile, it was only a matter of time before they found the yacht, if they hadn’t already, and then they would likely relocate all resources to dealing with that. But he’d have to see. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
After cautiously entering the building, he left the lights off and took the stairs, two or sometimes three steps at a time. With six steps to go, he stopped and waited. At least his door was closed, and he could neither see nor hear anyone lurking outside, watching it, which in the end made him risk climbing the rest of the way.
As he’d noted when he left the flat twenty-four hours earlier, the drilled hole in the door had been covered with several layers of thick tape, and since the locks had been changed as well, he had to use his lock pick gun. So quick and easy it should be illegal, the description on the website he’d bought it from had read, and so far, he couldn’t accuse them of false advertising. It hadn’t let him down once.
Once he’d brought his bags into the hallway, he closed the door behind him and looked around. The bathroom door and the door to the walk-in closet were closed, as usual. Half-open doors had always bothered him. But apart from the damage to his front door, he couldn’t see any immediate signs of a police search. There was a hint of a strange smell in the air, but nothing that opening a window wouldn’t solve.
He continued into the living room, where he dropped the hockey bag and took off his backpack before going over to the window and peeking out. Nothing in any of the many windows in the façade opposite suggested his flat was under surveillance, which was definitely strange, considering. Maybe the police were simply short-staffed and had their hands full with other things.
The bedroom looked untouched, too. Had they even been there? It almost didn’t seem like they had. Maybe they’d just walked around with tweezers, collecting hairs, or maybe they’d been in a hurry and done a poor job.
The wardrobe seemed untouched, too, and opening it confirmed his clothes hadn’t been moved.
But it was only after he’d climbed into the wardrobe, closed it from inside, stuck his middle finger into the small hole in the back and pushed the narrow metal plate on the other side to the left, opened the secret door and stepped into his concealed room that he finally dared to relax.