Андерс де ла Мотт – MemoRandom (страница 6)
She didn’t answer; she hardly ever did. She just sat still in her wheelchair with a blanket over her thin legs as she looked at the stars. But Atif knew she was listening. She really ought to have gone to bed a long time ago. But on starry nights like this the nurses let her stay up. They knew it made her calmer.
He took a deep breath. Time to spit it out.
‘I have to go back to Sweden. It’s to do with Adnan,’ he went on. He tried to force his mouth to form the words. But to his surprise his mother spoke instead.
‘A-Adnan …’ Her voice was weak, thin, almost like a child’s. ‘Adnan isn’t home from school yet.’
Atif opened his mouth again.
‘Adnan’s a good boy,’ his mother went on. ‘He’s got a good head for learning, he could be anything he likes. An engineer, or a doctor. You must help him, make sure he doesn’t end up like, like …’ She fell silent and looked up at the night sky. Atif bit his lip.
‘It’s time for bed now, Mum.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you from Sweden.
His mother nodded distantly. Her gaze was fixed on the stars again. Atif straightened up and began to walk away. He’d tell her when he got back. That would have to do.
‘You’ve got a good son, to come and see you so often, Dalia,’ she heard the nurse say. ‘You must be very proud of him.’
Atif quickened his pace. And tried to convince himself that it was the distance that meant he couldn’t hear her reply.
Jesper Stenberg limped toward his car, got in, and then sat behind the wheel for a few moments. His hands were shaking, and his left shoe felt warm and wet.
Fucking psycho bitch. Why the hell hadn’t he stuck to the plan, said what he had to say and then left? Fucking her and then dumping her wasn’t a very smart thing to do. Not to mention that stupid remark about the private clinic in Switzerland, a subject he should have avoided at all costs. But, as usual, Sophie had managed to unsettle him. To get beneath the skin of his bespoke self-confident image.
Stenberg took a few deep breaths as he tried to pull himself together. It was only just ten o’clock. Karolina wouldn’t be home before two. Plenty of time to go home, patch himself up, then settle back on the sofa with a whiskey and do his best to forget this sordid little episode. He was pretty good at that. Forgetting, leaving things behind, and setting off toward new goals.
He started the engine and slid the car out of its parking space. The pain in his left foot had turned into a dull throb. At the exit he stopped at the barrier. His pass card was in one of the inside pockets of his wallet, an anonymous white plastic card, obviously not issued in his name. He put the gearshift in neutral and opened the window. The Eco-Drive function instantly shut off the big engine and everything went silent. In the distance he could hear the garage’s ventilation system. A dull, ominous sound that made him feel badly ill at ease. The feeling came out of nowhere, and for a few seconds it took over his whole being and made his hands shake.
He had to get out of there, right away!
Stenberg touched his wallet to the card reader. The machine made a vague clicking sound. But the barrier didn’t move.
He swore silently to himself and tried again. ‘Come on, come on …’
He thought he could hear a noise, something that sounded like a distant scream, and glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. Everything seemed okay behind him. The sound must have come from out in the street.
The barrier started to move, slowly and jerkily. Just a few centimetres at a time, as if it didn’t really want to let him go.
Stenberg turned the stereo on and tried to find something to lift his mood. The intro kicked in and the stereo began to count the seconds.
0.01.
0.02.
0.03.
As soon as the gap under the barrier was big enough he set the car rolling. Relief radiated through his body. He slowed down just before the ramp reached street level. His hands were still shaking, making it hard for him to fasten his seat belt.
The music stopped abruptly, making Stenberg raise his head. The timer had stopped but the play symbol was still illuminated. Odd. Something white fluttered at the corner of his eye, hovering in the air just above the hood of the car.
A plastic bag, he found himself thinking. But the object was far too large. The stereo was still silent, the time on the display static. And all of a sudden Stenberg realized what was happening. He realized where the car was, and what the large, white, fluttering object in the air actually was.
He shut his eyes, clutched the steering wheel, and felt an icy chill spread from his stomach and up through his chest. The timer on the stereo suddenly came back to life and the music carried on. It was only drowned out by the sound of Sophie Thorning’s body as it thudded into the hood of the car.
Atif leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. In spite of the snow and cold outside, the air in the windowless little room felt stuffy. The smell of burned coffee, various bodily excretions, and general hopelessness was very familiar. You could probably find the same thing in police stations all over the world.
He was hungry, and his neck and shoulders were stiff after the long journey. He hated flying, hated putting his life in other people’s hands.
‘Name?’ the policeman sitting opposite him asked.
‘It says in there.’ Atif nodded toward the red passport on the table between them. The policeman, a fleshy little man in his sixties with thinning hair, who had introduced himself as Bengtsson, didn’t reply. In fact he didn’t even look up, just went on leafing through the folder he had in his lap.
Atif sighed.
‘Atif Mohammed Kassab,’ he said.
‘Age?’
‘I’m forty-six, born June nineteenth. Midsummer’s Eve …’ He wasn’t really sure why he added this last remark. But the policeman looked up at last.
‘What?’
‘June nineteenth,’ Atif said. It had been several years since he had last spoken Swedish. The words felt clumsy, his pronunciation seemed out of synch, like all the dubbed films on television back home. ‘Once every seven years it’s Midsummer’s Eve.’
The policeman stared at him through his small reading glasses. The smell of polyester, sweat, and coffee breath was slowly creeping across the table. Atif sighed again.
‘Okay, Bengtsson, it’s been over an hour since you stopped me at passport control. I flew in from Iraq so you suspect my passport is fake, or that it’s genuine but not mine.’
He paused, thinking how much he’d like a hamburger right now. The look on the policeman’s face remained impassive.
‘I’m tired and hungry, so maybe we could do the quick version?’ Atif went on. His voice felt less out of synch already, the words coming more easily.
‘My name is Atif Kassab, and I was born in Iraq. My dad died when I was little and my mum brought me to Sweden. She got married again, to a relative. When I was twelve he went off to the USA, leaving me, Mum, and my newborn younger brother. But by then at least we were Swedish citizens so we didn’t get thrown out.’
‘So you say.’ The policeman was looking down at his file again. ‘According to the National ID database, Atif Mohammed Kassab has emigrated.’
‘That’s right. About seven years ago,’ Atif said.
‘And since then you’ve been living …?’ Bengtsson raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘In Iraq.’
‘Where in Iraq?’
Atif frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
The policeman slowly raised one hand and took off his glasses.
‘Because the Atif Mohammed Kassab who you claim to be has a pretty impressive criminal record.’ He gestured toward the file with his glasses.
‘And?’ Atif shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, if you really are Atif Mohammed Kassab, it’s in the interests of the police to find out a bit more about you. Where you’ve been living, what you’ve been doing, whom you’ve spent time with.’
‘I’ve got a Swedish passport, I’m a Swedish citizen. I’m not obliged to say a fu—’ Atif interrupted himself midsentence and pinched the top of his nose. It was almost eleven o’clock in the evening now. Almost ten hours since he last had any proper food.
‘If we suspect that there’s anything funny going on, we can put you on the next plane back to Iraq. There’s a flight first thing tomorrow morning.’
The fat little policeman clasped his hands together behind his neck and slowly stretched. The sweat stains under his arms were clearly visible on his shirt.
‘Or we could lock you in a cell for a few days,’ he went on. ‘While we compare your fingerprints with the database. That sort of thing can take a while, obviously.’ The policeman grinned.
Atif was on the point of saying something but thought better of it. That last threat was probably a bluff. Even if the fat little cop still doubted that his passport was genuine, he must have realized by now that Atif wasn’t trying to sneak into the country illegally. But, on the other hand, he had no wish to end up in a cell. Besides, he had an appointment to keep.