The foreman scrawled something down in his stained ledger.
‘Backe, you said.’ He was grinning now.
‘Mm . . .’ Arne knew what was coming.
‘Backe, that means hill. Uphill or downhill?’
The mechanics guffawed, and Arne dug his front teeth into his lower lip. Arne Nedförsbacke – Downhill Arne – that had been his nickname at school. He’d been a figure of fun because of his grades, because he was useless at football, because his parents had had him when they were older. Sometimes there had been a suggestion that his sister was actually his mother, even though Ingrid was only twelve when he was born.
Regardless of how many times he fought, how many times he got beaten up or went on the offensive himself, the laughter had continued. It hadn’t stopped when he’d grown up either. He was a target because he hadn’t been accepted for military service, because he couldn’t hold down a job, because he would never have got into the police if his brother-in-law Bertil hadn’t played bridge with Lennartson.
Downhill Arne.
‘Sign here.’
The foreman turned the ledger around and winked at him as if Arne were an errand boy rather than a policeman in full uniform.
‘It’s the Saab over there in the corner. And don’t go trying to plough any fields on your way back.’
Arne scribbled his name and grabbed the keys.
The mechanics were pouring fresh oil into the Volvo. The tray containing the old oil was still on a small trolley on the floor. One of the mechanics had blond streaks in his mullet, the other wore an earring. Arne had no doubt they were both closet gays. They weren’t much older than him, but they still thought they had the right to laugh at him.
They straightened up and grinned at him as he passed by; no doubt they were trying to think of a suitable parting shot.
‘You need to clean the floor,’ Arne said before they had time to open their mouths. He kicked the trolley as hard as he could, sending a wave of black, sticky oil all over their feet. Then he walked over to the police car, jumped in and drove away.
The radio car was a Saab 900 Turbo. The mileage was low, and it still smelled new. He could feel its power.
On the E21 heading east, Arne switched on the sirens and blue lights and managed to push the speedometer over one hundred and eighty. He loved seeing the other drivers move aside to let him pass. He could still see the mechanics, slithering around with their shoes full of oil while the foreman roared like a constipated walrus.
For the first time in ages, Arne was in a good mood. He felt as if something within him had eased. He could drive this car wherever and however he wanted. Lennartson moonlighted as a farmer, and had spent all week worrying about a sow that was due to farrow. He’d probably already left for the day, and wouldn’t have a clue where Arne was. As long as he stayed away from Ljungslöv, nobody would know what he was up to. He just had to make sure the car was at the station before eight o’clock tomorrow morning.
He passed the sign for Tornaby, and slowed down. It was high time people saw the new Arne Backe.
4
‘You’re wondering if I still have the same nightmare. I’d really like to say no, because I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine, Margaux. We won’t talk about it anymore, OK?’
The deafening noise reverberates inside Thea’s head. She throws herself out of bed, drops to the floor and covers her head with her arms.
The field hospital in Idlib. The explosions from the barrel bombs that tear apart the buildings and the people inside them, burying everything and everyone beneath the rubble. The concrete dust is choking her. She has to get up, put on her helmet. She has to find Margaux, get out of here . . .
David is standing in the doorway. His lips are moving, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. Her brain is still in the flattened hospital. She staggers through the devastation, tripping over the dead bodies . . .
Then she feels his hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently. The nightmare recedes and she regains her hearing.
‘Thea,’ he says softly. ‘Are you awake?’
She manages a nod, and suddenly notices how dark it is. The nightlight by the door has gone out, and the external lights are not on. Only a faint glow of moonlight spills into the room, making David’s face appear chalk-white.
He pulls her close. Only then does she realise her body has started shaking. Just a little at first, then more violently until her teeth are chattering and she can barely stay upright. Her chest contracts, her breathing becomes shallow.
‘It’s all right,’ he murmurs in her ear. ‘It was just the thunderstorm. You’re safe here. Deep breaths now.’
She tries to follow his advice, takes deep breaths and presses herself as close to him as she can. The pressure in her lungs eases, the shaking stops as the nightmare gradually goes away.
‘OK?’
She nods, pulls back and wipes away the last of the tears with her wrist.
‘I have to go up to the castle – the lightning has knocked out the electricity. Do you want to come with me?’
Thea nods again. She definitely doesn’t want to stay here alone in the dark.
‘Do you know where our raincoats are? It’s pouring down.’
She follows him into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water. Something is missing.
‘Have you seen Emee?’
‘She slipped past me when I opened the front door.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Just after the clap of thunder. I stuck my head out to check on the lights up at the castle, and she ran out. It’s pitch black everywhere.’
David sounds considerably more worried about the castle than the dog. His phone starts ringing.
‘Securitas,’ he says, turning away to take the call.
Thea
