The Rabbit Hunter

28

The inmate from Hall is on his way towards D-block, where the atmosphere is tense.

Through the reinforced glass, the guards can see that for once Joona is eating breakfast at the same table as the leader of the Brotherhood, Reiner Kronlid. The two of them talk for a while, then Joona stands up, takes his coffee and sandwich, and goes to sit at another table.

‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ one of the guards asks.

‘Maybe he’s heard something about the new guy.’

‘Unless it’s about being granted leave?’

‘His application was approved yesterday,’ the third guard nods. ‘First time for him.’

Joona looks over at the three guards who are watching him through the glass, then turns towards Sumo and asks the same question he just asked Reiner.

‘What can I do for you tomorrow?’ he asks.

Sumo has already served eight years for a double murder, and now knows that he killed people over a misunderstanding. His face is a picture of grief these days. He always looks like he’s been crying but is trying to hold it together.

‘Buy a red rose... the best one you can find. Give it to Outi and tell her she’s my rose, and... And say sorry for ruining her life.’

‘Do you want her to come out here?’ Joona asks, looking him in the eye.

Sumo shakes his head, and his gaze slides towards the window. He stares at the grey fence topped with barbed wire, and the monotonous, dirty yellow wall beyond it.

Joona turns to the next man at the table, Luka Bogdani, a short man whose face is locked in a permanent state of derision.

‘How about you?’

Luka leans forward and whispers:

‘I want you to check if my brother’s started to get rid of my money.’

‘What do you want me to ask?’

‘No, fuck it, no questions. Just look at the money, count it. There should be exactly six hundred thousand.’

‘I can’t do that,’ Joona replies. ‘I want to get out of here, and that money’s from a robbery, and if I—’

‘Fucking cop,’ Luka hisses, and sends his coffee cup flying.

Joona walks on around the tables in the dining room. He asks them all what he can do for them when he’s outside. He memorises greetings and errands as he waits for Salim Ratjen to arrive.

Joona told the Prime Minister that he needs thirty-six hours’ leave, starting on Monday, in order to infiltrate Ratjen’s organisation.

‘That won’t leave you long in here to find out what he knows,’ the Prime Minister had warned.

Joona didn’t tell him that the limited amount of time was an advantage.

Before leaving the visitors’ room, Joona had asked how far he was allowed to go in extreme circumstances. The corners of the Prime Minister’s mouth had twitched slightly when he replied:

‘If you can stop the terrorists, you can do pretty much whatever you need to.’

Reiner Kronlid gets up from his table, wipes his mouth nervously, then stares at the hallway and airlock. He stands there stiffly, his neck tense, before licking his lips and sitting back down again. The others at the Brotherhood’s table lean forward as he talks.

Joona sees the light in the hallway behind the reinforced glass dim as a grey shadow appears.

The lock whirrs and two guards hand over Salim Ratjen.

Salim Ratjen’s face is round and intelligent. His thinning hair is combed across his head, and his moustache is streaked with grey.

He is carrying his belongings in a grey, prison-service duffle, and is careful not to look anyone in the eye.

One of the guards takes him first to his cell, then the dining room.

Salim sits down on the empty chair next to Magnus Duva with a bowl and mug.

Joona stands up and goes over to them. Looking at Magnus, he sits down by their table and asks what he can do for him while he’s outside.

‘Go and see my sister and cut her nose off,’ Magnus says.

‘She sends you money every month,’ Joona says.

‘Don’t forget to film it,’ Magnus says.

Salim listens, eyes lowered, as he eats his muesli.

Reiner and two of his men stand talking in front of the window to the control room, blocking the view for the few moments required.

The other two members of the Brotherhood walk across the dining room, their muscled arms hanging stiffly by their sides. One of them has a tattoo of a wolf encircled by barbed wire. The other has a dirty bandage around his hand.

This is the wrong time for a murder, Joona thinks, and turns towards Salim Ratjen.

‘Do you speak Swedish?’ Joona asks.

‘Yes,’ Salim replies without looking up.

The men head off towards the bathrooms.

‘You might have figured out that I have some leave soon, and I’m asking everyone in the block if there’s anything they want me to do for them outside... We don’t know each other, but you’re probably going to be here for a while, so I’ll ask you too.’

‘Thanks, but I’m OK,’ Ratjen says in a low voice.

‘Because I’m an infidel?’

‘Yes.’

The plastic spoon trembles in Salim Ratjen’s freckled hand.

Chairs scrape the floor and the two Malmö guys get up on the other side of the room. Imre with the gold teeth is almost six foot six, and Darko looks like a sixty-year-old miner.

Reiner’s group start complaining noisily that the coffee is weak. They turn towards the window.

‘You can’t fucking fool us!’ one of them yells. ‘Before the Albanians got here there was always enough coffee!’

Behind the glass the two prison guards get ready to go in and calm things down.

The men from the Brotherhood start to head towards Salim. They pull up their hoods and keep their backs to the security cameras.

They’re not armed, they just want to intimidate him.

Joona stays where he is, realising that they’re about to strike. Salim controlled a lot of the drug trade at Hall, and Reiner Kronlid needs to scare or kill him straight away in order to show him who’s in control.

‘You’ll be put in the laundry room to start, but you can choose to study instead,’ Joona says calmly. ‘We’ve got a study group if you’re interested. This year three of the guys got their GCSEs, and—’

The first of the two men shoves Salim, and his chair topples over, taking him with it. His bowl hits the floor, sending its contents flying.

Salim tries to get up, but the second man kicks him in the chest and he stumbles back into the chairs behind him.

His right leg flies out and the sole of his shoe slips on the spilled food.

Joona sits where he is, drinking his coffee.

The guys from Malmö appear and force their way into the scrap. They’re a head taller than everyone else. They push the men from the Brotherhood away, talking in Albanian with smiles on their lips.

The prison guards rush into the dining room to separate the men.

Salim gets to his feet. He tries to look unconcerned, tries to hide his fear as he rubs his bruised elbow and sits back down again.

Joona hands him a paper napkin.

‘Thanks.’

‘You got some milk on your shirt.’

Salim wipes the smear and folds the napkin. Joona feels like the attack was feigned, some sort of diversionary manoeuvre.

He glances over at Reiner, trying to read his reaction, and concludes that a second wave is on its way.

The guards are talking to the two attackers, who are swearing blind that Salim Ratjen provoked them.

The situation has already been defused by the time the rapid response team comes rushing in, batons and pepper spray at the ready.

Joona knows that his only chance of getting close to Salim and his organisation before Wednesday is to exploit the fact that Salim was moved from Hall without warning.

There he had presumably built up a network to protect himself and communicate with the outside world.

He probably knew his plot might be discovered, but he wouldn’t have thought he’d be transferred.

If he has actually been directing the terrorist group from inside the prison, he is now completely cut off.

As an operational leader, he would have to find a new messenger at once, set up a new network of contacts if he is to be in a position to give the go-ahead for the murder on Wednesday.

If the Security Police are right, Salim Ratjen is in a desperate situation.

Joona looks at Salim, who is sitting with his hand around his cup. A pale film has settled on the dark-brown surface of the coffee.

‘I wouldn’t drink that,’ he says.

‘No, you’re right,’ Salim says.

He quickly thanks God for the food and stands up.

Joona tells Salim to give the study group some serious thought.

They all have ten minutes to get ready before they have to go off to the laundry room and the workshops, or to their studies.

When Joona gets back his cell has been ransacked: the bed has been pulled apart, his clothes are all over the floor, and his letters, books and photographs have been stepped on.

He goes in and hangs the photograph of his daughter Lumi back up, pats her cheek and then gets to work cleaning up the mess.

He picks up the letters he’s saved and smooths them out, but stops, Valeria’s first letter in his hand, remembering that he received it at Christmas. They had eaten their Christmas dinner, no alcohol of course, and then Santa Claus showed up.

‘Ho, ho, ho, are there any naughty children here?’ he had asked.

When he sat in his cell that evening and read Valeria’s first letter, it felt like the most wonderful Christmas present:

Joona folds the letter and puts it with the others. He picks the bedsheets up from the floor and shakes them. He doesn’t dare think about the fact that the Prime Minister’s mission could lead to a pardon.

Being locked up and the feeling of impotence that goes with it would quickly become overwhelming if he started to fantasise about freedom. He’d start dreaming of going to Paris to see Lumi, of seeing Valeria, of visiting Disa’s grave in Hammarby Cemetery, of going up north to where Summa is buried.

He stifles his longing as he makes the bed, stretching the sheets over the mattress, plumping the pillow and putting it back in place.