The Rabbit Hunter

92

Joona marches through the hallway on the eighth floor of Police Headquarters. His blond hair is untidy, his grey eyes sharp. He’s wearing a new black suit and a pale grey shirt. The jacket is unbuttoned and the butt of his Colt Combat is visible in the worn leather holster beneath his left shoulder.

A young woman with laughter lines on her face smiles at him warmly, and a man with a silvery beard who’s standing in the staffroom puts his hand on his heart as Joona walks past.

Outside his boss’s office is a map showing Sweden’s seven police districts, on which Stockholm is the smallest and the northernmost covers half the entire country.

Carlos is bent over his aquarium and when Joona walks in he jumps as if he’s been caught doing something illegal.

‘You spoil them,’ Joona says, looking at the fish.

‘I know, but they love it,’ Carlos nods.

He’s changed the décor of the aquarium. Instead of the wrecked ship and plastic diver, the fish are now swimming around white spaceships, Stormtroopers, a prone Darth Vader and a Han Solo half hidden by the bubbles from the oxygen pump.

‘We’ve got a picture of the murderer’s face now,’ Joona explains. ‘But the photograph doesn’t match anyone with a criminal record or who’s ever been a suspect.’

Carlos opens the picture on his computer and looks at the face that Johan Jönson was able to extract from the reflection in the silver vase.

The murderer is a white man in his thirties, with blond hair and a neat, full beard, a straight nose and furrowed brow.

The face is turned to the side, his thick neck is twisted, and his neck muscles stand out from the shadows. His mouth is slightly open, and his blue eyes are glistening, and have a distant look in them.

‘We need to get this picture out to every unit in the force, and it has to come from you,’ Joona says. ‘Top priority. We’ll give it fifteen minutes, then if there’s no response we can get the picture up on the newspapers’ websites and ask for information from the general public—’

‘Why is it always such a rush when you...?’

He cuts himself off when Anja comes into his office without knocking. She walks around the large desk and rolls Carlos and his chair out of the way, as if he’s a barbecue that’s in the way.

She quickly disseminates the picture across the internal network that covers the entire force, giving it top priority, then opens an attachment to an email she herself has sent, containing a suggested text to newsrooms around the country.

The killer’s picture appears on Carlos’s own radio display, which is lying next to the keyboard.

‘Now we just have to wait,’ she says, folding her arms.

‘So, what’s new around here apart from the name?’ Joona asks, looking out at the park through the low window.

‘We’re working exactly the same way we were before,’ Carlos replies. ‘Just a little worse.’

‘Sounds great,’ Joona says, checking his watch and wondering why Saga hasn’t been in touch.

A call comes in on another terminal. Carlos realises he’s going to have to answer, and fumbles with the buttons until he manages to switch the speaker function on.

‘Rikard Sjögren, Stockholm Response Team,’ the officer says by way of introduction. ‘I don’t know if it’s any use, but I was part of the operation guarding the Foreign Minister’s funeral at St Johannes’ Church, and I’m sure I saw this man among the mourners.’

‘But you don’t know who he is?’ Carlos asks, his mouth close to the unit.

‘No.’

‘Was he with anyone else, or near anyone you recognised?’ Joona asks.

‘I’m not sure... but I saw him talking to that chef who’s always on television.’

‘Rex Müller?’

‘Yes, that’s the one, Rex Müller.’

Anja has already started looking through the newspapers’ and weekly magazines’ archives of photographs from the funeral. Faces sweep past, mostly politicians and businessmen in the bright sunshine outside the church.

‘Here he is,’ she says. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Joona says.

There’s a man standing in a line of people in the background of a photograph of the President of Estonia. He’s shading his eyes against the sun, which is shining brightly on his blond beard.

‘But no name,’ Anja mutters to herself, and goes on looking.

It doesn’t take long before she finds another photograph of him, this time standing next to Rex Müller and his son. Rex has his arm around his son’s shoulders, and is looking into the camera with a mournful expression on his face, while the murderer is in the process of turning away. His brow is wet with sweat and the look in his eyes seems oddly tense.

‘According to the caption, his name is David Jordan Andersen,’ Anja says.

We’ve identified the murderer, Joona thinks. David Jordan Andersen is the spree killer who is murdering the rapists, one by one.

Anja quickly looks up his name and discovers that a David Jordan is the founder of the company that produces Rex’s cooking shows, and that he pretty much acts as his manager.

‘Where does he live?’ Joona asks.

‘He lives... out on Ingarö, and his company has an office on Observatorie Street.’

‘Send one team out to Ingarö, one to the office, and another to Rex Müller’s home,’ Joona tells Carlos. ‘But don’t forget that he’s extremely dangerous... he’s very likely to try to kill the first men in.’

‘Don’t say such things,’ Carlos mutters.

Joona and Anja wait while Carlos quickly organises a leadership team and gives the National Operations Unit the order to break into the house on Ingarö, then gives the two other addresses to the local police response teams.

Before he ends his call he stresses the importance of heavy armaments and protective vests.

‘He can shoot right through our vests,’ Joona says, and leaves the room.