Hunter. Ларс Кеплер
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she repeats hoarsely.
‘I owe her some money,’ Jeanette says.
‘I can give it to her for you,’ the woman says, unable to hold back a smile.
Saga laughs.
‘Is she here?’
The woman points towards the back of the restaurant.
‘I’ll check,’ Saga says.
Jeanette stays by the lorries and watches Saga walk between the big vehicles, a thin silhouette against the light from the restaurant.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she says, turning back towards the prostitute.
‘Listen, I’ve already found salvation,’ the woman replies automatically, tottering once more.
The engine of the lorry beside them roars into life. It wheezes and then slowly starts to move forward, spreading hot diesel fumes. The back tyre rolls straight over a glass bottle. There’s a crash as pieces of glass fly out with considerable force. Jeanette feels her calf sting. She touches her torn tights with her fingers, then looks at them and sees that they’re covered in blood. When she straightens up again the woman has vanished.
Saga walks past the restaurant and around the public toilets and showers. The glow from the yellow petrol station sign is visible through the trees. The rear of the restaurant is littered with rubbish: old milk cartons, strips of toilet paper, and the remains of scattered food.
Tamara is sitting on the ground leaning against the wall, holding a freezer-bag over her nose and mouth.
‘Tamara?’
The woman crumples the bag and slowly lowers it. Her eyes roll backwards and a deep sigh emerges from her lips.
‘My name is Saga Bauer, and I’d like to talk to you about your best friend, Sofia Stefansson.’
Tamara looks at Saga as a string of saliva runs down her chin. Her hair is greasy and her face is grey and shut-off, like someone who’s unconscious.
‘This is my best friend,’ she says, raising the plastic bag.
‘I know you know Sofia.’
Tamara coughs. She almost topples sideways, but puts her hand down to steady herself and inhales deeply from the bag again.
‘Sofia,’ she mumbles, and nods vaguely.
‘Is she an escort?’
‘She thinks she’s better than other people, but she’s just a stupid cow who doesn’t understand anything.’
Her eyes close and her head sinks onto her chest.
‘What is it she doesn’t understand?’
‘The perks of the job,’ she whispers.
‘Have you ever seen her when she’s with clients?’
Tamara sighs and opens her eyes again. She realises that she’s got a tied condom stuck to her wrist, grabs it and throws it on the ground.
‘I’ve got a really weird taste in my mouth,’ she says, looking up at Saga. ‘If you want to get me something to drink, we can talk.’
‘OK.’
Tamara coughs again, struggles to her feet and squints at Saga.
She’s very thin. Her hands and cheeks are covered in tiny scabs, and her lips are cracked and dry. A hair slide that’s lost its ornament is hanging down over her forehead.
There’s very little about her that resembles the smiling woman on the website.
Tamara starts to move, hunched over, her head drooping. When they get inside the restaurant she stands still for a moment, swaying, as if she’s forgotten where she’s going, then walks towards the counter.
‘I want a chocolate milkshake … and French fries with ketchup … and a large Pepsi … and this,’ she says, putting a big bag of car-shaped sweets on the counter.
Jeanette Fleming is walking along close to the trucks in the direction she thinks the prostitute went. Closer to the edge of the forest it’s so dark between the vehicles that she has to hold her hands up to feel her way. The air reeks of diesel, and the lorries are radiating heat like sweating horses. She passes one cab with check-patterned blinds over the windows.
Jeanette suddenly sees the woman. She’s standing a short distance away, spitting on the ground as she knocks on one of the driver’s cabs. She leans heavily on the huge front wheel.
‘Where else have you worked?’ Jeanette asks when she catches up to her.
‘I used to work in really fancy places.’
‘Have you ever had any clients in Djursholm?’
‘I only take the best,’ the woman mumbles.
The cab door opens and a heavy man with glasses and a beard looks at them. He blows Jeanette a kiss, then looks impatiently at the other woman.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘I was just wondering if you’d like some company,’ she replies.
‘You’re too ugly,’ the man says, but doesn’t close the door.
‘No, I’m not,’ she replies. It’s obvious that the man is enjoying being cruel to her.
‘So what part of you isn’t ugly?’
The woman pulls her top up, showing her pale breasts.
‘And you expect to get paid for those?’ he says, but still beckons her into the cab with his head.
Jeanette watches the woman clamber up into the cab and close the door behind her. She waits for a while in the darkness, listening to the creak of the springs in the seats.
Headlights sweep the ground and the shadows quickly slide away. Laughter and muffled music reach her from the other end of the lorry park.
A drunk woman shrieks somewhere, her voice angry and hoarse.
Jeanette peers under the trailer. In the distance a cigarette falls to the ground in a cascade of sparks before someone stamps it out. She detects a movement from the other direction. It looks like someone’s crawling on all fours under the lorries, heading towards her. A shiver runs down her spine. Jeanette starts to walk towards the restaurant.
Another lorry is on its way into the car park, but stops with a squeal to let her pass. The brakes wheeze. A chain clanks as it sways beneath the vehicle. Jeanette can’t see the driver, but still walks across the road through the dazzling glare of its headlights.
She looks around as she gets close to the restaurant, but there’s no one following her.
Jeanette slows down a little and decides to take her torn tights off and wash the cut on her leg before she calls Saga.
She goes over to the bathroom, but all the cubicles are occupied. The blood has congealed around the wound and run down her calf.
The thin metal door of one of the toilets swings open and a woman with bleached blonde hair emerges. She’s clutching her phone to her ear and is yelling that she had a client, and that she can’t do everything at once.
The woman disappears down the hall, waving her arms angrily.
A handwritten sign saying ‘Out of order’ has been taped to the door, but Jeanette goes in anyway and locks it behind her.
It’s a disabled toilet, with thin metal walls. The white armrest is folded up, and there’s an illuminated red alarm button close to the floor.
She takes