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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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and without a shadow of a doubt, were correct and justified.
This time that was more obvious than ever. In the case of both of those young thugs. They had received only a fraction ofthe treatment they really deserved. An ounce of justice for once. And now he was suspended, more or less. As yet they weren't calling it that, and he was still being paid, but, of course, it was only a matter of time before the whole thing was a bit more official. The sack, in other words.
Three weeks, to be precise. Rickard Maasleitner knew the rules of the game. Understood them and didn't like them. Never had. A safety net for cretins and blackguards. Hell and damnation, he thought as he kicked off the covers. Justice!
He had barely gotten out of bed when the telephone rang.
If it's somebody from school, I'll hang up on them, he decided.
But it wasn't somebody from school. It was a woman's voice. A quite low-pitched and slightly gruff voice.
“Do you recognize this tune?” it said.
That was all. Then the music started. Something instrumental. Or a long intro, perhaps. A bit long in the tooth, by the sound of it. But a nice tune.
“Hello,” he said after listening for about ten seconds. “Is this some kind of quiz?”
No answer. The music kept on playing.
He held the receiver some way from his ear and thought for a moment.
“If you think you can throw me off balance with this kind of bullshit, you're wrong!” he said, and hung up.
Scum of the earth, he thought. What the hell's this world coming to?
He put on his dressing gown and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.
· · ·
During the rest of the day he received at least eight more telephone calls—he lost count sometime in the early afternoon.
The same music. No singing, just a band playing, something from the sixties, he thought—he seemed to recognize it vaguely, but couldn't remember what it was called. Or the band playing it.
Several times he considered pulling out the plug and putting a stop to it, but for some reason he didn't. Instead, each time the phone rang he broke off his reading or his work on the index of the textbook he was busy with. Answered, listened to the music, and stared out over the rooftops and the naked black trees, wondering what the hell was going on. Didn't say a word from the third call onward.
At first he had been convinced that it had something to do with school, that there was probably some pupil or other behind it; but the longer it went on, the more doubtful he became. Strangely enough his irritation seemed to drain away … drain away and change into something else, an equal mixture of curiosity and another ingredient he didn't quite want to acknowledge. He was reluctant to admit that it was probably fear.
There was something disturbing about the whole business. Something he couldn't grasp or understand. Sophistication, perhaps? The woman's voice from the first call never came back, only the music, nothing else. The same pop tune, no words…. Quite well played, that had to be said, and, he thought, from the early sixties, if he wasn't much mistaken.
But even if the voice never returned, he remembered what the woman had said.
“Do you recognize this tune?”
It was something he ought to remember. Isn't that what she implied? The music meant something, and of course the pointwas that he should know what it meant. Surely that was what she implied?
Hell and damnation, he muttered as he replaced the receiver for the fifth or sixth time. What is it all about?
It would be some time before Rickard Maasleitner became fully aware of what it was all about. But on the other hand, by then it was all the more obvious.
12
Enso Faringer was nervous. That was beyond question. The moment they sat down at their usual table at Freddy's, he had started squirming around and scratching at the ugly rash on his neck he always had in the winter. He also gulped down his beer, and managed to smoke two cigarettes before the food was served.
The
This time that was more obvious than ever. In the case of both of those young thugs. They had received only a fraction ofthe treatment they really deserved. An ounce of justice for once. And now he was suspended, more or less. As yet they weren't calling it that, and he was still being paid, but, of course, it was only a matter of time before the whole thing was a bit more official. The sack, in other words.
Three weeks, to be precise. Rickard Maasleitner knew the rules of the game. Understood them and didn't like them. Never had. A safety net for cretins and blackguards. Hell and damnation, he thought as he kicked off the covers. Justice!
He had barely gotten out of bed when the telephone rang.
If it's somebody from school, I'll hang up on them, he decided.
But it wasn't somebody from school. It was a woman's voice. A quite low-pitched and slightly gruff voice.
“Do you recognize this tune?” it said.
That was all. Then the music started. Something instrumental. Or a long intro, perhaps. A bit long in the tooth, by the sound of it. But a nice tune.
“Hello,” he said after listening for about ten seconds. “Is this some kind of quiz?”
No answer. The music kept on playing.
He held the receiver some way from his ear and thought for a moment.
“If you think you can throw me off balance with this kind of bullshit, you're wrong!” he said, and hung up.
Scum of the earth, he thought. What the hell's this world coming to?
He put on his dressing gown and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.
· · ·
During the rest of the day he received at least eight more telephone calls—he lost count sometime in the early afternoon.
The same music. No singing, just a band playing, something from the sixties, he thought—he seemed to recognize it vaguely, but couldn't remember what it was called. Or the band playing it.
Several times he considered pulling out the plug and putting a stop to it, but for some reason he didn't. Instead, each time the phone rang he broke off his reading or his work on the index of the textbook he was busy with. Answered, listened to the music, and stared out over the rooftops and the naked black trees, wondering what the hell was going on. Didn't say a word from the third call onward.
At first he had been convinced that it had something to do with school, that there was probably some pupil or other behind it; but the longer it went on, the more doubtful he became. Strangely enough his irritation seemed to drain away … drain away and change into something else, an equal mixture of curiosity and another ingredient he didn't quite want to acknowledge. He was reluctant to admit that it was probably fear.
There was something disturbing about the whole business. Something he couldn't grasp or understand. Sophistication, perhaps? The woman's voice from the first call never came back, only the music, nothing else. The same pop tune, no words…. Quite well played, that had to be said, and, he thought, from the early sixties, if he wasn't much mistaken.
But even if the voice never returned, he remembered what the woman had said.
“Do you recognize this tune?”
It was something he ought to remember. Isn't that what she implied? The music meant something, and of course the pointwas that he should know what it meant. Surely that was what she implied?
Hell and damnation, he muttered as he replaced the receiver for the fifth or sixth time. What is it all about?
It would be some time before Rickard Maasleitner became fully aware of what it was all about. But on the other hand, by then it was all the more obvious.
12
Enso Faringer was nervous. That was beyond question. The moment they sat down at their usual table at Freddy's, he had started squirming around and scratching at the ugly rash on his neck he always had in the winter. He also gulped down his beer, and managed to smoke two cigarettes before the food was served.
The
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