Törnblom dropped him off at the train station and Humlin walked into the waiting room. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. The thought of going back to Stockholm that evening was starting to feel like an impossibility. He sat down. Tea-Bag’s face flashed through his mind, then Tanya’s and, last of all, Leyla’s. He wondered if he was ever going to see her move again from the place by the underpass where she and her story had so suddenly been frozen.
He left the station and checked into the nearest hotel. Before he turned out the light and fell asleep he sat with the phone in his hand for a long time. Andrea. But he didn’t call her.
He left the hotel at a quarter past eleven the next day. For the first time in a long while he felt fully rested. While he was waiting for his train to arrive he made several calls to the various phone numbers belonging to Burén, but to no avail. Before he turned off the phone he listened to the voice messages that had been left for the original owner, a detective inspector by the name of Sture who clearly spent a lot of his time betting on horses. A person with a lisp had called several times and left the message that ‘Lokus Harem is a sure bet.’ He was just about to turn the phone off when he saw that there was a text message as well. He stared at the words. Then he realised it was for him, not the unknown Officer Sture.
It was a short message, only four words long:
At that moment the train pulled into the station. But Humlin did not get on.
He called the boxing club. A young boy who could barely speak comprehensible Swedish answered the phone. After a few minutes Törnblom came to the phone.
‘It’s Jesper. What’s Leyla’s phone number?’
‘How would I know that? Where are you?’
Humlin had already decided to lie. Why, he wasn’t quite sure.
‘Back in Stockholm. I thought her brother was a student at your club?’
‘I never take down any phone numbers. It makes no sense. People come and go all the time.’
‘What about her last name?’
‘I can’t remember. But I’ll check if there’s anyone else who might know.’
It took Törnblom almost ten minutes to get back to the phone.
‘Allaf.’
‘Can you spell that?’
‘How would I know how it’s spelled? Why do you sound so worked up over this?’
‘Because I
Humlin called information and got a number for the last name ‘Allaf’. A woman answered the phone in a low voice, as if she were afraid of it.
‘I’m trying to get hold of Leyla,’ Humlin said.
He received no answer. A man who spoke in the same hushed tones came on the line.
‘I’m looking for Leyla.’
There was no answer. Another man came on the line.
‘I’m looking for Leyla.’
‘Whom am I speaking with?’
‘This is Jesper Humlin. I need to ask Leyla if she has Tanya’s number.’
‘Who?’
‘Her friend, Tanya.’
‘Do you mean Irina?’
‘I mean the other girl participating in the writing seminar, the non-African one.’
‘That is Irina.’
‘Perhaps I can speak with Leyla directly?’ Humlin asked gingerly.
‘She’s not at home.’
‘Do you know if she has Tanya’s — or Irina’s — number written down somewhere?’
‘I’ll see. Please hold.’
The phone was starting to make strange noises. The battery was about to run out. The man came back on the line and gave Humlin a number. Humlin fumbled around for something to write with.
‘What is that noise?’ the man asked.
‘My battery is about to run out. If we are cut off, it’s not because I’m being impolite.’
‘We are very happy that you have decided to come back.’
Humlin found a pen.
‘Would you mind repeating that number?’
Before the man had a chance to run through the number more than once, the phone died. Humlin wrote down what he thought was the correct number, on his hand. He went up to a pay phone and dialled, only to reach a noisy car repair shop in Skövde. He reordered the last few digits and tried again. This time a young girl barely old enough to have learned how to speak gurgled into the phone. Humlin tried yet another version of the number and this time he recognised the voice. It was Tanya.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Tea-Bag was about to get caught.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police almost got her. They also found some mobile phones in a bag that she had. I don’t think the cops liked finding their own phones.’
Humlin tried to think straight.
‘Can you tell me what happened from the beginning, and more calmly?’
‘We need help. You have to get over here. Where are you?’
‘In Gothenburg. What can I do?’
‘You’re a famous writer, right? So, help us. I can’t talk any more.’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘Just meet me at the boxing club.’
The line went dead.
Humlin did as he was told. He took a taxi to the boxing club which was almost deserted. Two young boys were leaning on each other in the ring. One of them had a nosebleed. They stood locked in a wrestling hold, swaying back and forth as if they had found themselves on a sinking vessel at sea. The office was empty. In the diary that was lying out Humlin could see that Törnblom was sitting in a dentist’s chair at that moment.
