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Chapters (99)
  1. MOTIVE X
  2. The Fabian Risk Thrillers
  3. MOTIVE X
  4. Copyright Page
  5. Contents
  6. Prologue
  7. PART I
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. PART II
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. 73
  82. 74
  83. 75
  84. 76
  85. 77
  86. 78
  87. 79
  88. 80
  89. 81
  90. 82
  91. 83
  92. 84
  93. 85
  94. 86
  95. 87
  96. 88
  97. About the author and translator
  98. Acknowledgements
  99. An Invitation from the Publisher

His lust hadn’t morphed into arousal yet. He couldn’t even see it for all the hair. He fumbled around with one hand, tugged on it a little to wake it up and pulled the skin back. The rank smell of uncleanliness blended with the lavender, making him feel dirty and unworthy. But he was sure it would get better as soon as he started washing and soaping it up.

He hadn’t known where to go, but just like a few days ago, everything had sorted itself out. Suddenly, he’d been walking down those stairs towards the city centre, and he’d been so tired from carrying the girl he’d almost taken a tumble. But he’d made it all the way down to the first turn.

After that, he’d carried on towards the second turn, but he’d been forced to turn back because a group of men in suits and construction helmets had blocked his way and stared. If it hadn’t been for the girl, he would have stabbed them up.

He’d almost dropped her several times on the way back up, he’d been so tired; he’d had to stop and catch his breath before the last flight of stairs. That’s when he’d noticed that one of those doors that were always closed was ajar.

Maybe it was the men in the construction helmets; he didn’t know. Either way, no one had seen him squeeze in with the girl and hide behind a pile of furniture and boxes. Shortly afterwards, he’d heard someone enter, pick something up and leave again.

He, for his part, had continued further into the building and climbed a spiral staircase to a dirty, cluttered room. But the high ceiling, the red brick walls and the window with a view of the whole city still made him feel like a king.

He picked up the bowl of water, held it between his legs and rinsed off the soap. It was exactly as delightful and exciting as he’d hoped, and once he’d air-dried, he wasn’t just clean but also hard enough to do what he’d been waiting for, for so long.

Now, he just had to prepare the girl.

67

That Eric Jacobsén might in fact be the notorious Columbus almost seemed like a bad joke. An impossibility. He had absolutely not come across as some sort of sex god who could make the women who made pilgrimage to him push beyond their sexual limits and let themselves be tattooed. But there was no doubt the tattoo his neighbour Axel Stjärnström had found on his wife was the same as Molly Wessman’s, apart from the number, 103.