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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

She braved the pain and did as she was told.

‘Excellent. See, you can do it if you put your mind to it.’

It sounded like him, it did. But it couldn’t be him. Maybe it was just the tape over her ears that made it hard to distinguish details.

She could feel his gloved hand patting her on the hip, as though she were a horse being inspected. Then it started caressing her lower back and in between her legs.

‘Now just make sure you don’t collapse again. If you do, you’re done, for real.’

It was him. There was no longer any doubt.

It was Ingvar. Ingvar Molander, the man she loved more than anything, who had finally agreed to take her to Paris in just a few hours.

Pain shot up from her hands and calves when whatever it was she was stuck to started to move. She screamed as loudly as she could, but all that came out was inarticulate mumbling.

A moment later, she started tilting this way and that and suddenly had to strain every muscle in her body to stay on all fours. Then she felt the cold water wash over her hands and her fate slowly began to dawn on her.

PART I

13–16 June 2012

Wherever you dig, it doesn’t matter.

Get deep enough and eventually, it’ll smell bad.

1

At first, Molly Wessman could only just make out the faint melody. But as the volume increased, she became ever more aware of the dulcet harp tones that meant she had five minutes to wake up and switch her brain on before it was time to get out of bed. Five minutes during which she could still keep her eyes closed and stretch.

She felt rested and hadn’t woken up once during the night, which was incredible, considering the presentation she was giving to the board this afternoon. Normally, she would have tossed and turned all night and come to work a wreck. Now, by contrast, she was convinced the board was going to approve her proposal and give her permission to implement the last round of absolutely crucial cost-cutting measures needed to turn things around.

And she had her new sleep app to thank for it. Before, she had never slept more than four hours a night. She had been constantly exhausted and taken sick leave so often even those of her colleagues who had young children had started to wonder what she was up to.

In the end, her then manager had called her into his office and told her what she herself had been unable to see. That she was heading straight for burnout. Then he’d given her the number of a therapist and told her about an app that used sounds and different kinds of white noise to help the human brain to relax, thus improving sleep.