Thank God it’s nearly lunchtime, Thorleif Brenden thinks and hugs his stomach, which has been troubling him recently. He hopes he isn’t coming down with something.
His computer pings to alert him to an incoming email. Thorleif leans towards the screen, minimises a web page and brings up his inbox. He doesn’t recognise the sender, but the title in the subject field makes him open the new email.
‘Elisabeth — survey’
The email has an attachment, a photograph. He downloads it. Elisabeth appears, talking to someone whose profile he can only just make out. She is holding up one hand, but not high enough to cover her face like she often does when she is talking or explaining something. The picture has a date stamp in the bottom right-hand corner.
Thorleif’s eyes widen. It was taken yesterday. It must be Elisabeth’s ‘Your Say’ interview, he thinks. The man she is talking to is wearing a black leather jacket and dark trousers. He has no distinguishing features apart from his height and ponytail. The man must be at least two heads taller than her. Why would anyone send him this picture?
Thorleif is about to call Elisabeth to ask if the picture has also been sent to her when he clicks to close it and sees the sender’s email address: murder@hushmail. com. He looks up over the screen. Murder? As in murder? What on earth…?
Thorleif leans back in his chair and tries to remember what Elisabeth told him about the interview, the questions she was asked. Crime and immigration, was it? Or organised crime, Elisabeth hadn’t been entirely sure. Now what was it the interviewer had wanted to know? Have you or your family ever been threatened? How far would you go to protect your family? Is someone playing a joke on them?
‘Are you coming for lunch, Toffe?’
A colleague walks past him, but Thorleif doesn’t register who. He stares at the picture.
‘Toffe?’
‘Coming,’ he replies, absentmindedly. A cold wind chills him. He looks at the man with the ponytail. Didn’t the man who drove the BMW the other day have a ponytail? Don’t they look a bit similar? He looks at the email again and sees that it comes with an acknowledge-receipt request.
The next second his work telephone rings.
Thorleif’s attention instantly switches to the ringing telephone. The display merely shows ‘… calling.’ He decides to ignore it. Somewhere in the open-plan office a door slams shut. The telephone refuses to be silenced. Thorleif stares at it. Reluctantly, he reaches out and lifts the receiver, but he says nothing.
‘Thorleif?’
‘Yes?’ he replies eventually in a feeble voice.
‘Have you opened the photo?’
The Swedish accent has a strong hint of Eastern Europe.
‘I know what you’re thinking. The answer is yes,’ the voice continues. ‘We know. We know quite a lot about you, Thorleif. Or perhaps I should call you… Toffe?’
Thorleif quickly glances around the room. Only his work colleagues ever call him Toffe.
‘Who are you?’ he stutters. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need your help.’
‘My help?’
‘Yes. Your help. Soon you’ll find out why. And when we ask you to be ready, Toffe, then you’ll do what we tell you. No questions asked.’
‘B-but-’
‘And, Toffe, if you care about your family at all, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Thorleif nods.
‘I can’t hear you, Toffe.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he nods again. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. We’ll be in touch.’