JW: on his way to the top. Jet Set Carl’s offer-a golden opportunity. Abdulkarim: overjoyed. Babbled on about their expansion plans. “If you just find that Jorge dude,” he reminded JW, “we’ll own this city.”
JW didn’t break any unnecessary sweat looking for the Chilean. He’d put out some hooks here and there. Had dinner with peeps from the Sollentuna area and offered them money for information that could lead to zeroing in on the fugitive. It’d work out.
Today, he had another project.
JW’d called the Komvux teacher, Jan Bruneus, a couple of days ago. The teacher remembered Camilla well but really didn’t want to talk about her. When JW’d insisted, he’d hung up on him.
JW hadn’t been able to deal with his reaction at the time. Hadn’t bothered to call him again. Tried not to think about the whole thing.
But today it was time. He had to.
He put on jeans, shirt, coat.
Walked toward Sveaplan Gymnasium, the high school below the Wenner-Gren Center where the continuing-education center, Komvux, was located. Wanted to meet Jan Bruneus face-to-face.
Valhallavagen was louder than usual, either due to the heavy traffic or due to his headache. Probably due to both.
He spotted the school building at the end of Sveavagen.
It was 11:30 a.m. Lunch break. JW suspected that the reception desk would close during lunch. He didn’t want to have to wait till after, ignored the arrows and signs and just asked someone for directions. A woman with a Fjallraven Kanken backpack who seemed on her way out gave him a good explanation of how to get there: Take the main entrance, up the stairs, then to the right.
JW ran against the current. Mostly young people his own age on their way out to lunch. The washed-up middle class-didn’t realize there were faster ways to Life.
He took the stairs three at a time. Got short of breath.
Reached the reception area.
A woman in a pleated skirt and an old-fashioned blouse was on her way out the door with purposeful movements that said, I’m closing now.
Typical.
He said, “Hello, ma’am. May I please ask a question before you close for lunch?”
JW’d become the prince of politesse-calling the receptionist “ma’am.” He’d learned well from his Stockholm crowd.
The lady was mollified and let him in. She got back behind the counter.
“I need to speak with one of your teachers, Jan Bruneus. Does he have classes this week, and if so, where might I find him?”
The woman grimaced, looked uncomfortable. JW didn’t like her style. Instead of using clear communication, some people grimaced their way through life.
She pulled out a schedule and ran her finger down the boxes. Finally, she said, “He has a class today that is letting out in ten minutes, at noon. Room four two two. That’s one flight up.”
JW thanked her kindly. Wanted to maintain a good relationship with the woman, for some reason. Sensed he might need it later.
He ran up the stairs. Found the right hallway.
Room 422. The door was closed, still five more minutes till lunchtime.
He waited outside. Put his ear up to the door, heard a chanting voice but couldn’t recognize if it was Jan Bruneus’s.
JW checked out the hallway. Beige walls, wide windows, simple white china light fixtures in the ceiling, graffiti on the radiators. Classic high school. He’d expected a different vibe at Komvux. More mature.
The door to the classroom opened.
A black guy with baggy clothes and jeans almost down to his knees stepped out. Twenty-odd students streamed out behind him.
JW popped his head into the classroom. A couple of girls were collecting their pens and notebooks by the desks.
A teacher stood at the whiteboard, erasing writing. He didn’t see