Bubble: A Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

the tunnel. He got slowly to his feet as the train thundered into the station.
    ♦  ♦  ♦
    “Well, it was still good to see you, Normén,” Runeberg said as they approached the reception area. “Even if the circumstances could have been rather happier . . .”
    He held his card up to a little black reader beside the door. It looked new—the pale outline of the old card reader was still visible on the wall behind it.
    Runeberg pulled at the handle, but the door remained locked. He muttered something and repeated the procedure, with the same result.
    “Bloody security system,” he muttered. “Two years of planning, millions of kronor, and the crap still doesn’t work properly . . .”
    Taking it more slowly, he repeated the procedure again, and suddenly the lock clicked. Over by the reception desk two people appeared to be having a heated discussion with the guards. Runeberg quickly ushered Rebecca past them and off toward the main door.
    She opened her mouth to say something, but Runeberg was quicker.
    “I’ll be in touch . . .” He gestured toward the ceiling and it took her a couple of seconds to realize that they were standing right beneath the dark globe of a little camera. Just like the card reader, it looked very new.
    She frowned and for a few seconds they stood opposite each other without speaking. Then she gave him a quick hug and opened the door.
    “Bye, Ludvig,” she said as she left, but for some reason Runeberg didn’t answer, just pulled an involuntary grimace. It only lasted a fraction of a second, then his face went back to normal. But for the second time in just a few hours she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
    ♦  ♦  ♦
    The note was on his front door, and he came close to just crumpling it up and throwing it down the stairwell. A little grayish-white scrap of recycled paper, with a tiny bit of tape to hold it up, just like all the ones that had gone before it. Please don’t play loud music at night , or We would like to remind you of the housing association’s rules about [blah-blah-blah]  . . .
    A nocturnal Nescafé visit by the antiterrorism squad had probably made the committee shit themselves. He could easily imagine the discussion downstairs in the communal area. Weneed to let our feelings be known, Gösta. Use capital letters this time . . .
    In previous years he had always just moved the notes onto the Goat’s door. Which probably wasn’t a very nice thing to do, in the pale light of hindsight. The little hash pixie was already paranoid enough. It still seemed a bit odd that he hadn’t said anything about moving out, or knocked on his door to ask for help.
    But on the other hand he hadn’t exactly been very sociable himself in recent months, and he’d long since cut the wires to the doorbell.
    Oh well, his new and as yet unknown neighbor might as well have a little welcome message.
    He pulled the note off and fixed it to the door of the neighboring flat. His hands were still shaking slightly, which irritated him more than he was prepared to admit.
    There, welcome to Housing Association block number 6, mofo!
    He stepped back and was just about to turn away when he realized that the note didn’t look the same as usual. Instead of in the chairman’s old man’s handwriting, this note was written in rounded, almost feminine letters.
    Problems?
Don’t give up, we can help you!
070-931151
    He peered suspiciously at the message for a few seconds. Admittedly, he could do with a bit of instant salvation, but a subscription to Watchtower was hardly going to help.
    At least the cops had had the decency to fix the door, he noted. More or less, at any rate. Two of the locks were completely messed up, but the third seemed to have survived pretty much unscathed.
    The crooked frame creaked in complaint as he pushed the door open.
    Just as he stepped inside he thought he heard a noise from the neighbor’s door, and for a few moments he