The Disciple by Michael Hjorth

didn’t get on with his new boss, Kerstin Hanser, and professional success had been eluding him, to be honest. This was largely down to the fact that Hanser refused to acknowledge what an asset he was, and actively worked against him, but even so. It had started to get him down. The situation at home was also rather strained. It wasn’t down to a lack of love, or the fact that they’d got into a rut, it was just that things were very . . . focused. His wife Jenny had embarked on a series of fertility tests, and their entire lives centred on her attempts to get pregnant. Her every waking thought was fixed on conception, while he was obsessed with Hanser, the job, and a growing sense of bitterness. Nothing felt right, and Haraldsson hadn’t dared to hope that he might get the job he had applied for towards the end of the winter, purely on the off chance. The advert had stated that the position would not be filled until the summer, so he had carried on working with the Västerås police and had more or less forgotten his application. Then that boy had been murdered, Riksmord had been brought in, and Haraldsson had ended up having surgery following a bullet wound. To the chest, if he was describing the incident. To the lower part of the shoulder, according to his notes. At any rate, he wasn’t yet fully recovered. It still pulled a little; he could feel it as he smoothed down his new name label one more time.
    Somehow the bullet wound had been a turning point. When he came round after the operation, Jenny had been there. Anxious, but also thankful that he had survived. That he was still there. They were told that he had been lucky. The bullet had created a split in the parietal pleura, the membrane lining the chest cavity that contains the lungs. This had caused a bleed into the pleural cavity itself, and consequently in the upper lobe of the right lung. Haraldsson just knew that getting shot was extremely painful. He had been off work for three weeks. While he was at home he had time to think about what things would be like when he got back to the station. No doubt the chief superintendent would give some kind of welcome-back speech, highlighting his heroic contribution; perhaps there was even a minor medal for just such an occasion: injured in the course of duty. There would be coffee and cake, of course, gentle pats on the back to avoid causing any discomfort to his injured chest, and a desire on the part of his colleagues to know how he was feeling and what he thought.
    It hadn’t quite turned out that way.
    No chief superintendent, no speech, no medal, but the girls on reception had organised a cake. There hadn’t been all that much curiosity or too many pats on the back either, but he still felt that a change had taken place. There was something about the way his colleagues received him, how they treated him. He wanted to believe there was a certain measure of respect. Respect, and perhaps subconsciously a sense of relief. Not many police officers were shot in the line of duty, and from a purely statistical point of view it was highly unlikely that it would happen again in Västerås in the foreseeable future. He had taken a bullet for the entire team, so to speak. For the first time in ages he had felt happy going to work. In spite of Hanser.
    Something had happened at home, too. They were more relaxed, closer to one another, as if the life they had together right now was more important than the life they were trying to create. They still had sex – a lot of sex – but there was more tenderness in their lovemaking now; it was warmer, less mechanical. Perhaps that was why it worked.
    Suddenly everything seemed to be working.
    Five weeks to the day after he had been shot, he was called for an initial interview. The same day Jenny’s pregnancy test proved positive.
    That was the turning point.
    He got the job. Hanser had given him a glowing reference, he was informed. Perhaps he had misjudged her. True, they had had