The Hypnotist
Lars Kepler
HE WILL TRAP YOU IN A WORLD OF TERRORThe groundbreaking first novel in the bestselling Joona Linna thriller series. Perfect for fans of Jo Nesbo.A TRAUMATISED WITNESSKarolinska Hospital, Stockholm. Detective Inspector Joona Linna is faced with a boy who witnessed the gruesome murder of his family. He’s suffered more than one hundred knife wounds and is comatose with shock.A DISGRACED DETECTIVELinna’s running out of time. The police do not want him on the case. The killer’s on the run and there are seemingly no clues. Desperate for information, Linna enlists specialist Dr Erik Maria Bark, a hypnotist who vowed never to practise again.A DEVASTATING CASEAs the hypnosis begins, a long and terrifying chain of events unfurls with reverberations far beyond Linna’s case.
THE
HYPNOTIST
LARS KEPLER
Translated from the Swedish by Ann Long
Copyright
Published by Blue Door an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Blue Door 2011
Copyright © Lars Kepler 2009
English translation © Ann Long 2010
Originally published in 2009 by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Sweden, as Hypnotisören
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2012
Lars Kepler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007359127
Ebook Edition © August 2013 ISBN: 9780007412457
Version: 2018-06-14
International praise for The Hypnotist:
‘Ferocious, visceral storytelling that wraps you in a cloak of darkness. It’s stunning’
Daily Mail
‘One of the best – if not the best – Scandinavian crime thrillers I’ve read’
Sam Baker, Red
‘A creepy and compulsive crime thriller’
Mo Hayder
‘Intelligent, original and chilling’
Simon Beckett
‘Mesmerizing … a bad dream that takes hold and won't let go’
Wall Street Journal
‘Crammed with memorable characters and well-crafted subplots’
The Sunday Times
‘Grips you round the throat until the final twist’
Woman & Home
‘A serious, disturbing, highly readable novel that is finally a meditation on evil’
Washington Post
‘A rollercoaster ride of a thriller full of striking twists’
Mail on Sunday
‘Riddled with irresistible, nail-biting suspense, this first-class Scandinavian thriller is one of the best I’ve ever read’
Australian Women’s Weekly
‘Lars Kepler enthralls readers with The Hypnotist, just like Stieg Larsson did with the Millennium series’
Norrköpings Tidningar, Sweden
‘A breathtaking thriller, which uncovers the many unpleasant sides of the human psyche. He opens the door to a human abyss’
Borås Tidning, Sweden
‘The cracking pace and absorbing story mean it cannot be missed’
Courier Mail, Australia
‘As Nordic thrillers go, it doesn’t get more delightfully dark and existentially, satisfyingly murky than The Hypnotist’
Boston Globe
‘Far more energetic than Henning Mankell, as socially involved as Larsson but a better writer, Kepler matches the great Jo Nesbo for gothic excitement’
Weekend Australian
‘An horrific and original read’
Sun
‘Creepy and addictive’
She
‘Brilliant, well written and very satisfying. A superb thriller’
De Telegraaf, Netherlands
‘[An] outstanding thriller debut’
Publishers Weekly
‘Utterly outstanding’
Morgenavisen Jyllands-Posten, Denmark
‘Disturbing, dark and twisted’
Easy Living
‘An international book written for an international audience’
Huffington Post
‘Makes Derren Brown look tame … So gripping you won’t be able to put it down’
Essentials
‘A new star enters the firmament of Scandinavian thrillerdom’
Kirkus Reviews
‘Engaging characters and a truly gripping opening … This is definitely a series to watch’
Globe and Mail, Canada
‘Simply mesmerizing’
Edmonton Journal
Also by Lars Kepler
The Nightmare
The Fire Witness
The Sandman
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u7e0c5233-24c1-5c0f-a2b6-b6ce88c43c8d)
Copyright (#u131e3df0-a36c-59cb-9fc0-dcbdc299e23d)
International praise for The Hypnotist (#u072af5a7-679b-5178-a5cf-9fe05814f091)
Also by Lars Kepler (#u8b2e8a10-77cd-5e66-876d-5090f9199972)
Chapter 1 (#u64595eef-51a5-5ab7-b937-5aa2b8a4599b)
Chapter 2 (#u1377559d-0d5d-5764-a399-b569f072683d)
Chapter 3 (#uc361577d-946c-5bfa-bd69-fdac77dda0bc)
Chapter 4 (#u843ed9c7-8c63-5a09-b545-137a9e6d44f6)
Chapter 5 (#ufa7b7dcf-651e-54fe-aa49-adcee2b7f32f)
Chapter 6 (#uc1981c78-626f-5800-933b-3f3080fc2f37)
Chapter 7 (#u4b3a54e2-9aae-551d-a431-bb8c4993922a)
Chapter 8 (#uf9269f2a-4e95-5a7e-aac3-a45b4200d374)
Chapter 9 (#u0956c66b-3f71-53a3-8595-4f95eb62d67d)
Chapter 10 (#udf172461-eea7-5040-8ba5-ac9a9a279be8)
Chapter 11 (#u90a04919-7633-541a-b680-60d45ed972cc)
Chapter 12 (#u699abb80-fdd8-5171-a72b-f1f2f9f321a9)
Chapter 13 (#ubf3f0421-c11c-5d5a-ade5-a764e364dd6c)
Chapter 14 (#u916bfe4a-a54a-5c9e-aa96-eb48423e22f8)
Chapter 15 (#u77dd5519-88d0-5d70-b42a-e7944a3ecd0f)
Chapter 16 (#u77b2850d-9061-576b-8c3d-675922069afa)
Chapter 17 (#u46192ac5-c70b-5db0-be10-4ec3c9543166)
Chapter 18 (#u8003ef24-56dc-5943-85c2-989c0299ec75)
Chapter 19 (#u3d356475-cb04-5b33-ad3a-fe175ea1d9b3)
Chapter 20 (#u9f5e4dcb-3068-5909-9b3d-698be33bc020)
Chapter 21 (#uce205749-3ac8-56e8-b318-6d57bad1a4f7)
Chapter 22 (#u9dd394f4-d68a-5ffd-968f-f0047912134e)
Chapter 23 (#u21d15e5f-43e9-54ef-a2d6-4b5f33051fb7)
Chapter 24 (#ud7cb868e-a339-5ca1-957b-0cfeb8ea4f96)
Chapter 25 (#uee78cdaf-01eb-57d4-b09c-0b1b66fd5034)
Chapter 26 (#u20f122b0-f835-5a68-9e21-d3db80dab7a7)
Chapter 27 (#ub6f99458-96c2-585f-8b2d-bda249271f1f)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 74 (#litres_trial_promo)
ten years ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 75 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 76 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 77 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 78 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 79 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 80 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 81 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 82 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 83 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 84 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 85 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 86 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 87 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 88 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 89 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 90 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 91 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 92 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 93 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 94 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 95 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 96 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 97 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 98 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 99 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 100 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 101 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 102 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 103 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 104 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 105 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 106 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 107 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 108 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 109 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 110 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
In Greek mythology, the god Hypnos is a winged boy with poppy seeds in his hand. His name means sleep. He is the twin brother of Thanatos, death, and the son of night and darkness.
The term hypnosis was first used in its modern sense in 1843 by the Scottish surgeon James Braid. He used this term to describe a sleeplike state of both acute awareness and great receptiveness.
Even today, opinions vary with regard to the usefulness, reliability, and dangers of hypnosis. This lingering ambivalence is presumably owing to the fact that the techniques of hypnosis have been exploited by con men, stage performers, and secret services all over the world.
From a purely technical point of view, it is easy to place a person in a hypnotic state. The difficulty lies in controlling the course of events, guiding the patient, and interpreting and making use of the results. Only through considerable experience and skill is it possible to master deep hypnosis fully. There are only a handful of recognised doctors in the world who have mastered hypnosis.
Like fire, just like fire. Those were the first words the boy uttered under hypnosis. Despite life-threatening injuries—innumerable knife wounds to his face, legs, torso, back, the soles of his feet, the back of his neck, and his head—the boy had been put into a state of deep hypnosis in an attempt to see what had happened with his own eyes.
“I’m trying to blink,” he mumbled. “I go into the kitchen, but it isn’t right; there’s a crackling noise between the chairs and a bright red fire is spreading across the floor.”
They’d thought he was dead when they found him among the other bodies in the terraced house. He’d lost a great deal of blood, gone into a state of shock, and hadn’t regained consciousness until seven hours later. He was the only surviving witness.
Detective Joona Linna was certain that the boy would be able to provide valuable information, possibly even identify the killer.
But if the other circumstances had not been so exceptional, it would never even have occurred to anyone to turn to a hypnotist.
1
tuesday, december 8: early morning
Erik Maria Bark is yanked reluctantly from his dream when the telephone rings. Before he is fully awake, he hears himself say with a smile, “Balloons and streamers.”
His heart is pounding from the sudden awakening. Erik has no idea what he meant by these words. The dream is completely gone, as if he had never had it.
He fumbles to find the ringing phone, creeping out of the bedroom with it and closing the door behind him to avoid waking Simone. A detective named Joona Linna asks if he is sufficiently awake to absorb important information. His thoughts are still tumbling down into the dark empty space after his dream as he listens.
“I’ve heard you’re very skilled in the treatment of acute trauma,” says Linna.
“Yes,” says Erik.
He swallows a painkiller as he listens. The detective explains that he needs to question a fifteen-year-old boy who has witnessed a double murder and been seriously injured himself. During the night he was moved from the neurological unit in Huddinge to the neurosurgical unit at Karolinska University Hospital in Solna.
“What’s his condition?” Erik asks.
The detective rapidly summarises the patient’s status, concluding, “He hasn’t been stabilised. He’s in circulatory shock and unconscious.”
“Who’s the doctor in charge?” asks Erik.
“Daniella Richards.”
“She’s extremely capable. I’m sure she can—”
“She was the one who asked me to call you. She needs your help. It’s urgent.”
When Erik returns to the bedroom to get his clothes, Simone is lying on her back, looking at him with a strange, empty expression. A strip of light from the streetlamp is shining in between the blinds.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“Police … a detective … I didn’t catch his name.”
“What’s it about?”
“I have to go to the hospital,” he replies. “They need some help with a boy.”
“What time is it, anyway?” She looks at the alarm clock and closes her eyes. He notices the stripes on her freckled shoulders from the creased sheets.
“Sleep now, Sixan,” he whispers, calling her by her nickname.
Carrying his clothes from the room, Erik dresses quickly in the hall. He catches the flash of a shining blade of steel behind him and turns to see that his son has hung his ice skates on the handle of the front door so he won’t forget them. Despite his hurry, Erik finds the protectors in the closet and slides them over the sharp blades.
It’s three o’clock in the morning when Erik gets into his car. Snow falls slowly from the black sky. There is not a breath of wind, and the heavy flakes settle sleepily on the empty street. He turns the key in the ignition, and the music pours in like a soft wave: Miles Davis, ‘Kind of Blue.’
He drives the short distance through the sleeping city, out of Luntmakargatan, along Sveavägen to Norrtull. He catches a glimpse of the waters of Brunnsviken, a large, dark opening behind the snowfall. He slows as he enters the enormous medical complex, manoeuvring between Astrid Lindgren’s understaffed hospital and maternity unit, past the radiology and psychiatry departments, to park in his usual place outside the neurosurgical unit. There are only a few cars in the visitors’ car park. The glow of the streetlamps is reflected in the windows of the tall buildings, and blackbirds rustle through the branches of the trees in the darkness. Usually you hear the roar of the motorway from here, Erik thinks, but not at this time of night.
He inserts his pass card, keys in the six-digit code, enters the lobby, takes the lift to the fifth floor, and walks down the hall. The blue vinyl floors shine like ice, and the corridor smells of antiseptic. Only now does he become aware of his fatigue, following the sudden surge of adrenaline brought on by the call. It had been such a good sleep, he still felt a pleasant aftertaste.
He thinks over what the detective told him on the telephone: a boy is admitted to the hospital, bleeding from cuts all over his body, sweating; he doesn’t want to lie down, is restless and extremely thirsty. An attempt is made to question him, but his condition rapidly deteriorates. His level of consciousness declines while at the same time his heart begins to race, and Daniella Richards, the doctor in charge, makes the correct decision not to let the police speak to the patient.
Two uniformed policemen are standing outside the door of ward N18; Erik senses a certain unease flit across their faces as he approaches. Maybe they’re just tired, he thinks, as he stops in front of them and identifies himself. They glance at his ID, press a button, and the door swings open with a hum.
Daniella Richards is making notes on a chart when Erik walks in. As he greets her, he notices the tense lines around her mouth, the muted stress in her movements.
“Have some coffee,” she says.
“Do we have time?” asks Erik.
“I’ve got the bleed in the liver under control,” she replies.
A man of about forty-five, dressed in jeans and a black jacket, is thumping the coffee machine. He has tousled blond hair, and his lips are serious, clamped firmly together. Erik thinks maybe this is Daniella’s husband, Magnus. He has never met him; he has only seen a photograph in her office.
“Is that your husband?” he asks, waving his hand in the direction of the man.
“What?” She looks both amused and surprised.
“I thought maybe Magnus had come with you.”
“No,” she says, with a laugh.
“I don’t believe you,” teases Erik, starting to walk toward the man. “I’m going to ask him.”
Daniella’s mobile phone rings and, still laughing, she flips it open, saying, “Stop it, Erik,” before answering, “Daniella Richards.” She listens but hears nothing. “Hello?” She waits a few seconds, then shrugs. “Aloha!” she says ironically and flips the phone shut.
Erik has walked over to the blond man. The coffee machine is whirring and hissing. “Have some coffee,” says the man, trying to hand Erik a mug.
“No, thanks.”
The man smiles, revealing small dimples in his cheeks, and takes a sip himself. “Delicious,” he says, trying once again to force a mug on Erik.
“I don’t want any.”
The man takes another sip, studying Erik. “Could I borrow your phone?” he asks suddenly. “If that’s okay. I left mine in the car.”
“And now you want to borrow mine?” Erik asks stiffly.
The blond man nods and looks at him with pale eyes as grey as polished granite.
“You can borrow mine again,” says Daniella, who has come up behind Erik.
He takes the phone, looks at it, then glances up at her. “I promise you’ll get it back,” he says.
“You’re the only one who’s using it anyway,” she jokes.
He laughs and moves away.
“He must be your husband,” says Erik.
“Well, a girl can dream,” she says with a smile, glancing back at the lanky fellow.
Suddenly she looks very tired. She’s been rubbing her eyes; a smudge of silver-grey eyeliner smears her cheek.
“Shall I have a look at the patient?” asks Erik.
“Please.” She nods.
“As I’m here anyway,” he hastens to add.
“Erik, I really do want your opinion, I’m not at all sure about this one.”
2
tuesday, december 8: early morning
Daniella Richards opens the heavy door and he follows her into a warm recovery room leading off the operating theatre. A slender boy is lying on the bed. Despite his injuries, he has an attractive face. Two nurses work to dress his wounds: there are hundreds of them, cuts and stab wounds all over his body, on the soles of his feet, on his chest and stomach, on the back of his neck, on the top of his scalp, on his face.
His pulse is weak but very rapid, his lips are as grey as aluminium, he is sweating, and his eyes are tightly closed. His nose looks as if it is broken. Beneath the skin, a bleed is spreading like a dark cloud from his throat and down over his chest.
Daniella begins to run through the different stages in the boy’s treatment so far but is silenced by a sudden knock at the door. It’s the blond man again; he waves to them through the glass pane.
“Fine,” says Erik. “If he isn’t Magnus, who the hell is that guy?”
Daniella takes his arm and guides him from the recovery room. The blond man has returned to his post by the hissing coffee machine.
“A large cappuccino,” he says to Erik. “You might need one before you meet the officer who was first on the scene.”
Only now does Erik realise that the blond man is the detective who woke him up less than an hour ago. His drawl was not as noticeable on the telephone, or maybe Erik was just too sleepy to register it.
“Why would I want to meet him?”
“So you’ll understand why I need to question—”
Joona Linna falls silent as Daniella’s mobile starts to ring. He takes it out of his pocket and glances at the display, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“It’s probably for him anyway,” mutters Daniella.
“Yes,” Joona is saying. “No, I want him here … OK, but I don’t give a damn about that.” The detective is smiling as he listens to his colleague’s objections. “Although I have noticed something,” he chips in.
The person on the other end is yelling.
“I’m doing this my way,” Joona says calmly, and ends the conversation. He hands the phone back to Daniella with a silent nod of thanks. “I have to question this patient,” he explains, in a serious tone.
“I’m sorry,” says Erik. “My assessment is the same as Dr Richards’.”
“When will he be able to talk to me?” asks Joona.
“Not while he’s in shock.”
“I knew you’d say that,” says Joona quietly.
“The situation is still extremely critical,” explains Daniella. “His pleural sack is damaged, the small intestine, the liver, and—”
A policeman wearing a dirty uniform comes in, his expression uneasy. Joona waves, walks over, and shakes his hand. He says something in a low voice, and the police officer wipes his mouth and glances apprehensively at the doctors.
“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this right now,” says Joona. “But it could be very useful for the doctors to know the circumstances.”
“Well,” says the police officer, clearing his throat feebly, “we hear on the radio that a caretaker’s found a dead man in the toilet at the playing field in Tumba. Our patrol car’s already on Huddingevägen, so all we need to do is turn and head up towards the lake. We reckoned it was an overdose, you know? Jan, my partner, he goes inside while I talk to the caretaker. Turns out to be something else altogether. Jan comes out of the locker room; his face is completely white. He doesn’t even want me to go in there. So much blood, he says three times, and then he just sits down on the steps …”
The police officer falls silent, sits in a chair, and stares straight ahead.
“Can you go on?” asks Joona.
“Yes … The ambulance shows up, the dead man is identified, and it’s my responsibility to inform the next of kin. We’re a bit short-staffed, so I have to go alone. My boss says she doesn’t want to let Jan go out in this state; you can understand why.”
Erik glances at the clock.
“You have time to listen to this,” says Joona.
The police officer goes on, his eyes lowered. “The deceased is a teacher at the high school in Tumba, and he lives in that development up by the ridge. I rang the bell three or four times, but nobody answered. I don’t know what made me do it, but I went round the whole block and shone my torch through a window at the back of the house.” The police officer stops, his mouth trembling, and begins to scrape at the arm of the chair with his fingernail.
“Please go on,” says Joona.
“Do I have to? I mean, I … I …”
“You found the boy, the mother, and a little girl aged five. The boy, Josef, was the only one who was still alive.”
“Although I didn’t think …” He falls silent, his face ashen.
Joona relents. “Thank you for coming, Erland.”
The police officer nods quickly and gets up, runs his hand over his dirty jacket in confusion, and hurries out of the room.
“They had all been attacked with a knife,” Joona Linna says. “It must have been sheer chaos in there. The bodies were … they were in a terrible state. They’d been kicked and beaten. They’d been stabbed, of course, multiple times, and the little girl … she had been cut in half. The lower part of her body from the waist down was in the armchair in front of the TV.”
His composure finally seems to give. He stops for a moment, staring at Erik before regaining his calm manner. “My feeling is that the killer knew the father was at the playing field. There had been a football match; he was a referee. The killer waited until he was alone before murdering him; then he started hacking up the body—in a particularly aggressive way—before going to the house to kill the rest of the family.”
“It happened in that order?” asks Erik.
“In my opinion,” replies the detective.
Erik can feel his hand shaking as he rubs his mouth. Father, mother, son, daughter, he thinks very slowly, before meeting Joona Linna’s gaze. “The perpetrator wanted to eliminate the entire family.”
Joona raises his eyebrows. “That’s exactly it … A child is still out there, the big sister. She’s twenty-three. We think it’s possible the killer is after her as well. That’s why we want to question the witness as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go in and carry out a detailed examination,” says Erik.
Joona nods.
“But we can’t risk the patient’s life by—”
“I understand that. It’s just that the longer it takes before we have something to go on, the longer the killer has to look for the sister.”
Now Erik nods.
“Why don’t you locate the sister, warn her?”
“We haven’t found her yet. She isn’t in her apartment in Sundbyberg, or at her boyfriend’s.”
“Perhaps you should examine the scene of the crime,” says Daniella.
“That’s already under way.”
“Why don’t you go over there and tell them to get a move on?” she says, irritably.
“It’s not going to yield anything anyway,” says the detective. “We’re going to find the DNA of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people in both places, all mixed up together.”
“I’ll go in a moment and see the patient,” says Erik.
Joona meets his gaze and nods. “If I could ask just a couple of questions. That might be all that’s needed to save his sister.”
3
tuesday, december 8: early morning
Erik Maria Bark returns to the patient. Standing in front of the bed, he studies the pale, damaged face; the shallow breathing; the frozen grey lips. Erik says the boy’s name, and something passes painfully across the face.
“Josef,” he says once again, quietly. “My name is Erik Maria Bark. I’m a doctor, and I’m going to examine you. You can nod if you like, if you understand what I’m saying.”
The boy is lying completely still, his stomach moving in time with his short breaths. Erik is convinced that the boy understands his words, but the level of consciousness abruptly drops. Contact is broken.
When Erik leaves the room half an hour later, both Daniella and the detective look at him expectantly. Erik shakes his head.
“He’s our only witness,” Joona repeats. “Someone has killed his father, his mother, and his little sister. The same person is almost certainly on his way to the older sister right now.”
“We know that,” Daniella snaps.
Erik raises a hand to stop the bickering. “We understand it’s important to talk to him. But it’s simply not possible. We can’t just give him a shake and tell him his whole family is dead.”
“What about hypnosis?” says Joona, almost offhandedly.
Silence falls in the room.
“No,” Erik whispers to himself.
“Wouldn’t hypnosis work?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Erik replies.
“How could that be? You yourself were a famous hypnotist. The best, I heard.”
“I was a fake,” says Erik.
“That’s not what I think,” says Joona. “And this is an emergency.”
Daniella flushes and, smiling inwardly, studies the floor.
“I can’t,” says Erik.
“I’m actually the person responsible for the patient,” says Daniella, raising her voice, “and I’m not particularly keen on letting him be hypnotised.”
“But if it wasn’t dangerous for the patient, in your judgment?” asks Joona.
Erik now realises that the detective has been thinking of hypnosis as a possible shortcut right from the start. Joona Linna has asked him to come to the hospital purely to convince him to hypnotise the patient, not because he is an expert in treating acute shock and trauma.
“I promised myself I would never use hypnosis again,” says Erik.
“OK, I understand,” says Joona. “I had heard you were the best, but … I have to respect your decision.”
“I’m sorry,” says Erik. He looks at the patient through the window in the door and turns to Daniella. “Has he been given desmopressin?”
“No, I thought I’d wait awhile,” she replies.
“Why?”
“The risk of thromboembolic complications.”
“I’ve been following the debate, but I don’t agree with the concerns; I give my son desmopressin all the time,” says Erik.
“How is Benjamin doing? He must be, what, fifteen now?”
“Fourteen,” says Erik.
Joona gets up laboriously from his chair. “I’d be grateful if you could recommend another hypnotist,” he says.
“We don’t even know if the patient is going to regain consciousness,” replies Daniella.
“But I’d like to try.”
“And he does have to be conscious in order to be hypnotised,” she says, pursing her mouth slightly.
“He was listening when Erik was talking to him,” says Joona.
“I don’t think so,” she murmurs.
Erik disagrees. “He could definitely hear me.”
“We could save his sister,” Joona goes on.
“I’m going home now,” says Erik quietly. “Give the patient desmopressin and think about trying the pressure chamber.”
As he walks towards the lift, Erik slides out of his white coat. There are a few people in the lobby now. The doors have been unlocked; the sky has lightened a little. As he pulls out of the car park he reaches for the little wooden box he carries with him, garishly decorated with a parrot and a smiling South Seas native. Without taking his eyes off the road he flips open the lid, picks out three tablets, and swallows them quickly. He needs to get a couple of hours more sleep this morning, before waking Benjamin and giving him his injection.
4
tuesday, december 8: early morning
Seven and a half hours earlier, a caretaker by the name of Karim Muhammed arrived at the Rödstuhage sports centre. The time was 8:50 p.m. Cleaning the locker rooms was his last job for the day. He parked his Volkswagen bus in the car park not far from a red Toyota. The football pitch itself was dark, the floodlights atop the tall pylons surrounding it long since extinguished, but a light was still on in the men’s locker room. The caretaker retrieved the smallest cart from the rear of the van and pushed it towards the low wooden building. Reaching it, he was slightly surprised to find the door unlocked. He knocked, got no reply, and pushed the door open. Only after he had propped it with a plastic wedge did he spot the blood.
When police officers Jan Eriksson and Erland Björkander arrived at the scene, Eriksson went straight to the locker room, leaving Björkander to question Karim Muhammed. At first, Eriksson thought he heard the victim moaning, but after turning him over the police officer realised this was impossible. The victim had been mutilated and partially dismembered. The right arm was missing, and the torso had been hacked at so badly it looked like a bowl full of bloody entrails.
Soon afterwards, the ambulance arrived, as did Detective Superintendent Lillemor Blom. A wallet left at the scene identified the victim as Anders Ek, a teacher of physics and chemistry at the Tumba High School, married to Katja Ek, a librarian at the main library in Huddinge. They lived in a terrace house at Gärdesvägen 8 and had two children living at home, Lisa and Josef.
Superintendent Blom sent Björkander to notify the victim’s family while she reviewed Eriksson’s report and cordoned off the crime scene, both inside and outside.
Björkander parked at the house in Tumba and rang the doorbell. When no one answered he went round to the back of the row of houses, switched on his torch, and shone it through a rear window, illuminating a bedroom. Inside, a large pool of blood had saturated the carpet, with long ragged stripes leading from it and through the door, as if someone had been dragged from where they’d fallen. A pair of child’s glasses lay in the doorway. Without radioing for reinforcements, Erland Björkander forced the balcony door and went in, his gun drawn. Searching the house, he discovered the three victims. He did not immediately realise that the boy was still alive. While hastily radioing for backup and an ambulance, he mistakenly used a channel covering the entire Stockholm district.
“Oh my God!” he cried out. “They’ve been slaughtered … Children have been slaughtered … I don’t know what to do. I’m all alone, and they’re all dead.”
5
monday, december 7: evening
Joona Linna was in his car on Drottningholmsvägen when he heard the call at 22:10. A police officer was screaming that children had been slaughtered, he was alone in the house, the mother was dead, they were all dead. A little while later he was radioing from outside the house and, calmer now, he explained that Superintendent Lillemor Blom had sent him to the house on Gärdesvägen alone. Björkander suddenly mumbled that this was the wrong channel and stopped speaking.
In the sudden quiet, Joona Linna listened to the rhythmic thumping of the windscreen wipers as they scraped drops of water from the glass. He thought about his father, who had had no backup. No police officer should have to do something like this on his own. Irritated at the lack of leadership out in Tumba, he pulled over to the side of the road; after a moment, he sighed, got out his mobile, and asked to be put through to Lillemor Blom.
Lillemor Blom and Joona had been classmates at the police training academy. After completing her placements, she had married a colleague in the Reconnaissance Division and two years later they had a son. Although it was his legal right, the father never took his paid paternity leave; his choice meant a financial loss for the family as it held up Lillemor’s career progression, and eventually he left her for a younger officer who had just finished her training.
Joona identified himself when Lillemor answered. He hurried through the usual civilities and then explained what he had heard on the radio.
“We’re short-staffed, Joona,” she explained. “And in my judgment—”
“That’s irrelevant. And your judgment was way off the mark.”
“You’re not listening,” she said.
“I am, but—”
“Well, then, listen to me!”
“You’re not even allowed to send your ex-husband to a crime scene alone,” Joona went on.
“Are you finished?”
After a short silence, Lillemor explained that Erland Björkander had only been dispatched to inform the family; he had decided on his own to enter the house without calling for backup.
Joona apologised. Several times. Then, mainly to be polite, asked what had happened out in Tumba.
Lillemor described the scene Erland Björkander had reported: pools and trails of blood, bloody hand- and footprints, bodies and body parts, knives and cutlery thrown on the kitchen floor. She told him that Anders Ek, whom she assumed had been killed following the attack on his family, was known to Social Services for his gambling addiction. While his official debts had been written off, he still owed money to some serious local criminal types. And now a loan enforcer had murdered him and his family. Lillemor described the condition of Anders Ek. The murderer had started to hack his body to pieces; a hunting knife and a severed arm had been found in the locker room showers. She repeated several times that they were short of staff and the examination of the crime scenes would have to wait.
“I’m coming over there,” said Joona.
“But why?” she said in surprise.
“I want to have a look.”
“Now?”
“If you don’t mind,” he replied.
“Great,” she said, in a way that made him think she meant it.
6
monday, december 7: evening
Fourteen minutes later, Joona Linna pulled up at the Rödstuhage sports centre, parking a few yards from a Volkswagen bus with the logo JOHANSSON’S CARE HOME emblazoned on the side. It was dark out, and snowflakes whirled around in the biting wind. The police had already cordoned off the area.
Joona gazed across the deserted football pitch. All of a sudden, an eerie noise—vibrating, humming—started up. Off to his left, Joona could hear shuffling sounds and quick footsteps. Turning around, he could make out two black silhouettes walking in the high grass beside the fence. The humming escalated—and then abruptly stopped. Spotlights encircling the football pitch exploded with light, flooding the centre, while casting the surrounding area in even more impenetrable winter darkness.
The two figures in the distance were uniformed policemen. One walked quickly, then stopped and vomited. He steadied himself against the fence. His colleague caught up with him and placed a comforting hand on his back, speaking soothingly.
Joona continued on towards the locker room. Flashes of light from cameras burst through the propped-open door, and the forensic technicians had laid out stepping blocks around the entrance so as not to contaminate any prints during their initial crime scene investigation. An older colleague stood guard out front. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his voice was subdued. “Don’t go in if you’re afraid of having nightmares.”
“I’m done with dreaming,” Joona replied.
A strong scent of stale sweat, urine, and fresh blood permeated the air. The forensic technicians were taking pictures in the shower, their white flashes bouncing off the tiles, giving the entire locker room a strange pulsating feel.
Blood dripped from above.
Joona clenched his jaw as he studied the badly mauled body on the floor between the wooden benches and the dented lockers. A thin-haired, middle-aged man with greying stubble.
Blood was everywhere—on the floor, the doors, the benches, the ceiling. Joona continued into the shower room and greeted the forensic technicians in a low voice. The glare of the camera flash reflected on the white tiles and caught the blade of a hunting knife on the floor.
A mop with a wooden handle stood against the wall. The rubber blade was surrounded by a large pool of blood, water, and dirt, with wisps of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.
A severed arm lay by the drain. The bone socket was exposed, lined with ligaments and torn muscle tissue.
Joona remained standing, observing every detail. He registered the blood’s spatter pattern, the angles and shapes of the blood drops.
The severed arm had been thrown against the tiled wall several times before being discarded.
“Detective,” the policeman posted outside the locker room called out. Joona noted his colleague’s anxious expression as he was handed the radio.
“This is Lillemor Blom speaking. How soon can you come to the house?”
“What is it?” Joona asked.
“One of the children. We thought he was dead, but he’s alive.”
7
monday, december 7: evening
Joona Linna’s colleagues at the National Criminal Investigation Department will tell you they admire him, and they do, but they also envy him. And they will tell you they like him, and they do, but they also find him aloof.
As a homicide investigator, his track record is unparalleled in Sweden. His success is due in part to the fact that he completely lacks the capacity to quit. He cannot surrender. It is this trait that is the primary cause of his colleagues’ envy. But what most don’t know is that his unique stubbornness is the result of unbearable personal guilt. Guilt that drives him, and renders him incapable of leaving a case unsolved.
He never speaks about what transpired. And he never forgets what happened.
Joona wasn’t driving particularly fast that day, but it had been raining, and the rays of the emerging sun bounced off puddles as if they were emanating from an underground source. He was on his way; thought he could escape …
Ever since that day, he’s been plagued not only by memories but also by an unusual form of migraine. The only thing that’s proven helpful has been a preventive medicine used for epilepsy, topiramate. Joona’s supposed to take the medicine regularly, but it makes him drowsy, and when he’s on the job and needs to think clearly, he refuses to take it. He’d rather submit to the pain. In truth, he probably considers his punishment just: both the inability to relinquish an unresolved case, and the migraine.
The ambulance, lights blinking, rocketed past him in the opposite direction as he approached the house. Leaving a ghost-like silence, the emergency vehicle disappeared through the sleeping suburb.
Waiting for Joona, Lillemor Blom stood smoking under a streetlamp. In its glow, she looked beautiful in a rugged way. These days, her face was creased with fatigue, and her makeup was invariably sloppy. But Joona had always found her to be wonderful-looking, with her high cheekbones, straight nose, and slanted eyes.
“Joona Linna,” she said, almost cooing his name.
“Will the boy make it?”
“Hard to say. It’s absolutely terrible. I’ve never seen anything like it—and I never want to again.” She let her eyes linger awhile on the glow of her cigarette.
“Have you written up your report?” he asked.
She shook her head and exhaled a stream of smoke.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Then I’ll go home and go to bed.”
“That sounds nice,” he said with a smile.
“Join me,” she joked.
Joona shook his head. “I want to go in and look around. Then I have to determine whether the boy can be interrogated.”
Lillemor tossed the cigarette to the ground. “What exactly are you doing here?” she asked.
“You can request backup from National Murder Squad, but I don’t think they will have time, and I don’t think they’ll find answers to what happened here anyway.”
“But you will?”
“We’ll see,” Joona said.
He crossed the small garden. A pink bicycle with training wheels was propped against a sandpit. Joona headed up the front steps, turned on his torch, opened the door, and walked into the hallway. The dark rooms were filled with silent fear. Just a few steps in and the adrenaline was pumping through him so hard, it felt like his chest would explode.
Purposefully, Joona registered it all, absorbing every horrific detail until he couldn’t take any more. He stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, felt back to guilt deep inside him … and continued to search the house.
In the bleak light of the hallway, Joona saw how bloody bodies had been dragged along the floor. Blood spattered the exposed-brick chimney, the television, the kitchen cabinets, the oven. Joona took in the chaos: the tipped-over furniture, the scattered silverware, the desperate footprints and handprints. When he stopped in front of the small girl’s amputated body, tears began to flow down his face. Still, he forced himself to try to imagine precisely what must have happened; the violence and the screams.
The driving force behind these murders couldn’t have been connected to a gambling debt, Joona thought. The father had already been killed. First the father, then the family; Joona was convinced of it. He breathed hard between gritted teeth. Somebody had wanted to annihilate the whole family. And he probably believed he had succeeded.
8
monday, december 7: night
Joona Linna stepped out into the cold wind, over the shivering black-and-yellow crime tape, and into his car. The boy is alive, he thought. I have to meet the surviving witness.
From his car, Joona traced Josef Ek to the neurosurgical unit at Karolinska University Hospital in Solna. The forensic technicians from Linköping had supervised the securing of biological evidence taken from the boy’s person. His condition had since deteriorated.
It was after one in the morning when Joona headed back to Stockholm, arriving at the intensive care section of Karolinska Hospital just past two. After a fifteen-minute wait, the doctor in charge, Daniella Richards, appeared.
“You must be Detective Linna. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Daniella Richards.”
“How is the boy, doctor?”
“He’s in circulatory shock,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood. His heart is attempting to compensate for this and has started to race—”
“Have you managed to stop the bleeding?”
“I think so, I hope so, and we’re giving him blood all the time, but the lack of oxygen could taint the blood and damage the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No.”
“It’s urgent that I get a chance to interview him.”
“Detective, my patient is hanging on by his fingernails. If he survives his injuries at all, it won’t be possible to interview him for several weeks.”
“He’s the sole eyewitness to a multiple murder,” said Joona. “Is there anything you can do?”
“The only person who might possibly be able to hasten the boy’s recovery is Erik Maria Bark.”
“The hypnotist?” asked Joona.
She gave a big smile, blushing slightly. “Don’t call him that if you want his help. He’s our leading expert in the treatment of shock and trauma.”
“Do you have any objections if I ask him to come in?”
“On the contrary. I’ve been considering it myself,” she said.
Joona searched in his pocket for his phone, realised he had left it in the car, and asked if he could borrow Daniella’s. After outlining the situation to Erik Maria Bark, he called Susanne Granat at Social Services and explained that he was hoping to be able to talk to Josef Ek soon. Susanne Granat knew all about the family. The Eks were on their register, she said, because of the father’s gambling addiction, and because they had had dealings with the daughter three years ago.
“With the daughter?” asked Joona.
“The older daughter,” explained Susanne.
“So there is a third child?” Joona asked impatiently.
“Yes, her name is Evelyn.”
Joona ended the conversation and immediately called his colleagues in the Reconnaissance Division to ask them to track down Evelyn Ek. He emphasised repeatedly that it was urgent, that she risked being killed. But then he added it was also possible that she was dangerous, that she could actually have been involved in the triple homicide in Tumba.
9
tuesday, december 8: morning
Detective Joona Linna orders a large sandwich with Parmesan, bresaola, and sun-dried tomatoes from the little breakfast bar called Il Caffè on Bergsgatan. The café has just opened, and the girl who takes his order has not yet had time to unpack the warm bread from the large brown bags in which it’s been delivered from the bakery.
Having inspected the crime scenes in Tumba late the night before, and in the middle of the night visited the hospital in Solna and spoken to the two doctors Daniella Richards and Erik Maria Bark, he had called Reconnaissance once more. “Have you found Evelyn?” he’d asked.
“No.”
“You realise we have to find her before the murderer does.”
“We’re trying, but—”
“Try harder,” Joona had growled. “Maybe we can save a life.”
Now, after three hours of sleep, Joona gazes out the steamed-up window, waiting for his breakfast. Sleet is falling on the town hall. The food arrives. Joona grabs a pen on the glass counter, signs the credit slip, and hurries out.
The sleet intensifies as he makes his way along Bergsgatan, the warm sandwich in one hand and his indoor hockey stick and gym bag in the other.
“We’re playing Recon Tuesday night,” Joona had told his colleague Benny Rubin. “We have no chance. They’re going to kill us.”
The National CID indoor hockey team loses whenever they play the local police, the traffic police, the maritime police, the national special intervention squad, the SWAT team, or Recon. But it gives them a good excuse to drown their sorrows together in the pub, as they like to say, afterwards.
Joona has no idea as he walks alongside police headquarters and past the big entrance doors that he will neither play hockey nor go to the pub this Tuesday. Someone has scrawled a swastika on the entrance sign to the courtroom. He strides on towards the Kronoberg holding cells and watches the tall gate close silently behind a car. Snowflakes are melting on the big window of the guardroom. Joona walks past the police swimming pool and cuts across the yard toward the gabled end of the vast complex. The façade resembles dark copper, burnished but underwater. Flags droop wetly from their poles. Hurrying between two metal plinths and beneath the high frosted glass roof, Joona stamps the snow off his shoes and swings open the doors to the National Police Board.
The central administrative authority in Sweden, the National Police Board is made up of the National Criminal Investigation Department, the Security Service, the Police Training Academy, and the National Forensic Laboratory. The National CID is Sweden’s only central operational police body, with the responsibility for dealing with serious crime on a national and international level. For nine years, Joona Linna has worked here as a detective.
Joona walks along the corridor, taking off his cap and shaking it at his side, glancing in passing at the notices on the bulletin board about yoga classes, somebody who’s trying to sell a camper, information from the trade union, and scheduling changes for the shooting club. The floor, which was mopped before the snowstorm began, is already soiled with bootprints and dried, muddy slush.
The door of Benny Rubin’s office is ajar. A sixty-year-old man with a grey moustache and wrinkled, sun-damaged skin, he is involved in the work around communication headquarters and the change-over to Rakel, the new radio system. He sits at his computer with a cigarette behind his ear, typing with agonising slowness.
“I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,” he says, all of a sudden.
“Maybe that explains why you’re such a lousy typist,” jokes Joona.
Benny’s latest find is an advertising poster for the airline SAS: a fairly exotic young woman in a minute bikini suggestively sipping some kind of fruit-garnished cocktail from a straw. Benny was so incensed by the ban on calendars featuring pin-up girls that most people thought he was going to resign, but instead he has devoted himself to a silent and stubborn protest for many years. Technically, nothing forbids the display of advertisements for airlines, pictures of ice princesses with their legs spread wide apart, lithe and flexible yoga instructors, or ads for underwear from H&M. On the first day of each month, Benny changes what he has on the wall. The variety of ways that he avoids the ban is dazzling. Joona remembers a poster of the short-distance runner Gail Devers, in tight shorts, and a daring lithograph by the artist Egon Schiele that depicted a red-haired woman sitting with her legs apart in a pair of fluffy bloomers.
Moving on, Joona stops to say hello to his assistant, Anja Larsson. She sits at the computer with her mouth half open, her round face wearing an expression of such concentration that he decides not to disturb her. Instead, he hangs up his wet coat just inside the door of his office, switches on the advent star in the window, and glances quickly through his in-box: a message about the working environment, a suggestion about low-energy lightbulbs, an inquiry from the prosecutor’s office, and an invitation from Human Resources to a Christmas meal at Skansen.
Joona leaves his office, goes into the meeting room, and sits in his usual place to unwrap his sandwich and eat.
Petter Näslund stops in the corridor, laughs smugly, and leans on the doorframe with his back to the meeting room. A muscular, balding man of about thirty-five, Petter is a detective with a position of special responsibility and Joona’s immediate boss. Everyone knows that Joona is eminently more qualified than Petter. But they know, too, that he is also singularly disinterested in administrative duties and the rat race involved in climbing the ranks.
For several years Petter has been flirting with Magdalena Ronander without noticing her troubled expression and constant attempts to switch to a more businesslike tone. Magdalena has been a detective in the Reconnaissance Division for four years, and she intends to complete her legal training before she turns thirty.
Lowering his voice suggestively, Petter questions Magdalena about her choice of service weapon, wondering aloud how often she changes the barrel because the grooves have become too worn. Ignoring his coarse innuendoes, she tells him she keeps a careful note of the number of shots fired.
“But you like the big rough ones, don’t you?” says Petter.
“No, not at all, I use the Glock Seventeen,” she replies, “because it can cope with a lot of the defence team’s nine-millimetre ammunition.”
“Don’t you use the Czech?”
“Yes, but I prefer the M39B,” she says firmly, moving around him to enter the meeting room. He follows, and they both sit and greet Joona. “And you can get the Glock with gunpowder gas ejectors next to the sight,” she continues. “It reduces the recoil a hell of a lot, and you can get the next shot in much more quickly.”
“What does our Moomintroll think?” asks Petter, with a nod in Joona’s direction.
Joona smiles sweetly and fixes his icily clear grey eyes on them. “I think it doesn’t make any difference. I think other elements decide the outcome,” he says.
“So you don’t need to be able to shoot.” Petter grins.
“Joona is a good shot,” says Magdalena.
“Good at everything.” Petter sighs.
Magdalena ignores Petter and turns to Joona instead. “The biggest advantage with the compensated Glock is that the gunpowder gas can’t be seen from the barrel when it’s dark.”
“Quite right,” says Joona.
Wearing a pleased expression, she opens her black leather case and begins leafing through her papers. Benny comes in, sits down, looks around at everyone, slams the palm of his hand down on the table, then smiles broadly when Magdalena glances at him in irritation.
“I took the case out in Tumba,” Joona starts.
“That’s got nothing to do with us,” says Petter.
“I think we could be dealing with a serial killer here, or at least—”
“Just leave it, for God’s sake!” Benny interrupts, looking Joona in the eye and slapping the table again.
“It was somebody settling a score,” Petter goes on. “Loans, debts, gambling …”
“A gambling addict,” Benny says.
“Very well known at Solvalla. The local sharks were into him for a lot of money, and he ended up paying for it,” says Petter, bringing the matter to a close.
In the silence that follows, Joona drinks some water and finishes the last of his sandwich. “I’ve got a feeling about this case,” he says quietly.
“Then you need to ask for a transfer,” says Petter with a smile. “This has nothing to do with the National CID.”
“I think it has.”
“If you want the case, you’ll have to go and join the local force in Tumba,” says Petter.
“I intend to investigate these murders,” says Joona calmly.
“That’s for me to decide,” replies Petter.
Yngve Svensson comes in and sits down. His hair is slicked back with gel, he has blue-grey rings under his eyes and reddish stubble, and, as always, he’s in a creased black suit.
“Yngwie,” Benny says happily.
Not only is Yngve Svensson in charge of the analytical section but he’s also one of the leading experts on organised crime in the country.
“Yngve, what do you think about this business in Tumba?” asks Petter. “You’ve just been having a look at it, haven’t you?”
“Strictly a local matter,” he says. “A loan enforcer goes to the house to collect. Normally, the father would have been home, but he’d stepped in to referee a football match at the last minute. The enforcer is presumably high, both speed and Rohypnol, I’d say; he’s unbalanced, he’s stressed, something sets him off, so he attacks the family with some kind of SWAT knife to try and find out where the father is. They tell him the truth, but he goes completely nuts anyway and kills them all before he goes off to the playing field.”
Petter sneers. He gulps some water, belches into his hand, and turns to Joona. “What have you got to say about that?”
“If it wasn’t completely wrong it might be quite impressive,” says Joona.
“What’s wrong with it?” asks Yngve aggressively.
“The murderer killed the father first,” Joona says calmly. “Then he went over to the house and killed the rest of the family.”
“In which case it’s hardly likely to be a case of debt collection,” says Magdalena Ronander.
“We’ll just have to see what the postmortem shows,” Yngve mutters.
“It’ll show I’m right,” says Joona.
“Idiot.” Yngve sighs, tucking two plugs of snuff under his top lip.
“Joona, I’m not giving you this case,” says Petter.
“I realise that.” He sighs and gets up from the table.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’ve got a meeting,” says Petter.
“I’m going to talk to Carlos.”
“Not about this.”
“Yes, about this,” says Joona, leaving the room.
“Get back in here,” shouts Petter, “or I’ll have to—”
Joona doesn’t hear what Petter will have to do, he simply closes the door calmly behind him and moves along the hall, saying hello to Anja, who peers over her computer screen with a quizzical expression.
“Aren’t you in a meeting?” she asks.
“I am,” he says, continuing towards the lift.
10
tuesday, december 8: morning
On the fifth floor is the National Police Board’s meeting room and central office, and this is also where Carlos Eliasson, the head of the National CID, is based. The office door is ajar, but as usual it is more closed than open, as if to discourage casual visitors.
“Come in, come in, come in,” says Carlos. An expression made up of equal parts of anxiety and pleasure flickers across his face when Joona walks in. “I’m just going to feed my babies,” he says, tapping the edge of his aquarium. Smiling, he sprinkles fish food into the water and watches the fish swim to the surface. “There now,” he whispers. He shows the smallest paradise fish, Nikita, which way to go, then turns back to Joona. “The murder squad asked if you could take a look at the killing in Dalarna.”
“They can solve that one themselves,” replies Joona. “Anyway, I haven’t got time.”
He sits down directly opposite Carlos. There is a pleasant aroma of leather and wood in the room. The sun shines playfully through the aquarium, casting dancing beams of undulant refracted light on the walls.
“I want the Tumba case,” he says, coming straight to the point.
The troubled expression takes over Carlos’s wrinkled, amiable face for a moment. He passes a hand through his thinning hair. “Petter Näslund rang me just now, and he’s right, this isn’t a matter for the National CID,” he says carefully.
“I think it is,” insists Joona.
“Only if the debt collection is linked to some kind of wider organised crime, Joona.”
“This wasn’t about collecting a debt.”
“Oh, no?”
“The murderer attacked the father first. Then he went to the house to kill the family. His plan from the outset was to murder the entire family. He’s going to find the older daughter, and he’s going to find the boy. If he survives.”
Carlos glances briefly at his aquarium, as if he were afraid the fish might hear something unpleasant. “I see,” he says. “And how do you know this?”
“Because of the footprints in the blood at both scenes.”
“What do you mean?”
Joona leans forward. “There were footprints all over the place, of course, and I haven’t measured anything, but I got the impression that the footsteps in the locker room were … well, more lively, and the ones in the house were more tired.”
“Here we go,” says Carlos wearily. “This is where you start complicating everything.”
“But I’m right,” replies Joona.
Carlos shakes his head. “I don’t think you are, not this time.”
“Yes, I am.”
Carlos turns. “Joona Linna is the most stubborn individual I’ve ever come across,” he tells his fish.
“Why back down when I know I’m right?”
“I can’t go over Petter’s head and give you the case on the strength of a hunch,” Carlos explains.
“Yes, you can.”
“Everybody thinks this was about gambling debts.”
“You too?” asks Joona.
“I do, actually.”
“The footprints were more lively in the locker room because the man was murdered first,” insists Joona.
“You never give up, do you?” asks Carlos.
Joona shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
“I’d better ring and speak to the path lab myself,” mutters Carlos, picking up the telephone.
“They’ll tell you I’m right,” says Joona.
Joona Linna knows he is a stubborn person; he needs this stubbornness to carry on. He cannot give up. Cannot. Long before Joona’s life changed to the core, before it was shattered into pieces, he lost his father.
Maybe that’s when it all began.
Joona’s father, Yrjö Linna, was a patrolling policeman in the district of Märsta. One day in 1979 he happened to be on the old Uppsalavägen a little way north of the Löwenström Hospital when Central Control got a call and sent him to Hammarbyvägen in Upplands Väsby. A neighbour had called the police and said the Olsson kids were being beaten again. Sweden had just become the first country to introduce a ban on the corporal punishment of children, and the police had been instructed to take the new law seriously. Yrjö Linna drove to the apartment block and pulled up outside the door, where he waited for his partner. After a few minutes the partner called; he was in a queue at Mama’s Hot Dog Stand, and besides, he said, he thought a man should have the right to show who was boss sometimes.
Yrjö Linna never was one to talk much. He knew regulations dictated that there should always be two officers present at an incident of this kind, but he said nothing, although he was well aware that he had the right to expect support. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to look like a coward, and he couldn’t wait. So, alone, Yrjö Linna climbed the stairs to the third floor and rang the doorbell.
A little girl with frightened eyes opened the door. He told her to stay on the landing, but she shook her head and ran into the apartment. Yrjö Linna followed her and walked into the living room. The girl banged on the door leading to the balcony. Yrjö saw that there was a little boy out there, wearing only a nappy. He looked about two years old. Yrjö hurried across the room to let the child in, and that was why he noticed the drunken man just a little too late. He was sitting in complete silence on the sofa just inside the door, his face turned towards the balcony. Yrjö had to use both hands to undo the catch and turn the handle. It was only when he heard the click of the shotgun that Yrjö froze. The shot sent a total of thirty-six small lead pellets straight into his spine and killed him almost instantly.
Eleven-year-old Joona and his mother, Ritva, moved from the bright apartment in the centre of Märsta to his aunt’s three-room place in Fredhäll in Stockholm. After graduating from high school, he applied to the Police Training Academy. He still thinks about the friends in his group quite often: strolling together across the vast lawns, the lull before they were sent out on placements, the early years as junior officers. Joona Linna has done his share of desk work. He has redirected traffic after road accidents and for the Stockholm Marathon; been embarrassed by football hooligans harassing his female colleagues with their deafening songs on the underground; found dead heroin addicts with rotting sores; helped ambulance crews with vomiting drunks; talked to prostitutes shaking with withdrawal symptoms, to those with AIDS, to those who are afraid; he has met hundreds of men who have abused their partners and children, always following the same pattern (drunk but controlled and deliberate, with the radio on full volume and the blinds closed); he has stopped speeding and drunken drivers, confiscated weapons, drugs, and home-made booze. Once, while off from work with lumbago and out walking to avoid stiffening up, he’d seen a skinhead grab a Muslim woman’s breast outside the school in Klastorp. His back aching, he’d chased the skinhead along by the water, right through the park, past Smedsudden, up onto the Västerbro bridge, across the water, and past Långholmen to Södermalm, finally catching up with him by the traffic lights on Högalidsgatan.
Without any real intention of building a career, he has moved up the ranks. He could join the National Murder Squad, but he refuses. He likes complex tasks, and he never gives up, but Joona Linna has no interest whatsoever in any form of command.
Now Joona sits listening as Carlos Eliasson talks to Professor Nils ‘The Needle’ Åhlén, Chief Medical Officer at the pathology lab in Stockholm.
“No, I just need to know which was the first crime scene,” says Carlos; then he listens for a while. “I realise that, I do realise that … but in your judgment so far, what do you think?”
Joona leans back in his chair, running his fingers through his messy blond hair. So far he does not feel any tiredness from the long night in Tumba and at Karolinska Hospital. He watches as Carlos’s face grows redder and redder. Joona can hear The Needle drone faintly on the other end of the line. When the voice stops, Carlos simply nods and hangs up without saying goodbye.
“They … they—”
“They have established that the father was killed first,” supplies Joona.
Carlos nods.
“What did I tell you?” Joona beams.
Carlos looks down at his desk and clears his throat. “Fine, you’re leading the preliminary investigation,” he says. “The Tumba case is yours.”
“First of all, I want to hear one thing,” says Joona. “Who was right? Who was right, you or me?”
“You!” yells Carlos. “For God’s sake, Joona, what is it with you? Yeah, you were right—as usual!”
Joona hides a smile behind his hand as he gets up.
Suddenly he turns grave. “Reconnaissance hasn’t been able to track down Evelyn Ek. She could be anywhere. I don’t know what we’re going to do if we can’t get permission to talk to the boy. Too much time will pass, and it’ll be too late when we find her.”
“You want to interrogate the wounded boy?” Carlos asks.
“I have no choice.”
“Have you spoken to the prosecutor?”
“I have no intention of handing over the preliminary investigation until I have a suspect,” says Joona.
“That’s not what I meant,” says Carlos. “I just think it’s a good idea to have the prosecutor on your side if you’re going to talk to a boy who is so badly injured.”
Joona is halfway out of the door. “All right, that makes sense. You’re a wise man. I’ll give Jens a call,” he says.
11
tuesday, december 8: morning
Erik Maria Bark arrives home from Karolinska Hospital. As he quietly lets himself in, he thinks about the young victim lying there and the policeman so eager to question him. Erik likes Detective Joona Linna, despite his attempt to get Erik to break his promise never to use hypnosis again. Maybe it’s the detective’s open and honest anxiety about the safety of the older sister that makes him so likeable. Presumably somebody is looking for her right now.
Erik is very tired. The tablets have begun to take effect; his eyes are heavy and sore; sleep is on the way. He opens the bedroom door and looks at Simone. The light from the hallway covers her like a scratched pane of glass. Three hours have passed since he left her here, and Simone has now taken over all the space in the bed. Resting on her stomach, she lies there heavily. The bedclothes are down by her feet, her nightgown has worked its way up around her waist, and she has goose bumps on her arms and shoulders. Erik pulls the covers over her carefully. She murmurs something and curls up; he sits down and strokes her ankle, and she moves slightly.
“I’m going for a shower,” he says, but he leans back against the headboard, overwhelmed by fatigue.
“What was the name of the police officer?” she asks, slurring her words.
Before he has time to answer, he finds himself at the park in Observatorielunden. He is digging in the sand in the playground and finds a yellow stone, as round as an egg, as big as a pumpkin. He scrapes at it with his hands and sees the outline of a relief on the side, a jagged row of teeth. When he turns the heavy stone over he sees that it is the skull of a dinosaur.
Suddenly, Simone is screaming. “Fuck you!”
He gives a start and realises that he has fallen asleep and begun to dream. The strong pills have sent him to sleep in the middle of the conversation. He tries to smile and meets Simone’s chilly gaze.
“Sixan? What is it?”
“Has it started again?” she asks.
“What?”
“What?” she repeats crossly. “Who’s Daniella?”
“Daniella?”
“You promised. You made a promise, Erik,” she says. “I trusted you, I was actually stupid enough to trust—”
“What are you talking about? Daniella Richards is a colleague at Karolinska. What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“This is actually getting ridiculous,” he says, and despite her clear anger he feels a smile spreading involuntarily across his face. He is so tired.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asks. “I’ve sometimes thought … I even believed I could forget what happened.”
Erik nods off for a few seconds, but he can still hear what she’s saying.
“It might be best if we separate,” whispers Simone.
He snaps awake at this. “Nothing has happened between me and Daniella.”
“That doesn’t really matter,” she says wearily.
“Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it matter? You want to separate because of something I did ten years ago?”
“Something?”
“I was drunk, Simone. Drunk, and—”
“I don’t want to listen. I know all about it. I … Fuck it! I don’t want to do this, I’m not a jealous person, but I am loyal and I expect loyalty in return.”
“I’ve never let you down since, and I’ll never—”
“Prove it to me. I need proof.”
“You just have to trust me,” he says.
“Yes,” she says with a sigh, and collecting a pillow and duvet she shuffles out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
He is breathing heavily. He ought to follow her, not just give up; he ought to try to calm her down and persuade her to come back to bed, but right now sleep exerts the stronger influence. He can no longer resist it. He sinks down into the bed; feels the dopamine flood his system, the tension flow out of his body as relaxation spreads pleasurably across his face, his neck and shoulders, down into his toes and the tips of his fingers. A heavy, chemical sleep enfolds his consciousness like a floury cloud.
12
tuesday, december 8: morning
Erik slowly opens his eyes to the pale light pressing against the curtains. He rolls over with a grunt and glances at the alarm clock; two hours have passed. Immediately, his mind begins to replay the images from the night before: Simone’s angry face as she made her accusations, the boy lying there with hundreds of black knife wounds covering his glowing body.
Erik thinks of the detective, who seemed convinced that the perpetrator had wanted to murder an entire family: first the father, then the mother, the son, and the daughter.
An older daughter is out there somewhere, in extreme danger, if Joona Linna is right.
The telephone on the bedside table begins to ring.
Erik gets up, but instead of answering he opens the curtains and peers across at the façade of the building opposite, trying to gather his thoughts. The dust glazing the windowpanes is clearly visible in the morning sunshine.
Simone has already left for the gallery. He doesn’t understand her outburst, why she was talking about Daniella. He wonders if it’s about something else altogether: the drugs, maybe. He knows he’s very close to a serious dependency on them, but he has to sleep. All the night shifts at the hospital have ruined his ability to sleep naturally. Without pills he would go under, he thinks. He reaches for the alarm clock but manages to knock it on the floor instead.
The telephone stops, but is silent for only a little while before it starts ringing again.
He considers going into Benjamin’s room and lying down beside his son, waking him gently, asking if he’s been dreaming about anything. He picks up the telephone and answers.
“Hi, it’s Daniella Richards.”
“Are you still at the hospital? It’s quarter past eight.”
“I know. I’m exhausted.”
“Go home.”
“No chance,” says Daniella calmly. “You have to come back. That detective is on his way. He seems even more convinced that the perpetrator is after the older sister. He says he has to talk to the boy.”
Erik feels a sudden dark weight behind his eyes. “That’s a bad idea, given his condition.”
“I know. But what about the sister?” she interrupts him. “I’m considering giving the detective the go-ahead to question Josef.”
“It’s your patient. If you think he can cope with it,” says Erik.
“Cope? Of course he can’t cope with it. His condition is critical. His family has been murdered, and he’ll find out about it under questioning from a policeman. But I can’t just sit and wait. I don’t want to let the police at him, but there’s no doubt that his sister is in danger.”
“It’s your call,” Erik says again.
“A murderer is looking for his older sister!” Daniella breaks in, raising her voice.
“Presumably.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in such a state about this,” she says. “Maybe because it isn’t too late. Something could actually be done. I mean, it isn’t often the case, but this time we could save a girl before she—”
“What do you want from me?” asks Erik.
“You have to come in and do what you’re good at.”
Erik pauses, then answers carefully. “I can talk to the boy about what’s happened when he’s feeling a little better.”
“That’s not what I mean. I want you to hypnotise him,” she says seriously.
“No.”
“It’s the only way.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“But there’s nobody as good as you.”
“I don’t even have permission to practise hypnosis at Karolinska.”
“I can arrange that.”
“Daniella,” Erik says, “I’ve promised never to hypnotise anyone again.”
“Can’t you just come in?”
There is silence for a little while; then Erik asks, “Is he conscious?”
“He soon will be.”
He can hear the rushing sound of his own breathing through the telephone.
“If you won’t hypnotise the boy, I’m going to let the police see him.” She ends the call.
Erik stands there holding the receiver in his trembling hand. The weight behind his eyes is rolling in towards his brain. He opens the drawer of the bedside table. The wooden box with the parrot and the native on it isn’t there. He must have left it in the car.
The apartment is flooded with sunlight as he walks through to wake Benjamin.
The boy is sleeping with his mouth open. His face is pale and he looks exhausted, despite a full night’s sleep.
“Benni?”
Benjamin opens his sleep-drenched eyes and looks at him as if he were a complete stranger, before he smiles the smile that has remained the same ever since he was born.
“It’s Tuesday. Time to wake up.”
Benjamin sits up yawning, scratches his head, then looks at the mobile phone hanging round his neck. It’s the first thing he does every morning: he checks whether he’s missed any messages during the night. Erik takes out the yellow bag with a puma on it, which contains the factor concentrate desmopressin, acetyl spirit, sterile cannulas, compresses, surgical tape, painkillers.
“Now or at breakfast?”
Benjamin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
Erik quickly swabs his son’s skinny arm, turns it towards the light coming through the window, feels the softness of the muscle, taps the syringe, and carefully pushes the cannula beneath the skin. As the syringe slowly empties, Benjamin taps away at his cell phone with his free hand.
“Shit, my battery’s almost gone,” he says, then lies back as his father holds a compress to his arm to stop any bleeding.
Gently Erik bends his son’s legs backwards and forwards; then he exercises the slender knee joints and massages the feet and toes. “How does it feel?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his son’s face.
Benjamin grimaces. “Same as usual.”
“Do you want a painkiller?”
Benjamin shakes his head, and Erik suddenly remembers the unconscious witness, the boy with all those knife wounds. Perhaps the murderer is looking for the older daughter right now.
“Dad? What is it?”
Erik meets Benjamin’s gaze. “I’ll drive you to school if you like,” he says.
“What for?”
13
tuesday, december 8: morning
The rush-hour traffic rumbles slowly along. Benjamin is sitting next to his father, the stop-and-go progress of the car making him feel drowsy. He gives a big yawn and feels a soft warmth still lingering in his body after the night’s sleep. He thinks about the fact that his father is in a hurry but that he still takes the time to drive him to school. Benjamin smiles to himself. It’s always been this way, he thinks: when Dad’s involved in something awful at the hospital, he gets worried that something’s going to happen to me.
“Oh, no!” Erik says suddenly. “We forgot the ice skates.”
“Right.”
“We’ll go back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” says Benjamin.
Erik tries switching lanes, but another car stops him from cutting in. Forced back, he almost collides with a dustbin lorry.
“We’ve got time to turn around and—”
“Just, like, forget the skates. I couldn’t care less,” says Benjamin, his voice rising.
Erik glances at him in surprise. “I thought you liked skating.”
Benjamin doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stand being interrogated, doesn’t want to lie. He turns away to look out of the window.
“Don’t you?” asks Erik.
“What?”
“Like skating?”
“Why would I?” Benjamin mutters. “It’s boring.”
“We bought you brand new—”
Benjamin’s only reply is a sigh.
“Fine,” says Erik. “Forget the skates.” He concentrates on the traffic for a moment. “So skating is boring. Playing chess is boring. Watching TV is boring. What do you actually enjoy?”
“Don’t know,” Benjamin says.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Movies?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Erik smiles.
“Yes,” replies Benjamin.
“I’ve seen you watch three or four movies in a night,” says Erik cheerily.
“So what?”
Erik goes on, still smiling. “I wonder how many movies you could get through if you really liked watching them. If you loved movies.”
“Give me a break.” Despite himself, Benjamin smiles.
“Maybe you’d need two TVs, zipping through them all on fast forward.” Erik laughs and places his hand on his son’s knee. Benjamin allows it to remain there.
Suddenly they hear a muffled bang, and in the sky a pale blue star appears, with descending smoke-coloured points.
“Funny time for fireworks,” says Benjamin.
“What?” asks his father.
“Look,” says Benjamin, pointing.
A star of smoke hangs in the sky. For some reason, Benjamin can see Aida in front of him, and his stomach contracts at once; he feels warm inside. Last Friday they sat close together in silence on the sofa in her narrow living room out in Sundbyberg, watching the movie Elephant while her younger brother played with Pokémon cards on the floor, talking to himself.
As Erik is parking outside the school, Benjamin suddenly spots Aida. She’s standing on the other side of the fence waiting for him. When she catches sight of him she waves. Benjamin grabs his bag and, sliding out the car door, says, “’Bye, Dad. Thanks for the lift.”
“Love you,” says Erik quietly.
Benjamin nods.
“Want to watch a movie tonight?” asks Erik.
“Whatever.”
“Is that Aida?” asks Erik.
“Yes,” says Benjamin, almost without making a sound.
“I’d like to say hello to her,” says Erik, climbing out of the car.
“What for?”
They walk across to Aida. Benjamin hardly dares to look at her; he feels like a kid. He doesn’t want her to think he needs his father to approve of her or anything. He doesn’t care what his father thinks. Aida looks nervous; her eyes dart from son to father. Before Benjamin has time to say anything by way of explanation, Erik sticks out his hand.
“Hi, there.”
Aida shakes his hand warily. Benjamin sees his father take in her tattoos: there’s a swastika on her throat, with a little Star of David next to it. She’s painted her eyes black, her hair is done up in two childish braids, and she wears a black leather jacket and a wide black net skirt.
“I’m Erik, Benjamin’s dad.”
“Aida.”
Her voice is high and weak. Benjamin blushes and looks nervously at Aida, then down at the ground.
“Are you a Nazi?” asks Erik.
“Are you?” she retorts.
“No.”
“Me neither,” she says, briefly meeting his eyes.
“Why have you got a—”
“No reason. I’m nothing. I’m just—”
Benjamin breaks in, his heart pounding with embarrassment over his father. “She was hanging out with these people a few years ago,” he says loudly. “But she thought they were idiots, and—”
“You don’t need to explain,” Aida interrupts, annoyed.
He doesn’t speak for a moment.
“I … I just think it’s brave to admit when you’ve made a mistake,” he says eventually.
“Yes, but I would interpret it as an ongoing lack of insight not to have it removed,” says Erik.
“Just leave it!” shouts Benjamin. “You don’t know anything about her!”
Aida simply turns and walks away. Benjamin hurries after her.
“Sorry,” he pants. “Dad can be so embarrassing.”
“He’s right, though, isn’t he?” she asks.
“No,” replies Benjamin feebly.
“I think maybe he is,” she says, half smiling as she takes his hand in hers.
14
tuesday, december 8: morning
The Department of Forensic Medicine is located in a redbrick building in the middle of the huge campus of the Karolinska Institute. And inside the department is the glossy white and pale matt grey office of Nils Åhlén, Chief Medical Officer, aka The Needle.
After giving his name to a girl at reception, Joona Linna is allowed in.
The office is modern and expensive and comes with a designer label. The few chairs are made of brushed steel, with austere white leather seats, and the light comes from a large sheet of glass suspended above the desk.
The Needle shakes Joona’s hand without getting up. He is wearing white aviator-framed glasses and a white turtleneck under his white lab coat. His face is clean-shaven and narrow, the grey hair is cropped, his lips are pale, his nose long and uneven.
“Good morning,” he says, in a hoarse voice.
On the wall hangs a faded colour photograph of The Needle and his colleagues: forensic pathologists, forensic chemists, forensic geneticists, and forensic dentists. They are all wearing white coats, and they all look happy. They are standing around a few dark fragments of bone on a bench; the caption beneath the picture states that this is a find from an excavation of ninth-century graves outside the trading settlement of Birka on the island of Björkö.
“New picture,” says Joona.
“I have to stick photos up with tape,” says The Needle discontentedly. “In the old pathology department they had a picture sixty feet square.”
“Wow,” replies Joona.
“Painted by Peter Weiss.”
“The writer?”
The Needle nods; the light from the desk lamp reflects off his aviators. “Yes. He painted portraits of all the staff in the forties. Six months’ work, and he was paid six hundred kronor, or so I’ve heard. My father is in the picture among the pathologists; he’s down at the end.” The Needle tilts his head to one side and returns to his computer. “I’m just working on the postmortem report from the Tumba murders,” he says.
“Yes?”
The Needle peers at Joona. “Carlos rang up to hassle me this morning.”
Joona smiles sweetly. “I know.”
The Needle pushes his glasses back. “I gather it’s important to establish the time of death of the different victims.”
“Yes, we need to know the order.”
The Needle searches on the computer, his lips pursed. “It’s only a preliminary assessment, but—”
“The man died first?”
“Exactly. I based that purely on the body temperature,” he says, pointing at the screen. “Erixon says both locations, the locker room and the house, were roughly the same temperature, so my estimate was that the man died just over an hour before the other two.”
“And have you changed your mind now?”
The Needle shakes his head and gets up with a groan. “Slipped disc,” he mutters, as he sets off down the hall.
Joona follows him as he limps slowly toward the postmortem unit. They pass a room containing a freestanding dissection table made of stainless steel; it looks like a draining board but with rectangular sections and a raised edge all round it. They enter a cool room where bodies being examined by the forensic unit are preserved in drawers at a temperature of forty degrees Fahrenheit. The Needle stops and checks the number, pulls out a large drawer, and sees that it’s empty.
“Gone,” he says, and they return to the corridor. As they walk, Joona notices that the floor is marked with thousands of scuffs from the wheels of trolleys. They reach another room and The Needle holds the door open for Joona.
They are in a well-lit white-tiled room with a large hand basin on the wall. Water is trickling into a drain in the floor from a bright yellow hose. On the long dissection table, which is covered in plastic, lies a naked, colourless body marked with hundreds of black wounds.
“Katja Ek,” states Joona.
The dead woman’s face is remarkably calm; her mouth is half open and her eyes have a serene look about them. She looks as if she is listening to beautiful music, but her peaceful expression is at odds with the long, vicious slashes across her forehead and cheeks. Joona allows his gaze to roam over Katja Ek’s body, where a marbled veining has already begun to appear around her neck.
“We’re hoping to get the internal examination done this afternoon.”
Joona sighs. “God, what a mess.”
The other door opens and a young man with an uncertain smile comes in. He has several rings in his eyebrows, and his dyed black hair hangs down the back of his white coat in a ponytail. With a little smile, The Needle raises one fist in a hard rock greeting, pinkie and index finger aloft like devil’s horns, which the young man immediately reciprocates.
“This is Joona Linna from National CID,” The Needle explains. “He comes to visit us now and again.”
“Frippe,” says the young man, shaking hands with Joona.
“He’s specialising in forensic medicine,” says The Needle.
Frippe pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and Joona goes over to the table with him; the air surrounding the woman is cold and smells unpleasant.
“She’s the one who was subjected to the least amount of violence,” The Needle points out. “Despite multiple cuts and stab wounds.”
They contemplate the dead woman. Her body is covered in large and small punctures.
“In addition, unlike the other two, she has not been mutilated or hacked to pieces,” he goes on. “The actual cause of death is not the wound in her neck but this one, which goes straight into the heart, according to the computer tomography.” He indicates a relatively unimpressive-looking wound on her sternum.
“But it is a little difficult to see the bleeds on the images,” says Frippe.
“Naturally, we’ll check it out when we open her up,” The Needle says to Joona.
“She fought back,” says Joona.
“In my opinion she actively defended herself at first,” replies The Needle, “based on the wounds on the palms of her hands, but then she tried to escape and simply tried to protect herself.”
The young doctor studies The Needle intently.
“Look at the injuries on the outer arms,” says The Needle.
“Defensive wounds,” mutters Joona.
“Exactly.”
Joona leans over and looks at the brownish-yellow patches that are visible in the woman’s open eyes.
“Are you looking at the suns?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t see them until a few hours after death; sometimes it can take several days,” The Needle says to the young doctor. “They’ll turn completely black in the end. It’s because the pressure in the eye is dropping.”
He picks up a reflex hammer and asks Frippe to see if any idiomuscular contractions remain. The young doctor taps the middle of the woman’s biceps and feels the muscle with his fingers, checking for contractions.
“Minimal,” he says to The Needle.
“They usually stop after thirteen hours,” The Needle explains.
“The dead are not completely dead,” says Joona, shuddering as he detects a ghostly movement in Katja Ek’s limp arm.
“Mortui vivis docent—the dead teach the living,” replies The Needle, smiling to himself as he and Frippe ease her onto her stomach.
He points out the blotchy reddish-brown patches on her buttocks and the small of her back and across her shoulder blades and arms.
“The hypostasis is faint when the victim has lost a lot of blood.”
“Obviously,” says Joona.
“Blood is heavy, and when you die there is no longer any internal pressure system,” The Needle explains to Frippe. “It might be obvious, but the blood runs downward and simply collects at the lowest points; it’s most often seen on surfaces that have been in contact with whatever the body was lying on.”
He presses a patch on her right calf with his thumb until it almost disappears.
“There, you see … you can press them and make them disappear up to twenty-four hours after death.”
“But I thought I saw patches on her hips and chest,” says Joona hesitantly.
“Bravo,” says The Needle, regarding him with a faintly surprised smile. “I didn’t think you’d notice those.”
“So she was lying on her stomach when she was dead, before she was turned over,” says Joona.
“For two hours, I’d guess.”
“So the perpetrator stayed for two hours. Or he came back to the scene. Or somebody else turned her over.”
The Needle shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a long way from finishing my assessment at this stage.”
“Can I ask something? I noticed that one of the wounds on the stomach looks like a C-section.”
“A C-section,” says The Needle, smiling. “Why not? Shall we have a look at it?” The two doctors turn the body once again. “This one, you mean?” The Needle is pointing to a large cut extending about six inches downward from the navel.
“Yes,” replies Joona.
“I haven’t had time to examine every injury yet.”
“Vulnera incisa,” says Frippe.
“Yes, it does look like an incision,” says The Needle.
“Not a stab wound,” says Joona.
Frippe leans over so that he can see.
“In view of the fact that it’s a straight line and the surface of the surrounding skin is intact.” The Needle pokes inside the wound with his fingers. “The walls,” he goes on. “They’re not particularly blood-soaked, but—”
“What is it?” asks Joona.
The Needle is looking at him very strangely. “This cut was made after her death,” he says. He pulls off his gloves. “I need to look at the computer tomography,” he says worriedly; he walks over, opens up the computer on the table by the door, clicks through the three-dimensional images, stops, moves on, and alters the angle. “The wound appears to go into the womb,” he whispers. “It looks as if it follows old scars.”
“Old scars? What do you mean?” asks Joona.
“You’re the one who called it.” The Needle smiles faintly. “An emergency C-section scar.”
He points at the vertical wound. As Joona looks more closely, he can see that all along one side there is a thin thread of old, pale-pink scar tissue, from a C-section that healed long ago.
“But she wasn’t pregnant?” asks Joona.
“No.” The Needle laughs, pushing his aviators back.
“Are we dealing with a murderer who has surgical skills?” asks Joona.
The Needle shakes his head; Joona thinks about the fact that someone killed Katja Ek in a frenzy, with considerable violence, and came back two hours later, turned her over, and carefully cut open her old C-section scar.
“See if there’s anything similar on the other bodies.”
“Do you want us to make that a priority?” asks The Needle.
“Yes, I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So you want us to prioritise everything.”
“More or less.” Joona is smiling as he leaves the room.
But as Joona gets into his car, he starts to shiver. He starts the engine, pulls out into Retzius Väg, turns up the heater, and keys in the number for Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm.
“Svanehjälm.”
“Joona Linna.”
“Ah. Good morning. I’ve just been talking to Carlos. He said you’d be in touch.”
“It’s a little difficult to say what we’re dealing with here,” says Joona. “I’ve just left the forensic unit, and I’m thinking of heading to the hospital; I really need to question the surviving witness.”
“Carlos explained the situation to me,” says Jens. “Have you got the profiling group started?”
“A profile won’t be enough,” replies Joona.
“No, I know; I agree. If we’re to have any chance of protecting the older sister, we absolutely have to speak to the boy.”
Joona suddenly sees a firework explode in complete silence: a pale blue star, far away above the roofs of Stockholm. He clears his throat. “I’m in touch with Susanne Granat at Social Services, and I was thinking of having Erik Maria Bark, the psychiatrist, with me during questioning. He’s an expert in the treatment of shock and trauma.”
“That’s perfectly in order,” says Jens reassuringly.
“In that case I’ll go straight to the neurosurgical unit.”
“Good idea.”
15
tuesday, december 8: morning
Hurrying along the hospital corridor after dropping Benjamin off at school, Erik thinks how stupid he had been to comment on Aida’s tattoo. He has just made himself look self-righteous and critical in their eyes.
Two uniformed police officers let him into the unit. Joona Linna is already waiting outside the room where Josef Ek is lying. When he sees Erik he gives a little wave, like a small child might, opening and closing his hand.
Erik looks in at Josef through the window in the door. A bag of blood, almost black, is suspended above him. His condition has stabilised somewhat, but there’s still a risk of new bleeds in the liver. The nurse prepares an infusion of morphine.
He is lying on his back, his mouth tightly closed; his stomach is moving rapidly up and down, and his fingers twitch from time to time.
“I was right when I said the perpetrator started at the football pitch,” says Joona. “He murdered Anders Ek first. Then he went to the house and killed Lisa, the little girl, thought he killed the boy, and killed Katja, the mother.”
“Has the pathologist confirmed that?”
“Yes,” replies Joona.
“I see.”
“So if the killer’s intention is to eliminate the entire family,” Joona goes on, “only the older daughter remains. Evelyn.”
“Unless he’s found out the boy is still alive,” says Erik.
“Exactly, but we can protect him.”
“Yes.”
“We have to find the killer before he can get to Evelyn,” says Joona. He looks Erik directly in the eye. “I need to find out what the boy knows.”
“And I need to do what’s in the best interests of the patient.”
“Perhaps it’s in his best interests not to lose his sister.”
“That occurred to me as well; I’ll have another look at him, of course,” says Erik. “But I’m fairly sure it’s too early. That said, I believe the patient will regain consciousness quite soon, within just a few hours, at least to the extent that we’ll be able to start talking to him. But after that point, you have to understand that we have a lengthy therapeutic process ahead of us. An interrogation could damage the boy’s condition.”
Daniella walks over briskly, wearing a snug red coat. She hands the patient’s file to Erik.
“Erik, it doesn’t matter what we think. The prosecutor has already decided that special circumstances apply.”
Erik turns and looks inquiringly at Joona. “So you don’t need our consent?” he asks.
“No,” answers Joona.
“So what are you waiting for?”
“I think Josef has already suffered more than anyone should have to suffer,” says Joona. “I don’t want to put him through anything that might harm him. But at the same time I have to find his sister before the killer does. And that boy saw the attacker’s face. If you won’t help me find out what he knows, I’ll do it myself, but obviously I prefer the better way.”
“Which is?”
“Hypnosis,” replies Joona.
Erik looks at him. “I don’t even have permission to hypnotise—”
“I’ve spoken to Annika Lorentzon,” says Daniella.
“What did she say?” asks Erik.
“It’s hardly a popular decision, permitting an unstable patient to be hypnotised, a child into the bargain. But since I am responsible for the patient, she has left the final judgment to me,” Daniella tells him.
Erik exhales, then rubs his eyes with his fingers. “I really want to get out of this.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, your reluctance to use hypnosis seems to go beyond your prudent concern for the patient’s well-being,” says Joona.
“I have no intention of discussing the matter, but I promised ten years ago never to use hypnosis again. It was a decision on my part that I still think was the right one.”
“Is it right in this case?” asks Joona.
“To be honest, I don’t know.”
“Make an exception,” implores Daniella.
“Hypnosis, then.” Erik sighs.
“I’d like you to make an attempt as soon as you feel the patient is in any way receptive to hypnosis,” says Daniella.
“It would be good if you were here,” says Erik.
“I’ve made the decision with regard to hypnosis,” she explains, “on condition that you then take over responsibility for the patient.”
“So I’m on my own now?”
Daniella looks at him, exhausted. “I’ve worked all night,” she says. “I’d promised to take my daughter to school, I blew that off, and I’m going to have to deal with that tonight. But right now I have to go home and sleep.”
16
tuesday, december 8: morning
Erik watches Daniella Richards walk down the corridor, red coat flapping behind her. Joona looks in at the patient. Erik goes to the bathroom, locks the door, washes and dries his face. He takes out his phone and calls Simone, but there is no reply. He tries his home number and listens to the phone ringing, but when the answering machine kicks in, he no longer knows what to say: “Sixan, I … you have to listen to me, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but nothing’s happened, maybe you don’t care, but I promise I’m going to find a way to prove to you that I’m—”
Erik stops speaking. What’s the point? He knows his assurances no longer have any meaning. He lied to her ten years ago, and he still hasn’t managed to prove his love, not sufficiently, not enough for her to begin to trust him again. He ends the call, leaves the bathroom, and walks over to where the detective is gazing into the patient’s room.
“What is hypnosis, actually?” Joona asks, after a while.
“It’s just an altered state of consciousness, coupled with suggestion and meditation,” Erik replies. “From a purely neurophysiological point of view, the brain functions in a particular way under hypnosis. Parts of the brain that we rarely use are suddenly activated. People under hypnosis are very deeply relaxed. It almost looks as if they’re asleep, but if you do an EEG the brain activity shows a person who is awake and alert.”
“I see,” Joona says hesitantly.
“When people think of hypnosis, they usually mean heterohypnosis, where one person hypnotises another with some purpose in mind.”
“Such as?”
“Such as evoking negative hallucinations, for example.”
“What’s that?”
“The most common is that you inhibit the conscious registration of pain.”
“But the pain is still there.”
“That depends on how you define it,” Erik replies. “Of course the patient responds to pain with physiological reactions, but he experiences no feeling; it’s even possible to carry out surgery under clinical hypnosis.”
Joona writes something down in his notebook. “The boy opens his eyes from time to time,” he says, looking through the window again.
“I’ve noticed.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“To the patient?”
“Yes, when you hypnotise him.”
“During dynamic hypnosis, in a therapeutic context, the patient almost always splits himself into an observing self and one or more experiencing and acting selves.”
“He’s watching himself, like in a theatre?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to say to him?”
“Well, he’s experienced terrible things, so first of all I have to make him feel secure. I begin by explaining what I’m going to do, and then I move on to relaxation. I talk in a very calm voice about his eyelids feeling heavier, about wanting to close his eyes, about breathing deeply through his nose. I go through the body from head to toe; then I work my way back up again.”
Erik waits while Joona takes notes.
“After that comes what’s called the induction,” says Erik. “I insert a kind of hidden command into what I say and get the patient to imagine places and simple events. I suggest a walk in his thoughts, further and further away, until his need to control the situation almost disappears. It’s a little bit like when you’re reading a book and it gets so exciting that you’re no longer aware of the fact that you’re sitting reading.”
“I understand.”
“If you lift the patient’s hand like this and then let go, the hand should stay where it is, in the air, cataleptic, when the induction is over,” Erik explains. “After the induction I count backwards and deepen the hypnosis further. I usually count, but others ask the patient to visualise a grey scale, in order to dissolve the boundaries in his mind. What is actually taking place on a practical level is that the fear, or the critical way of thinking that is blocking certain memories, is put out of action.”
“Will you be able to hypnotise him?”
“If he doesn’t resist.”
“What happens then?” asks Joona. “What happens if he does resist?”
Erik studies the boy through the window in the door, trying to read the boy’s face, his receptiveness.
“It’s difficult to say what I’ll get out of him. It could be of very variable relevance,” he says.
“I’m not after a witness statement. I just want a hint, a clue, something to go on.”
“So all you want me to look for is the person who did this to them?”
“A name or a place would be good, some kind of connection.”
“I have no idea how this is going to go,” says Erik, taking a deep breath.
17
tuesday, december 8: morning
Joona goes into the recovery room with Erik, sits on a chair in the corner, slips off his shoes, and leans back. Erik dims the light, pulls up a metal stool, and sits down next to the bed. Carefully he begins to explain to the boy that he wants to hypnotise him in order to help him understand what happened yesterday.
“Josef, I’m going to be sitting here the whole time,” says Erik calmly. “There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. You can feel completely safe. I’m here for your sake. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say, and you can bring the hypnosis to an end whenever you want to.”
Only now, his heart pounding, does Erik begin to realise how much he has longed to do this. He must try to curb his enthusiasm. The pace of events must not be forced or hurried along. It must be filled with stillness; it must be allowed to slow down and be experienced at its own gentle tempo.
He immediately feels how receptive Josef is; his injured face grows heavier, the features fill out, and his mouth relaxes. It’s as if the boy intuitively clings to the security Erik conveys. It’s easy to get the boy into a state of deep relaxation; the body has already been at rest and seems to long for more.
When Erik begins the induction, it is as if he never stopped practising hypnosis; his voice is close, calm, and matter-of-fact, and the words come so easily they pour out, suffused with monotonous warmth and a somnolent, falling cadence.
“Josef, if you’d like to … think of a summer’s day,” says Erik. “Everything is pleasant and wonderful. You are lying in the bottom of a little wooden boat, bobbing gently. You can hear the lapping of the water, and you are gazing up at little white clouds drifting across the blue sky.”
The boy responds so well that Erik wonders if he ought to slow things down a little bit. Difficult events can increase sensitivity when it comes to hypnosis. Inner stress can function like an engine in reverse: the braking action happens unexpectedly fast and the rev count very quickly drops to zero.
“I’m going to start counting backwards now, and with each number you hear you will relax a little more. You will feel yourself being filled with great calm; you will be aware of how pleasant everything around you is. Relax from your toes, your ankles, your calves. Nothing bothers you; everything is peaceful. The only thing you need to listen to is my voice, the numbers counting down. Now you are relaxing even more, you feel even heavier, your knees relax, along your thighs to your groin. Feel yourself sinking downwards at the same time, gently and pleasantly. Everything is calm and still and relaxed.”
Erik rests a hand on Josef’s shoulder. He keeps his gaze fixed on the boy’s stomach, and with every exhalation he counts backwards. Erik had almost forgotten the feeling of dreamlike lightness and physical strength that fills him as the process runs its course. As he counts he can see himself sinking through bright, oxygen-rich water. Smiling, he drifts down past a vast rock formation, a continental fissure that continues down towards immense depths, the water glittering with tiny bubbles. Filled with happiness, he descends along the rough wall of rock. As Erik falls through the bright water, he reaches out an arm, grazing the rock with his fingers as he passes. The bright water shifts slowly into shades of pink.
The boy is showing clear signs of hypnotic rest. An expression of great relaxation has settled over his cheeks and mouth. Erik has always thought that a patient’s face becomes broader, somehow flatter. Less attractive but more fragile, and without any trace of pretence.
“Now you are deeply relaxed,” says Erik calmly. “Everything is very, very pleasant.”
The boy’s eyes gleam behind the half-closed lids.
“Josef, I want you to try and remember what happened yesterday. It started just like an ordinary Monday, but in the evening someone comes to the house.”
The boy is silent.
“Now you’re going to tell me what’s happening,” says Erik.
The boy responds with the faintest of nods.
“You’re sitting in your room? Is that what you’re doing? Are you listening to music?”
There is no reply. His mouth moves, asking, seeking.
“Your mum was at home when you got back from school,” says Erik.
He nods.
“Do you know why? Is it because Lisa has a temperature?”
The boy nods and moistens his lips.
“What do you do when you get home from school, Josef?”
The boy whispers something.
“I can’t hear,” Erik urges gently. “I want you to speak so I can hear you.”
The boy’s lips move again, and Erik leans forward.
“Like fire, just like fire,” Josef mumbles. “I’m trying to blink. I go into the kitchen, but it isn’t right; there’s a crackling noise between the chairs and a bright red fire is spreading across the floor.”
“Where is the fire coming from?” asks Erik.
“I don’t remember. Something happened before …” He falls silent again.
“Go back a little, before the fire in the kitchen,” says Erik.
“There’s someone there,” says the boy. “I can hear someone knocking at the door.”
“The outside door?”
“I don’t know.” The boy’s face suddenly grows tense, he whimpers anxiously, and his lower teeth are exposed in a strange grimace.
“There’s no danger now,” Erik says. “There’s no danger, Josef, you’re safe here, you’re calm, you feel no anxiety. You are simply watching what is happening; you are not there. You can see it all from a safe distance, and it isn’t dangerous at all.”
“The feet are pale blue,” the boy whispers.
“What did you say?”
“Someone’s knocking at the door,” the boy says, slurring his words. “I open it but there’s no one there; I can’t see anyone there. But the knocking keeps coming. Someone’s playing a trick on me.” The patient is breathing more rapidly, his stomach moving jerkily.
“What happens now?” asks Erik.
“I go into the kitchen to get a sandwich.”
“You eat a sandwich?”
“But now the knocking starts again, the noise is coming from Lisa’s room. The door is open a little. I can see that her lamp is on. I carefully push the door open with the knife and look in. She’s on her bed. She has her glasses on, but her eyes are shut and she’s panting. Her face is white. Her arms and legs are totally stiff. Then she throws her head back so her throat is stretched right out, and she starts to kick the bottom of the bed with her feet. She just keeps kicking, faster and faster. I tell her to stop, but she keeps kicking, harder. I yell at her but the knife has already started to stab and Mum rushes in and pulls at me and I spin around and the knife moves forward; it just pours out of me; I need to get more knives, I’m afraid to stop, I have to keep going, it’s impossible to stop. Mum is crawling across the kitchen floor, it’s all red, I have to try the knives on everything, on me, on the furniture, on the walls; I hit and stab and then suddenly I’m really tired and I lie down. I don’t know what’s happening, my body hurts inside and I’m thirsty, but I just can’t move.”
Erik stays with the boy, down there in the bright water, their legs moving gently. He follows the wall of rock with his eyes, further and further down, endlessly, the water gradually turning darker, blue fading to blue-grey and then, temptingly, to black.
“You had seen,” asks Erik, hearing his own voice tremble, “you had seen your father earlier?”
“Yes, down at the football pitch,” Josef replies.
He falls silent, looks unsure, stares straight ahead with his sleeping eyes.
Erik sees that the boy’s pulse rate is increasing and realises that his blood pressure is dropping at the same time.
“I want you to sink deeper now,” Erik says softly. “You’re sinking, you’re feeling calmer, better, and—”
“Not Mum?” asks the boy, in a feeble voice.
Erik risks a guess. “Josef, tell me, did you see your older sister, Evelyn, as well?”
He observes the boy’s face, aware that, if he’s wrong, the conjecture can create a rift in the hypnosis. But he feels he must take the leap, because if the patient’s condition begins to deteriorate again he will have to stop completely.
“What happened when you saw Evelyn?” he asks.
“I should never have gone out there.”
“Was that yesterday?”
“She was hiding in the cottage,” the boy whispers, smiling.
“What cottage?”
“Auntie Sonja’s,” he says.
“Tell me what happens at the cottage.”
“I just stand there. Evelyn isn’t pleased. I know what she’s thinking,” he mumbles. “I’m just a dog to her. I’m not worth anything …”
The smile is gone. Tears stream from Josef’s eyes, and his mouth is trembling.
“Is that what Evelyn says to you?”
“I don’t want to, I don’t have to, I don’t want to,” whimpers Josef.
“What is it you don’t want to do?”
His eyelids begin to twitch spasmodically.
“What’s happening, Josef?”
“She says I have to bite and bite to get my reward.”
“Who? Who do you have to bite?”
“There’s a picture in the cottage, a picture in a frame that looks like a toadstool. It’s Dad, Mum, and Lisa, but—”
His body suddenly tenses, his legs move quickly and limply, he is rising out of the depths of hypnosis. Carefully, Erik slows his ascent, calming him before raising him a few levels. Meticulously, he closes the door on all memory of the day and all memory of the hypnosis. Nothing must be left open, once he begins the careful process of waking him up.
Josef is lying there smiling when Erik finally moves away from his bedside and leaves the room. He goes over to the coffee machine. A feeling of desolation overwhelms him, a sense that something is irrevocably wrong. He glances up when the door to the boy’s room opens. The detective strolls over to join him.
“I’m impressed,” says Joona quietly, getting out his cell phone.
“Before you make any calls, I just want to stress one thing,” says Erik. “The patient always speaks the truth under hypnosis. But it’s only a matter of what he himself perceives as the truth. His memory is as subjective as ever, and—”
“I understand that.”
“I’ve hypnotised people suffering from schizophrenia,” Erik goes on, “and they were just as deeply detached from reality under hypnosis as they were in a conscious state.”
“What is it you’re trying to say?”
“Josef talked about his sister.”
“Yes, she wanted him to bite like a dog and so on,” says Joona. He dials a number and puts the phone to his ear.
“There’s no proof his sister told him to do that,” Erik explains.
“But she might have,” says Joona, raising a hand to silence Erik. “Anja, my little treasure.”
A soft voice can be heard at the other end of the phone.
“Can you check on something for me? … Yes, exactly. Josef Ek has an aunt called Sonja, and she has a house or a cottage somewhere … Yes, that’s—you’re a star.” Joona looks up at Erik. “Sorry. You wanted to say something else?”
“Just that it’s by no means certain it was Josef who murdered the family.”
“But is it possible that his wounds are self-inflicted? Could he have cut himself like this in your opinion?”
“Not likely.”
“But is it possible?” Joona persists.
“Theoretically, yes,” Erik replies.
“Then I think our killer’s lying in there,” says Joona.
“I think so too.”
“Is he in any condition to run away from the hospital?”
“No.” Erik smiles weakly in surprise.
Joona heads for the door.
“Are you going to the aunt’s cottage?” asks Erik.
“Yes.”
“I could come with you,” says Erik. “The sister could be injured, or she could be in a state of shock.”
18
tuesday, december 8: early morning
Simone is already awake before the telephone on Erik’s bedside table starts to ring.
Erik mumbles something about balloons and streamers, picks up the phone, and hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The voice she hears through the door sounds sympathetic, almost tender. After a while, Erik creeps back into the bedroom and she asks who called.
“Police … a detective … I didn’t catch his name,” he says, and explains that he has to go to Karolinska University Hospital.
She looks at the alarm clock and closes her eyes.
“Sleep now, Sixan,” he whispers, and leaves the room.
Her nightgown has twisted itself awkwardly around her. Unwinding and yanking it into place, she turns onto her side and lies still, listening to Erik’s movements.
He dresses quickly, then goes rummaging for something in the wardrobe. Next, she hears a metallic ping when he tosses the shoehorn back into the drawer. After a little while she hears the faint sound of the street door closing.
She tries for a long time to get back to sleep, but without success. She doesn’t think it sounded as if Erik was talking to a police officer. He sounded too relaxed. Maybe, she tells herself, he was just tired.
She gets up to pee, has a yoghurt drink, and goes back to bed. Then she starts to think about what happened ten years ago, and all chance of sleep is gone. She lies there for half an hour, and then, unable to resist her suspicions, switches on the bedside light, picks up the phone, and thumbs through the display to find the last incoming call. She stares at the number for a moment, knowing she ought to turn off the light and go back to sleep, but finally she calls the number anyway. It rings three times, there is a click, and she hears a woman laughing a short distance away from the phone.
“Stop it, Erik,” says the woman happily, and then the voice is very close. “Daniella Richards. Hello?”
Simone says nothing. The woman waits a bit, then says aloha in a wearily sarcastic voice before ending the call. Simone remains sitting there, telephone in hand. She tries to understand why Erik said it was a police officer, a male police officer, who rang. She wants to find a reasonable explanation, but she can’t stop her thoughts from finding their way back to that time ten years ago when she suddenly realised that Erik was deceiving her.
It just happened to have been the same day Erik informed her that he was finished with hypnosis forever.
Simone remembers that she hadn’t been at her newly opened gallery that day, a rare occasion; maybe Benjamin wasn’t in school, maybe she’d taken the day off, but at any rate she was sitting at the kitchen table in the terrace house in Järfälla going through the mail when she caught sight of a pale blue envelope addressed to Erik. The sender’s name on the back simply said: Maja.
There are times when you know with every fibre of your being that something is wrong.
Simone had been married to Erik for eight years when, fingers trembling, she opened the envelope from Maja. Ten colour photographs fell out onto the kitchen table. The pictures had not been taken by a professional photographer. Blurred close-ups: a woman’s breast, a mouth and a naked throat, pale green underwear, black hair in tight curls. Erik was in one of the pictures. He looked surprised and happy.
Maja was a pretty, very young woman with dark, strong eyebrows and a large, serious mouth. In the only photo that showed her completely, she was lying on a narrow bed dressed in just her underwear, strands of black hair falling over her broad white breasts. She looked happy, too, a faint blush high on her cheeks.
It is difficult to recall the feeling of being deceived. For a long time everything was just a sense of sorrow, a strange, empty craving in her stomach, a desire to avoid painful thoughts. And yet she remembers that the first thing she felt was surprise, a gaping, stupid surprise at being so comprehensively taken in by someone she had trusted completely. And then came the embarrassment, followed by a despairing sense of inadequacy, burning rage, and loneliness.
Simone lies in bed as these thoughts go round and round in her head, spinning off in various painful directions. She remembers the way Erik looked into her eyes and promised he hadn’t had an affair with Maja—that he didn’t even know anyone named Maja. She had asked him three times, and each time he had sworn he didn’t know a Maja. Then she had pulled out the photos and thrown them at him, one by one.
Slowly the sky grows light above the city. She falls asleep a few minutes before Erik returns. He tries to be quiet, but when he sits on the bed she wakes up. Erik says he’s going for a shower. Looking up at him, she can tell he’s taken a lot of pills again. Heart pounding, she asks him the name of the policeman who called during the night. When he doesn’t answer, she realises that he’s passed out in the middle of the conversation. Simone tells him she called the number, and did a policeman answer? No, it was some giggling woman called Daniella. But Erik just can’t keep awake; it’s infuriating. Then she yells at him, demands to know, accuses him of having destroyed everything, just when she had begun to trust him again.
She’s sitting up in bed now, staring at him. He doesn’t seem to understand her agitation. She says the words that, no matter how many times she has thought them, seem no less painful, sad, or distant from her hopes.
“It might be best if we separate.”
That seems to get his attention momentarily. But Simone is already gathering her pillow and the duvet. Entering the guest room, she lies on the sofa and cries for a long time, then blows her nose. Now it’s really morning. She hasn’t the strength to deal with her family right now. She goes to the bathroom, washes, then creeps back to the bedroom. Erik is out like a light, so she collects an outfit and dresses in the guest room. She hastily puts on her makeup and leaves the apartment to have breakfast somewhere before she goes to the gallery.
She reads in a café in Kungsträdgården for a long time before she can manage to get down the sandwich she ordered with her coffee. She puts her newspaper down for a moment and looks through the café’s big window, which overlooks a large stage. A dozen or so men are preparing for some kind of event. Pink tents have been erected. A barrier is placed around a small ramp. Suddenly something happens. The men stumble backwards, yelling at one another. There is a crackling noise and a rocket shoots up into the air. Simone leans forward to follow its flight. It rises into the bright morning sky, then bursts in a transparent blue glow, and the explosion reverberates between the buildings.
19
tuesday, december 8: morning
Simone sits in the office of the gallery, taking in the large self-portrait of the artist Sim Shulman posing in a black ninja costume, a sword raised high above his head, when the phone in her bag begins to buzz.
“Simone Bark,” she answers, forcing the sadness out of her voice.
“Hello, it’s Siv Sturesson from Edsberg School,” says an older woman.
“Oh,” says Simone hesitantly. “Yes?”
“I’m just calling to see how Benjamin is.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“He’s not in school today,” says the woman, “and he hasn’t called in sick. We always get in touch with the parents in cases like this.”
“Right,” says Simone. “I’ll call home and check. Both Benjamin and his father were still there this morning when I left. I’ll get back to you.”
She rings off and immediately calls the apartment. It isn’t like Benjamin to oversleep or flout the rules.
Nobody picks up at home. Erik is supposed to have the morning off. A fresh fear sinks its claws into her, before it occurs to her that Erik is probably lying there snoring with his mouth open, knocked out by his beloved pills, while Benjamin is listening to loud music. She tries Benjamin’s phone; no reply. She leaves a short message, then tries Erik’s mobile, but of course it’s switched off.
She calls out to her assistant at the art gallery. “Yiva, I have to go home. I’ll be back soon.”
Her assistant peers out of the office, a thick file in her hand, and calls out, with a smile, “Kiss-kiss!”
But Simone is too stressed to return their running joke. Throwing her coat around her shoulders, she picks up her bag and almost runs to the underground station.
There is a particular silence outside the door of an empty house. As soon as Simone puts her key in the lock, she knows no one is in.
The skates lie forgotten on the floor, but Benjamin’s backpack, shoes, and jacket are gone, as are Erik’s overcoat and scarf. The Puma bag containing Benjamin’s medication is in his room. She hopes this means Erik has given Benjamin his injection.
Simone glances around the room, thinking it is a bit sad that he has taken down his Harry Potter poster and put almost all his toys in a box in the cupboard. He was suddenly in a hurry to grow up when he met Aida.
It occurs to Simone that perhaps Benjamin is with her now.
Benjamin is only fourteen, Aida is seventeen; he claims they’re just friends, but it’s obvious that she’s his girlfriend. Has he even told her he has a blood disorder? Does she know that the slightest blow could cost him his life if he hasn’t taken his medication properly?
She sits down and buries her face in her hands, trying to stop all the terrifying thoughts. Simone can’t help worrying about her son. In her mind’s eye she has always seen Benjamin being hit in the face by a basketball during break time or imagined a spontaneous bleed suddenly starting inside his head: a dark bead expanding like a star, trickling along all the convolutions of his brain.
She is overcome by an almost unbearable feeling of shame when she remembers the way she lost patience with Benjamin because he wouldn’t walk. He was two years old and still crawling everywhere. She would scold him and then tease him when he cried. Said he looked like a baby. Benjamin would try to walk, take a few steps, but then the terrible pain would force him to lie down again.
They didn’t know then that he had a blood disorder, that the blood vessels in his joints burst when he stood up.
Once Benjamin had been diagnosed with von Willebrand’s disease, it was Erik who took over the care the condition demanded, not Simone. It was Erik who gently moved Benjamin’s joints back and forth after the night’s immobility, in order to reduce the risk of internal bleeding; Erik who carried out the complex injections, where the needle absolutely must not penetrate the muscle but must be emptied carefully and slowly beneath the skin. The technique was far more painful than a normal injection. For the first few years, Benjamin would sit with his face pressed against his father’s stomach, weeping silently as the needle went in. These days he went on eating his breakfast without looking, just offering his arm to Erik, who swabbed it, administered the injection, and put on a dressing.
The factor preparation that helped Benjamin’s blood to coagulate was called Haemate. Simone thought it sounded like a Greek goddess of revenge. It was a horrible and unsatisfactory drug that was delivered in the form of a yellow, freeze-dried, granular powder, which had to be measured, dissolved, mixed, and warmed into the correct dosage before it could be administered. Haemate greatly increased the risk of blood clots, and they lived in constant hope that something better would come along. But with the Haemate, a high dose of desmopressin, and Cyklo-kapron in a nasal spray to prevent bleeds in the mucous membrane, Benjamin was relatively safe.
She could still remember when they had received his laminated alert card from the Emergency Blood Service, adorned with Benjamin’s birthday photo: his laughing four-year-old face beneath the message:
I have von Willebrand’s disease. If anything happens to me, please call the Emergency Blood Service immediately: 040-33-10-10.
Since meeting Aida, Benjamin always wears his mobile phone hanging around his neck from a black strap with skulls on it. They text each other far into the night, and Benjamin still has the phone around his neck when Erik or Simone wakes him up in the morning.
Simone searches carefully among all the papers and magazines on Benjamin’s desk. Then she opens a drawer and moves aside a book about World War II, unearthing a scrap of paper with the imprint of a pair of lips pressed upon it in black lipstick and a telephone number below. She hurries into the kitchen and punches in the number, waits while the line rings, and is throwing a stinking sponge into the waste bin when someone finally picks up.
A faint, croaking voice, breathing heavily.
“Hello,” says Simone. “I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Simone Bark. I’m Benjamin’s mother. I was wondering if—”
The voice, which seems to belong to a woman, hisses that she doesn’t know any Benjamin and this must be a wrong number.
“Wait, please,” says Simone, trying to sound calm. “Aida and my son usually hang out together. I was hoping you might know where they could be. I really need to get hold of Benjamin.”
“Ten … ten—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t make out what you’re saying.”
“Ten … sta.”
“Tensta? Aida’s in Tensta?”
“Yes. That bloody … tattoo.”
Simone thinks she can hear an oxygen machine working slowly, a rhythmic hissing noise in the background.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Tattoo?” she pleads.
The woman snaps something and ends the call. Simone sits there staring at the telephone, decides to ring the woman back, then suddenly understands what she meant. She quickly calls information and gets the address of a tattoo parlour in the shopping centre in Tensta. Simone’s entire body shudders as she pictures Benjamin at this very moment succumbing to temptation, allowing his skin to be pierced for a tattoo; the blood begins to flow and cannot coagulate.
20
tuesday, december 8: lunchtime
Simone stares out the window of the underground train. She is still sweating after leaving the empty flat and running to the station.
She ought to have taken a cab, but she tells herself that nothing has happened; she always worries unnecessarily.
A man opposite her fusses with a newspaper. From the reflection in the window she can see that he glances at her from time to time.
“Hey,” says the man. His voice is irritatingly insistent.
She ignores him, looking out the window.
“Hello-o?” says the man.
She realises he has no intention of giving up until he has her attention.
“Hey, don’t you hear me? I’m talking to you!” the man persists.
Simone turns to him. “I can hear you perfectly well,” she says calmly.
“Why don’t you answer me, then?” he asks.
“I’m answering you now.”
He blinks a couple of times, and here it comes. “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
“Is that all you want to know?” she asks, turning back to the window.
He moves across to sit beside her. “Wait, listen to this. I had a woman, and my woman, my woman—”
Simone feels a few drops of spittle spatter her cheek.
“She was like Elizabeth Taylor,” he goes on. “You know who she was?” He lays two fingers on her arm, confidentially. “Do you know who Elizabeth Taylor was?”
“Yes,” says Simone impatiently. “Of course I do.”
He leans back, satisfied with her answer. “She was always finding some new man,” he whines. “Wanting better and better all the time, diamond rings and presents and necklaces.”
The train slows down and Simone sees that they’ve arrived in Tensta.
“This is my stop. I need to get off,” she says. She stands up.
“I bet you do,” the man says, placing himself in her way. “Come on, give me a little hug. I just want a little hug.”
Stiffly, through clenched teeth, she excuses herself and moves his arm away. She feels his hand on her butt, but at the same moment the train stops and the man loses his balance and falls back against the seat.
“Whore,” he says calmly, as she moves away.
She steps off the train, runs out of the station, over a Plexiglas-covered bridge, and down the steps. In the middle of the square, inside the shopping centre, there’s a huge board, a directory, and a floor plan that lists all the different shops. Breathing heavily, Simone goes through it until she finds Tensta Tattoos. It’s at the far end of the mall. Simone heads in the direction of the escalator.
In her mind’s eye, she imagines a circle of kids surrounding a boy lying on the ground. She pushes her way through the crowd and realises that it’s Benjamin, bleeding endlessly from some tacky unfinished tattoo.
She takes the escalator two steps at a time, reaching the top quickly. Stepping off, she catches sight of an odd movement at the other end of the centre, in a deserted area where the shops are all vacant. It looks as if someone is hanging over the barrier.
She sets off in that direction, and as she gets closer she can see clearly what is happening: two boys are holding another child, a little girl, over the second-floor barrier. It’s a fall to the lower level of at least thirty feet. A tall figure is walking nearby, flapping his arms as if he were warming himself at a grill.
The girl is clearly terrified, but the other children appear calm as they dangle her over the edge.
“What are you doing?” Simone yells as she walks towards them. She wants to break into a run, but she’s afraid if she startles them they will lose their grip.
The boys have spotted Simone and pretend to let the girl go. Both the girl and Simone scream, but the boys hold on and pull her up slowly. One of them gives Simone a strange smile before they run away. Only the taller boy remains behind. The girl curls up into a ball next to the barrier, sobbing. Simone stops, her heart racing, and crouches beside her.
“Are you all right?”
The girl just shakes her head.
“We need to go and find a security guard,” Simone says.
The girl shakes her head again. Her whole body is trembling. The tall, plump boy is just standing there watching them. He is dressed in a dark padded jacket and black sunglasses.
“Who are you?” Simone asks him.
Instead of replying, he takes a pack of cards out of his pocket and begins to flick through them, cutting and shuffling.
“Who are you?” Simone repeats, more loudly this time. “Are those boys your friends?”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Why didn’t you do something? They could have killed her.”
Simone can feel the adrenaline still surging through her system, the rapid pulse at her temples, the pounding in her chest. “I asked you a question. Why didn’t you do something?” She stares hard at him.
He still doesn’t reply.
“Idiot!” she screams.
The boy begins to move away slowly, but when she takes a step towards him as if to prevent his escape he stumbles, dropping his cards on the floor. He mutters something to himself and slinks toward the escalator.
Simone turns to take care of the little girl, but she has disappeared. Simone runs back along the upper walkway, past the dark and empty shops, but she doesn’t spot the girl or either of the boys. Suddenly she realises she’s come to a stop outside the tattoo shop; the windows are covered in an opaque laminated film, with a picture of Fenrir the wolf, applied so sloppily it is creased and buckled.
She pushes open the door and enters, but the place seems to be empty. The walls are covered with pictures of tattoos. She looks around and is just about to leave when she hears a high, anxious voice. “Nicky? Where are you? Say something.”
A black curtain opens and a girl comes out with a cell phone pressed to her ear. Her upper body is naked. A few small drops of blood are trickling down her throat. Her expression is concentrated, worried.
“Nicky,” the girl says into the phone. “What’s happened?”
Her breasts are covered in goose bumps, but she doesn’t seem aware that she’s half naked.
“Can I ask you something?” Simone says.
The girl leaves the shop and starts to run. Simone is following her towards the door when she hears a familiar voice come from behind.
“Aida?”
She turns to see that it’s Benjamin.
“Mum, what are you doing here? Where’s Nicky?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Aida’s little brother. He’s retarded. Did you see him out there?”
“No, I—”
“He’s big, and he’s wearing black sunglasses.”
Simone walks slowly back inside the tattoo shop and sits down.
Aida comes back with the boy Simone chased. They stop outside the door, and Simone can see him nodding at everything Aida says, then wiping his nose. The girl comes in, shielding her breasts with one hand, walks past Simone and Benjamin without looking at them, and disappears behind the curtain. Simone just manages to see that her neck is red because she has had a dark red rose tattooed next to a small Star of David.
“What’s going on?” asks Benjamin.
“I was looking for you. Then I saw some boys—they must have been sick; they were holding a little girl over the barrier. Aida’s brother was just standing there and—”
“Did you say anything to them?”
“They stopped when I got to them, but they seemed to find the whole thing funny.”
Benjamin looks very upset; his cheeks flush red, and his eyes dart all over the place, searching, as if he wants to run away.
“I don’t like you hanging around here,” says Simone.
“I can do what I want,” he replies.
“You’re too young to—”
“Just leave it,” he says, his voice low.
“Why? Were you thinking of getting a tattoo as well?”
“No.”
“They’re horrible, these tattoos on necks and faces—”
“Mum.”
“They’re ugly.”
“Aida can hear what you’re saying.”
“I don’t care what—”
“Would you go outside, please?” Benjamin says sharply.
She looks at him. The tone doesn’t sound right coming from him, but she knows that she and Erik sound exactly like that more and more these days.
“You’re coming home with me,” she says calmly.
“I’ll come if you go outside first,” he says.
Simone leaves the shop and sees Nicky standing by the dark window, his arms folded over his chest. She goes over to him, tries to look pleasant, and points to his Pokémon cards.
“Everybody likes Pikachu best,” she says.
He nods to himself.
“Although I prefer Mew,” she goes on.
“Mew learns things,” he says carefully.
“Sorry I yelled at you.”
“They can’t do anything about Wailord, nobody can deal with him, he’s the biggest,” he goes on.
“Is he the biggest of all?”
“Yes,” the boy says seriously.
She picks up a card he’s dropped. “Who’s this?”
Benjamin comes out, his eyes shining.
“Arceus,” replies Nicky, placing the card on top of the pack.
“He looks nice,” says Simone.
Nicky beams at her.
“Let’s go,” Benjamin says, his voice muted.
“’Bye then,” says Simone, with a smile.
“Byebyetakecare,” Nicky replies mechanically.
Benjamin walks alongside his mother in silence.
“We’ll take a taxi,” she announces as they approach the underground station. “I’m sick of the underground.”
“Okay,” says Benjamin, turning away.
“Hang on,” she says.
She’s spotted one of the boys who threatened the girl. He’s standing by the barrier in the station, and he seems to be waiting for something. She can feel Benjamin trying to pull her away.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
“Come on, let’s go, you said we were going to take a taxi.”
“I just need to have a word with him.”
“Mum, just leave it,” begs Benjamin.
His face is pale and anxious and he remains where he is as she resolutely goes over to the boy.
She sticks her hand out and turns the boy to face her. He is only about thirteen years old, but instead of being afraid or surprised, he smiles scornfully at her, as if she’s just fallen into his trap.
“You’re coming with me to the security guard,” she says firmly.
“What did you say, you old cow?”
“I saw you—”
“Shut it!” the boy hisses. “Unless you shut your mouth, we’ll fuck you as a punishment.”
Simone is so stunned she doesn’t know what to say. The boy spits on the ground in front of her, jumps over the barrier, and disappears down the passageway.
Simone is shaken; she goes back outside to Benjamin.
“What did he say?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says.
They walk to the taxi stand and settle down in the back seat of a cab. As they pull away from the shopping centre, Simone tells him about the call from his school.
“Aida wanted me to be with her when she got her tattoo altered,” says Benjamin quietly.
“That was kind of you.”
They travel in silence.
“Did you call Nicky an idiot?” asks Benjamin.
“I said the wrong thing. I’m the one who’s an idiot.”
“But how could you?”
“I do the wrong thing sometimes, Benjamin,” she says, subdued.
From the Tranberg bridge, Simone looks down at Stora Essingen. The ice has not formed, but the water looks slow and pale.
“It looks as if Dad and I are going to separate,” she says.
“What? But why?”
“It’s not because of you.”
“I asked you why.”
“There’s no real answer,” she begins. “Your dad … it’s hard to explain. Even when you really love someone—and I really love your father—it can all just come to an end.” Her voice falters. “You don’t think that when you first meet, when you have a child … But after a while, if the lies pile up … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“I don’t want to get involved.”
“Sorry I—”
“Just leave it!” he snaps.
21
tuesday, december 8: afternoon
Although he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep in the car, Erik has made an attempt. But he remains wide awake as they drive toward the cottage where they hope to find Evelyn Ek, despite the fact that Detective Joona Linna has driven very smoothly toward Värmdö.
Now, though, off the main road, loose gravel begins to rattle against the bottom of the chassis as they pass an old sawmill.
Erik peers out the windscreen, waiting while Joona speaks quietly over the police radio with his colleagues, who are also on their way to Värmdö.
“I was thinking,” says Erik, after Joona has replaced the transmitter.
“Yes?”
“I said Josef Ek couldn’t run away from the hospital, but if he could inflict all those knife wounds on himself, maybe we can’t be too sure.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Joona replies, “so I’ve got somebody outside the room.”
“It’s probably completely unnecessary,” says Erik.
“Yes.”
They pull to the side of the road where three cars have stopped next to a telephone pole, one behind the other. Joona momentarily joins four police officers who stand talking in the white light, putting on their bullet-proof vests and pointing at a map. The sunlight flashes on the glass of an old greenhouse nearby.
Joona gets back in the car, carrying the cold air on his clothes. He drums the fingers of one hand pensively on the steering wheel as he waits for the others to return to their cars.
Suddenly a rapid sequence of notes comes from the police radio, then a loud crackling that stops abruptly. Joona switches to another channel and checks that everyone in the team is in contact, exchanging a few words with each one before turning the key in the ignition.
The cars continue alongside a ploughed field, past a grove of birch trees and a large, rusty silo.
“Stay in the car when we get there,” says Joona quietly.
“Fine,” says Erik.
A flock of crows struts across the surface of the road, suddenly taking flight and flapping away as the cars approach.
“Are there any negative aspects to hypnosis?” Joona asks abruptly.
“What do you mean?”
“You were one of the best in the world, but you stopped.”
“People sometimes have good reasons for keeping things hidden,” Erik says.
“Of course, but—”
“And those reasons are very difficult to judge when it comes to hypnosis.”
Joona gives him a sceptical look. “Why do I think that’s not why you gave it up?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Erik.
Tree trunks flash by at the side of the road. As they drive deeper into the forest, it grows darker. Gravel clatters against the undercarriage of the car. Turning off onto a narrow forest track, they pass a number of summer cottages and finally come to a stop. Far away among the fir trees, Joona can see a small brown wooden house in a shady glade.
“I’m trusting you to stay put,” he tells Erik before he leaves the car.
As Joona walks towards the house where the other police officers are already waiting, he thinks once again about Josef under hypnosis. The words that just poured out between his flaccid lips. A little boy describing bestial aggression with remote clarity. The memory must have been perfectly clear to him: his little sister’s feverish cramps, the surge of rage, the choice of knives, the euphoria at crossing the line. But towards the end of the session, Josef’s account had become confused, and it was more difficult to understand what he meant, what he was really perceiving, whether his older sister, Evelyn, had actually forced him to carry out the murders.
Gathering the four officers around him, Joona outlines the gravity of the situation and provides guidelines for the use of firearms. Any shots that might be fired must be directed at the legs, whatever the circumstances.
“I want all of you to proceed with caution so as not to frighten the girl,” he says. “She may be afraid, she may be injured, but at the same time don’t forget for one second that we may be dealing with a dangerous person.”
They all study the house for a moment. Its chocolate brown façade is made up of overlapping shingles; the window and doorframes are white, the front door is black. The windows are covered with pink curtains. No smoke comes from the chimney. On the porch there is a broom and a yellow plastic bucket full of pine cones. Joona sends one patrol of three officers round the house and away from the garden so they can approach the back of the house from a safe distance.
They set off along the forest track; one of them stops and inserts a plug of snuff under his top lip.
22
tuesday, december 8: afternoon
Joona watches the patrol spread out around the house at a reasonable distance, weapons drawn. A twig snaps. In the distance he can hear the tapping of a woodpecker echoing through the forest. Joona slowly approaches the house, trying to see something through the pink curtain fabric. He signals to Police Constable Kristina Andersson, a young woman with a pointed chin, to stop on the path. Her cheeks are red, and she nods without taking her eyes off the house. With an air of total calm, she draws her service pistol and moves a few steps to the side.
The house is empty, Joona thinks. Gingerly, he places one foot on the porch steps. They creak under his weight. He watches the curtains for sudden movements as he knocks on the door. Nothing happens. He waits for a while and then stiffens, thinking he’s heard something, and scans the forest, beyond the brush and the tree trunks. He draws his pistol, a heavy Smith & Wesson that he prefers to the standard-issue Sig Sauer, removes the safety catch, and checks the cartridges. Suddenly there is a loud rustling at the edge of the forest and a deer dashes between the trees. Kristina Andersson gives Joona a strained smile when he glances over at her. He points at the window, moves forward cautiously, and looks in through a gap to one side of a curtain.
In the dim interior he can see a cane table with a scratched glass surface and a tan corduroy sofa. On the back of a red wooden chair, two pairs of white pants have been hung up to dry. In the pantry there are several cans of instant macaroni, jars of pesto, canned foods, and a bag of apples. He catches the glint of various pieces of cutlery on the floor in front of the sink and under the kitchen table. He signals to Kristina that he’s going in, then tries the door. The knob turns in his hand; he pushes it open and steps quickly out of the firing line, looking to Kristina for the all-clear. She nods, gesturing for him to enter. He looks inside and steps over the threshold.
From the car, Erik has only a vague sense of what is happening. He sees Joona Linna disappear into the little brown house, followed by another officer. Erik’s eyes are dry and sensitive—a side effect of his codeine capsules. He peers out at the brown house and the policemen, with their careful movements and the dark glimmer of their drawn guns. It is quiet. The trees are bare in the sterile December chill. The light and the colours make Erik think of school trips when he was a child: the smell of rotting tree trunks, the funkiness of mushrooms in the wet earth.
His mother had worked part-time as a school nurse at the high school in Sollentuna and was convinced of the benefits of fresh air. It was Erik’s mother who had wanted him to be called Erik Maria; she had once taken a language course in Vienna and had gone to the Burgtheater to see Strindberg’s The Father with Klaus Maria Brandauer in the lead. She’d been so taken with the performance that she’d carried the actor’s name with her for years. As a kid, Erik always tried to hide his middle name; as a teenager, he saw himself in the Johnny Cash song ‘A Boy Named Sue.’
Some gal would giggle and I’d get red,
And some guy’d laugh and I’d bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue.
Erik’s father had worked for the National Insurance Office. But he’d really had only one genuine interest in life. In his spare time, he was a magician and would dress up in a home-made cape and a second-hand formal suit, crowning the outfit with a collapsible top hat, and make Erik and his friends sit on wooden chairs in the garage, where he’d built a little stage with secret trapdoors. Most of his tricks came from the Bernando catalogue: magic wands that would suddenly extend with a clatter, billiard balls that multiplied with the help of a shell, a velvet bag with secret compartments, and the glittering hand guillotine. These days Erik remembers his father with joy and tenderness: the way he would start the tape recorder with his foot, playing Jean Michel Jarre as he made magical movements over a skull floating in the air.
Erik hopes with all his heart that his father never noticed how embarrassed he became as he grew older, rolling his eyes at his friends behind his father’s back.
Erik had always wanted to become a doctor. He had never really wanted to do anything else, hadn’t imagined another kind of life. He remembers sitting there on the sofa in Sollentuna as an eighteen-year-old, staring at his top grades, then letting his gaze roam over his parents’ prototypically middle-class living room, the bookshelves empty of books but adorned with knick-knacks and souvenirs: silver-framed photographs of his parents’ confirmations, wedding, and fiftieth-birthday celebrations, followed by a dozen or more shots of Erik, from a chubby baby in a christening gown to a grinning teenager in stovepipe trousers.
His mother came into the room that day and handed him the application forms for medical school. His mother often said the Swedes were spoiled, taking their welfare society for granted when it was most probably nothing more than a small historical parenthesis. She meant that the system of free health care and dental care, free child care and primary education, free secondary schools and free university education, could simply disappear at any time. But right now there was an opportunity for a perfectly ordinary boy or girl to study to become a doctor, or an architect, or a top economist, at any university in the country without the need for a private fortune, grants, or charity hand-outs. As soon as Erik set foot in the medical school at Karolinska Institute, it was as if he had found his true home.
When he decided to specialise in psychiatry, he realised that the medical profession was going to suit him even better than he’d imagined. A trainee doctor has to perform eighteen months of general service before he is fully qualified to practise; Erik spent this period working for Médecins sans Frontières. He had wound up at a field hospital in Kismayo, south of Mogadisho, in Somalia. The equipment consisted of material discarded by Swedish hospitals: X-ray machines from the sixties, drugs well past their best-before date, and rusty, stained beds from old wards that had been closed down or rebuilt. In Somalia he encountered severely traumatised people for the first time: young people who would tonelessly relate how they had been forced to carry out horrific crimes; women who had been so severely abused they were no longer-able to speak. Working with them—with children who had become completely apathetic and had lost the desire to play; with women who were unable to look up and meet another’s eyes—Erik discovered that he wanted to devote himself to helping people who were held prisoner by the terrible things that had been done to them, who were still suffering despite the fact that the perpetrators were long gone.
Upon returning home, Erik trained in psychotherapy in Stockholm. But it was not until he specialised in psychotraumatology and disaster psychiatry that he came into contact with the various theories regarding hypnosis. What he found most attractive about hypnosis was its speed, the fact that a psychiatrist could get to the root of trauma straight away. When it came to working with war victims and the victims of natural disasters, speed could prove immensely important.
He pursued his training with the European Society of Clinical Hypnosis and soon became a member of the Society for Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis, the European Board of Medical Hypnosis, and the Swedish Society for Clinical Hypnosis; he became awed by the groundbreaking work of Karen Olness, the American paediatrician who turned to hypnosis to alleviate the suffering of those in chronic pain and chronically ill children, and he struck up a correspondence with her that lasted several years.
Next, Erik was with the Red Cross in Uganda. In his five years there, the situations he encountered were acute, overwhelming. There was little time to try out and develop his experience of hypnosis; he used it perhaps fewer than a dozen times, and then only in the most straightforward contexts: to block the perception of pain or to ease phobic fixations. And then, one day in his final year, he came across a young girl who was locked in a room because she wouldn’t stop screaming. The Catholic nuns working as nurses explained that the girl had been found crawling along the road from the shanty town north of Mbale. They thought she was a Bagisu, because she spoke Lugisu. She hadn’t slept one single night and, instead, kept shouting that she was a terrible demon with fire in her eyes. Erik asked to see her. As soon as he did, he realised she was suffering from acute dehydration, but when he tried to get her to drink, she bellowed as if the mere sight of water burned her like flames. She rolled on the floor, screaming. He decided to try hypnosis to calm her down. A nun translated his words into Bukusu, which they suspected the girl could understand, and after a while, once she began to listen, it proved very easy to hypnotise her. In one hour the girl recounted her entire psychic trauma.
A tanker truck from Jinja had run off the road just north of the shanty town on the Mbale-Soroti road. The heavy vehicle had overturned, gouging out a deep ditch along the side of the road and puncturing a hole in the huge tank. Gasoline gushed out onto the ground. The girl had raced home and told her uncle about the gasoline just disappearing into the earth. Her uncle had run to the spot with two empty plastic containers. By the time the girl caught up with him, a dozen or so people were already by the tanker, filling buckets with gasoline from the ditch. The smell was appalling, the sun was shining, and the air was hot. The girl’s uncle waved to her. She took the first container and started hauling it homewards. It was very heavy. She stopped to lift it onto her head, and saw a woman in a blue head scarf standing up to her knees in gasoline by the tanker, filling small glass bottles. Further down the road in the direction of the town, the girl caught sight of a man wearing a yellow camouflage shirt. He was walking along with a cigarette in his mouth, and when he inhaled, the tip of the cigarette glowed red.
Erik vividly remembers how the girl had looked when she was speaking. The tears poured down her cheeks as she told him in a thick, dull voice that she had caught the fire from the cigarette with her eyes and carried it to the woman in the blue head scarf. Because when she turned back and looked at the woman, she caught fire. First the blue head scarf, then her entire body was enveloped in huge flames. The fire was in my eyes, she said. Suddenly it was like a fire storm around the tanker. The girl began to run, hearing nothing but screams behind her.
Later, Erik and the nun talked to the girl at length about what she had revealed under hypnosis. They explained over and over again that it was the vapour from the gasoline, the fumes with the powerful smell, that had begun to burn. The man’s cigarette had set fire to the tanker through the air; it had had nothing to do with her.
A month or so after this event, Erik returned to Stockholm and applied for research funding from the Swedish Medical Research Council in order to immerse himself seriously in the treatment of trauma with hypnosis at the Karolinska Institute. And not long after his return to Sweden he met Simone at a big party at the university. He had noticed her curly, strawberry-blonde hair first of all. Then he had seen her face, the curve of her pale forehead, her fair skin scattered with light brown freckles. She was excited, rosy-cheeked and sparkling, and looked like a bookmark angel, small and slender. He can still remember what she was wearing that evening: a green silk fitted blouse that set off her bright green eyes.
Erik blinks hard, leans closer to the windscreen, and tries to see between the trees, but he can only sense movement inside the brown cabin. Most likely, Evelyn is not there. The curtains shift; the front door swings open; Joona Linna steps out on the porch, and three policemen come round the house and join him. They point to the road and the other cottages. One unfolds a map, and they gather around him to consult it. Then Joona seems to want to show them something inside the house. They all go in, the last one closing the door quietly.
Suddenly Erik spots someone standing in the trees where the ground slopes down towards the bog. It’s a slender woman with a double-barrelled shotgun, which she drags along the ground, letting it bounce gently against the blueberry bushes and moss.
The police have not spotted her, and she has had no opportunity to see them. Erik keys in the number of Joona’s mobile phone, which begins to ring in the car. It’s lying next to him on the driver’s seat.
Without any urgency, the woman wanders between the trees, shotgun in hand. Erik realises a dangerous situation could arise if the woman and the police take each other by surprise. Despite his promise to Joona, he has no choice. He gets out of the car. “Hi, there,” he calls.
The woman stops and turns to look at him.
“Chilly today,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“It’s cold in the shade,” he says, a little louder this time.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Are you new here?” he asks, walking towards her.
“No, I borrow the house from my aunt.”
“Is Sonja your aunt?”
“Yes,” she says, with a smile.
Erik goes up to her. “What are you hunting?”
“Hare,” she replies.
“Can I have a look at your gun?”
Obligingly, she breaks it and hands it over. The tip of her nose is red. Dry pine needles are caught in her sandy-coloured hair.
“Evelyn,” he says calmly, “there are some police officers here who would like to talk to you.”
She looks anxious and takes a step backwards.
“If you have time,” he says, with a smile.
She gives a faint nod and Erik shouts in the direction of the house. Joona emerges with an irritated look on his face, ready to order Erik back to the car. When he sees the woman he stiffens.
“This is Evelyn,” says Erik, handing him the shotgun.
“Hello.”
The colour suddenly drains from her face, and she looks as if she’s going to faint.
“I need to talk to you,” Joona explains, in a serious voice.
“No,” she whispers.
“Come inside.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to go inside?”
Evelyn turns to Erik. “Do I have to?” she asks, trembling.
“No,” he replies. “You decide.”
“Please come in,” says Joona.
She shakes her head but begins to head for the house anyway.
“I’ll wait outside,” says Erik.
He walks a little way up the drive. The gravel is covered in pine needles and brown cones. He hears Evelyn scream through the walls of the house. Just one scream. It sounds lonely and despairing, an expression of incomprehensible loss. He recognises that scream well from his time in Uganda.
Evelyn is sitting on the sofa with both hands clamped between her thighs, her face ashen. On the floor by her feet is a photograph in a frame that looks like a toadstool. It’s a mother and father—her mother and father—sitting in something that looks like a hammock, with her little sister between them. Her parents squint into the bright sunlight, while the little girl’s glasses shine as if they were white.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” says Joona.
Her chin quivers.
“Do you think you might be able to help us understand what’s happened?” he asks. The wooden chair creaks under his weight. He waits for a while, then continues. “Where were you on Monday, 7
December?”
She shakes her head.
“Yesterday,” he clarifies.
“I was here,” she says faintly.
“In the cottage?”
She meets his gaze. “Yes.”
“You didn’t go out all day?”
“No.”
“You just sat here?”
She makes a gesture toward the bed and the textbooks on political science.
“You were studying?”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t leave the house yesterday?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm that?”
“What?”
“Was anyone here with you?” asks Joona.
“No.”
“Have you any idea who could have done this to your family?”
She shakes her head.
“Has anyone threatened you?” She doesn’t seem to hear him. “Evelyn?”
“What? What did you say?” Her fingers are still tightly clamped between her legs.
“Has anyone threatened your family? Do you have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Did you know that your father was heavily in debt?”
She shakes her head.
“He was,” says Joona. “He owed money to criminals.”
“Right.”
“Could it be one of them who—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand anything,” she says, raising her voice.
“What is it we don’t understand?”
“You don’t understand anything.”
“Tell us what—”
“I can’t!” she screams.
She is so distraught that she begins to cry, straight out, without covering her face. Kristina Andersson goes over and hugs her, and after a while she grows calmer. She sits there motionless, the policewoman’s arms around her, as occasional sobs shudder through her body.
“There, there,” Kristina whispers reassuringly. She holds the girl close and strokes her head—and then suddenly screams and pushes Evelyn away, straight onto the floor. “Goddammit, she bit me … she fucking bit me!”
Kristina looks in amazement at her fingers, covered in blood seeping from a wound in the middle of her throat.
On the floor, Evelyn hides a bewildered smile behind her hand. Then her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps into unconsciousness.
23
tuesday, december 8: evening
Benjamin has locked himself in his room. Simone is sitting at the kitchen table with her eyes closed, listening to the radio; it’s a live broadcast from Berwald Concert Hall. She tries to imagine life as a single person. It wouldn’t be all that different from what I have now, she thinks ironically. I might go to concerts, galleries, and the theatre, as all lonely women do.
She finds a bottle of single malt Scotch in the cupboard and pours herself a drop, adding a little water: a weak yellow liquid in a heavy glass. The front door opens as the warm notes of a Bach cello concerto fill the kitchen; it is a gentle, sorrowful melody. Erik stands in the doorway looking at her, his face grey with exhaustion.
“That looks good,” he says.
“Whisky,” she says, handing him the glass.
She pours herself a fresh drink; they stand opposite each other and raise their glasses in a toast, their expressions serious.
“Difficult day?” she asks quietly.
“Pretty difficult,” he replies, with a pale smile.
He suddenly looks so worn out. There is a lack of clarity to his features, like a thin layer of dust on his face.
“What are you listening to?” he asks.
“Shall I turn it off?”
“Not on my account—it’s beautiful.” Erik empties the glass, holds it out to her, and she pours him another. “So Benjamin didn’t get a tattoo, then,” he says.
“You’ve been following the drama on voicemail.”
“Just now, on the way home. I didn’t have time before—”
“No.” She breaks in, thinking about the woman who answered when she called the number last night.
“I’m glad you went and picked him up,” says Erik.
She nods, thinking about how all emotions are interconnected, how no relationship is autonomous and separate, how everything is affected by everything else.
They drink again, and suddenly she notices that Erik is smiling at her. His smile, with those crooked teeth, has always made her go weak at the knees. She thinks how she would love to go to bed with him now, without any discussion, any complications. One day we will all be alone anyway, she says to herself.
“I don’t know what to think,” she says tersely. “Or rather … I know I don’t trust you.”
“Why do you say—”
“It feels as if we’ve lost everything. You just sleep or else you’re at work, or wherever it is you are. I wanted to do things, travel, spend time together.”
He puts down the glass and takes a step towards her. “Why can’t we do that?”
“Don’t say it,” she whispers.
“Why not?” He smiles and strokes her cheek; then his expression grows serious again. Suddenly they are kissing each other. Simone can feel how her whole body has longed for this, longed for kisses.
“Hey, Dad, do you know where—” Benjamin falls silent as he walks into the kitchen and sees them. “You’re crazy.” He sighs, and goes out again.
Simone calls after him. “Benjamin.” He comes back. “You promised to go and pick up the food.”
“Have you called?”
“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” she says, giving him her purse. “You know where the Thai place is, don’t you?”
“Mum!” He sighs.
“Go straight there and back,” she says.
“Oh, please.”
“Listen to your mother,” says Erik.
“I’m just going to the corner to pick up a take-away; nothing’s going to happen,” he says, going into the hallway.
Simone and Erik smile at each other as they hear the front door close and their son’s rapid footsteps on the stairs.
Erik gets three glasses out of the cupboard, stops, takes Simone’s hand, and holds it against his cheek.
“Bedroom?” she asks.
He looks embarrassingly pleased, just as the telephone rings. “Leave it,” he says.
“It could be Benjamin,” she says, picking up the phone. “Hello?” She hears nothing, just a faint ticking sound, perhaps from a zipper being undone. “Hello?” She puts the telephone down.
“Nobody there?” asks Erik, uneasily.
Simone watches as he goes over to the window and looks down at the street. Once again she hears the voice of the woman who answered her earlier call. Stop it, Erik. She had laughed. Stop what? Fumbling inside her clothes, sucking at her nipple, pushing up her skirt?
“Call Benjamin,” says Erik, his voice strained.
“Why do I need to—” She picks up the phone just as it rings again. “Hello?”
When no one speaks she cuts the connection and dials Benjamin’s number.
“Voicemail.”
“I can’t see him,” says Erik.
“Should I go after him?”
“Maybe.”
“He’ll be furious with me,” she says with a smile.
“I’ll go,” says Erik, moving into the hallway.
He is just taking his jacket off the hanger when the door opens and Benjamin walks in with a plastic bag stacked with cartons of steaming food.
They sit down in front of the TV to watch a movie, eating straight out of the containers. Benjamin laughs at the snappy dialogue, and Erik and Simone glance happily at each other as they did when he was a child, laughing out loud at some children’s programme. Erik puts his hand on Simone’s knee, and she puts her hand on top of his, squeezing it.
Bruce Willis is on his back, wiping blood from his mouth. The telephone rings again and Erik puts down his food and gets up. He goes out into the hallway and answers as calmly as he can.
“Erik Maria Bark.” There is no sound, just a faint clicking. “Right, that’s enough,” he says angrily.
“Erik?” It’s Daniella’s voice. “Is that you, Erik?” she asks.
“We’re just in the middle of eating.” He can hear her rapid breathing.
“What did he want?” she asks.
“Who?”
“Josef,” she replies.
“Josef Ek?”
“Didn’t he say anything?” asks Daniella.
“When?”
“Just now … on the phone.”
Erik can see Simone and Benjamin watching the film in the living room. He thinks about the family out in Tumba. The little girl, the mother and father. The horrendous rage behind the crime.
“What makes you think he called me?” asks Erik.
Daniella clears her throat. “He must have talked the nurse into bringing him a phone. I’ve spoken to the exchange; they put him through to you.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Josef was screaming when I went in; he’d ripped out the catheter. I gave him alprazolam, but he said a lot of things about you before he fell asleep.”
“Like what? What did he say?”
Erik hears Daniella swallow hard, and her voice sounds very tired when she replies.
“That you’d been fucking with his head and you should leave his fucking sister alone if you don’t want to be eliminated. He said it several times. You can expect to be eliminated.”
24
tuesday, december 8: evening
It has been three hours since Joona took Evelyn to the Kronoberg custody centre. She was placed in a small cell with bare walls and horizontal bars over the steamed-up window. A stainless steel sink reeked of vomit. Evelyn stood next to the bunk with its green plastic mattress and stared at Joona inquiringly as he left her there.
Once a suspect has been brought in, the prosecutor has up to twelve hours to decide whether the person should be arrested or released. If he decides not to release, he then has until twelve o’clock on the third day to submit an application to the court asking for the suspect to be arrested. If he fails to do this, the person is free to go. The basis for requesting an arrest can be either probable grounds for suspicion or, more seriously, reasonable grounds for suspicion.
Now Joona is back. Striding toward the women’s unit along the corridor with its shiny white vinyl floor, past monotonous rows of pea-green cell doors, he catches his own reflection in door handles and locks.
Jens Svanehjälm, Chief Prosecutor for the Stockholm district, waits for him outside one of the five interview rooms. Although Svanehjälm is forty years old, he looks no more than twenty, his boyish expression and round, smooth cheeks lending a false impression of innocence and naïveté.
“So,” he says, “did Evelyn force her younger brother to murder their family?”
“According to Josef.”
“Nothing Josef Ek says under hypnosis is admissible. It goes against his right to remain silent and his right to avoid incriminating himself.”
“I realise that,” says Joona. “It wasn’t an interrogation. He wasn’t a suspect. I thought the boy had information that would prevent another murder from taking place.”
Jens says nothing. He scrolls through e-mails on his phone.
“I’ll know soon enough what actually happened,” says Joona.
Jens looks back up, with a smile. “I’m sure you will,” he says. “Because when I took over this job, my predecessor told me that if Joona Linna says he’s going to find out the truth, that’s exactly what he’ll do.”
“We had one or two disagreements.”
“Yes, she said that, too,” says Jens.
Joona nods. Motioning towards one of the interview rooms, he asks, “Ready?”
“We’re questioning Evelyn Ek purely in pursuit of information,” Jens stresses.
“Do you want me to tell her that she’s suspected of a crime?”
“That’s up to you; you’re the lead interrogator. But the clock’s ticking. You haven’t got a lot of time.”
Joona knocks twice before entering the dreary interview room, where the blinds are pulled down over the barred windows. Evelyn Ek sits, her eyes downcast. Her arms are folded across her chest; her shoulders are tense and hunched, her jaw clenched.
“Hi, Evelyn.”
She looks up quickly, her soft brown eyes frightened. He sits down opposite her. Like her brother, she is attractive; her features are not striking, but they are symmetrical. She has light brown hair and an intelligent expression. Joona realises she has a face that at first glance might appear plain but that becomes more and more beautiful the longer you look at it.
“I thought we should have a little talk,” he says. “What do you think?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“When did you last see Josef?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Was it yesterday?”
“No,” she says, sounding surprised.
“How many days ago was it?”
“What?”
“I asked when you last saw Josef,” says Joona.
“Oh, a long time ago.”
“Has he been to see you at the cottage?”
“No.”
“Never? He’s never been to see you out there?”
A slight shrug. “No.”
“But he knows the place, doesn’t he?”
She nods. “We went there when he was a little kid,” she replies.
“When was that?”
“I don’t know … I was fifteen. We borrowed the cottage from Auntie Sonja one summer when she was in Greece.”
“And Josef hasn’t been there since?”
Evelyn’s gaze suddenly flickers across the wall behind Joona. “I don’t think so,” she says.
“How long have you been staying there?”
“I moved there just after term started.”
“In August.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been living in a little cottage in Värmdö for four months. Why?”
Once again her gaze flutters away, moving behind Joona’s head. “So I could have peace and quiet to study,” she says.
“For four months?”
She shifts in the chair, crossing her legs and scratching her forehead. “I need to be left in peace,” she says with a sigh.
“Has somebody been bothering you?”
“No.”
“When you say that you want to be left in peace, it sounds as if someone’s been bothering you.”
She gives a faint, joyless smile. “I just like the forest.”
“What are you studying?”
“Political science.”
“And you’re supporting yourself on a student loan?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you buy food?”
“I bike to Saltarö.”
“Isn’t that a long way?”
Evelyn shrugs her shoulders. “I suppose so.”
“Have you seen anyone you know there?”
“No.”
He contemplates Evelyn’s smooth young forehead. “You haven’t seen Josef there?”
“No.”
“Evelyn, listen to me,” says Joona, in a new, more serious tone. “Your brother told us that he was the one who murdered your father, your mother, and your little sister.”
Evelyn stares at the table. Her eyelids tremble; a faint flush rises on her pale face.
“He’s only fifteen years old,” Joona goes on.
He looks at her thin hands and the shining, brushed hair lying over her frail shoulders.
“Why do you think he’s saying he murdered his family?”
“What?” she asks, looking up.
“It seems as if you think he’s telling the truth,” he says.
“It does?”
“You didn’t look surprised when I said he’d confessed,” says Joona. “Were you surprised?”
“Yes.”
She sits motionless on the chair. A thin furrow of anxiety has appeared between her eyebrows. She looks very tired, and her lips are moving slightly, as if she is praying or whispering to herself. “Is he locked up?” she asks suddenly.
“Who?”
She doesn’t look up at him when she replies but speaks tonelessly down at the table. “Josef. Have you locked him up?”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No.”
“I thought perhaps you were carrying the gun because you were afraid of him.”
“I hunt,” she replies, meeting his gaze.
There’s something peculiar about her, something he doesn’t yet understand. It’s not the usual things: guilt, rage, or hatred. It’s more like something reminiscent of an enormous resistance. He can’t get a fix on it. A defence mechanism or a protective barrier unlike anything he has yet encountered.
“Hare?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Is it good, hare?”
“Not particularly.”
“What does it taste like?”
“Sweet.”
Joona thinks about her standing in the cold air outside the cottage. He tries to visualise the chain of events.
Erik Maria Bark had taken her gun. He was holding it over his arm and it was broken open, the brass of the cartridges visible. Evelyn was squinting at him in the sunlight. Tall and slim, with her sandy brown hair in a high, tight ponytail. A silvery padded vest and low-cut jeans, damp running shoes. Pine trees behind her, moss on the ground, low-growing lingonberry and trampled toadstools.
Suddenly Joona discovers a crack in Evelyn’s story. He has already nudged at the thought, but it slipped away. Now the crack is absolutely clear. When he spoke to Evelyn in her aunt’s cottage, she sat completely still on the corduroy couch with her hands clamped between her thighs. On the floor at her feet lay a photograph in a frame that looked like a toadstool. Evelyn’s little sister was in the picture, sitting between her parents with the sun glinting off her big glasses.
The little girl must have been four, perhaps even five years old in the picture. In other words, the photograph can be no more than a year or two old. Evelyn claimed that Josef hadn’t been to the cottage for years, but he accurately described the photo and the frame under hypnosis.
Of course, there could be several copies of the picture in other toadstool frames, thinks Joona. There’s also the possibility that this particular one has been moved around. And Josef could have been in the cottage without Evelyn’s knowledge.
But it could also be a crack in Evelyn’s story.
“Evelyn,” says Joona, “I’m just wondering about something you said a little while ago.”
Jens Svanehjälm gets to his feet. The sudden movement startles Evelyn, and her body jerks. “Would you come with me for a minute, detective?” Outside, he turns to Joona. “I’m letting her go,” he says, in a low voice. “This is bullshit. We don’t have a thing, just an invalid interrogation with her comatose fifteen-year-old brother, who suggests that she—”
Jens stops speaking as soon as he sees the look on Joona’s face.
“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” he says.
“I think so, yes,” Joona replies quietly.
“Is she lying?”
“I don’t know. She might be.”
Jens runs his hand over his chin, considering. “Give her a sandwich and a cup of tea,” he says eventually. “Then you can have one more hour before I decide whether we’re going to arrest her or not.”
“There’s no guarantee this will lead to anything.”
“But you’ll give it a go?”
Four minutes later, Joona places a Styrofoam cup of English breakfast tea and a sandwich on a paper plate in front of Evelyn and sits down on his chair. “I thought you might be hungry,” he says.
“Thanks,” she says, and a more cheerful expression momentarily sweeps across her features. Joona watches her carefully. Her hand shakes as she eats the sandwich and lifts the cup from the table to her lips.
“Evelyn, in your aunt’s cottage there’s a photograph in a frame that looks like a toadstool.”
Evelyn nods. “Aunt Sonja bought it up in Mora; she thought it would look nice in the cottage …” She stops and blows on her tea.
“Did she buy any more like that? For gifts, say?”
“Not that I know of.” She smiles. “I’ve never seen another like it.”
“And has the photograph always been in the cottage?”
“What do you mean?” she asks faintly.
“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But Josef talked about this picture, so he must have seen it sometime. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten something.”
“No.”
“Well, that clears that up,” says Joona, getting up.
“Are you going?”
“Yes, I think we’re done here,” says Joona. He looks at her face, filled with anxiety, and acts on a hunch.
“Chances are you’ll be out of here—oh, in an hour or two.”
“Out of here?”
“Well, I don’t think we can hold you for anything.” He smiles.
She wraps her arms around herself. “You never answered my question.”
“Question?”
“Is Josef locked up?”
Joona looks her square in the eye. “No, Evelyn. Josef is in the hospital. We haven’t arrested him. I don’t know that we can.”
She begins to tremble, and her eyes fill with tears.
“What is it, Evelyn?”
She wipes the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Josef did come to the cottage once. He took a taxi and he brought a cake,” she says, her voice breaking.
“On your birthday?”
“He … it was his birthday.”
“When was that?”
“On 1
November.”
“Just over a month ago,” says Joona. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she says. “It was a surprise.”
“He hadn’t told you he was coming?”
“We weren’t in touch.”
“Why not?”
“I need to be on my own.”
“Who knew you were staying there?”
“Nobody, apart from Sorab, my boyfriend … well, actually, he broke up with me, and we’re just friends, but he helps me, tells everybody I’m staying with him, answers when Mum calls.”
“Why?”
“I need to be left in peace.”
“So you’ve said. Did Josef go out there again?”
“No.”
“This is important, Evelyn.”
“He didn’t come again,” she replies.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you lie about this?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“What else have you lied about?”
25
wednesday, december 9: afternoon
Erik is walking between the brightly lit display cases in the NK department store’s jewellery department. A sleek saleswoman dressed in black murmurs persuasively to a customer. She slides open a drawer and places a few pieces on a velvet-covered tray. Erik pauses to study a Georg Jensen necklace: heavy, softly polished triangles, linked together like petals to form a closed circle. The sterling silver has the rich lustre of platinum. Erik thinks how beautifully it would lie around Simone’s slender neck and decides to buy it for her for Christmas.
As the assistant is wrapping his purchase in dark-red shiny paper, the cell phone in Erik’s pocket begins to vibrate, resonating against the little wooden box with the parrot and the native. He answers without checking the number on the display.
“Erik Maria Bark.”
There’s a strange crackling noise, and he can hear the distant sound of Christmas carols. “Hello?” he says.
A very faint voice can be heard. “Is that Erik?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“I was wondering …”
Suddenly Erik thinks it sounds as if someone is giggling in the background. “Who is this?” he asks sharply.
“Hang on, doctor. I need your expert advice,” says the voice, dripping with contempt. Erik is about to end the call when the voice on the phone suddenly bellows, “Hypnotise me! I want to be—”
Erik snatches the phone away from his ear. He presses the button to end the conversation and tries to see who called, but it’s a withheld number. A beep tells him he has received a text message, also from a withheld number. He opens it and reads: CAN YOU HYPNOTISE A CORPSE?
Bewildered, Erik takes his purchase in its red and gold bag and leaves the jewellery department. In the lobby he catches the eye of a woman in a bulky, black coat. She is standing underneath a suspended Christmas tree, three storeys high, and she is staring at him with a hostile expression. He has never seen her before.
With one hand he flips open the lid of the wooden box in his coat pocket, tips a codeine capsule into his hand, puts it in his mouth, and swallows it.
He goes outside into the cold air. People are crowded before a shop window where Christmas elves are dancing around in a landscape made of sweets. A toffee with a big mouth sings a Christmas song. Nursery school children dressed in yellow vests over thick snowsuits gaze in open-mouthed silence at the scene.
The mobile phone rings again, but this time he checks the number before answering. It’s a Stockholm number.
“Erik Maria Bark,” he says cautiously.
“Hi, there. My name is Britt Sundström. I work for Amnesty International.”
“Hi,” Erik says, puzzled.
“I’d like to know whether your patient had the opportunity to say no to the hypnosis.”
“What did you say?” asks Erik, as a huge snail drags a sledge full of Christmas presents across the window display. His heart begins to pound, and a burning acidity surges up through his gut.
“The CIA handbook for torture that leaves no trace does actually mention hypnosis as one of the—”
“The doctor responsible for the patient made the judgment.”
“So you’re saying you bear no responsibility?”
“I have no comment,” he says.
“You’ve already been reported to the police,” she says curtly.
“I see,” he says feebly, and ends the call.
He begins to walk slowly toward Sergels Torg, with its shining glass tower and Culture House, sees the Christmas market, and hears a trumpeter playing ‘Silent Night.’ He turns onto Sveavägen. Outside the 7-Eleven he stops and reads the display boards showing the headlines from the evening papers:
‘I KILLED MUM AND DAD’
Hypnotist Dupes Boy into Confession
IN YOUR HEAD
Doctor Risks Boy’s Life to Coerce Admission
BARK WORSE THAN BITE
New Hypnosis Scandal for Tarnished Doc
OUTRAGE!
Stumped Cops Enlist Hypnodoc, Scapegoat Victim
Erik can feel his pulse begin to pound in his temples and hurries on, avoiding looking directly at those around him. He passes the spot where Prime Minister Olof Palme was assassinated back in 1986, walking home with his wife from the movies. Three red roses are lying on the grubby memorial plaque. Erik hears someone calling after him and slips into an exclusive electronics shop. Although only a few minutes ago he’d been so tired he felt almost drunk, that feeling has been replaced by a feverish mixture of nervousness and despair. His hands shake as he takes yet another strong painkiller. He feels a stabbing pain in his stomach as the capsule dissolves and the powder goes into the mucous membranes.
The radio in the shop is broadcasting a debate about the extent to which hypnosis should be banned as a form of treatment. A caller is telling the story of how he was once hypnotised into thinking he was Bob Dylan.
“I mean, like, I knew it wasn’t true,” he drawls, “but it was like I was kind of forced to say what I said, you know? I knew I was, like, being hypnotised. I could see my buddy was, like, sitting right there, like, waiting for me? But I still thought, like, I’m Dylan! I was even speaking English. Like, I couldn’t help it; I would’ve admitted to just about anything.”
The Minister for Justice says in his Småland accent, “There is absolutely no doubt that using hypnosis as a method of interrogation is a violation of the rights of the individual.”
“So Erik Maria Bark has broken the law?” the journalist asks sharply.
“We expect the Prosecutor’s Office to conduct a thorough investigation of the legality of his actions.”
26
wednesday, december 9: afternoon
By the time Erik reaches Luntmakargatan 73, sweat is pouring down his back. He punches in the code to open the door. With fumbling hands he finds his keys as the lift hums its way upwards. Once inside the apartment, he staggers into the living room and tries to take off his coat, but the pills have made him dizzy. He topples onto the sofa and switches on the television.
There is the Chairman of the Swedish Society for Clinical Hypnosis sitting in a TV studio. Erik knows him very well; he has seen many colleagues affected by his arrogance and his ruthless ambition.
“We expelled Bark ten years ago and we won’t be welcoming him back,” the chairman says, with a tight smile.
“Does an incident like this affect the reputation of serious hypnosis?”
“All our members adhere to strict ethical rules,” he says superciliously. “Moreover, Sweden has laws against charlatans.”
Erik finally takes his outdoor clothes off with clumsy movements, piling them on the sofa beside him. He closes his eyes for a moment to rest but opens them immediately when he hears a familiar voice coming from the television. Benjamin is standing in a sunlit school playground. His brow is furrowed, the tip of his nose and his ears are red, his shoulders are hunched, and he looks very cold.
“So,” asks the reporter. “What’s it like living with the hypnodoc?”
“I don’t know,” says Benjamin.
“Has your dad ever hypnotised you?”
“What? No way.”
“How do you know?” the reporter persists. “If he had hypnotised you, there’s no guarantee that you’d be aware of it, is there?”
“I guess not,” replies Benjamin with a grin, surprised by the reporter’s pushy approach.
“How would you feel if it turned out he had hypnotised you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pretty mad, I bet,” suggests the reporter.
“Yeah,” agrees Benjamin. His cheeks are flushed.
Erik turns off the television and goes into the bedroom, where he takes off his trousers and sits on the bed, placing the wooden box with the parrot on it in the drawer of the bedside table. He doesn’t want to think about the longing that was aroused in him when he hypnotised Josef Ek and followed him down into that deep blue sea. He lies down, reaches out for the glass of water by the bed, but falls asleep before he has time to drink.
Still half asleep, Erik thinks dreamily about his father when he used to appear at children’s parties, wearing his specially prepared suit, the sweat pouring down his cheeks. He would twist balloons into the shapes of animals and pull brightly coloured feather flowers out of a hollow walking cane. When he had moved from the house in Sollentuna to a nursing home, he would talk of putting an act together with Erik. He would be the gentleman thief and Erik would be the stage hypnotist, making people sing like Elvis and Zarah Leander.
Suddenly Erik is wide awake. He sees Benjamin in his mind’s eye, shivering under the scrutiny of the TV camera and the reporter, there in the school playground in front of his classmates and teachers. He sits up, feeling the searing pain in his stomach, reaches for the telephone, and calls Simone.
“Simone Bark’s gallery,” she replies.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Just a minute.”
He hears her walk across the wooden floor and close the office door behind her.
“What the hell’s going on?” she asks. “Benjamin called and—”
“The media circus is in full swing.”
“The media circus? What are we, rock stars? Erik, what have you done? Why are reporters grilling our kid on television?”
“I haven’t done anything. I was asked to hypnotise the patient by the doctor who was responsible for his care.”
“I know that part. The whole world knows; it’s all over the news. You hypnotised some poor victimised kid and coerced a confession—”
“Can you listen to me for a second?” he broke in. “Can you do that?”
“All right. Talk.”
“It wasn’t an interrogation,” Erik begins.
“It doesn’t matter what you call it.” She falls silent. He can hear her breathing. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “Please finish.”
“It wasn’t an interrogation. We thought he was a victim. And the police needed a description, anything they could go on, because they thought a girl’s life depended on it.”
“But—”
“The doctor who was responsible for the patient at the time judged that the risk was low. I wouldn’t’ve done it otherwise.” He pauses. “We were just trying to save his sister.” He stops speaking and listens to Simone breathing.
“What have you done?” she says shakily. “You … you promised me you wouldn’t practise hypnosis any more.”
“It’ll sort itself out. No harm done, Simone.”
“No harm done?” she snaps. “You broke your promise, but you don’t think any harm has been done? Erik, all you do is lie and lie and lie.”
Simone stops herself, and falls silent.
Erik stands rock-still for a moment, hangs up the phone, then turns and enters the kitchen, where he mixes a soluble analgesic with antacid and swills the sweet liquid down.
27
thursday, december 10: evening
Joona looks out into the dark, empty corridor. It’s evening, almost eight o’clock, and he’s the only one left in the whole department. Advent star lamps shine from every window, and the electric Christmas candles create a soft, round, double glow, reflected in the black glass. Anja has placed a bowl of Christmas sweets on his desk, and he eats more than his fill as he writes up his notes on the interview with Evelyn.
On the basis of her having lied about Josef visiting the cottage, the prosecutor made the decision to arrest her. Joona knows perfectly well that Evelyn’s lie does not mean she is guilty of any crime, but it gives him three days to investigate what she is hiding and why.
He writes up the report, addresses it to the prosecutor, places it in the outgoing mail, checks that his pistol is safely locked away, and leaves the police headquarters in his car.
When he reaches Fridhemsplan, Joona hears his mobile phone ringing, but it’s slipped through a hole in the lining of his pocket and he has to pull over in front of the Hare Krishna restaurant to shake it loose.
“Joona Linna.”
“Oh, good,” says police officer Ronny Alfredsson. “We have a problem. We don’t really know what to do.”
“Did you speak to Evelyn’s boyfriend?”
“Sorab Ramadani. That’s the problem.”
“Did you check where he works?”
“It’s not that,” says Ronny. “We located him easy. He’s right here in his apartment, but he won’t open the door. He doesn’t want to talk to us. He keeps shouting at us to clear off, that we’re disturbing the neighbours, and we’re harassing him because he’s a Muslim.”
“What have you said to him?”
“Fuck all, just that we needed his help on a particular matter. We did exactly what you told us to do.”
“Good,” says Joona.
“Is it all right if we force the door?”
“Just leave him alone for the time being. I’ll come over.”
“Should we wait?”
“Yes, please. Outside in the car.”
Joona signals, swings the car round in a U-turn, and makes his way onto Västerbron. All the windows and lights of the city are shining in the night, the sky a grey, misty dome up above.
He thinks once again about the crime scene investigation. There’s something odd about the pattern that is emerging. Certain elements are simply irreconcilable. While waiting for a light to change, Joona opens the folder on the passenger seat and flips through the photographs from the football pitch. Three showers, with no partitions between them. The reflection of the flash from the camera shines on the white tiles; in one picture he can see the shower scraper and the large pool of blood, water, and dirt, strands of hair, plasters, and a bottle of shower gel.
Next to the drain in the floor is the father’s arm; the white ball joint is surrounded by ligaments and severed muscle tissue. The hunting knife with its broken point lies on the floor.
Nils Åhlén found the point with the help of computer tomography; it was embedded in Anders Ek’s pelvic bone.
The mutilated body is on the floor between the wooden benches and the battered metal lockers. A red tracksuit top hangs on a hook. Blood is everywhere: on the floor, on the doors, the ceiling, the benches.
Joona drums his fingers on the wheel. A locker room, of all places. The technicians have obtained hundreds of partial and complete fingerprints, thousands of fibres and strands of hair. They are dealing with DNA from hundreds of different people, much of it contaminated, but so far nothing can be linked to Josef Ek.
Joona asked the forensic technicians to concentrate on looking for blood from Anders Ek on Josef. The large amounts of blood covering his entire body from the other crime scene mean nothing. Everyone in the house was smeared with everyone else’s blood. The fact that Josef had his little sister’s blood on him was no stranger than the fact that she had his blood on her. But if they can find the father’s blood on his son, or traces of Josef in the locker room, then he can be linked to both crime scenes. If they can just link him to the locker room, they can begin proceedings.
When Josef was initially taken to the hospital in Huddinge, a specialist was instructed by the National Forensic Lab in Linköping (which carries out DNA analysis in Sweden) to ensure that all biological traces on Josef’s body were secured.
When he reaches Högalid Park, Joona calls Erixon, a very fat man who is the crime-scene investigator responsible for the investigation in Tumba.
A tired voice answers. “Go away.”
“Erixon? Still alive?” jokes Joona.
“I’m asleep,” comes the weary response.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine, I’m actually on my way home. If they still recognise me there.”
“I’ll make it quick. Did you find any trace of Josef in the locker room?” asks Joona.
“No.”
“You must have.”
“No,” replies Erixon. “Really. Not a trace of him.”
“Have you put any pressure on our friends in Linköping?”
“I’ve leaned on them with my considerable weight,” he replies.
“And?”
“They didn’t find any of the father’s DNA on Josef.”
“I don’t believe them either,” says Joona. “I mean, he was fucking covered in—”
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