Kitabı oxu: «The Hypnotist»
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
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
Copyright
International praise for The Hypnotist
Also by Lars Kepler
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
ten years ago
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
About the Author
About the Publisher
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.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
