47

       sunday, december 13 (feast of st lucia): morning

      Kennet repeats to himself the words ‘his home,’ takes the file with the photos and the write-up from the forensic investigation of the house, hides them underneath his notepad, and turns around to face his daughter.

      “Dutroux,” he says.

      “What?” asks Simone.

      “Do you remember the case of Marc Dutroux?”

      “No.”

      In his matter-of-fact fashion, Kennet tells her about Dutroux, who kidnapped and tortured six girls in Belgium. Julie Lejeune and Melissa Russo starved to death while Dutroux was serving a short prison sentence for stealing a car. Eefje Lambrecks and An Marchal were buried alive in the garden.

      “Dutroux had a house in Charleroi,” he goes on. “In the cellar he had built a storeroom with a secret door weighing over four hundred pounds. It was impossible to detect the room by knocking to find a hollow space. The only way to find it was to measure the house; the measurements inside and outside didn’t match. Sabine Dardenne and Laetitia Delhez were found alive.”

      Simone tries to get to her feet. Her heart is beating peculiarly, hammering her chest from inside. She cannot believe there are men driven by a need to wall people in, men calmed by the fear of their victims down in the darkness, behind silent walls.

      “Benjamin needs his medication,” she whispers.

      Simone watches her father go over to the telephone. He dials a number, waits for a moment, then says quickly, “Charley? Listen, there’s something I need to know about Josef Ek … No, it’s about his house, the house in Tumba.”

      There is silence for a while; then Simone can hear someone speaking in a rough, deep voice.

      “Yes,” says Kennet. “I realise you’ve checked it out. I’ve had a look at the report.”

      The other person continues talking. Simone closes her eyes and listens to the hum of the police radio, which becomes part of the muted bumblebee buzz of the voice on the phone.

      “But you haven’t measured the house?” she hears her father ask. “No, of course not …”

      She opens her eyes and suddenly feels a brief adrenaline rush chase away the tiredness.

      “Yes, that would be good … Can you send the plans over here by messenger?” says Kennet. “And any planning applications … Yes, the same address … Thanks a lot.” He ends the call.

      “Could Benjamin really be in that house? Could he, Dad?”

      “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

      “Well, come on then,” she says impatiently.

      “Charley’s sending the plans over.”

      “Plans? I don’t give a shit about the plans. What are you waiting for? We need to get over there. I can smash down every little—”

      “That’s not a good idea. I mean, it’s urgent, but I don’t think we’ll gain any time by going over there and starting to knock down walls.”

      “But we have to do something.”

      “That house has been crawling with police for the past few days,” he explains. “If there was anything obvious they would have found it, even if they weren’t looking for Benjamin.”

      “But—”

      “I need to look at the plans to see where it might be possible to build a secret room, get some measurements so I can compare them with the actual measurements when we’re in the house.”

      “But what if there is no room? Then where can he be?”

      “The Ek family shared a summer cottage outside Bollnäs with the father’s brothers. I have a friend there who promised to drive over. He knows the area very well. It’s in the older part of a development.” Kennet looks at his watch and dials a number. “Svante? Kennet here, I was just wondering—”

      “I’m there now,” his friend says.

      “Where?”

      “Inside the house,” says Svante.

      “But you were only supposed to take a look.”

      “The new owners let me in; they’re called Sjölin.” Someone says something in the background. “Sorry, Sjödin.” He corrects himself. “They’ve owned the house for over a year.”

      “I see. Well, thanks for your help.” Kennet ends the call. A deep furrow appears in his forehead.

      “What about the cottage where his sister was?” asks Simone.

      “We’ve had people there several times. But you and I could drive out and take a look anyway.”

      They fall silent, their expressions thoughtful, introverted. The letter box rattles; the morning paper is pushed through and thuds onto the hall floor. Neither of them moves. They hear the rattle of more letter boxes on the next floor down; then the outside door opens.

      Kennet suddenly turns up the volume of the police radio. A call has gone out. Someone answers, demanding information. In the brief exchange, Simone picks up something about a woman hearing screams from a neighbouring apartment. A car is dispatched. In the background, someone laughs and launches into a long explanation about why his younger brother still lives at home and has his sandwiches made for him every morning. Kennet turns the volume down again.

      “I’ll make some more coffee,” says Simone.

      From his khaki bag, Kennet removes a pocket atlas of Greater Stockholm. He takes the candlesticks from the table and places them in the window before opening it. Simone stands behind him, contemplating the tangled network of roads, rail, and bus links crisscrossing one another in shades of red, blue, green, and yellow. Forests and geometric suburban systems.

      Kennet’s finger follows a yellow road south of Stockholm, passing Älvsjö, Huddinge, Tullinge, and down to Tumba. Together they stare at Tumba and Salem. It is a pale map showing an old and once-isolated community that was saved from decay and irrelevance when a commuter train station was built there, creating a new town centre. The detailed map indicates