Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness. Lars Kepler
Читать онлайн книгу.
know.”
“Did you give him the factor concentrate last Tuesday?”
Before he has time to reply, she leaves the room and heads for the kitchen. He follows her. By the time he gets there she is standing by the window, blowing her nose on a piece of paper towel. Erik reaches out to her, but she pulls away. Without the injection, the drug that helps Benjamin’s blood to coagulate and protects him from spontaneous bleeds, he can haemorrhage to death from something as simple as a rapid movement.
“I gave the injection to him last Tuesday morning, at twenty past eight. He was going to go skating, but he went to Tensta with Aida instead.”
She nods and calculates. “It’s Sunday today. He ought to have another injection soon,” she whispers.
“There’s no real danger for a few more days,” Erik says reassuringly.
He looks at her: tired face, lovely features, freckles. The low-cut jeans, her yellow briefs just visible at the waistband. He’d like to stay here; he would like them to sleep together; actually, he would like to make love to her, but he knows it’s too soon for all that, too soon even to start wanting her.
“I’d better go,” he mumbles. She nods. They look at each other. “Call me when Kennet’s traced the call.”
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I have to work.”
“Are you sleeping in your office?”
“It’s a practical solution.”
“You can sleep here,” she says.
He’s surprised; suddenly he doesn’t know what to say. But the brief moment of silence is enough for her to misinterpret his reaction as hesitation.
“That wasn’t meant as an invitation,” she says quickly. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Have you moved in with Daniella?”
“No.”
“We’ve already separated,” she says, raising her voice, “so you don’t need to lie to me.”
“OK.”
“What? OK what?”
“I’ve moved in with Daniella,” he lies.
“Good,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to ask if she’s young and pretty and—”
“She is.”
Erik puts on his shoes in the hallway, leaves the apartment, and closes the door. He waits until he hears her lock up and slide the security chain in place before he sets off down the stairs.
61
monday, december 14: morning
Simone is awakened by the ringing of the telephone. The curtains are open and the bedroom is filled with wintry sunlight. Could it be Erik? She wants to cry when she realises he isn’t going to call. He’ll be waking up next to Daniella this morning. She is completely alone now.
She picks up the phone from the bedside table.
“Simone? It’s Yiva. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.”
Yiva sounds stressed out. Simone glances at the clock. It’s already ten. “I’ve had other things on my mind,” she says tersely.
“They haven’t found him?”
“No.”
Silence. A few shadows drift past outside the window. Simone can see flakes of paint falling from the metal roof opposite; men in bright yellow overalls are scraping it.
“Sorry,” Yiva says. “I won’t disturb you.”
“What’s happened?”
“The auditor is coming tomorrow.”
Simone stands up and glances at the tinted mirror on the wardrobe. She looks thin and tired. It feels as if her face has been smashed into tiny pieces and then put back together again.
“What about Sim Shulman?” she asks. “How’s his exhibition coming along?”
Yiva sounds excited. “He says he needs to speak to you.”
“I’ll give him a call.”
“He wants to show you something to do with the light.” She lowers her voice. “I have no idea how things are between you and Erik, but—”
“We’ve separated,” Simone replies tersely.
“Well, I really think—”
“What do you think?” Simone asks patiently.
“I think Shulman has a serious thing for you.”
Simone meets her own eyes in the mirror and feels a sudden tingle in her stomach. “I’d better come in,” she says.
“Could you?”
“I just need to make a call first.”
Simone hangs up but remains sitting on the edge of the bed for a little while. Benjamin is alive, that’s the most important thing. The person who took him doesn’t seem interested in killing him; he has something else in mind. Ransom? She runs quickly through her assets. What does she actually own? The apartment, the car, a few works of art. The gallery, of course. She could borrow money. Everything will work out. She isn’t rich, but her father could sell the summer cottage and his apartment. They could move in, everyone in a rented apartment, anywhere. Just so long as she gets Benjamin back; as long as she can have her boy again.
Simone calls her father, but he doesn’t answer. She leaves a short message telling him she’s going to the gallery, then takes a quick shower, brushes her teeth, puts on clean clothes, and leaves the apartment without bothering to switch off the lights.
It’s cold and windy outside, a few degrees below freezing. The gloom of the mid-December morning is filled with oppressive quietness, somnolence, a graveyard atmosphere. A dog runs past with its leash trailing in the puddles. No sign of the owner.
As soon as she arrives at the gallery, she meets Yiva’s gaze through the glass door. She walks in and Yiva rushes over and gives her a hug. Simone notices that Yiva has forgotten to touch up her roots; the grey forms a straight line down the centre of her black hair. But her face is smooth and perfectly made-up, her mouth dark red as always. She is wearing grey culottes over black-and-white striped tights and clumpy brown shoes.
Simone looks around. A greenish light shimmers from a series of paintings by Sim Shulman, glowing, aquarium-green oils.
“Fantastic,” says Simone. “You’ve done a brilliant job.”
“Thank you,” says Yiva.
Simone goes over to the paintings. “I hadn’t seen them like this, grouped together, the way they were intended. I’d only seen them individually.” She takes a step closer. “It’s as if they’re flowing sideways.”
She moves into the second room. The block of stone with Shulman’s cave paintings is on a wooden stand.
“Sim Shulman wants oil lamps in here,” says Yiva. “I’ve told him it’s impossible; people want to see what they’re buying.”
“No, they don’t.”
Yiva laughs. “So Shulman gets what he wants?”
“Yes,” Simone replies. “He gets what he wants.”
“Well, you can tell him yourself.”
“What?”