The Hypnotist. Ларс Кеплер
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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?”