105
The next morning, Saga is even more worried about what happened in the dayroom. She has no appetite.
She can’t let go of her failure. Instead of building trust, she has once again managed to unleash conflict.
Jurek must hate her now.
She isn’t particularly scared for herself, because security in the ward is so high.
But she’ll have to be very careful, while never showing any signs of fear.
When the lock clicks, she walks into the dayroom, clearing these thoughts from her head. The television is already on. Three people sit in a cozy studio and chat about winter gardens.
She’s the first one into the dayroom, and immediately gets on the treadmill.
Her legs feel clumsy, her fingertips are numb, and with every step the plastic leaves of the palm shake.
Bernie is shouting in his room.
Someone has cleaned up the blood from the floor.
Jurek’s door opens. His entrance is preceded by a shadow. Saga forces herself not to look at him. With long strides, he heads straight for the treadmill.
Saga gets off the machine and steps aside to let him pass. He has black scabs on his lips, and his face is ashen and gray. He climbs onto the machine, then just stands there.
“You were blamed for what I did,” she says.
“You think?”
Jurek’s hands are shaking when he starts the treadmill. She can feel the vibrations through the floor. The palm trembles with each step.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” he asks, glancing at her.
“Because I didn’t want to,” she says.
She meets his pale eyes for a moment and feels her blood pumping. The realization that she’s in direct contact with Jurek Walter catches up with her.
“It would have been interesting to watch you do it,” he says quietly.
He looks at her with unfeigned curiosity.
“You’re here, which means you’ve probably killed people,” he says.
“Yes, I have,” she replies after a pause.
He nods. “It’s inevitable.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Saga mumbles.
“Killing is neither good nor bad,” Jurek says calmly. “But it feels strange the first few times, like eating something you didn’t think was edible.”
Saga suddenly remembers the first time she killed another person. The man’s blood had squirted up over the trunk of a birch tree. Even though there was no need, she had fired a second shot and watched through the telescopic sight as the bullet struck within a half-inch or so above the first.
“I did what I had to do,” she whispers.
“Just like yesterday.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean for you to be punished.”
Jurek stops the machine.
“I’ve been waiting for this for quite a long time, I have to say,” he explains.
“I could hear your screams through the walls,” Saga says.
“Those screams,” he replies, “they were the result of our new doctor’s giving me an overdose of Cisordinol. They’re nature’s reaction to pain. Something hurts, and the body screams, even though there’s no point. Plus, in this instance, it actually felt like an indulgence, because I knew that this opportunity would never come again otherwise.”
“What opportunity?”
“They won’t ever let me see a lawyer, but there are other opportunities, other ways out of here.”
His eyes are strangely pale and remind her of metal.
“You think I can help you,” she whispers. “That’s why you took the blame.”
“I can’t let the doctor get scared of you,” he says.
“Why?”
“Anyone who ends up here is violent,” Jurek says. “The staff knows you’re dangerous. Your medical notes say so, and the forensic psychiatrist’s report says so. But that’s not what anyone sees when they look at you.”
“I’m not that dangerous.”
Even though she hasn’t said anything she regrets—she’s only told the truth, and hasn’t revealed anything—she feels peculiarly exposed.
“Why are you here? What have you done?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she replies curtly.
“What did they say you did in court?”
“Nothing.”
A flash of a smile flickers on his face.
“You’re a real siren, aren’t you?”
106
The members of Athena Promachos are eavesdropping on the conversation as it happens.
Joona stands next to the large speaker, listening to Jurek’s choice of words, his phrasing, the nuances in his voice, his breathing.
Johan Jönson monitors the audio quality on his laptop.
Corinne transcribes the conversation onto her laptop so they can see the words on the big screen. The sound her long fingernails make against the keyboard is strangely soothing.
Nathan Pollock’s silver-streaked ponytail is hanging over his suit vest. He’s taking notes.
The group is completely silent. Sun pours through the balcony doors, which look out onto glistening, snow-topped roofs.
They hear Jurek Walter tell Saga she’s a real siren, then leave the room.
After a few seconds of silence, Nathan leans back in his chair and claps his hands. Corinne is shaking her head, impressed.
“Saga’s brilliant,” Pollock mutters.
“Even if we haven’t heard anything that could lead us to Felicia,” Joona says, turning to face the others, “contact has been established, which is seriously good work. And I think she’s made him curious.”
“I have to admit, I was worried when she let herself be provoked by the other patient,” Corinne says, squeezing a lime wedge into a glass of water and passing it to Pollock.
“But Jurek deliberately assumed responsibility for the attack,” Joona says slowly.
“Yes. Why did he do that? He must have heard her the day before yesterday, when she told the guard she wanted to see a lawyer,” Pollock says. “That’s why Jurek can’t allow the doctor to become afraid of her, because then she wouldn’t be allowed any visits from—”
“He’s new,” Joona interrupts. “Jurek says the doctor’s new.”
“So what?” Johan asks.
“When I spoke to Chief Brolin on Monday, he said there hadn’t been any changes in the secure unit.”
“That’s right,” Pollock says.
“It might be nothing,” Joona says. “But why would Brolin tell me that they had the same staff they’d always had?”
107
Joona Linna drives north up the E4. A Max Bruch violin concerto is playing on the radio. The shadows and falling snow in front of the cars merge with the music. Corinne calls.
She tells him that, of all the doctors who have been added to the payroll of Löwenströmska Hospital over the past two years, only one of them works in the field of psychiatry.
“His name’s Anders Rönn. Prior to this job, he’s only ever had temporary positions, at a psychiatric unit in Växjö.”
“Anders Rönn,” Joona repeats.
“Married to Petra Rönn, who works in recreational administration for the council. One daughter, mildly autistic. I’m not sure if that’s at all useful, but you might as well know,” she says.
“Thanks, Corinne,” Joona says.
He turns off the highway at Upplands Väsby. The old road to Uppsala is lined on one side by black oaks. The fields beyond the trees slope down toward a lake.
He parks the car outside the main entrance to the hospital and hurries in, walking across the unmanned reception to the Department of General Psychiatry.
He passes the secretary and heads straight for the chief’s closed door. He opens it and walks in. Roland Brolin looks up from his computer and takes off his bifocal glasses. Joona lowers his head slightly, but still manages to nudge the low ceiling lamp. He holds his police ID up to Roland, then starts to ask the same questions as before.
> “How is the patient?”
“I’m afraid I’m busy right now, but—”
“Has Jurek Walter done anything unusual recently?” Joona interrupts in a harsh tone.
“I’ve already answered that,” Roland says, turning back toward his computer.
“And the security routines haven’t changed?”
The thickset doctor sighs wearily. “What are you doing?”
“Is he still getting intramuscular Risperdal?” Joona asks.
“Yes,” Brolin says.
“And the staffing in the secure unit remains unchanged?”
“Yes, like I told you—”
“Is the staff in the secure unit unchanged?” Joona repeats.
“Yes,” Roland says with a hesitant smile.
“Is there a new doctor named Anders Rönn working in the secure unit?”
“Well, yes—”
“So why are you saying the staff is unchanged?”
A blush appears below the doctor’s tired eyes.
“He’s only a temp,” Roland explains. “Surely you understand that we have to bring in temps sometimes?”
“Who is he standing in for?”
“Susanne Hjälm. She’s on leave of absence.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Three months.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I don’t actually know. Staff don’t have to give reasons for leaves of absence.”
“Is Anders Rönn working today?”
Roland looks at his watch and says coldly: “I’m afraid he’s finished for the day.”
Joona gets his phone out and leaves the room. Anja Larsson answers.
“I need addresses and phone numbers for both Anders Rönn and Susanne Hjälm,” he says curtly.
108
Joona has just pulled out of the hospital grounds and is speeding up along the old main road when Anja calls back.
“Anders Rönn’s address is number three Balders Drive, in Upplands Väsby,” she tells him.
“I’ll find it,” he says, stepping on the brake as he turns south.
She says coolly that she’ll check out Susanne Hjälm.
Joona heads back to the Upplands Väsby junction on the E4 and has just turned onto Sanda Road to look for Anders’s house when Anja calls again.
“This is a little weird,” she says in a serious tone. “Susanne Hjälm’s phone is switched off. As is her husband’s. He hasn’t shown up at work for the past three months, and their two children haven’t been at school, either. The girls are both out sick, with doctor’s notes, but the school has been in touch with Social Services.”
“Where do they live?”
“Number twenty-three Biskop Nils Drive, in Stäket, on the way to Kungsängen.”
Joona pulls over to the side of the road and lets the truck behind him pass.
“Send a patrol to the address,” Joona says, then does a U-turn.
The front right wheel bumps up on the curb, the car’s suspension lurches, and the glove compartment pops open.
He’s trying not to think too far ahead or make assumptions, but he keeps his foot on the gas pedal and ignores the red lights. By the time he reaches the on-ramp to the highway, he’s already going 160 kilometers an hour.
109
Joona passes an old Volvo on route 267. The tires roll softly over the ridge of snow between the lanes. He turns his high beams on, and the deserted road becomes a tunnel of light with a black roof over a white floor. He speeds past the fields, where the snow takes on a blue tone in the deepening darkness; then the road travels through thick forest until the lights of Stäket are flickering ahead of him and the landscape opens up toward Lake Mälaren.
What has happened to the psychiatrist’s family?
Joona brakes and turns right, driving into a small residential area with snow-covered fruit trees and rabbit hutches on the lawns in front of the houses.
The weather is worsening. Thick snow is slanting in from the lake.
Twenty-three Biskop Nils Drive is one of the last houses. Beyond it there’s nothing but forest and rough terrain.
Susanne Hjälm’s home is a large white villa with pale-blue shutters and a red-tiled roof.
There are no lights on in the house, and the driveway is thick with untouched snow.
Joona stops just beyond the house and barely has time to put the hand brake on before the patrol car from Upplands-Bro Police pulls up a short distance away.
Joona gets out of the car, grabs his coat and scarf from the back seat, and walks over to his uniformed colleagues as he buttons his coat up.
“Joona Linna, National Crime,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Eliot Sörenstam.”
Eliot has a shaved head, brown eyes, and a little vertical strip of beard on his chin.
The other officer shakes Joona’s hand firmly and introduces herself as Marie Franzén. She has a cheerful, freckled face, blond eyebrows, and a ponytail high up at the back of her head.
“Nice to see you in real life,” she says, smiling.
“You came quickly,” Joona says.
“I have to get home after this and braid my daughter Elsa’s hair,” she says in a friendly manner. “She’s desperate to have curly hair for preschool tomorrow.”
“We’d better hurry up, then,” Joona says as they set off toward the house.
“Marie’s been on her own with her daughter for five years, but she’s never taken a sick day or left early,” Eliot says. “She’s the best partner I’ve ever had.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say—considering you’re a Capricorn,” she adds with real warmth in her voice.
There are lights in the windows of most of the houses on the road, but number 23 is ominously dark.
“There’s probably a good explanation,” Joona tells the two officers. “But neither of the parents has been at work for the past few months, and the children haven’t been to school.”
The low hedge facing the road is covered with snow, and the green plastic mailbox is bursting with envelopes and catalogues.
“Are Social Services involved?” Marie asks.
“They’ve been out here already, but they say the family is away,” Joona replies. “Let’s try knocking. Then we’re probably going to have to question the neighbors.”
“Do we suspect a crime?” Eliot asks, looking at the virgin snow on the drive.
Joona can’t help thinking of Samuel Mendel. His whole family vanished. The Sandman took them, just as Jurek had predicted. But this is different. Susanne Hjälm had told the school that the children were sick, and had signed the doctor’s notes herself.
110
The two police officers follow Joona up to the house. The snow crunches under their feet.
No one’s been here for weeks.
A loop of garden hose is sticking out of the snow next to a children’s sandbox.
They go up the steps to the porch and ring the bell, wait awhile, then ring again.
They listen for noise from the house. Clouds of breath rise from their mouths. The porch creaks beneath them.
Joona rings again.
He has a bad feeling that he can’t shake, but says nothing. There’s no reason to worry his colleagues.
“What do we do now?” Eliot asks.
Leaning on the little bench, Joona bends over and peers through the narrow hall window. He can see a brown stone floor and striped wallpaper. The glass prisms hanging from the wall lamps are motionless. He looks back at the floor. The dust bunnies by the wall are still. He’s just thinking that the air inside the house doesn’t seem to be moving when one of the balls of dust rolls under the dresser. Joona leans closer to the glass, cupping his hands to the pane, and sees a shadowy figure in the hall.
Someone standing with hands raised.
It takes Joona a second to realize that he’s seeing his own reflection in the hall mirror, but adrenaline is already coursing through his body. In the reflectio
n, he sees umbrellas in a stand, the security chain on the inside of the front door, and the red hall rug. There don’t seem to be any shoes or winter coats.
Joona knocks on the window, but nothing happens.
Everything is still.
“Let’s go and have a word with the neighbors,” he says.
But instead of heading back to the road, he starts to walk around the house. His colleagues stay on the driveway, watching him with curiosity.
Joona passes a snow-covered trampoline, then stops. There are tracks from some animal leading through the gardens. Light from a window in the house next door stretches out like a golden sheet across the snow.
Everything is completely silent.
Where the garden ends, the forest begins. Pinecones and needles are sprawled out on the thinner snow beneath the trees.
“Aren’t we going to talk to the neighbors?” Eliot asks, bemused.
“I’m coming,” Joona says.
“What?”
“What did he say?”
“One second.”
Joona pads a bit farther through the snow, his feet and ankles getting cold. A bird feeder is swinging outside the dark kitchen window.
He rounds the corner of the house. Something isn’t right.
Snow has drifted against the wall of the house, and shimmering icicles are hanging off the sill below the window closest to the forest.
But why only that one?
As he gets closer, he sees the neighbors’ porch light reflected in the window.
There are four long icicles, and a series of smaller ones.
He’s almost reached the window when he notices a dip in the snow, next to an air vent close to the ground. Which means that every now and then warm air comes out of the vent.
That’s why there are icicles in that spot.
Joona leans forward and listens. All he can hear is the sound of wind moving through the treetops.
The silence is broken by voices from the house next door. Two children shouting angrily at each other. A door slams, and the voices get quieter.