The rain has stopped by the time she gets outside. The sky is black, and the reflections of streetlights and neon signs glitter on the wet pavement. Flora locks the door and slips the key into the mailbox for Carlén Antiques. She takes down her cardboard sign and stuffs it into her bag, then notices that someone is standing in the doorway one building down. It’s the young man who attended the séance. He takes a step toward her and smiles apologetically.
“Hi, I was wondering … Could I ask you out for a glass of wine or something?”
“Not possible,” she says, feeling her usual shyness.
“You were really great,” he says.
Flora has no idea what she should say. Her face colors more and more the longer he looks at her.
“It’s just that I’m going to Paris,” she lies.
“Would I be able to ask you a few questions?”
She realizes that he must be a journalist from one of the newspapers she’s tried to contact.
“I’m leaving really early tomorrow,” she says.
“Just half an hour, no more,” he says.
As they cross the street to the nearest bistro, he tells her that his name is Julian Borg and he writes for the magazine Nära.
A few minutes later, Flora is sitting across from him at a table with a white paper cover. A waiter delivers red wine and she cautiously takes a sip. It tastes both sweet and bitter and soon she feels warmth spreading through her body. Julian Borg is eating a Caesar salad and he’s looking at her with curiosity.
“So how did this start?” he asks. “Were you always able to see spirits?”
“When I was little, I thought everyone could see them. I didn’t find it strange,” she said, and blushed again because the lie came so easily.
“What did you see?”
“People I didn’t know were in our house. I only thought they were lonely. Once in a while a child came into my room and I’d try and play.”
“Did you tell this to your parents?”
“I learned quickly not to say anything,” Flora says, and takes another sip of wine. “It’s only recently I realized that many people need the spirits, even if they can’t see them, and the spirits need people. I’ve finally found my calling. I’m between them and help them meet each other.”
She finds herself resting in Julian Borg’s warm gaze.
In reality, the whole thing started when she lost her job as an assistant nurse. She saw less and less of her former colleagues, and within a year, she had no friends left. The unemployment office paid for a course in nail aesthetics, and she got to know another person in the class, Jadranka from Slovakia. Jadranka had periods of depression, but during the months she felt well, she earned a bit of extra money by handling calls for a website called Tarot Help.
Flora and Jadranka started to hang out together. Jadranka took Flora to a séance held by the Sanningsökarna. Afterward they chatted about how much better they could do it themselves. A few months later, they found the basement space on Upplandsgatan. Two séances later, Jadranka’s depression worsened and she was admitted to a clinic south of Stockholm. Flora decided to continue the séances on her own.
She took out books from the library on healing, previous lives, angels, auras, and astral bodies. She read about the Fox sisters, the mirrored cabinet, and Uri Geller, but she learned the most from the skeptic James Randi’s efforts to expose the bluffs and tricks mediums use.
Flora has never seen ghosts or spirits, but she realized she was good at saying the things that people longed to hear.
“You use the word ‘spirits’ and not ghosts,” Julian says.
“They’re the same thing really. But ‘ghosts’ is such a negative word.”
Julian smiles and his eyes are sympathetically honest as he says, “I have to confess … I have difficulty believing in spirits.”
“You have to have an open mind,” Flora explains. “Arthur Conan Doyle was a spiritualist, for example—you know, the man who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories.”
“Have you ever been called in to help the police?”
“No, no.”
Flora turns beet red and doesn’t know what to say. She looks at her watch.
“I’m sorry, I know you have to get going,” Julian says, and he takes her hands. “I just want to say that I know you really do want to help people and I think that’s wonderful.”
Flora’s heart pounds from his touch. She doesn’t dare meet his eyes as they say goodbye and go their own ways.
37
The red buildings of Birgittagården look idyllic in the light of day. Joona is standing by a birch tree, talking with Susanne Öst. Raindrops loosen from the branches and fall sparkling through the air.
“The police are still knocking on doors in Indal,” the prosecutor is saying. “Someone crashed into a traffic light and there’s a bunch of glass on the road. After that, nothing.”
“I’ll have to talk to the students again,” Joona says.
“I really hoped this lead on Dennis would give us something,” Susanne says.
Joona is picturing the scene he observed in the isolation room. His intuition is on alert. He tries to imagine the sequence of violence, but he only sees shadows moving between the furniture. The human beings are fuzzy, as if he were seeing them through frosted glass, shimmering and impossible to differentiate.
He takes a deep breath and his picture of the room where Miranda is lying with her hands over her face shifts into focus. He sees the velocity shown by the blood spatter and the heavy blows. He can follow each and every blow and see how the angle changes after the third one. The lamp starts swaying. Miranda’s body is covered in blood.
“But there was no blood on her body,” he mutters.
“What did you just say?” asks the prosecutor.
“There’s something I have to check,” Joona says, just as the door to the main building opens and a small man in a tight, protective jumpsuit comes out.
This is Holger Jalmert, a professor of criminology at Umeå University. He takes off his mask and wipes the sweat from his face.
“I’ll arrange for you to question the girls at the hotel in one hour from now,” Susanne says.
“Great, thanks,” Joona says and he starts across the yard.
The professor is by his van, taking off his jumpsuit and putting it in a garbage bag. He closes the bag tightly.
“The blanket is missing,” Joona says.
“Finally I get to meet the famous Joona Linna in person,” the professor says with a smile. He’s opening a new package of disposable clothing.
“Were you just in Miranda’s room?” asks Joona.
“Yes, I was. I’m done there now.”
“There’s no blanket in it.”
Holger stops what he’s doing and wrinkles his brow. “You’re right.”
“Vicky must have hidden Miranda’s blanket in the wardrobe or under the bed in her own room,” Joona says.
“I’m going there now,” Holger says, but Joona is already on his way.
The professor looks after him and remembers hearing that Joona Linna is so stubborn he’ll stare at a crime scene until it opens before him like a book. He tucks the new jumpsuit under his arm and follows.
Before opening the door to Vicky’s room, they both pause to put on their protective clothes and their shoe covers and latex gloves.
“It looks like there’s something under the bed,” Joona says.
“One thing at a time,” says Holger. He puts on a mask.
Joona waits at the door while Holger photographs and measures the room with a laser. They will mark all their discoveries in a three-dimensional coordinating system.
A poster of Robert Pattinson, with his pale face and dark eyebrows, covers a painted Bible scene. On a shelf, there’s a bowl of security tags from H&M.
Joona follows Holger as he covers the floor bit by bit with black plastic film, presses it down with a rubber roller, lifts it carefully, photographs it, and packs it.
Holger works methodically from the door to the bed and then over to the window. This time when he lifts the film from the floor, a weak print of a running shoe shows on the yellow gelatin layer.
“I have to get going soon,” Joona says.
“You want me to look underneath the bed first?”
Holger shakes his head at Joona’s impatience but then spreads protective plastic on the floor by the side of the bed. He gets on his knees, reaches in, and catches the corner of some fabric shoved up against the wall.
“It probably is a blanket,” Holger says, stretching his arm farther.
Holger carefully drags the heavy blanket onto the plastic sheet. It’s twisted and soaked in blood.
“I think Miranda had the blanket around her shoulders when she was killed,” Joona says in a low voice.
Holger folds the plastic sheet over the blanket and then pulls a large sack over the bundle. Joona glances at the clock. He can stay for just ten more minutes. Holger is doing a new test. He’s using damp cotton swabs on the smears of dried blood on the bed sheet, letting them dry a second before he packs them.
“If you find anything that indicates a place or a person, call me immediately,” Joona says.
“Sure, sure.”
Around the hammer beneath the pillow, Holger uses one hundred and twenty swabs, which he packs individually and marks. He tapes hairs and fibers onto clear plastic film and carefully folds white paper around tufts of hair. He has tubes for tissue scraps and skull fragments. These will be chilled to prevent bacteria growth.
38
At the hotel where the girls are staying, the conference room is occupied, so Joona has to wait in the breakfast room. Susanne Öst is talking to the nervous hotel manager about another room they can use for questioning. Joona rings Anja Larsson back in Stockholm and is connected to her voice mail. He leaves a message requesting information on a good forensic doctor in Sundsvall. Anja may be eccentric, but she is good at her job. Even though she knows her love for Joona is hopeless and she can’t quite let go.
A television is suspended from the ceiling on metal wires. The lead story on the news tonight is about the murders at Birgittagården. They’re giving up-to-the-minute dramatic reports. There are pictures of the police tape, the red buildings, and the sign at the end of the driveway: BIRGITTAGÅRDEN, HVB: A HOME FOR YOUTH WITH SPECIAL NEEDS. The probable route of the killer’s flight is marked on a map, and a reporter is standing in the middle of Highway 86 talking about the kidnapping and the failed roadblocks.
Joona stands up and walks closer to the television when the news anchor says that the mother of the kidnapped child has asked to plead with the kidnapper on live television.
The screen now shows Pia Abrahamsson sitting at a kitchen table and holding a sheet of paper. Her face looks tortured.
“If you can hear this,” she starts, “please listen to me. I understand that you’re the victim of injustice. But, please, Dante doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
Pia looks directly into the camera. “Please bring him back,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “You are probably a kind person at heart. Dante is only four years old, and I know how frightened he must be. He is so …”
She looks down at the sheet of paper and tears start running down her cheeks.
“Please don’t hurt him. Please don’t hit him or …” She starts to sob and turns her face away from the camera.
The news returns to the studio in Stockholm. A forensic psychologist from Säter Hospital explains to the news anchor how dangerous the situation is.
“I have not seen the girl’s medical records and I do not want to speculate on whether or not she is guilty of these two murders, but just considering where she has been placed, she is most likely psychologically unstable. Even if—”
“What kind of threat does she pose to the child?” asks the anchor.
“It could be that she’s not concerned about the boy at all. She might have forgotten about him entirely. He’s just four years old, though, and if he starts crying or calling for his mother, she could become angry and dangerous.”
Susanne smiles as she arrives to get Joona. He follows her to the elevator and they ride to the top floor and enter a gloomy bridal suite. The minibar is padlocked and there’s a Jacuzzi with golden feet in the bedroom.
Tuula Lehti is lying on a king-size bed covered with bolsters. She’s watching the Disney Channel. The person from the Office of Victim Services nods as they enter. Susanne closes the door and Joona pulls out a chair with red plush cushions and sits down.
“Why did you tell me that Vicky was meeting a man named Dennis?” Joona asks.
Tuula sits up and clutches a heart-shaped pillow to her chest.
“I thought she was,” she replies.
“Why did you think that?”
Tuula shrugs and looks back at the television.
“Did she tell you about a man named Dennis?”
“No.” Tuula smiles.
“Tuula, I really need to find Vicky.”
Tuula kicks the bedcover off the bed and turns her gaze back to the television.
“Do I have to be stuck here all day?” she asks.
“No, you can return to your room whenever you want,” the support person says.
“Sinä olet vain pieni lapsi,” Joona says in Finnish. “You’re just a small child.”
“Ei,” she replies and looks him in the eye.
“You shouldn’t have to live in institutions.”
“I’m fine here,” she says flatly.
“Don’t bad things happen to you?”
She turns red and her white eyelashes flutter.
“No,” she snaps.
“Miranda hit you yesterday.”
“That’s right.” Tuula holds the pillow even tighter.
“Why was she angry?”
“She thought I went to her room and was messing around.”
“Did you?”
Tuula licks the pillow. “Yeah, but I didn’t take anything.”
“Why were you messing around in her room?”
“I mess around in everyone’s room.”
“Why?”
“For fun.”
“But Miranda thought you’d taken something from her room.”
“Yeah, she got mad.”
“Why did she think you’d taken something?”
“She didn’t say,” Tuula says, and smiles.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Usually people think I take their pills. Lu Chu pushed me down the stairs when she thought I’d taken her freaking uppers.”
“If it wasn’t pills, what did Miranda think you’d taken?”
“Who cares? Makeup, earrings.”
Tuula moves until her legs are dangling off the edge of the bed and then flops backward. She whispers something and Joona catches the words “rhinestone necklace.”
“What about Vicky?” asks Joona. “Did Vicky like to hit people?”
“No.” Tuula smiles again and sits up.
“What does she do?”
“I can’t say because I don’t know her. She hasn’t said a single word to me. But …” The girl shrugs and stops talking.
“Why didn’t she talk to you?”
“Don’t know.”
“You must have seen her angry at some point?”
“She cuts herself … You can …” Tuula shakes her head.
“What were you going to say?”
“You can forget about her. She’ll kill herself soon enough, then you’ll have one less problem.”
Tuula looks at her fingers, says something inaudible, then gets up abruptly and leaves the room.
39
Caroline, who looks somewhat older than the others, enters the room with the support person. She’s wearing a long, baggy T-shirt with a picture of a kitten on it. There’s a tattoo of runes along one of her arms and there are old injection scars on the insides of her elbows.
As she greets Joona
, she smiles shyly. Then she sits down in the armchair next to the brown desk.
“Tuula says that Vicky usually sneaks out at night to meet a guy,” Joona begins.
Caroline laughs. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know she doesn’t.” Caroline is smiling.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Tuula believes that we’re all sluts.”
“So Vicky doesn’t sneak out?”
“No, she does.” Caroline looks serious.
“What does she do when she sneaks out?”
Caroline looks him briefly in the eye and then looks out the window.
“She goes behind the brewery and calls her mother.”
Joona knows that Vicky’s mother died before Vicky arrived at Birgittagården. He decides not to confront Caroline with this information. Instead, he calmly asks, “What did they usually talk about?”
“Well, the thing is, she just leaves messages on her mother’s voice mail. I don’t think her mother ever calls her back.”
Joona nods and thinks that perhaps no one has told Vicky that her mother is dead.
“Has she ever mentioned someone named Dennis?” he asks.
“No.”
“Think back.”
She looks at Joona, and jumps when Susanne Öst’s cell phone rings. Susanne checks it for a message.
“Who would Vicky run to for help?” asks Joona, although he realizes the energy has gone out of the interview.
“I think the only person she’d run to is her mother.”
“No friends or boys?”
“No,” Caroline says. “But I really don’t know her. We’re both ADL and so we meet often, but she never talks about herself.”
“What is ADL?”
“It sounds like a diagnosis but it means All Day Lifestyle. It’s for those who behave. They let you go with them to Sundsvall to go shopping for groceries and stuff. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“But you’d have the chance to talk?”
“Yes, but we didn’t say much.”
“So whom did she talk to?”
“Nobody,” Caroline says. “Except Daniel, of course.”