The Joona Linna Thrillers 3-Book Bundle

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Joona says.

  “According to his hypothesis, a covered face means that the killer wants to remove the victim’s face and make her into nothing more than an object. Men in this category often use exaggerated violence.”

  “What if they were just playing hide-and-seek?” Joona asks.

  “Where are you going with that?”

  “The victim covers her eyes and counts to one hundred while the killer hides.”

  Nathan lets this thought sink in.

  “Then I believe the killer intends for you to do the seeking.”

  “But where?”

  “All I can tell you is to go back and seek the answer in the old places,” Pollock says. “The past always reveals the future.”

  48

  Carlos Eliasson, the National Police chief, is standing by his office window on the eighth floor. He’s looking out at the steep hillsides of Kronoberg Park. He has no idea that Joona Linna is walking through the park after a brief visit to the old Jewish cemetery.

  Carlos goes back to sit at his desk and doesn’t see the detective with the disheveled hair cross Polhemsgatan and head for the main entrance of the police station.

  Joona walks past a banner proclaiming the role of modern police in a changing world. He passes Benny Rubin, who is sitting hunched in front of his computer, and Magdalena Ronander’s office, where she’s on the phone, saying something about cooperation with Europol.

  Joona is back in Stockholm because he’s been summoned to a meeting with both of the internal investigators later this afternoon. He takes his mail from his box, goes to sit at his desk, and then flips through the messages and envelopes while thinking about what Nathan said. He agrees with Nathan. Vicky Bennet’s profile doesn’t fit these two murders.

  In the admittedly incomplete psychological documentation the police have on Vicky Bennet, there’s nothing to indicate that she could be dangerous. She is not on the police register. The people who have met her find her shy and withdrawn but nice.

  But all the technical evidence points to her. Everything indicates that she took the little boy. Maybe the boy is already lying in a ditch with a broken skull. If the boy is still alive, they must find him quickly. Maybe he’s with Vicky in some dark garage. Maybe she’s in a rage at him right now.

  Go seek the past. Nathan Pollock’s usual advice.

  It’s as simple as it is clear. The past always indicates the future.

  In her short life, Vicky has moved many times. She’d moved around with her homeless mother, then from foster home to foster home, into an urgent-care facility, then a youth home, and finally to Birgittagården. But where is she now?

  Maybe the answer is hidden in one of her conversations with her counselors, social workers, or temporary foster parents. There must be someone whom she trusted and confided in.

  Joona is about to look for Anja to ask if she’s found any new names or addresses, when he sees her standing in the doorway. Her hefty body is squeezed into a tight black skirt and one of several angora sweaters she owns. Her blond hair is artfully pinned up and her lipstick is bright red.

  “Before I tell you what I’ve found, let me just say that fifteen thousand children are placed in foster homes every year,” Anja starts. “And let me remind you that it was called health reform when politicians opened the door of health care to the private sector. Now venture capitalists own the youth homes. It’s like the olden days when they used to auction off orphans. They save money on staff, on education, on therapy, and even on dentists, all to stoke their coffers.”

  “I know,” Joona says. “Just tell me about Vicky Bennet—”

  “I thought I would start by finding out who was responsible for her last placement.”

  “And?” asks Joona.

  She smiles and leans her head to the side. “Mission accomplished, Joona Linna.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “I do whatever I can for you.”

  “I don’t deserve it,” Joona says.

  “I know,” she says, and leaves the room.

  He waits in his chair for a few minutes, then he goes to Anja’s office and knocks on the door.

  As he enters, she says, “The addresses are there,” and nods at the printer.

  “Thanks.”

  “When the last person responsible for Vicky’s placement heard my name, he said that Sweden once had a famous butterfly swimmer by the same name,” she says, and blushes.

  “So you told him you were that famous swimmer?”

  “No, I didn’t. But he told me that Vicky Bennet doesn’t appear in any records before the age of six. Her mother, Susie, was homeless and appears to have given birth alone and kept Vicky out of the health system. When Susie was committed to a mental hospital, Vicky was placed with foster parents here in Stockholm.”

  Joona is holding the list in his hand. It’s still warm from the printer. He glances down the list of dates and placements. He sees that Vicky’s first foster parents were Jack and Elin Frank, who lived at Strandvägen 47. Among numerous other placements, there are two youth homes on the list: Ljungbacken in Uddevalla and Birgittagården in Sundsvall township. Against several names on the list there’s a note saying that the child asked to be returned to her first foster family. Each one says the same thing: “The child requests to be returned to the Frank family, but the family declines.” The sentence is dry and clinical.

  The two youth homes are at the end of the list after other foster families, emergency placements, and treatment homes.

  Joona thinks about the bloody hammer underneath the pillow and the blood on the windowsill. He thinks about the glum, thin face in the photograph. Her hair in tangled curls.

  “Can you find out if Jack and Elin Frank are still living at this address?” Joona asks.

  Anja’s plump face shows her amusement. “You should read See & Hear. You’d learn a thing or two.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Elin and Jack are divorced, but she kept the apartment because, well, it’s all her money.”

  “So they’re celebrities?”

  “You know Albert Frank, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Elin inherited the entire mining operation when she was just eighteen years old. These days she’s often in the media for her charitable works. She and her former husband have given quite a bit of money to orphanages and foundations.”

  “There was a time when Vicky lived with them?”

  “It probably didn’t work out so well,” Anja replies.

  Joona heads to the door, holding the printout. He turns to look at Anja.

  “What can I do to thank you?”

  “I’ve registered us both in a class,” she said. “Promise you’ll go with me.”

  “What kind of class?”

  “Relaxation. Kama Sutra something.”

  49

  Strandvägen 47 is right across the street from Djurgård Bridge. It is a luxury five-story limestone apartment building with an elegant entrance and a dark, attractive stairwell. The name “Frank” is engraved on a shiny black plaque beside a door on the second floor, which opens almost as soon as Joona rings the bell. A man with gelled short hair and an even tan looks at him questioningly.

  “I’m looking for Elin Frank.”

  “I’m Robert Bianchi, Elin’s personal assistant,” the man says as he holds out his hand.

  “Joona Linna, the National Police.”

  A slight smile passes over the man’s lips. “Sounds exciting, but—”

  “I need to speak with her.”

  “May I ask what it concerns? She is not to be disturbed unnecessarily …” The man stops speaking as Joona’s gaze turns cold.

  “Please wait in the foyer while I ask her if she is able to receive visitors,” Bianchi says, and disappears behind a door.

  The foyer is white and empty. There is no furniture, no coats, no shoes. Just smooth white walls and a single enormous mirror in a white fra
me.

  Joona tries to imagine Vicky Bennet in this environment. A nervous, chaotic girl who did not appear in the Swedish register until she was six years old. A child who had lived only in garages or tunnels or stairwells, and probably a different one each night.

  Bianchi returns, smiling calmly, and asks Joona to follow him. They walk past a large lounge with several sofa arrangements and a tile stove, elegantly decorated. Thick rugs muffle the sound of their footsteps as they walk past the various rooms until they reach a closed door.

  “You can knock,” Robert says to Joona. His smile has become uncertain.

  Joona knocks and hears someone in high-heeled shoes walk across a wooden floor. A thin middle-aged woman opens the door. She has dark blond hair and large blue eyes. She’s wearing a close-fitting red dress and three strands of snow-white pearls. Her makeup is sparse. She looks beautiful.

  “Come in, Joona Linna,” she says. Her voice is low and well modulated.

  The light-filled room has a desk, a group of sofas in white leather, and built-in bookcases painted white.

  “I was just about to have some chai. Is it too early for you?” she asks.

  “No, that sounds fine,” Joona says.

  Robert leaves the room and Elin gestures toward the sofas.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  She sits across from him and crosses her legs.

  “Now, what do you want to ask me about?” she says.

  “A number of years ago, you and your former husband, Jack, were the foster parents of a young girl—”

  “We’ve helped many children over the years—”

  “Her name is Vicky Bennet,” Joona interrupts her quietly.

  For just an instant she frowns slightly, but her voice remains calm.

  “I remember Vicky very well,” she says with a brief smile.

  “What do you remember about her?” asks Joona.

  “She was a sweet little thing and she …” Elin Frank falls silent and stares into space. Her hands lie completely still in her lap.

  “We believe that she might be involved in the murder of two people at a youth home in Sundsvall,” Joona says.

  The woman turns her face quickly away from Joona, but not before he sees the frown return. She smoothes her skirt with her hands, which seem to be trembling slightly.

  “How does this concern me?” she asks.

  Robert knocks on the door and then pushes in a tea cart. Elin Frank thanks him and asks him to leave.

  “Vicky Bennet has been missing since Friday,” Joona says. “It is possible that she might come looking for you.”

  Elin bows her head slightly and swallows hard.

  “No, she won’t,” Elin finally says in a chilly voice.

  “Why not?” asks Joona.

  “She will never attempt to contact me,” Elin replies. She stands up. “It was a mistake to let you in my house without finding out your business first.”

  Joona stays seated and looks up at her.

  “Who will Vicky try to contact, then? Will she try to contact Jack?”

  “If you have any more questions, contact my lawyer,” Elin says and leaves the room.

  A moment later, Robert enters. “I will show you the door,” he says shortly.

  “Thank you very much,” Joona says. He reaches for the cart and pours tea into a cup. He picks it up, blows on it, takes a careful sip, and helps himself to a lemon cookie. He eats the cookie and sips his tea unhurriedly. Finally he lifts the napkin from his knee and wipes his mouth, folds the napkin carefully, and places it on the table. Then he stands up.

  Robert follows him as he walks past the enormous rooms and the lounge with the decorated tile stove. He walks through the white foyer and opens the door to the stairwell.

  Robert finally speaks. “I must tell you. It is important that Elin not be associated with any negative—”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Joona interrupts. “But this is not about Elin Frank, but—”

  “For me it is about Elin Frank. For her it’s about Elin Frank,” Robert says.

  “I understand. However, the past is never concerned about anyone’s reputation. When the past catches up to you, it has no regard for anyone at all,” Joona says, and he heads down the stairs.

  50

  Elin usually runs eleven kilometers a day in the workout wing of her apartment. Some days she watches the television suspended from the ceiling; other days she listens to music. But today she just runs and looks out over the rooftaps, toward St. Olaf’s steeple. All she can hear is the thump of her shoes, the humming motor of the treadmill, and her own breathing. After an hour her running shorts and sports bra are soaked in sweat.

  She remembers when Vicky Bennet came to her house. Nine years ago. A little girl with messy blond hair.

  As a teenager, during a trip to France to learn the language, Elin had contracted chlamydia. She didn’t take it seriously, and by the time she saw a doctor, the bacteria had made her sterile. She didn’t worry about it much back then; she didn’t think she’d ever want to have children. And for years, she thought it was great that she never had to worry about birth control.

  But she and Jack had been married barely two years when he started to talk about adoption. Every time he brought up the subject, she said that she didn’t want kids. They were too much of a responsibility.

  Jack was in love with her in those days, and he pushed. So Elin said they’d volunteer to help children temporarily, children who were having difficulty at home and needed to get away for a while.

  Elin had called Stockholm’s social services in the Norrmalm district, and less than six weeks later, after two lengthy interviews, a social worker rang to say that she had a child who needed a great deal of security and peace for a while.

  “She’s only six years old. I think it might work out. Well, you’ll have to try it out. As soon as she is settled with you, we can arrange psychotherapy for her,” the woman said.

  “What has happened to her?”

  “Her mother is homeless and mentally ill. The authorities stepped in when they found the girl asleep on a subway car.”

  “How is the girl? Is she well?”

  “She was dehydrated but otherwise fine. The doctor said she’s healthy. I’ve tried to talk to the girl myself, but she’s extremely withdrawn. She appears nice, though.”

  “What’s her name? Do you know?”

  “Yes, Vicky. Vicky Bennet.”

  Elin Frank quickens her pace. The treadmill hums, her breathing grows more labored.

  Afterward, she stretches at the ballet barre in front of the large mirror. She avoids looking at her own eyes. Her legs feel heavy. Finally she kicks off her shoes and heads for the shower. She lets the stream of warm water pummel her back until her muscles begin to relax, but then her anxiety returns. It’s as if hysteria has crept beneath her skin. She wants to scream or sob and never stop. Instead she turns the water to cold and forces herself to stand beneath the flow until her temples throb from the chill. Then she turns off the water.

  51

  Elin emerges from her walk-in closet wearing a mid-length velvet skirt and a nylon bodysuit studded with small glittering stones. The cloth is so delicate she has to use silk gloves to put it on.

  Robert is in the reading room, sitting in a lambskin armchair and shuffling through some papers, which he is sorting into various folders.

  “What was that all about? Why are the police interested in this girl?”

  “She’s not important,” Elin answers.

  “Do we have to worry about this?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Robert Bianchi has been her assistant and adviser for the past six years. Robert’s gay. Jack thought it would be best if she had a homosexual assistant, since he wouldn’t get jealous.

  Elin settles into the chair opposite him, stretches out her legs, and shows off her new patent leather heels.

  “They’re magnificent,” he says, smiling. “You have to be a
t the reception at the Clarion Hotel in one hour.”

  She doesn’t move. Elin can feel Robert’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t meet them. She plays with the tiny diamond-studded cross she’s wearing. She swallows hard.

  “Once, Jack and I took care of a little girl by the name of Vicky. It was a long time ago.”

  “Took care of? You mean, like, adopted?”

  “No, her mother was alive. We fostered her, but I …”

  She falls silent and pulls at her cross.

  “When was this?”

  “A few years before you started here,” she says. “I wasn’t on the board then, and Jack had just started working for Zentropa.” She falls back into silence.

  Robert studies her closely. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

  “I thought we were ready, as ready as anyone could be. We knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, but … Do you have any idea of how the system works? There were unbelievable hoops to jump through. We had to meet with social workers and counselors. Everything had to be examined, from our finances to our sex lives, but as soon as we were approved, it only took them three days to hand over a child to us. It was really strange. They didn’t tell us anything about her, and they gave us no help at all.

  “Sounds typical.”

  “We really wanted to do some good. Vicky lived with us for nine months, off and on. They kept trying to send her home to her mother, but Vicky would always end up being found alone in some old cardboard box in a garage.”

  “Sad.”

  “Finally Jack couldn’t take it anymore. All those times we were woken in the middle of the night to pick her up and take her to Emergency, or just put her in the bathtub or give her some food. One night Jack said I had to choose.” She offers Robert a wan smile. “I still don’t understand why.”

  “He only thinks about himself,” said Robert.

  “But we were supposed to be her parents until her mother could care for her properly. There was no way I could choose between him and a child who was only supposed to live with us for a few months. It was crazy. And he knew I was completely dependent on him at the time.”