The Joona Linna Thrillers 3-Book Bundle

  “Well …” Robert prompts.

  “Yes, I was, it’s true,” Elin says. “So when Vicky’s mother got a place to live, I agreed he should call social services. I mean, it looked like things were finally starting to go well for her mother this time.” Her voice breaks and she’s surprised to feel tears running down her face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Elin dries her tears. “It wasn’t a big deal. I don’t think about it all that much.” She doesn’t know why she’s lying.

  “You have to move on,” Robert says, excusing her.

  “That’s right,” she says, and then covers her face with her hands.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Robert,” she says with a sigh, and then looks at him. “I have nothing to do with this whatsoever, but the policeman who was just here told me that Vicky has killed two people.”

  “You mean those murders up in Västernorrland?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any contact with her now?”

  “None at all.”

  “You must not be dragged into this.”

  “I know. Of course, I would do whatever I could to help her, but—”

  “Keep out of it.”

  “Maybe I should give Jack a call.”

  “No, don’t do that.”

  “He should know.”

  “He doesn’t need to hear it from you, and it will only make you unhappy, you know that. Every time you talk to him …”

  She tries to smile in agreement and leans over to place her hand on Robert’s warm fingers.

  “Come here at eight tomorrow morning and let’s go through the week’s schedule.”

  “Good,” Robert says. He knows he’s being dismissed, and he gets up and leaves the room.

  Elin picks up the phone but waits until she hears Robert close the front door. Then she calls Jack. He sounds hoarse and sleepy.

  “Elin, do you know what time it is? You can’t keep calling me.”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “No.”

  “Are you being honest to hurt me?”

  “We are divorced, Elin,” he says.

  Elin walks into her bedroom and looks at her huge empty bed.

  “Tell me you miss me,” she says.

  “Good night, Elin,” he says.

  “I’ll give you the apartment on Broome Street if you want it.”

  “I don’t want it. You’re the one who loves New York.”

  “The police were here. They seem to think that Vicky has murdered two people.”

  “Our Vicky?”

  Elin’s mouth trembles and tears leap to her eyes.

  “Yes. They came here to ask about her.”

  “How sad,” he says in a low voice.

  “Can you just come here? I need you. Bring Norah if you want. I won’t be jealous.”

  “Elin, you know I’m not going to come to Stockholm.”

  “Sorry I disturbed you,” Elin says, and ends the call.

  52

  The Swedish Prosecution Authority for cases concerning police officers and the Internal Review Board of the National Police both have their offices at Kungsbro 21. Joona is sitting in a small room there with Mikael Båge, who is the head of internal investigations, and his secretary, Helene Fiorine.

  “At this time, the security police cracked down on an extremist left-wing group called the Brigade,” Båge is saying. “The report states that Detective Inspector Linna from the National Police was at the address at the same time or right before.”

  “It’s true,” says Joona. He’s looking out of the window at the railroad tracks and the Bay of Barnhusvik.

  Helene Fiorine puts her pen and notebook down. “Joona, I must ask that you take this inquiry seriously,” she says.

  “I am,” he says, though his voice makes it clear his thoughts are elsewhere.

  Helene waits until Joona looks at her before she nods and picks up her pen.

  “Before we conclude,” Mikael Båge says, “there is the matter of the main charge against you.”

  “Perhaps it’s just a misunderstanding,” Helene says quickly. “Two investigations happened to cross paths at the same time.”

  “In the report, the charge against you is that the crackdown on the Brigade by Säpo failed because you’d warned the inner circle.”

  “Yes, I did,” Joona says.

  Helene gets up from her chair but does not know what to say. She stares at Joona with sad eyes.

  Båge smiles. “You warned the group about the crackdown?”

  “They were just kids,” Joona says. “They weren’t dangerous.”

  “Säpo thought otherwise,” Båge says.

  “I know,” Joona says quietly.

  “This is the end of the preliminary investigation,” Helene says, and collects her papers.

  53

  It’s already four thirty in the afternoon by the time Joona drives past Tumba. He once investigated a brutal triple homicide in a town house there. On the seat next to him is a list of all Vicky Bennet’s known residences through the years. The last one is Birgittagården and the first is Strandvägen 47.

  He’s sure Vicky must have talked to someone she stayed with. She must have confided in someone or have a friend somewhere. Elin Frank said that Vicky was sweet. That’s all she’d said.

  Sweet, Joona thinks.

  For the wealthy Franks, Vicky was a child in trouble, a girl who needed help, someone who had to be shown mercy. It was a question of charity. But for Vicky, Elin was the first sane mother she’d had.

  Life for her at Strandvägen must have been like a fairy tale. She was kept warm and ate regular meals. She slept in a bed and wore lovely clothes. She would have had toys to play with. The time she spent with Elin and Jack must shine bright in her memory.

  Joona turns on the signal before he moves into the left lane.

  He has studied the list. Before she was sent to Birgittagården, Vicky was at the Ljungbacken orphanage. Before that, she spent two weeks with a family named Arnander-Johansson in Katrineholm.

  In his mind’s eye, he sees The Needle and Frippe forcing Miranda’s hands away from her face. They’d fought her stiff arms, as if the dead girl was resisting. As if she was ashamed to be seen. But her face was calm and as white as a pearl.

  She’d been sitting with the blanket around her body when, according to The Needle, a large rock hit her. She’d been hit six or seven times. Then she was lifted onto the bed and her hands were placed in front of her face.

  The last thing she saw in life was her killer.

  Joona slows down as he reaches an older residential area. He parks by the side of the street, next to a hedge of flowering Öland cinquefoil. He gets out of the car. A woman is walking around the house carrying a bucket of apples. It’s apparent she has trouble moving her hips and her mouth is tense with pain. She’s hefty, with large breasts and thick upper arms.

  “You just missed him,” she says.

  “Typical,” Joona says.

  “He had to go to the warehouse. Something about the invoices.”

  “Who are we talking about?” asks Joona. He’s smiling.

  She puts down the bucket.

  “I thought you were here about the treadmill.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “One thousand. It’s brand-new.” She rubs her hand along the crease of her pants as she looks at him.

  “I’m not here about the treadmill. I’m here from the National Police,” Joona says. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Vicky Bennet. She lived with you about a year ago.”

  The woman’s face turns sad. She nods and points to the door. Joona follows her into a kitchen with a table covered by a crocheted cloth beside a window with floral curtains, which faces onto the backyard. Outside, the lawn is freshly mown. Plum trees and gooseberr
y bushes form a hedge along the property line, and a small swimming pool is tucked behind a wooden lattice fence.

  “Vicky has run away,” Joona says directly.

  “I read about it in the newspapers,” she says as she puts the bucket in the sink.

  “Do you know where she might be hiding?”

  “No idea.”

  “Did she ever mention friends or boys?”

  “Vicky didn’t really live here long,” the woman says.

  “Why is that?”

  “It didn’t work out.” She fills a carafe with water and pours it into the coffee machine. Then she stops.

  “I guess offering coffee is part of what you do when the police stop by,” she says without any strength in her voice.

  Joona is looking out the window at two blond boys playing karate in the backyard. They’re thin and tanned and wearing swimming shorts that are too large. The play is rough and wild, but the boys are laughing.

  “So you foster children?”

  “Our daughter is nineteen now, so, well, we’ve done this for a few years.”

  “How long do the children usually stay with you?”

  “It varies. They can go back and forth for a while,” she replies. She turns to Joona. “Some of these kids come from really broken homes.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “No, not really. Of course, there are always conflicts, but you just have to be clear about the limits.”

  One of the boys jumps into the swimming pool and is followed by the second, who somersaults in.

  “Vicky stayed only two weeks,” Joona says looking at the woman. She avoids his gaze.

  “We have the two boys,” she says. “We’ve had them for two years now. They’re brothers. We hoped it would work with Vicky, but we had to stop.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, I mean, nothing really. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. We just weren’t up to it.”

  “Did Vicky cause trouble? Was she hard to manage?”

  “No, no,” she says. “It was …” She stops speaking.

  “What were you going to say? What happened?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “You were both experienced foster parents. Why did you decide to give up after only two weeks?”

  “It is what it is.”

  “Something must have happened.”

  “No, really, it was just too much for us.”

  “Something must have happened,” Joona repeats in the same soft tone of voice. “Tell me, please.”

  She reddens and the blush travels all the way down her neck to between her breasts.

  “Someone visited us,” she whispers.

  “Who?”

  She shakes her head. Joona hands her his notebook and a pen. Tears start to run down her cheeks. She looks at him, and then she takes the pen and notebook. She begins to write.

  54

  It takes Joona three hours to drive west to Bengtsfors. By the time he gets there, the tears on his notebook where the woman wrote the address have long since dried. He had to pry it gently from her hand, and when he tried to get her to say something, she just shook her head. Then she hurried from the kitchen and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Joona drives slowly along Skrakegatan. Number 35 is the last house on the street. The front yard is overgrown and white plastic furniture is lying in the tall grass. The mailbox by the gate is stuffed with flyers, and black garbage bags have been taped to the inside of the front window.

  Climbing out of his car, Joona walks through the weeds to the front door. A doormat has been printed with the reminder: keys, wallet, cell phone. When he rings the doorbell, a dog barks and after a while, an eye looks through the peephole. He can hear two locks being unlatched and then the door is opened as far as the security chain allows. He can’t see the person in the dark hallway, but he can smell red wine.

  “May I come in?” Joona asks.

  “She doesn’t want to see you.” It’s a boy’s voice, husky and hoarse.

  The dog is panting and Joona can hear the links of a choke collar click.

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “We’re not buying anything!” a woman shouts.

  “I’m from the police,” Joona says.

  Joona hears steps inside the house.

  “Is he by himself?” asks the woman.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Hold on to Zombie.”

  “Mamma? Are you really going to open the door?”

  Joona hears the woman approach.

  “What do you want?” she says.

  “Do you know anything about a girl named Vicky Bennet?”

  Joona hears the dog’s nails scratch against the floor. The woman yells at the boy then closes the door and takes off the security chain. The door opens a crack. Joona pushes it wider and steps inside. The woman is standing with her back to him. She’s wearing flesh-colored leggings and a white T-shirt. Her blond hair hangs over her shoulders. As Joona shuts the door behind him, it’s so dark he has to stop.

  By the time his eyes adjust, the woman is at the far end of the hall. He walks past the kitchen, where a vague gray light shows a box of wine on the table and a pool of wine on the brown linoleum underneath. He goes into the television room, where the woman is already sitting on a denim sofa. Dark purple curtains reach the floor on either side of a window covered in more garbage bags. The door to the veranda lets in a ray of light, which lands on the woman’s hand. Her nails are well cared for and painted red.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  Joona sits across from her on a footstool and immediately notices that there’s something wrong with the woman’s face.

  “What do you want to know?” she says.

  “You visited the Arnander-Johansson family,” Joona says.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you need to go see them?”

  “I had to warn them.”

  “What did you need to warn them about?”

  “Tompa!” the woman yells. “Tompa!”

  A door opens and slow footsteps head toward them. A shadow comes in.

  “Turn on the light.”

  “But, Mamma—”

  “Do as you’re told!”

  The boy hits the light switch and a large globe of rice paper lights up the entire room. The tall, thin boy is standing with his head bowed. His face looks like it had been savaged by a dog and never healed properly. His lower lip is missing so that his teeth are showing. His chin and his right cheek are bright red like fresh beef and a deep red gash goes diagonally from his hairline through one eyebrow.

  When Joona turns toward the woman, he sees that her face is even more ruined. Still, she’s smiling at him. She’s missing her right eye and there are several deep gashes in her face and neck—at least ten. Her eyebrow droops over her remaining eye and her lips have been slashed into sections.

  “Vicky got angry at us,” the woman says. Her smile disappears.

  “What happened?”

  “She cut us with a broken bottle. I never thought a human being could get so angry. I passed out and when I woke up, I could feel the gashes from the broken glass, all the wounds, and the bits of broken glass inside my body. I realized I had no face left.”

  55

  The agreement that Sundsvall township has made with the company that owns Birgittagården is costing it a lot of money, but at least it deals with the difficult situation. To cut back on expenses, the girls have been moved from the Hotel Ibis to the small fishing village of Hårte on the Jungfru coast.

  The school in Hårte closed more than a hundred years ago when a nearby iron mine was abandoned, and the grocery store closed a few decades later when its owners got too old to run it. But the village hangs on and, during the summer, comes alive with visitors to its white sand beaches.

  The six girls are staying in a large old country house with a huge glass-enclosed veran
da. It stands at the point where the small road in the village forks like a snake’s tongue. They’ve finished dinner and a few are hanging out in the dining room next to the small kitchen. A guard is sitting where he can watch both the room and the front door as well as see out through the windows to the lawn facing the road.

  Lu Chu and Nina are looking for potato chips in the pantry, but they can only find Frosted Flakes.

  “So what are you going to do when the killer gets here?” asks Lu Chu.

  The guard’s tattooed hand jerks and he smiles stiffly at her.

  “You’re safe here,” he says.

  He’s fifty years old, his head is shaved, and he has a stiff goatee. His large muscles bulge the arms of his dark blue security-company sweater. Lu Chu stares at him while she snacks on the breakfast cereal. Nina finds a packet of smoked ham and a jar of mustard in the fridge. At the other end of the house, sitting around a table on the veranda, Caroline, Indie, Tuula, and Almira are playing cards.

  “I want all your jacks,” Indie says.

  “Go fish.” Almira giggles.

  Indie draws a card and looks at it happily.

  “Ted Bundy was just a butcher,” Tuula says in a low voice.

  “God, how you talk!” Caroline sighs.

  “He went from room to room and clubbed the girls like they were seal pups. Lisa and Margaret and—”

  “Shut up,” Almira says, laughing.

  Tuula smiles too, but Caroline can’t help shivering.

  “What the fuck is that old lady doing here?” Indie says as loud as she can.

  The woman sitting in front of the fireplace looks up and then goes back to her knitting.

  “Come on, aren’t we playing cards?” asks Tuula impatiently.

  “Whose turn is it?”

  “My turn,” says Indie.

  “Cheater!” says Caroline, but she’s smiling.

  “My phone is dead,” Almira says. “I was charging it in my room and now—”

  “Let me look at it,” says Indie.

  Indie opens the back, takes the battery out, and puts it back in again. Nothing happens.