Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (40 page)

I stopped behind Kennet’s dirty Opel and got out of the car. Kennet came running toward me, his expression tense.

“Where the hell is Sixan?” he shouted.

“I told her to wait on the football pitch.”

“Good, I was afraid she’d—”

“She would have gone inside otherwise, I know her; she takes after you.”

He laughed and hugged me tightly. “Good to see you, kid.”

We set off around the block, to get to the back. Simone was standing not far from our garden. Presumably she had been keeping an eye on the broken veranda door the whole time; it led straight to our shady patio. She looked up, left her bike, came straight over and gave me a hug, and looked over my shoulder. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m going in,” he said, his tone serious.

“I’m coming with you,” I said.

Simone sighed. “Women and children wait outside.”

All three of us stepped over the low potentilla hedge and walked across the grass to the patio, with its white plastic table and four plastic chairs.

Shards of glass covered the step and the doorsill. On the wall-to-wall carpet in Benjamin’s room, a large stone lay among fragments and shards. As we went in, I reminded myself to tell Kennet about the ferrule that we’d found outside our door.

Simone followed us and switched on the ceiling light. Her face was glowing, and her strawberry-blonde hair hung down in curls over her shoulders.

Kennet went into the hall, looked into the bedroom on the right, and into the bathroom. The reading lamp in the TV room was on. In the kitchen, a chair lay on its side on the floor. We went from room to room, but nothing seemed to be missing. In the downstairs bathroom, the toilet paper had been yanked violently off the roll and lay strewn across the floor.

Kennet looked at me with an odd expression. “Do you have any unfinished business with anyone?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not as far as I know,” I said. “Obviously, I meet a lot of damaged people in my work. Just like you.”

He nodded.

“They haven’t taken anything,” I said.

“Is that normal, Dad?” asked Simone.

Kennet shook his head. “It isn’t normal, not if they break a window. Somebody wanted you to know they’d been here.”

Simone was standing in the doorway of Benjamin’s room. “It looks as if someone has been lying in his bed,” she said quietly. “What’s the name of that fable? Goldilocks, isn’t it?”

We hurried into our bedroom and saw that somebody had been lying in our bed too. The bedspread had been pulled down and the sheets were crumpled.

“This is pretty weird,” said Kennet.

There was silence for a little while.

“The ferrule!” Simone exclaimed.

“Exactly. I thought about it and then I forgot,” I said. I went into the hall and got it from the stand.

“My God,” said Kennet. “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a boy.”

“It was outside our door yesterday,” said Simone.

“Let me have a look,” said Kennet.

“They used to use it for corporal punishment,” I said.

“I know what it is,” said Kennet, running his hand over it.

“I don’t like this at all. The whole thing feels creepy,” said Simone.

“Has anyone threatened you, or have you experienced anything that could be construed as a threat?”

“No,” she replied.

“But perhaps that’s how we should regard it,” I said. “Perhaps someone thinks we should be punished. I thought maybe it was just a bad joke, because we coddle Benjamin so much. I mean, if you didn’t know about Benjamin’s illness, we’d seem pretty neurotic.”

Simone went straight to the telephone and called Benjamin’s nursery school to check that he was all right.

That evening we put Benjamin to bed early; as usual, I lay down beside him and told him the entire plot of a children’s film about an African boy. Benjamin had watched it many times and almost always wanted me to tell him the story when he settled down to go to sleep. If I forgot the smallest detail he would remind me, and if he was still awake when I got to the end, Simone got to sing lullabies.

That night, he fell asleep easily. I made a pot of tea, and Simone and I settled down to watch a video. But neither of us could focus on the movie, so I paused the machine and we talked about the break-in, reassuring ourselves with the fact that nothing was stolen; someone had just unrolled the toilet paper and messed up our beds.

“Maybe it was some teenagers who wanted a place to screw around,” said Simone.

“No, I don’t think so. They would have left more of a mess if that were the case.”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that the neighbours didn’t notice anything?” asked Simone. “I mean, Adolfsson doesn’t usually miss much.”

“Maybe he was the one who did it,” I suggested.

“Screwed around in our bed?”

I laughed and pulled her close. How good she smelled! She was wearing my favourite scent, Aromatics Elixir, heavy, but not cloying or sweet. She pressed herself to me, and I felt her slim, boyish body against mine. I slipped my hands inside her loose shirt, running them over her silky skin. Her breasts were warm, her nipples hard. She groaned when I kissed her throat; a blast of hot breath shot into my ear.

We undressed by the glow of the television, helping each other with rapid, seeking hands, fumbling, laughing, and kissing again. She drew me to the bedroom and pushed me down onto the bed with playful severity.

“Time for the ferrule,” she said.

I nodded, transfixed, and watched as she moved closer to me, bowing her head to allow her hair to trail over my legs; she smiled as she moved steadily upward. Her curls cascaded over her slender, freckled shoulders. Her arm muscles tensed as she straddled my hips. Her cheeks flushed deep red as I pushed inside her.

For a few seconds the memory of some photographs flickered through my mind. I had taken the pictures on an isolated beach in the Greek archipelago, two years before Benjamin was born. We’d taken a bus along the coast and got off at what we thought was the prettiest spot. When we realised the beach was completely deserted, we decided not to bother with swimsuits. We ate warm watermelon in the sunshine and then lay naked in clear, shallow water, kissing and caressing each other. We made love perhaps four times that day on the beach, growing ever warmer and more indolent. I recalled Simone’s skin, sticky with salt water, her heavy, sun-drenched gaze, her introverted smile. Her small, taut breasts, her freckles, her pale pink nipples. Her flat stomach, her navel, her reddish-brown pubic hair.

Now Simone leaned forward, chasing her orgasm. She thrust backwards, kissed my chest, my throat. She was breathing faster, her eyes closed; she gripped my shoulders and whispered. “Don’t stop, Erik, please don’t stop.”

She was moving faster, heavier, her back slippery with sweat. She groaned loudly, still thrusting backwards, over and over again, stopping with quivering thighs before starting again; she stopped, whimpering, gasped for air, moistened her lips, and supported herself on my chest with her hands.

I parked my bike outside the neurological unit and stood for a little while, listening to the birds rustling in the trees; I could see their bright spring colours among the dense leaves. I thought about waking up next to Simone this morning and looking into her green eyes.

My office looked just as I had left it; the chair on which Maja Swartling had sat while she interviewed me was still pulled out, and my desk lamp was on. I switched it off. It was only half past eight, and I had plenty of time to go through my notes from yesterday’s abortive hypnosis session with Charlotte. It was easy to understand why it had turned out as it had: I had forced the pace of events, striving only to reach the goal. I should have known better. I was far too experienced to make that kind of mistake. It’s impossible to force a patient to see something she absolutely does not want to see. Charlotte had gone into her room but had not wanted to look up. That should have been enough for one session, it was courageous enough.

I changed into my white coat, disinfected my hands, and thought about the group. I wasn’t completely happy with the role Pierre had assumed; it was a little unclear. He often hung around Sibel or Lydia and was talkative and mischievous, but he remained extremely passive during hypnosis. He was a hairdresser, openly homosexual, who wanted to be an actor. On the surface he lived a perfectly functioning life—except for one recurring detail. Every Easter he went on a charter holiday with his mother. They locked themselves in their hotel room, got drunk, and had sex. What his mother did not know was that Pierre sank into a deep depression after every trip and frequently tried to commit suicide.

I didn’t want to force my patients. I wanted it to be their own choice to talk about issues.

There was a knock at the door. Before I had time to answer, it opened and Eva Blau walked in. She had shaved off all her hair and made up only her eyes. She made a strange face, as if she were trying to smile without using her facial muscles.

“No, thank you,” she said suddenly. “There’s no need to invite me to supper, I’ve already eaten. Charlotte is a wonderful person. She cooks for me, meals for the whole week; I put them in the freezer.”

“That’s kind of her,” I said.

“She’s buying my silence,” Eva explained cryptically, moving to stand behind the chair where Maja had sat the previous day.

“Eva, would you like to tell me why you’ve come here?”

“Not to suck your cock—just so you know.”

“You don’t have to continue with the hypnosis group,” I said calmly.

She looked down. “I knew you hated me,” she mumbled.

“No, Eva, I’m just saying you don’t have to be part of the group. Some people don’t want to be hypnotised, some aren’t receptive even though they really do want to try, and some—”

“You hate me.”

I took a moment. “Eva, I don’t hate you. I’m just saying that your participation in the group isn’t meaningful or helpful to you, if you’re unwilling to be hypnotised.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But you’re not to stick your cock in my mouth.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“Sorry,” she whispered, and took something out of her bag. “Look, this is for you.”

I took the object from her. It was a photograph. The picture showed Benjamin’s christening. I recognised it immediately.

“Sweet, isn’t he?” she said proudly.

I could feel my heart beginning to pound. “Where did you get this?” I asked her.

“That’s my little secret. I look out for myself, you know. It’s the only way to be in this life.”

She sat down on the sofa, calmly unbuttoned her blouse, and exposed her breasts to me. “Stick your cock in then, if it makes you happy.”

“You’ve been to my house,” I said.

“You’ve been to
my
house,” she answered defiantly.

“Eva, you told me about your home. Breaking in is another matter altogether.

“I didn’t break in,” she retorted quickly.

“You broke a window.”

“The stone broke the window.”

I felt suddenly exhausted; I was losing control and was about to turn my fury on a sick, confused woman.

“Why did you take this picture from me?”

“You’re the one who takes! You take and take! What the fuck would you say if I took things from you? How do you think that would feel?”

She hid her face in her hands and said she hated me; she repeated it over and over again, perhaps a hundred times, before she calmed down.

Then she said steadily, “You have to understand that you make me angry when you claim that I take things. I
gave
you something, a lovely picture.”

“Yes.”

She smiled broadly and licked her lips. “Now I want you to give
me
something.”

“What do you want?” I asked calmly.

“I want you to hypnotise me,” she replied.

“Why did you leave a ferrule outside my door?” I asked.

She stared blankly at me. “What’s a ferrule?”

“It’s a flat stick that was once used to punish children,” I said.

“I didn’t leave anything outside your door.”

“That isn’t true. You left an old—”

“Don’t lie!” she screamed.

“Eva, I will call the police if you don’t know where the boundaries are, if you can’t understand that you have to leave me and my family alone.”