Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (55 page)

“Joona brought a dog in. He found the remains of a child buried in the garden. Ten years ago.”

“Oh my God,” Simone whispers.

“Yes.”

“That was when—”

“I think she killed the child in the basement when she realised she’d been found out.”

“So you were right all along.”

“So it seems.”

“Does she want to kill Benjamin?”

“I don’t know. Presumably she thinks the whole thing was my fault. If I hadn’t hypnotised her, she would have been able to keep the child.”

Erik falls silent, thinking about Benjamin’s voice when he called. How he had tried not to sound afraid, and how he had talked about the haunted house. He must have meant Lydia’s haunted house. After all, that was where she had grown up, where she had carried out the abuse, and that was probably where she herself had been subjected to abuse. If she hadn’t taken Benjamin to the haunted house, she could have taken him absolutely anywhere.

Erik leaves the car outside the main hospital entrance without bothering to lock it or buy a parking ticket. They hurry past the gloomy snow-filled fountain, past a few shivering smokers in robes, and dash inside and up in the lift to the ward where Sim Shulman is lying.

There’s a heavy scent in the room from all the flowers. Vases filled with large fragrant bouquets stand on the windowsill. On the table is a pile of cards and letters from distraught friends and colleagues.

Erik looks at the man in the hospital bed, the sunken cheeks, the nose, the eyelids. The all-too-regular movement of Shulman’s stomach follows the sucking rhythm of the respirator. He is in a permanent vegetative state, kept alive by the equipment in the room and unable to survive without it. A breathing tube has been inserted into his windpipe through an incision in his throat; he is being fed through a tube in his stomach.

“Simone, you need to speak to him when he comes round and—”

“He’s not going to come round,” she breaks in, her voice shrill. “He’s in a coma, Erik, his brain has been damaged by the loss of blood, he’s never going to come round, he’s never going to speak again.” She wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“We have to find out what Benjamin said—”

“Stop it!” she shouts, and begins to sob.

A nurse looks in, sees Erik with his arms around Simone’s shaking body, and leaves them in peace.

“I’m going to give him an injection of Zolpidem,” Erik whispers into her hair. “It’s a powerful drug that can bring people out of a comatose state.”

He can feel her shake her head. “What are you talking about?” she says, her words muffled by his jacket.

“It only works for a little while.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says suspiciously.

“The sedative slows down the overactive processes in the brain that are causing the coma.”

“He’ll wake up? Are you serious?”

“He’s never going to get better, Sixan, he’s suffered severe brain damage, but with this injection he might wake up for a few seconds.”

“What shall I do?”

“Sometimes patients who are given this drug can say a few words, sometimes they can only use their eyes.”

“You’re not allowed to do this, are you?”

“I have no intention of asking for permission, I’m just going to do it. But you have to talk to him when he comes round.”

“Hurry up,” she says.

Erik goes to get the equipment he needs. Simone stands by Shulman’s bed and takes his hand. She looks at him. His face is calm, the dark, strong features smoothed out by relaxation. His mouth, usually so ironic, so sensual, is insignificant. Even the serious furrow between the black eyebrows has disappeared. She slowly caresses his forehead. She thinks she will continue to exhibit his work; a really good artist can never die.

Erik returns and without a word goes over to the bed and, with his back to the door, calmly pushes up the sleeve of Shulman’s hospital gown. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies. “I’m ready.”

Erik takes the syringe, connects it to the intravenous catheter, and slowly injects a yellowish liquid. It gradually blends with the fluid in the drip, disappears down towards the needle in Shulman’s arm, and enters his bloodstream. Erik pushes the syringe into his pocket, unbuttons his jacket, and transfers the electrodes from Shulman’s chest to his own, takes the clamp from Shulman’s finger and fastens it to his own, and carefully watches Shulman’s face.

Absolutely nothing happens. Shulman’s stomach continues to rise and fall regularly and mechanically with the help of the respirator.

“Should we leave?” Simone asks, after a while.

“Wait,” Erik whispers.

His watch ticks slowly. On the windowsill, a petal drifts down from a flower, making a faint rustling sound as it reaches the floor. A few raindrops land on the windowpane. They can hear a woman laughing somewhere in a room far away.

A strange sighing is coming from inside Shulman’s body, like a gentle breeze blowing through a half-open window.

Simone can feel the sweat from her armpits trickling down her body. She has a sense of claustrophobia, as if she is trapped in this situation. She wants to run out of the room, but she can’t take her eyes off Shulman’s throat. Perhaps she is imagining it, but suddenly she thinks that the artery in his neck is pulsing more quickly. Erik is breathing heavily and as he leans over Shulman, she can see that he seems nervous, biting his lower lip and looking at his watch again. The respirator continues its steady metallic sighing. Someone walks past the door. The wheels of a trolley squeak and then the room is quiet once again. The only sound comes from the machine’s rhythmic work.

Suddenly they hear a faint scratching noise. Simone leans closer and sees Shulman’s index finger moving over the smooth surface of the sheet. She feels her pulse speed up, and is just about to say something to Erik when Shulman opens his eyes. He stares straight at her with an odd expression. His mouth widens in a frightened grimace. His tongue moves laboriously, and saliva trickles down his chin.

“It’s me, Sim. It’s me,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “I’m going to ask you some really important questions.”

Shulman’s fingers tremble. His eyes focus on her, then suddenly roll back; his mouth stretches, and the veins at his temples throb frantically.

“You answered my phone when Benjamin called, do you remember that?”

With Shulman’s electrodes attached to his own chest, Erik can see on the monitor that his heart rate is increasing. Shulman’s feet are vibrating under the sheet.

“Sim, can you hear me?” she asks. “It’s Simone. Can you hear me, Sim?”

His eyes roll down again, but immediately slide to the side. Rapid steps can be heard in the corridor outside the door, and a woman shouts something.

“You answered my phone,” she repeats.

He nods weakly.

“It was my son,” she goes on. “It was Benjamin who called.”

His feet begin to shake again, his eyes roll back, and his tongue flops out of his mouth.

“What did Benjamin say?”

Shulman swallows, works his jaw slowly. His eyes close.

“Sim? What did he say?”

He shakes his head.

“Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not …” Shulman wheezes.

“What did you say?”

“Not Benjamin,” he says, almost inaudibly.

“Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not him,” Shulman says. His voice is high, frightened.

“What?”

“Ussi?”

“What are you saying?” she asks.

“Ussi called.” Shulman’s mouth trembles.

Simone looks at Erik, baffled.

“Where was he?” Erik asks, looking intently at Shulman. “Ask him where Jussi was.”

“Where was he?” Simone asks. “Do you know where Jussi was?”

“At home,” replies Shulman in his high voice.

“Was Benjamin there too?”

Shulman’s head flops to one side, his mouth goes slack, and his chin crumples. Simone looks anxiously at Erik; she doesn’t know what to do.

“Was Lydia there?” Erik asks.

Shulman looks up, but his eyes slip to the side. Erik nudges Simone: You ask him.

“Was Lydia there?” Simone asks.

Shulman nods.

“Did Jussi say anything about …” Simone pauses as Shulman begins to whimper. Tears come to her eyes, and she strokes him gently on the cheek.

Suddenly his eyes snap into focus and he looks directly at her. “What’s happened?” he asks, with complete clarity, and then slumps into a coma once again.

Anja walks into Joona Linna’s office and silently hands him a manila folder and a glass of mulled wine. He looks up at her round, pink face. For once she looks completely serious.

“They’ve identified the child,” she explains.

“Thanks.”

There are two things he loathes, he thinks, looking at the folder. One is having to give up on a case, walking away from unidentified bodies, unsolved rapes, robberies, cases of abuse and murder. And the other thing he loathes, although in a completely different way, is when these unsolved cases are finally solved, because when the old questions are answered, it is seldom in the way one would wish.

He begins to read. The body of the child found in Lydia Everson’s garden was that of a boy. He was five years old when he was killed. The cause of death is thought to be a fractured skull caused by a blunt object. In addition, a number of healed and partially healed injuries have been found, indicating repeated abuse of a serious nature. Beatings, the forensic pathologist has suggested. Abuse so serious that it caused broken bones and cracks in the skeleton. The back and the arms, especially, seem to have been the focus of violence using heavy objects. In addition, several symptoms of malnutrition on the skeleton suggest that the child was starving.

Joona looks out the window for a little while. He can’t get used to this, and he has told himself that the day he does get used to it, he’ll give up his job as a detective. He runs a hand through his thick hair, swallows hard, and returns to his reading.

The child has been identified. His name was Johan Samuelsson, and he had been reported missing thirteen years ago. According to her statement the mother, Isabella, had been in the garden with her son when the phone rang inside the house. She had not taken the boy with her when she went to answer, and at some point during the twenty or thirty seconds it took her to pick up the receiver, establish that there was no one there, and hang up again, the child had disappeared.

Johan was two years old at the time.

He was five years old when he was killed.

His remains then lay in Lydia Everson’s garden for ten years.

The smell of the mulled wine is suddenly nauseating. Joona gets up and pushes his office window open. He looks down at the inner courtyard, the sprawling branches of the trees over by the custody area, the shining wet asphalt.

Lydia had the child with her for three years, he thinks. Three years of keeping a secret. Three years of abuse, starvation, and fear.

“Are you all right, Joona?” asks Anja, popping her head around the door.

“I’m going to go and speak to the parents,” he says.

“I’m sure someone else can do that.”

“No. This is my case,” says Joona. “I’ll go.”

“I understand.”

“Could you find some addresses for me in the meantime?”

“No problem.”

“I’d like to know every place Lydia Everson has lived for the past thirteen years.” His heart is heavy as he pulls on his fur hat and overcoat and sets off to tell Isabella and Joakim Samuelsson that their son has been found dead.

Anja calls him as he’s driving out of the city.

“That was quick,” he says, trying to sound cheerful but failing.

“This is my job after all, darling,” chirrups Anja.

He hears her take a deep breath and he thinks of the two pictures of Johan in the folder. In one he’s dressed in a policeman’s uniform, laughing out loud, his hair standing on end. And in the other: a collection of bones laid out on a metal table, neatly labelled with numbers.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters to himself.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, Anja, it was another driver.”

“All right, all right. But I don’t want to hear that kind of language.”

“No, I know,” he says wearily, incapable of joining in the banter.

Anja finally seems to realise that he isn’t in the mood for jokes and says neutrally, “The house where Johan Samuelsson’s remains were found is Lydia Everson’s mother’s place. She grew up there, and that’s always been her only address.”

“Any family? Parents? Brothers and sisters?”

“Wait, I’m just checking it now … It doesn’t look like it. There’s no record of her father, and her mother’s dead. It doesn’t even look as if Lydia was in her care for very long.”

“Brothers and sisters?” Joona asks again.

“No,” says Anja, leafing through papers. “Sorry, yes,” she calls out. “She had a little brother, but he seems to have died at an early age.”

“How old was Lydia at the time?”

“She was ten.”

“So she’s always lived in that house?”

“No, that’s not exactly what I said. She
has
lived elsewhere—on several occasions, in fact.”

“Where?” Joona asks patiently.

“Ulleråker, Ulleråker, Ulleråker Psychiatric Clinic.”

“Three stays.”

“That’s what it says.”

“There are pieces missing,” Joona remarks quietly to himself.

“What are you saying?”

“There are too many pieces missing,” he answers. “I can’t make sense of it, and now I have to try to explain to two parents why Lydia took their child.”

Joona has turned onto the little street where Johan Samuelsson’s parents still live. He spots their place at once, an eighteenth-century house painted Falun red, with a saddle roof. A shabby playhouse stands in the garden. Beyond the Samuelssons’ hilly plot it is just possible to glimpse the black, heavy water of the Baltic Sea.

“I have to go, Anja.”

He pulls his car into a raked gravel drive neatly edged with cobblestones and runs his hands over his face before getting out. He walks up to the door and rings the bell, waits, rings again. Eventually he hears someone shouting inside.