Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (57 page)

Joona nodded, blank-faced. “Go on,” he said.

“She was allowed to move back to the family home. She was still under outpatient treatment, but she was looking after herself, and there was absolutely no reason,” said the doctor, “to doubt her assertion that she wanted to get better. After two years it was time for Lydia to complete her treatment. She chose a form of therapy that was very fashionable at the time. She joined a hypnosis group with—”

“Erik Maria Bark,” Joona supplied.

Langfeldt nodded. “It seems as if the hypnosis didn’t do Lydia much good,” he said superciliously. “She ended up trying to commit suicide and came back to me for the third time.”

“Did she tell you about her breakdown?”

Langfeldt shook his head. “As I understand it, the whole thing was the fault of that hypnotist.”

“Are you aware that she told Dr Bark she had a son named Kasper? That she told him she had imprisoned her son?” Joona asked sharply.

Langfeldt shrugged his shoulders. “I did hear that, but I presume a hypnotist can get people to admit to just about anything.”

“So you didn’t take her confession seriously?”

Langfeldt smiled thinly. “She was a wreck. It was impossible even to hold a conversation with her. I had to give her electroconvulsive therapy, heavy antipsychotic drugs—it was a major task to get her back together on any level.”

“So you didn’t even try to investigate whether there was any basis to her confession?”

“My assessment was that such statements arose from her feelings of guilt over having murdered her brother as a child,” Langfeldt replied sternly.

“When did you let her out?” Joona asked.

“Two months ago. She was definitely well.”

Joona stood up, and his gaze fell on the only picture in Dr Langfeldt’s room, the childish drawing on the door. “That’s you,” said Joona, pointing at it. A walking head, he thought. Just a brain, no heart.

At five o’clock in December, the sun has been gone for two hours. The air is cold. The sparse streetlamps of Skansen provide a misty light. Down below, the city is just visible as smoky patches of light. Glassblowers and silversmiths are hard at work in the open-air museum. Joona walks through the Christmas market in Bollnäs Square. Fires are burning, horses are snorting, chestnuts are roasting. Children race through a stone maze, others drink hot chocolate. There is music everywhere, and families are dancing around a tall Christmas tree on the circular dance floor. As Joona walks towards one of the narrow gravel paths down to Solliden restaurant, he hears the laughter of children behind him and shudders.

His mobile rings. Joona answers it in front of a stall selling sausages and reindeer meat.

“It’s Erik Maria Bark.”

“Hi.”

“I think Lydia has taken Benjamin to Jussi’s haunted house. It’s somewhere outside Dorotea in Västerbotten, in Lapland.”

“You think?”

“I’m almost certain,” Erik replies doggedly. “There are no more flights today. You don’t have to come, but I’ve booked three tickets for first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” says Joona. “If you can send me a text with all the information you have on Jussi, I’ll contact the police in Västerbotten.”

The beautiful yellow-painted restaurant is decorated with festive strings of light and branches of fir. A Christmas smorgasbord has been laid out on four huge tables; Joona spots his colleagues as soon as he walks in. They are sitting beside enormous windows that look out over the waters of Nybroviken and Södermalm, with the Gröna Lund theme park on one side and the Vasa Museum on the other.

“Here we are,” Anja calls out.

She stands up and waves. Her enthusiasm gives Joona a lift. He still has an unpleasant, crawling sensation in his body after his visit to the doctor at Ulleråker. He says hello to everyone and sits down next to Anja.

Carlos Eliasson is sitting opposite him. He wears a Santa hat and nods cheerfully at Joona. “We’ve already drunk a toast,” he confides. His normally sallow skin has a healthy flush.

Anja tries to slip her hand under Joona’s arm, but he stands up and says he is going for some food.

Joona walks between the tables full of people chatting and eating, thinking that he can’t really summon up the right frame of mind for a Christmas buffet. It’s as if part of him is still in the living room with Johan Samuelsson’s parents or at the psychiatric unit at Ulleråker, walking up the stone staircase towards the locked corridor with its rows of cells.

He takes a plate, joins the queue for herring, and contemplates his colleagues from a distance. Anja has squeezed her round, lumpy body into a red angora dress. She is still wearing her winter boots. Petter is talking intensely to Carlos; his head is newly shaven, and his scalp is shining with sweat under the chandeliers.

Joona helps himself to three different kinds of herring. He looks at a woman from another party. She is wearing a pale grey tight-fitting dress and is being led to the table by two girls with elegant hairstyles. A man in a grey suit hurries after them with a little girl in a red dress.

Joona ladles food onto his plate almost at random. There are no potatoes left in the small brass pan, and he moves on rather than wait for a waitress to come along with a fresh supply. There is no sign of his favourite dish, a Finnish turnip bake. Making his way back to the table, Joona balances his plate as he moves between officers who are now on their fourth foray to the buffet. At one table, five forensic technicians are singing
Helan går
, the traditional toast, with their small, tapering schnapps glasses raised. Joona sits down and immediately feels Anja’s hand on his leg. She smiles at him.

“You remember you said I could do anything I wanted with you.” She leans over and whispers loudly, “I want to dance the tango with you tonight.”

Carlos hears her and shouts, “Anja Larsson, you and I will dance the tango!”

“I’m dancing with Joona,” she says firmly.

Carlos tilts his head to one side and slurs, “I’ll grab a ticket and wait in line.”

Carlos is fast asleep on a chair in the cloakroom. Petter and his friends have gone into town to continue the celebrations at Café Opera, and Joona and Anja have promised to see that Carlos gets home safely. While they wait for their taxi, they take the opportunity to go out into the cold air. Joona leads Anja up onto the open-air dance floor, warning her about the thin film of ice he thinks he can feel on the wood beneath their feet.

Joona hums softly as they dance.

“Marry me,” Anja whispers.

Joona doesn’t reply; he is remembering Disa and her melancholy face. He thinks about their friendship over all these years and how he has had to disappoint her. Anja tries to stretch up and lick his ear, and he carefully moves his head a little further away.

“Joona,” she whispers. “You dance so beautifully.”

“I know,” he replies, swinging her around.

The aroma of log fires and mulled wine surrounds them. Anja presses her body against his. It’s going to be difficult to walk Carlos all the way down to the taxi stand, he thinks. Soon they’ll have to make a move towards the escalator.

At that moment his phone rings in his pocket. Anja groans with disappointment as he moves to one side and answers.

“Hello,” says a strained voice. “It’s Joakim Samuelsson. You came to see us earlier today.”

“Yes, I know. What can I do for you?” says Joona. He thinks back to how Joakim Samuelsson’s pupils dilated when he was asked about Lydia Everson.

“I wonder if we could meet,” says Joakim Samuelsson hesitantly. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Joona looks at his watch. It’s nine-thirty.

“Could we meet now?” asks Joakim, adding that his wife and daughter have gone to see his in-laws.

“That’s fine,” says Joona. “Can you be at police headquarters in forty-five minutes?”

“Yes,” says Joakim, sounding infinitely weary.

“Sorry, my love,” Joona says to Anja, who is waiting for him in the middle of the dance floor. “But there’ll be no more dancing the tango tonight.”

“Your loss,” she says acidly.

“Spirits don’t agree with me,” Carlos slurs as they begin to lead him down towards the escalator and the exit.

“Don’t throw up,” says Anja sharply, “because if you do I’ll demand a raise.”

“Anja, Anja,” says Carlos, cut to the quick.

Joakim is sitting in a white Mercedes directly opposite the entrance to National Police Headquarters. The interior light is on, and his face looks tired and lonely in its dim glow. He gives a start when Joona taps on the windscreen; he is deeply lost in thought.

“Hi,” he says, opening the door. “Get in.”

Joona climbs in and waits. The car smells vaguely of dog. The backseat is covered with a hairy blanket.

“When I think about myself,” says Joakim, “when I think about the way I was before Johan was born, it’s like thinking about a total stranger. I had a pretty tough time when I was growing up; I ended up in an institution for young offenders. I had been fostered out, but that doesn’t really mean anything; they just want you out of the system. But when I met Isabella, I pulled myself together and started studying properly. I qualified as an engineer the year Johan was born. I remember once we took a holiday. I’d never been on holiday before. We went to Greece. Johan had just learned to walk.” Joakim Samuelsson shuts his eyes, shakes his head. “So long ago. He was so much like me … the same …”

He falls silent. A rat, damp and grey, scuttles along the dark pavement by bushes littered with rubbish.

“What did you want to tell me?” asks Joona after a while.

Joakim rubs his eyes. “Are you sure it was Lydia Everson who did this?” he asks, his voice weak.

Joona nods. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“Right,” whispers Joakim Samuelsson. He turns his exhausted, furrowed face toward Joona. “I do know her,” he says simply. “I know her very well. We were in the youth offenders’ institution together. When Lydia was only fourteen they found out she was pregnant. They were shit-scared at first: then they forced her to have an abortion. It was supposed to be kept quiet, but they botched the job. There were all sorts of complications, infections. But after a while she recovered.”

Joakim’s hands are shaking as he places them on the steering wheel.

“We moved in together when we left the institution. We lived in her house in Rotebro and tried to have a baby. She was completely obsessed with the idea. But nothing happened. So she went to see a gynaecologist. I’ll never forget that day, when she came back from the doctor’s.” He runs his shaking hands through his hair. “They said there was too much scarring from the abortion and the aftermath. The doctor told her she could never get pregnant.”

“And the one time she
was
pregnant,” says Joona, “was it yours?”

“Yes.”

“So you owed her a child,” Joona says, almost to himself.

The terminal buildings at Arlanda Airport are covered with dense, heavy snow that falls ceaselessly from the dark sky. The runways are constantly being cleared. Erik stands by the huge window in the cafeteria, watching luggage swing round and round in a slow circle on the carousel.

Simone arrives with coffee and a plate of saffron Lucia buns and Christmas ginger biscuits. She puts the two cups down in front of Erik, then looks out at the runways. They watch a crew of flight attendants heading across the tarmac on their way to one of the smaller jets. They are all wearing red Santa hats, the women in their heels jogging on tiptoe through the deep slush underfoot.

On the windowsill in the cafeteria, a mechanical Father Christmas is moving his hips rhythmically. His batteries seem to be running out; his movements are becoming increasingly spasmodic. Simone meets Erik’s gaze, and raises her eyebrows ironically at the sight of the thrusting Santa.

“The buns were free,” she says, staring blankly into space; then she remembers. “The fourth Sunday in Advent. It’s the fourth Sunday in Advent today.”

They look at each other, not knowing what to say. Suddenly Simone gives a start and looks upset.

“What’s the matter?” Erik asks.

“The factor concentrate,” she says, her voice choked. “We forgot … If he’s there, if he’s alive … It’s been too long. He won’t be able to stand up.”

“Simone, I’ve got it,” says Erik. “I’ve brought it with me.”

She looks at him, her eyes red-rimmed. “Really?”

“Kennet reminded me. He called from the hospital.”

Kennet. Simone thinks about how she drove her father home, watched him get out of the car—and fall head first into the slush. She thought he’d tripped, but when she ran around to help him up, he was almost unconscious. She drove him back to the hospital, where they took him in on a stretcher; his reflexes were weak and his pupils slow to react. The doctor thought it was a combination of the after-effects of the concussion and the fact that he had seriously overexerted himself.

“How is he?” Erik asks.

“He was asleep when I was there yesterday. The doctor doesn’t seem to think it’s too serious, but he wants to keep Dad there until his condition stabilises.”

“Good,” says Erik. He contemplates the mechanical Santa; then, without a word, he picks up his red Christmas napkin and places it over Santa’s head.

The napkin waggles rhythmically back and forth. Simone starts to laugh, spraying Erik’s jacket with biscuit crumbs.

“Sorry,” she whimpers, “it just looks so sick. A sex-crazed Santa …”

She succumbs to a fresh attack of the giggles and ends up bent double over the table. Then she begins to cry. After a while she stops, blows her nose, wipes her face, and drinks her coffee. Her mouth has just begun to twitch again when Joona Linna comes over to their table.

“The Umeå police are on their way there now,” he says, without preamble.

“Are you in radio contact with them?” Erik asks.

“I’m not, but they’re in touch with—”