Copyright

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Lars Kepler 2014

Translation copyright © Neil Smith 2016

All rights reserved

Originally published in 2014 by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Sweden, as Stalker

Lars Kepler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © Claire Ward HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photography: girl © Stephen Carroll / Trevillion Images

Background © Christophe Dessaigne / Trevillion Images

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780007467853

Ebook Edition © MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780007467846

Version: 2018-09-24

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Chapter 139

Epilogue

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Lars Kepler

About the Publisher

It wasn’t until the first body was found that anyone took the film seriously. A link to a video clip on YouTube had been sent to the public email address of the National Criminal Investigation Department. The email contained no message, and the sender was impossible to trace. The police administration secretary did her job, followed the link, watched the film, and assumed it was a rather baffling joke, but nonetheless entered it in the records.

Two days later three experienced detectives gathered in a small room on the eighth floor of National Crime headquarters in Stockholm, as a result of that very film. The oldest of the three men was sitting on a creaking office chair while the other two stood behind him.

The clip they were watching on the wide computer monitor was only fifty-two seconds long.

The shaky footage, filmed in secret on a handheld camera through her bedroom window, showed a woman in her thirties putting on a pair of black tights.

The three men at National Crime watched the woman’s peculiar movements in embarrassed silence.

To get the tights to sit comfortably she took long strides over imaginary obstacles and did several squats with her legs wide apart.

On Monday morning the woman had been found in the kitchen of a terraced house on the island of Lidingö, on the outskirts of Stockholm. She was sitting on the floor with her mouth grotesquely split open. Blood had splattered the window and the white orchid in its pot. She was wearing nothing but a pair of tights and a bra.

The forensic post-mortem later that week concluded that she bled to death as a result of the multiple lacerations and stab-wounds that were concentrated, in a display of extraordinary brutality, around her throat and face.

The word stalker has existed since the early 1700s. In those days it meant a tracker or poacher.

In 1921 the French psychiatrist de Clérambault published a study of a patient suffering from erotomania. This case is widely regarded as the first modern analysis of a stalker. Today a stalker is someone who suffers from obsessive fixation disorder, an unhealthy obsession with monitoring another individual’s activities.

Almost 10 per cent of the population will be subjected to some form of stalking in the course of their lifetime.

The most common form is when the stalker has or used to have a relationship with the victim, but in a striking number of cases when the fixation is focused on strangers or people in the public eye, coincidence is a key factor.

Even though the vast majority of cases never require intervention, the police treat the phenomenon seriously because the pathological obsessiveness of a stalker brings with it a self-generating potential for danger. Just as rolling clouds between areas of high and low pressure during stormy weather can suddenly change and turn into a tornado, a stalker’s emotional lurches between worship and hatred can suddenly become extremely violent.

1

It’s quarter to nine on Friday, 22 August. After the magical sunsets and light nights of high summer, darkness is encroaching with surprising speed. It’s already dark outside the glass atrium of the National Police Authority.

Margot Silverman gets out of the lift and walks towards the security doors in the foyer. She’s wearing a black wrap cardigan, a white blouse that fits tightly at the chest, and high-waisted black trousers that stretch across her expanding stomach.

She makes her way without hurrying towards the revolving doors in the glass wall. The guard sits behind the wooden counter with his eyes on a screen. Surveillance cameras monitor every section of the large complex round the clock.

Margot’s hair is the colour of pale, polished birchwood, and is pulled into a thick plait down her back. She is thirty-six years old and pregnant for the third time, glowing, with moist eyes and rosy cheeks.

She’s heading home after a long working week. She’s worked overtime every day, and has received two warnings for pushing herself too hard.

She is the National Police Authority’s new expert on serial killers, spree killers and stalkers. The murder of Maria Carlsson is the first case she’s been in charge of since her appointment as detective superintendent.

There are no witnesses and no suspects. The victim was single, had no children, worked as a product advisor for Ikea, and had taken on her parents’ unmortgaged terraced house after her father died and her mother went into care.

Maria usually travelled to work with a colleague of a morning. Since she wasn’t waiting down on Kyrkvägen, her colleague drove to her house and rang the doorbell, looked through the windows, then walked round the back and saw her. She was sitting on the floor, her face covered in knife-wounds, her neck almost sliced right through, her head lolling to one side and her mouth grotesquely open.

According to the preliminary report from the forensic post-mortem, there was evidence to suggest that her mouth had been arranged after death, even if it was theoretically possible that it had settled into that position of its own accord.

Rigor mortis starts in the heart and diaphragm, but is evident in the neck and jaw after two hours.

This late on a Friday evening the large foyer is almost deserted, aside from two police officers in dark-blue sweaters who are standing talking, and a tired-looking prosecutor emerging from one of the rooms dedicated to custody negotiations.

When Margot was appointed head of the preliminary investigation she was conscious of the pitfalls of being overambitious; she knew she had a tendency to be too eager, too willing to think on a grand scale.

Her colleagues would have laughed at her if she’d told them at the outset she was absolutely convinced they were dealing with a serial killer.

Over the course of the week Margot Silverman has watched the video of Maria Carlsson putting her tights on more than two hundred times. All the evidence suggests that she was murdered shortly after the recording was uploaded to YouTube.

Margot has tried to interpret the short film, but can’t see anything special about it. It’s not unusual for people to have a fetish about tights, but nothing about the murder indicates any inclination of that nature.

The film is simply a brief excerpt from an ordinary woman’s life. She’s single, has a good job, and has almost completed a course of evening classes on drawing cartoons.

There’s no way of knowing why the perpetrator was in her garden, whether it was pure chance or the result of a carefully planned operation, but in the minutes before the murder he captured her on film, so there has to be a reason for this.

Given that he’s sent the link to the police, he must want to show them something.

The perpetrator wants to highlight something about this particular woman, or a certain type of woman. Perhaps it’s about all women, the whole of society.

But to Margot’s eyes there’s nothing unusual about the woman’s behaviour or appearance. She’s simply concentrating on getting her tights to sit properly, frowning and pursing her lips.

Margot has visited the house on Bredablicksvägen twice, but she’s spent most of her time examining the forensic video of the crime scene before it was contaminated.

The perpetrator’s film almost looks like a lovingly created work of art in comparison to the police’s. The forensics team’s minutely detailed recording of the evidence of the bestial attack is relentless. The dead woman is filmed from various angles as she sits with her legs stretched out on the floor, surrounded by dark blood. Her bra is in shreds, dangling from one shoulder, and one white breast is hanging down towards the bulge of her stomach. There’s almost nothing left of her face, just a gaping mouth and red pulp.

Margot stops as if by chance beside the fruit bowl on the table by the sofas, looks over at the guard, who is talking on the phone, then turns her back on him. For a few seconds she watches the guard’s reflection in the glass wall facing the large inner courtyard, before taking six apples from the bowl and putting them in her bag.

Six is too many, she knows that, but she can’t stop herself taking them all. It’s occurred to her that Jenny might like to make an apple pie that evening, with lots of butter, cinnamon and sugar to caramelise them.

Her thoughts are interrupted when her phone rings. She looks at the screen and sees a picture of Adam Youssef, a member of the investigating team.

‘Are you still in the building?’ Adam asks. ‘Please tell me you’re still here, because we’ve—’

‘I’m sitting in the car on Klarastrandsvägen,’ Margot lies. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

‘He’s uploaded a new film.’

She feels her stomach clench, and puts one hand under the heavy bulge.

‘A new film,’ she repeats.

‘Are you coming back?’

‘I’ll stop and turn round,’ she says, and begins to retrace her steps. ‘Make sure we get a decent copy of the recording.’

Margot could have carried on out through the doors and gone home, leaving the case in Adam’s hands. It would only take one phone call to arrange a full year of paid maternity leave. Perhaps that’s what she would have done if she’d known how violent her first case would turn out to be.

The future lies in shadow, but the planets are approaching dangerous alignments. Right now her fate is floating like a razor blade on still waters.

The light in the lift makes her face look older. The thick dark line of kohl round her eyes is almost gone. As she leans her head back she understands what her colleagues mean when they say she looks like her father, former District Commissioner Ernest Silverman.

The lift stops at the eighth floor and she walks along the empty corridor as fast as her bulging stomach will allow. She and Adam moved into Joona Linna’s old room the same week the police held a memorial service for him. Margot never knew Joona personally, and had no problem taking over his office.

‘You’ve got a fast car,’ Adam says as she walks in, then smiles, showing his sharp teeth.

‘Pretty fast,’ Margot replies.

Adam Youssef is twenty-eight years old, but his face is round like a teenager’s. His hair is long and his short-sleeved shirt is hanging outside his trousers. He comes from an Assyrian family, grew up in Södertälje and used to play football in the first division north.

‘How long has the film been up on YouTube?’ she asks.

‘Three minutes,’ Adam says. ‘He’s there now. Standing outside the window and—’

‘We don’t know that, but—’

‘I think he is,’ he interrupts. ‘I think he is, he almost has to be.’

Margot puts her heavy bag on the floor, sits down on her chair and calls Forensics.

‘Hi, Margot here. Have you downloaded a copy?’ she asks, sounding stressed. ‘Listen, I need a location or a name – try to identify either the location or the woman … All the resources you’ve got, you can have five minutes, do whatever the hell you like, just give me something and I promise I’ll let you go so you can enjoy your Friday evening.’

She puts the phone down and opens the lid of the pizza box on Adam’s desk.

‘Are you done with this?’ she asks.

There’s a ping as an email arrives and Margot quickly stuffs a piece of pizza crust in her mouth. An impatient worry line deepens on her forehead. She clicks on the video file and maximises the image on screen, pushes her plait over her shoulder, hits play and rolls her chair back so Adam can see.

The first shot is an illuminated window wavering in the darkness. The camera moves slowly closer, leaves brushing the lens.

Margot feels the hairs on her arms stand up.

A woman is standing in the well-lit room in front of a television, eating ice cream from the tub. She’s tugged her jogging pants down and is balancing on one foot to pull her sock off.

She glances at the television and smiles at something, then licks the spoon.

The only sound in the room in Police Headquarters comes from the fan in the computer.

Just give me one detail to go on, Margot thinks as she looks at the woman’s face, the fine features of her eyes, cheeks and the curve of her head. Her body seems to be steaming with residual heat. She’s just been for a run. The elastic of her underwear is loose after too many washes, and her bra is clearly visible through her sweat-stained vest.

Margot leans closer to the screen, her stomach pressing against her thighs, and her heavy plait falls forward over her shoulder again.

‘One minute to go,’ Adam says.

The woman puts the tub of ice cream on the coffee table and leaves the room, her jogging pants still dangling from one foot.

The camera follows her, moves sideways past a narrow terrace door until it reaches the bedroom window, where the light goes on and the woman comes into view. She tramples the jogging pants off and kicks them towards an armchair with a red cushion. The trousers fly through the air, hit the wall behind the chair and fall to the floor.

2

The camera glides slowly through the last of the dark garden and stops right outside the window, swaying slightly as if it were floating on water.

‘She’d see him if she just looked up,’ Margot whispers, feeling her heart beat faster in her chest.

The light from the room reaches beyond the leaves of a rosebush, casting a slight flare across the top of the lens.

Adam is sitting with his hand over his mouth.

The woman pulls her vest off, tosses it onto the chair, then stands for a moment in her washed-out underwear and stained bra, looking over at the mobile phone charging on the bedside table beside a glass of water. Her thighs are tense and pumped with blood after her run, and the top of the jogging pants has left a red line across her stomach.

There are no tattoos or visible scars on her body, just faint white stretch-marks from a pregnancy.

The room looks like millions of other bedrooms. There’s nothing worth even trying to trace.

The camera trembles, then pulls back.

The woman takes the glass of water from the bedside table and puts it to her mouth, then the film ends abruptly.

‘Bloody hell, bloody hell,’ Margot repeats irritably. ‘Nothing, not a sodding thing.’

‘Let’s watch it again,’ Adam says quickly.

‘We can watch it a thousand times,’ Margot says, rolling her chair further back. ‘Go on, what the hell, go ahead, but it’s not going to give us a fucking thing.’

‘I can see a lot of things, I can see—’

‘You can see a detached house, twentieth-century, some fruit trees, roses, triple-glazed windows, a forty-two-inch television, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream,’ she says, gesturing towards the computer.

It hasn’t struck her before, the way we’re so similar to each other. Seen through a window, a broad spectrum of Swedes conform to the same pattern, to the point of being interchangeable. From the outside we appear to live exactly the same way, we look the same, do the same things, own the same objects.

‘This is totally fucked up,’ Adam says angrily. ‘Why is he posting these films? What the hell does he want?’

Margot glances out of the small window, where the black treetops of Kronoberg Park are silhouetted against the hazy glow of the city.

‘There’s no doubt that this is a serial killer,’ she says. ‘All we can do is put together a preliminary profile, so we can—’

‘How does that help her?’ Adam interrupts, running one hand through his hair. ‘He’s standing outside her window and you’re talking about offender profiling!’

‘It might help the next one.’

‘What the fuck?’ Adam says. ‘We’ve got to—’

‘Just shut up for a minute,’ Margot interrupts, and picks up her phone.

‘Shut up yourself,’ Adam says, raising his voice. ‘I’ve got every right to say what I think. Haven’t I? I think we should get the papers to publish this woman’s picture on their websites.’

‘Adam, listen … much as we’d like to be able to identify her, we’ve got nothing to go on,’ Margot says. ‘I’ll talk to Forensics, but I doubt they’re going to find anything more than they did last time.’

‘But if we circulate her picture to—’

‘I haven’t got time for your nonsense now,’ she snaps. ‘Think for a minute … Everything suggests he’s uploaded the clip directly from her garden, so of course there’s a theoretical chance of saving her.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying!’

‘But five minutes have already passed, and that’s a long time to be standing outside a window.’

Adam leans forward and stares at her. His tired eyes are bloodshot and his hair is on end.

‘Are we just going to give up, then?’

‘This is a matter of urgency, but we have to think clearly,’ she replies.

‘Good,’ he says, still sounding annoyed.

‘The perpetrator is brimming with confidence, he knows he’s way ahead of us,’ Margot explains quickly as she picks up the last slice of pizza. ‘But the better we get to know him …’

‘Get to know him? Fine, but that’s not really what I’m thinking right now,’ Adam says, wiping sweat from under his nose. ‘We couldn’t trace the previous film, we didn’t find anything at the scene, and we won’t be able to trace this film either.’

‘We’re unlikely to get any forensic evidence, but we can try to pin him down by analysing the films and the brutality of his MO,’ Margot replies, as she feels the baby move inside her. ‘What have we really seen so far, what has he shown us, and what’s he seeing?’

‘A woman who’s been for a run, and is now eating ice cream and watching television,’ Adam says tentatively.

‘What does that tell us about the murderer?’

‘That he likes women who eat ice cream … I don’t know,’ Adam sighs, and hides his face in his hands.

‘Come on, now.’

‘Sorry, but—’

‘I’m thinking about the fact that the murderer uploads a film showing the period leading up to the murder,’ Margot says. ‘He takes his time, enjoys the moment, and … he wants to show us the women alive, wants to preserve them alive on film. Maybe it’s the living he’s interested in.’

‘A voyeur,’ Adam says, feeling his arms prick with discomfort.

‘A stalker,’ she whispers.

‘Tell me how to filter the list of creeps who’ve been let out of prison or psychiatric care,’ Adam says, as he logs into the intranet.

‘A rapist, violent rape, someone with obsessive fixation disorder.’

He types quickly, clicks the mouse, types some more.

‘Too many results,’ he says. ‘Time’s running out.’

‘Try the first victim’s name.’

‘No results,’ he sighs, tearing his hair.

‘A serial rapist who’s been treated, possibly chemically castrated,’ Margot says, thinking out loud.

‘We need to check the databases against each other, but that will take too long,’ he says, getting up from his chair. ‘This isn’t working. What the hell are we going to do?’

‘She’s dead,’ Margot sighs, then leans back. ‘She might have a few minutes left, but …’

‘I don’t know if I can handle this,’ Adam says. ‘We can see her, we can see her face, her home … Christ, we can see right into her life, but we can’t find out who she is until she’s dead and someone finds her body.’

3

Susanna Kern can feel her thighs tingling from her run as she pulls her sweaty jogging pants down and kicks them towards the chair.

Since she turned thirty she has run five kilometres three evenings each week. After her Friday run she usually eats ice cream and watches television, seeing as Björn doesn’t get home until ten o’clock.

When Björn landed the job in London she thought it would feel lonely, but fairly quickly she came to appreciate the hours she had to herself in the weeks when Morgan was with his dad.

She needs this downtime more than ever since she embarked upon a demanding course in advanced neurology at the Karolinska Institute.

She undoes her sweaty sports bra, thinking that she can use it again on Sunday before she has to wash it.

She can’t remember a summer as hot as this before.

A scratching sound makes her turn towards the window.

The back garden is so dark that all she can see is the reflection of the bedroom. It looks like a theatre set, a television studio.

She has just made her entrance, and is standing under the floodlights.

Only I’ve forgotten to put any clothes on, she thinks wryly to herself.

She stands for a moment, looking at her naked body. The lighting is dramatic, and makes her reflection look thinner than she actually is.

The scraping noise is repeated, as if someone were running their nails across the windowsill. It’s too dark to see if there’s a bird sitting out there.

Susanna stares at the window and walks cautiously towards it, trying to see through the reflections, and grabs the dark blue bedspread and holds it up to cover herself. She shivers.

Fighting an instinctive reluctance she goes over to the window, moves her face closer to the glass and the garden becomes visible, like a dark grey world, like the underworld in a Gustav Doré engraving.

The black grass, tall shrubs, Morgan’s swing moving in the wind, and the panes of glass behind the playhouse for the garden room that they never got round to building.

Her breath mists the window as she straightens up and pulls the curtains. She lets the thick bedspread fall to the floor and walks naked towards the door. A shiver runs down her spine and she turns back towards the window again. A strip of black glass is shimmering in the gap between the dark-pink curtains.

She picks up her phone from the bedside table and calls Björn, and as she listens to the call being put through she can’t help staring at the window.

‘Hello, darling,’ he answers, far too loudly.

‘Are you at the airport?’

‘What?’

‘Are you at …’

‘I’m at the airport, I’m just having a burger at O’Learys, and—’

His voice vanishes as a group of male voices in the background shout and cheer.

‘Liverpool just scored again,’ he explains.

‘Hooray,’ she says, without enthusiasm.

‘Your mum called me to ask what you want for your birthday.’

‘That’s sweet,’ she says.

‘I said you’d like some see-through underwear,’ he jokes.

‘Perfect.’

She stares at the shimmering glass between the curtains as the phone-line crackles.

‘Is everything OK at home?’ Björn’s voice says in her ear.

‘I was just feeling a bit scared of the dark.’

‘Isn’t Ben there?’

‘In front of the television,’ she replies.

‘And Jerry?’

‘They’re both waiting for me,’ she smiles.

‘I miss you,’ he says.

‘Make sure you don’t miss the plane,’ she whispers.

They talk some more, then say goodbye and blow kisses to each other, then the line goes dead and she finds herself thinking about a patient who was brought in the previous night. A young man who had crashed his motorbike when he wasn’t wearing a helmet, resulting in severe head injuries. His father had come straight to the hospital from his nightshift. He was still wearing his dirty overalls, and had a breathing mask dangling round his neck.

Holding her pink kimono in front of her, she walks back to the living room and closes the heavy curtains.

The room feels suddenly blind, as if a silence had settled on it.

The curtains sway in front of the windows, and she shudders as she turns away from them.

She tries the ice cream. It’s much softer now, just right. A dense taste of chocolate fills her mouth.

Susanna puts the tub down and walks to the bathroom, locks the door, turns the shower on, loosens her ponytail and puts the scrunchie on the edge of the basin.

She lets out a sigh as the hot water washes over her head and neck and envelops her whole body. Her ears are roaring as her shoulders relax and her muscles soften. She soaps herself and runs her hand between her legs, noticing that the hair has already started to grow again since the last time she waxed.

Susanna wipes the steam from the glass door with her hand so she can see the handle and lock of the bathroom door.

She suddenly remembers what she thought she had seen in the bedroom window just as she was pulling the bedspread towards her to cover herself.

She dismissed it as a trick of her imagination. It’s silly to let yourself get scared like that. She had thrust her anxieties aside, and told herself that she couldn’t even see through the glass.

The room was too bright and the garden too dark.

But in the reflection of the dark bedspread she had thought she could see a face staring back at her.

The next moment it was gone, and she realised she must have been mistaken, but now she can’t help thinking it might have been real.

It wasn’t a child, but possibly a neighbour out looking for their cat, who then stopped to look at her.

Susanna turns the water off and her heart is beating so hard that it’s pounding at the top of her chest as she realises that the kitchen door leading out to the garden is open. How could she have forgotten that? She’s had it open all summer to let in the cool evening air, but usually shuts and locks it before taking a shower.

She wipes the steam from the glass door and looks at the lock on the bathroom door again. Nothing has changed. She reaches for the towel and thinks to herself that she’ll phone Björn and ask him to stay on the line as she looks through the house.

4

Susanna can hear applause on the television as she leaves the bathroom. The thin silk of the kimono sticks to her damp skin.

There’s a cold draught along the floor.

Her feet leave wet footprints on the worn parquet tiles.

There’s a dark shimmer from the windows at the far side of the dining room. Black glass sparkling behind the ferns in their hanging pots. Susanna feels like she’s being watched, but forces herself not to look out, scared of frightening herself even more.

Nonetheless, she keeps her distance from the closed door to the basement as she approaches the kitchen.

Her wet hair is soaking through the back of the kimono. It’s so wet that it’s dripping inside the fabric, trickling between her buttocks.

The floor gets colder the closer she gets to the kitchen.

Her heart is pounding hard in her chest.

She suddenly finds herself thinking of the young man with serious head injuries again. He was sedated with Ketalar. His whole face was crushed, squashed up towards his temples. His father kept repeating quietly that there was nothing wrong with his son. He could have done with someone to talk to, but Susanna hadn’t had time.

Now she is imagining that the heavily built father has found her, that he holds her to blame, and is standing outside the kitchen door in his dirty overalls.

A different song on the television now.

There’s a breeze blowing straight through the kitchen. The door to the garden is wide open. The thin curtain of plastic strips is fluttering into the room. She walks slowly forward. It’s hard to see anything behind the dancing curtain. There could be someone standing just outside.

She holds her hand out, pushes the swirling plastic strips aside, slips past them and reaches for the door handle.

The floor is chill from the night air flowing into the kitchen.

Her kimono slips open.

She has time to notice that the gloomy garden is deserted. The bushes are moving in the wind, the swing swaying rhythmically.

She quickly closes the door, not bothered about catching part of the curtain in it, and hurriedly locks it, then pulls the key out and backs away.

She puts the key in the bowl of loose change and adjusts the kimono.

At least it’s locked now, she thinks, as she hears a creak behind her back.

She spins round and then smiles at her own reaction. It was just the window in the living room shifting on its hinges when the flow of air stopped.

The audience is booing and whistling at the judges’ decision.

Susanna thinks about getting her phone from the bedroom and calling Björn. He ought to be waiting at the gate by now. She wants to hear his voice as she searches the house before settling down in front of the television. She’s wound herself up too much to relax otherwise. The only problem is that there’s no reception at all in the basement. Maybe she could put it on speaker and leave it halfway down the stairs.

She tells herself that she doesn’t have to creep about in her own home, but can’t help moving quietly.

She passes the closed door to the basement, sees the dark windows in the dining room from the corner of her eye, and carries on towards the living room.

She knows she locked the front door after her run, but still wants to go and check. It would be just as well – then she won’t have to think about it again.

There’s a whistling sound from the open window in the living room and the curtain is being sucked back towards the narrow opening.

She starts to walk towards the dining room and notices that the wild flowers in the vase on the heavy oak table have run out of water, before coming to an abrupt halt.

It feels as though her whole body is covered by a thin layer of ice. In an instant adrenalin is coursing through her blood.

The three windows of the dining room act as large mirrors. The table and eight chairs are lit up by the light from the ceiling lamp, and behind them stands a figure.

Susanna stares at the reflection of the room, her heart pounding so hard it almost deafens her.

In the doorway to the hall someone is standing with a kitchen knife in their hand.

He’s inside, he’s inside the house, Susanna thinks.

She’s shut and locked the kitchen door when she should have escaped into the garden.

She moves slowly backwards.

The intruder is standing completely still with his back to the dining room, staring at the corridor to the kitchen.

The large knife is hanging from his right hand, twitching impatiently.

Susanna backs away, her eyes fixed on the figure in the hall. Her right foot slides across the floor and the parquet creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She has to get out, but if she tries to get to the kitchen she’ll be visible along the passageway. Maybe she’d have time to get the key from the bowl, but it’s by no means certain.

She continues backing away cautiously, now seeing the intruder in the last window.

The floor creaks beneath her left foot and she stops and watches as the figure turns round to face the dining room, then looks up and catches sight of her in the dark windows.

Susanna takes another slow step back. The intruder starts to walk towards her. Whimpering with fear, she turns and runs into the living room.

She slips on the carpet, loses her balance and hits her knee on the floor, putting her hand out to break her fall and gasping with pain.

The sound of a chair hitting the dining table.

She brings the standard lamp down as she gets up. It hits the wall before clattering to the floor.

She can hear rapid footsteps behind her.

Without looking round she rushes into the bathroom again and locks the door behind her. The air in there is still warm and damp.

This can’t be happening, she thinks in panic.

She hurries past the basin and toilet and pulls the curtain back from the little window. Her hands are shaking as she tries to undo one of the catches. It’s stuck. She tugs at it and tries to force herself to calm down. She fiddles with it and tugs it sideways, and manages to get the first catch open as she hears a scraping sound from the lock on the bathroom door. She rushes back and grabs hold of the lock just as it starts to turn. She clings on to it with both hands, and feels her heart racing in terror.

5

The intruder has slipped a screwdriver, or possibly the back of the knife blade, into the little slot on the other side of the lock. Susanna is holding on to the handle of the lock, but is shaking so badly that she’s scared she might lose her grip.

‘God, this can’t be happening,’ she whispers to herself. ‘This isn’t happening, it can’t be happening …’

She glances quickly towards the window. It’s far too small for her to be able to throw herself through it. The only hope of escape is to run to the window, undo the second catch, push it open and then climb up, but she daren’t let go of the lock.

She’s never been so terrified in her life. This is a bottomless, mortal dread, beyond all control.

The lock now feels hot and slippery under her tensed fingers. There’s a metallic scraping sound from the other side.

‘Hello?’ she says towards the door.

The intruder tries to open the door with a quick twist, but Susanna is prepared and manages to resist.

‘What do you want?’ she says, in as composed a voice as she can muster. ‘Do you need money? If you do, I can understand that. It’s not a problem.’

She gets no answer, but she can hear the scrape of metal against metal, and feel the vibration through the lock.

‘You’re welcome to look, but there’s nothing especially valuable in the house … the television’s fairly new, but …’

She falls silent, because she’s shaking so much it’s hard to understand what she’s saying. She whispers to herself that she must stay calm, as she clutches the lock tight and thinks that her fear is dangerous, that it might make the intruder think bad thoughts.

‘My bag’s hanging in the hall,’ she says, then swallows hard. ‘A black bag. Inside it there’s a purse containing some cash and a Visa card. I’ve just been paid, and I can tell you the code if you want.’

The intruder stops trying to turn the lock.

‘OK, listen, the code is 3945,’ she says to the door. ‘I haven’t seen your face, you can take the money and I’ll wait until tomorrow before I report the card missing.’

Still holding the lock tightly, Susanna puts her ear to the door, and imagines she can hear footsteps moving away across the floor before an advert break on television drowns out all other sounds.

She doesn’t know if it was stupid to give him her real code, but she just wants this to end, and she’s more worried about her jewellery, her mother’s engagement ring and the necklace with the big emeralds she was given after Morgan was born.

Susanna waits behind the door and keeps telling herself that this isn’t over yet, that she mustn’t lose her concentration for a moment.

Carefully she changes hands on the lock, without letting go of it. Her right thumb and forefinger have gone numb. She shakes her hand and puts her ear to the door, thinking that it’s now been more than half an hour since she told him the code to her card.

It was probably just a junkie who saw an open kitchen door and came inside to look for valuables.

The last part of the programme is over. More adverts, and after them the news. She changes hands again and waits.

After another ten minutes she lies down on the floor and peers under the door. There’s no one standing outside.

She can see a large stretch of the parquet floor, she can see under the sofa, and the glow of the television reflected on the varnish.

Everything’s quiet.

Burglars aren’t violent, they just want money as quickly and simply as possible.

Trembling, she gets up, takes hold of the lock again, then stands still with her ear to the door, listening to the news and weather forecast.

Grabbing the shower scraper from the floor as a rudimentary weapon, she steels herself and cautiously unlocks the door.

The door swings open without a sound.

She can see almost the whole of the living room through the passageway. There’s no sign of the intruder. It’s as if he had never been there.

She leaves the bathroom, her legs shaking with fear. Every sense is heightened as she approaches the living room.

She hears a dog bark in the distance.

Carefully she moves forwards, and sees the light from the television play on the closed curtains, the upholstered suite and the glass coffee table with the tub of ice cream on top of it.

She’s planning to go into the bedroom, get her phone, then lock herself in the bathroom again and call the police.

To her left she catches a glimpse of the glass-fronted cabinet containing the collection of Dresden china that Björn inherited. Her heart starts to beat faster. She’s almost at the end of the passageway, and only then will she be able to see all the way to the hall.

She takes a step into the living room, looks round and notes that the dining room is empty, before realising that the intruder is right next to her. Just one step away. The thin figure is standing there waiting for her by the wall at the end of the passage.

The stab of the knife is so fast that she doesn’t have time to react. The sharp blade goes straight into her chest.

Her muscles tense around the metal deep inside her body.

Her heart has never beaten as hard as it does now. Time stands still as she thinks that this can’t be real.

The knife is pulled out, leaving behind a burning easing of tension. She presses her hand to the wound and feels warm blood pumping out between her fingers. The shower scraper clatters to the floor. She reels to one side, her head feels heavy and she can see her blood splattered across the shiny material of the raincoats. The light seems to be flickering and she tries to say something, that this must be some sort of misunderstanding, but she has no voice.

Susanna turns round and walks towards the kitchen, feels quick jabs to her back and knows that she is being stabbed repeatedly.

She stumbles sideways, fumbling for support, and knocks the display cabinet against the wall, making all the porcelain figures topple over with a clattering, tinkling sound.

Her heart is racing as blood streams down inside the kimono. Her chest is hurting terribly.

Her field of vision shrinks to a tunnel.

Her ears are roaring and she is aware that the intruder is shouting something excitedly, but the words are unintelligible.

Her chin flies up as she is grabbed by the hair. She tries to hold on to an armchair, but loses her grip.

Her legs give way and she hits the floor.

She can feel a burning sensation of liquid in one lung, and coughs weakly.

Her head lolls sideways and she can see that there’s some old popcorn among the dust under the sofa.

Through the roaring sound inside her she can hear peculiar screams, and feels rapid stabs to her stomach and chest.

She tries to kick free, thinking to herself that she has to get back to the bathroom. The floor beneath her is slippery, and she has no energy left.

She tries to roll over on to her side, but the intruder grabs her by the chin and suddenly jabs the knife into her face. It no longer hurts. But a sense of unreality is spinning in her head. Shock and an abstract sense of dislocation blur with the precise and intimate feeling of being cut in the face.

The blade enters her neck and chest and face again. Her lips and cheeks fill with warmth and pain.

Susanna realises that she’s not going to make it. Ice-cold anguish opens up like a chasm as she stops fighting for her life.

6

Psychiatrist Erik Maria Bark is leaning back in his pale grey sheepskin armchair. He has a large study in his home, with a varnished oak floor and built-in bookcases. The dark brick villa is in the oldest part of Gamla Enskede, just to the south of Stockholm.

It’s the middle of the day, but he was on call last night and could do with a few hours’ sleep.

He shuts his eyes and thinks about when Benjamin was small and used to like to hear how Mummy and Daddy met. Erik would sit down on the edge of his bed and explain how Cupid, the god of love, really did exist.

He lived up amongst the clouds and looked like a chubby little boy with a bow and arrow in his hands.

‘One summer’s evening Cupid gazed down at Sweden and caught sight of me,’ Erik explained to his son. ‘I was at a university party, pushing my way through the crowd on the roof terrace when Cupid crept to the edge of his cloud and fired an arrow down towards the Earth.

‘I was wandering about at the party, talking to friends, eating peanuts and exchanging a few words with the head of department.

‘And at the exact moment that a woman with strawberry blonde hair and a champagne glass in her hand looked in my direction, Cupid’s arrow hit me in the heart.’

After almost twenty years of marriage Erik and Simone had agreed to separate, but she was probably the one who agreed the most.

As Erik leans forward to switch his reading-lamp off, he catches a glimpse of his tired face in the narrow mirror by the bookcase. The lines on his forehead and the furrows in his cheeks are deeper than ever. His dark-brown hair is flecked with grey. He ought to get a haircut. A few loose strands are hanging in front of his eyes and he flicks them away with a jerk of his head.

When Simone told him that she had met John, Erik realised it was over. Benjamin was pretty relaxed about the whole thing, and used to tease him by saying it would be cool to have two dads.

Benjamin is eighteen years old now, and lives in the big house in Stockholm with Simone and her new man, his stepbrothers and sisters, and the dogs.

On Erik’s old smoking table is the latest edition of the American Journal of Psychiatry and a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, with a half-empty blister-pack of pills as a bookmark.

Outside the leaded windows the rain is falling on the drenched vegetation of the garden.

Erik pulls the tablets from the book and pops one sleeping-pill into his hand, trying to work out how long it would take his body to absorb the active substance, but he has to start again, then gives up. Just to be sure, he breaks the tablet in half along the little groove, blows the loose powder off to get rid of the bitter taste, then swallows one half.

The rain streams down the windows as the muted tones of John Coltrane’s ‘Dear Old Stockholm’ flow from the speakers.

The tablet’s chemical warmth spreads through his muscles. He shuts his eyes and enjoys the music.

Erik Maria Bark is a trained doctor, psychiatrist and psychotherapist, specialising in psychological trauma and disaster counselling, and worked for the Red Cross in Uganda for five years.

He spent four years leading a ground-breaking research project into group therapy involving deep hypnosis at the Karolinska Institute. He is a member of the European Society of Hypnosis, and is regarded as a leading international authority on clinical hypnotherapy.

At the moment Erik is part of a small team specialising in acutely traumatised and post-traumatic patients. They are regularly called in to help the police and public prosecutors with complex interviews of crime victims.

He often uses hypnosis to help witnesses relax, so that they can get to grips with their memories of traumatic situations.

He’s got three hours before he needs to be at a meeting at the Karolinska Institute, and he’s hoping to spend most of that time asleep.

But he’s not allowed to.

He’s dragged straight into deep sleep, and starts dreaming that he’s carrying an old, bearded man through a very small house.

Simone is shouting at him from behind a closed door when the phone rings. Erik jumps, and fumbles for the smoking-table. His heart is beating hard from the sudden anxiety of being yanked out of a state of deep relaxation.

‘Simone,’ he answers groggily.

‘Hello, Simone … I’m not sure, but maybe you should try to give up those French cigarettes?’ Nelly jokes in her laconic way. ‘Sorry to have to say this, but you almost sound like a man.’

‘Almost.’ Erik smiles, feeling the heaviness of the sleeping pill in his head.

Nelly laughs, a fresh, tinkling laugh.

Nelly Brandt is a psychologist, Erik’s closest colleague in the specialist team at the Karolinska Hospital. She’s extremely competent, works very hard, but is also very funny, often in a rather earthy way.

‘The police are here, they’re really agitated,’ she says, and only now does he hear how stressed she sounds.

He rubs his eyes to get them to focus, and tries to listen to what Nelly is telling him about the police rushing in with an acutely shocked patient.

Erik squints towards the window facing the street, as water streams down the glass.

‘We’re checking his somatic status and running the routine tests,’ she says. ‘Blood and urine … liver status, kidney and thyroid function …’

‘Good.’

‘Erik, the superintendent has asked for you specifically … It’s my fault, I happened to let slip that you were the best.’

‘Flattery doesn’t work on me,’ he says, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily. He rubs his face with his hand, then grabs hold of the furniture as he makes his way towards the desk.

‘You’re standing up,’ she says cheerily.

‘Yes, but I …’

‘Then I’ll tell the police that you’re on your way.’

Beneath the desk are a pair of black socks with dusty soles, a long, thin taxi receipt and a mobile phone charger. As he bends over to grab the socks the floor comes rushing up to meet him, and he would have fallen if he hadn’t put his hand out to stop himself.

The objects on the desk merge and spread out in double vision. The silver pens in their holder radiate harsh reflections.

He reaches for a half-empty glass of water, takes a small sip and tells himself to get his act together.

7

The Karolinska University Hospital is one of the largest in Europe, with more than fifteen thousand members of staff. The Psychology Clinic is located slightly apart from the vast hospital precinct. From above, the building looks like a Viking ship from an ancient burial site, but when approached through the park it doesn’t look out of place among the other buildings. The nicotine-yellow stucco of the façade is still damp from the rain, with rust-coloured water running down the drainpipes. The front wheel of a bicycle is dangling from a chain in the bike-rack.

The car tyres crunch softly as Erik turns into the car park.

Nelly is standing on the steps waiting for him with two mugs of coffee. Erik can’t help smiling when he sees her happy grin and the consciously disinterested look in her eyes.

Nelly is fairly tall, thin, and her bleached hair is always perfect, her make-up tasteful.

Erik often sees her and her husband Martin socially. There’s no real need for Nelly to work, seeing as her husband is the main shareholder of Datametrix Nordic.

As she watches Erik’s BMW pull into the car park she walks over to him, blowing on one of the mugs and taking a cautious sip before putting it on the roof of the car and opening the back door.

‘I don’t know what this is about, but we’ve got a superintendent who seems pretty wound up,’ she says, passing him one of the mugs between the seats.

‘Thanks.’

‘I explained that we always have the best interest of our patients at heart,’ Nelly says as she gets in and closes the car door behind her. ‘Shit! God, sorry … have you got any tissues? I’ve spilled some coffee on the seat.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Are you cross? You’re cross,’ she says.

The smell of coffee spreads through the car and Erik closes his eyes for a moment.

‘Nelly, just tell me what they said.’

‘I don’t seem to be getting on very well with that fucking … I mean, that lovely policewoman.’

‘Is there anything I ought to know before I go inside?’ he asks, opening the door.

‘I told her she could wait in your office and go through your drawers.’

‘Thanks for the coffee … both mugs,’ he says, as they get out of the car.

Erik locks up, puts the keys in his pocket, runs a hand through his hair and starts to walk towards the clinic.

‘I didn’t actually say that bit about the drawers,’ she calls after him.

Erik walks up the steps, turns right and runs his passcard through the reader, taps in his code, then carries on along the next corridor to his room. He still feels groggy, and it occurs to him that he really must get the tablets under control soon. They make him sleep too deeply. It’s almost like drowning. His drugged dreams have started to feel claustrophobic. Yesterday he had a nightmare about two dogs that had grown into each other, and last week he fell asleep here at the clinic and had a sexual dream about Nelly. He can’t really remember it, but she was on her knees in front of him handing him a cold, glass ball.

His thoughts dissipate when he sees the superintendent sitting on his office chair with her feet resting on the edge of the waste-paper bin. She’s holding her huge stomach with one hand and a can of Coke in the other. Her brow is furrowed, her chin has fallen open and she’s breathing through her half-open mouth.

Her ID badge is lying on his desk, and she gestures wearily towards it as she introduces herself.

‘Margot Silverman … National Crime.’

‘Erik Maria Bark,’ he says, shaking her hand.

‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice,’ she says, moistening her lips. ‘We’ve got a traumatised witness … Everyone tells me I should have you in the room with me. We’ve already tried to question him four times …’

‘I have to point out that there are five of us here in our specialist unit, and that I never usually sit in on interviews of perpetrators or suspected perpetrators myself.’

The light from the ceiling lamp reflects off her pale eyes. Her curly hair is trying to escape from her thick plait.

‘OK, but Björn Kern isn’t a suspect. He works in London, and was on a plane home when someone murdered his wife,’ she replies, squeezing the Coke-can and making the thin metal creak.

‘OK, then,’ Erik says.

‘He got a taxi from Arlanda, and found her dead,’ the superintendent goes on. ‘We don’t know exactly what he did after that, but he was certainly busy. We’re not sure where she was lying to start with, we found her tucked up in bed in the bedroom … He cleaned up as well, wiped away the blood … he doesn’t remember anything, he says, but the furniture had been moved, and the blood-soaked rug was already in the washing machine … he was found more than a kilometre away from the house, a neighbour almost ran him over on the road, he was still wearing his blood-soaked suit, no shoes.’

‘I’ll certainly see him,’ Erik says. ‘But I must say at the outset that it would be wrong to try to force information from him.’

‘He has to talk,’ she says stubbornly, squeezing the can tighter.

‘I understand your frustration, but he could enter a psychosis if you push too hard … Give him time, he’ll tell you what you need.’

‘You’ve helped the police before, haven’t you?’

‘Many times.’

‘But this time … this is the second murder in what looks like a series,’ she says.

‘A series,’ Erik repeats.

Margot’s face has turned grey and the thin lines round her eyes are emphasised by the light from the lamp.

‘We’re hunting a serial killer.’

‘OK, I get that, but the patient needs—’

‘This murderer has entered an active phase, and isn’t going to stop of his own accord,’ she interrupts. ‘And Björn Kern is a disaster from my point of view. First he goes round and rearranges everything at the crime scene before the police get there … and now we can’t get him to tell us what it looked like when he arrived.’

She drops her feet to the floor, whispers to herself that they need to get going, then sits there stiff-backed, panting for breath.

‘If we put pressure on him now, he may clam up for good,’ Erik says, unlocking his birchwood cabinet and removing the fake-leather case containing his camera.

She gets to her feet, puts the can down on the desk at last, picks up her badge and walks heavily towards the door.

‘Obviously I realise that this is seriously bloody awful for him, given what’s happened, but he’s going to have to pull himself together and—’

‘Yes, but it’s a lot more than awful … it might actually be impossible for him to think about it at the moment,’ Erik replies. ‘Because what you’ve described sounds like a critical stress response, and—’

‘Those are just words,’ she interrupts, her cheeks flushing with irritation.

‘A mental trauma can be followed by an acute blockage—’

‘Why? I don’t believe that,’ she says.

‘As you may know, our spatial and temporal memories are organised by the hippocampus … and that information is then conveyed to the prefrontal cortex,’ Erik replies patiently, pointing to his forehead. ‘But that all changes at times of extreme arousal, and in cases of shock … When the amygdala identifies a threat, both the autonomous nervous system and what’s known as the cortisol axis are activated, and—’

‘OK, what the hell, I get it. Loads of stuff happens in the brain.’

‘The important thing is that this degree of stress means that memories aren’t stored as they usually are, but at an effective distance … they’re frozen, like ice-cubes, separately … closed off.’

‘I get it, you’re saying he’s doing his best,’ Margot says, putting her hand on her stomach. ‘But Björn may have seen something that can help us stop this serial killer. You have to get him to calm down, so he starts talking.’

‘I will, but I can’t tell you how long that’s going to take,’ he replies. ‘I’ve worked in Uganda with people who’ve suffered the trauma of war … people whose lives have been completely shattered. You have to move slowly, using security, sleep, conversation, exercise, medication—’

‘Not hypnosis?’ she asks, with an involuntary smile.

‘Sure, as long as no one has exaggerated expectations about the result … Sometimes gentle hypnosis can help a patient to restructure their memories so that they can actually be accessed.’

‘Right now I’d give the go-ahead for a horse to kick him in the head if that would help.’

‘OK, but that’s a different department,’ Erik says drily.

‘Sorry, I get a bit impatient when I’m pregnant,’ she says, and he can hear how hard she’s trying to sound reasonable. ‘But I have to identify any parallels with the first murder, I need a pattern if I’m going to be able to track down this murderer, and right now I haven’t got a thing.’

They’ve reached the patient’s room. Two uniformed police officers are standing outside the door.

‘This is important to you,’ Erik says. ‘But bear in mind that he’s just found his wife murdered.’

8

Erik follows Margot into the room. It has been furnished with two armchairs and a sofa, a low white table, two chairs, a water dispenser with plastic cups, and a wastepaper bin.

On the floor under the windowsill is a broken pot, the linoleum floor strewn with soil.

The air is thick with stress and sweat. The man is standing in the far corner, as if he were trying to get as far away as possible.

When he sees Erik and Margot he slides towards the sofa with his back against the wall. He’s extremely pale, with a hunted look in his bloodshot eyes. His pale blue shirt has sweat rings under the arms, and is hanging outside his trousers.

‘Hello, Björn,’ Margot says. ‘This is Erik, he’s a doctor here.’

The man looks anxiously at Erik, then moves back into the corner.

‘Hello,’ Erik says.

‘I’m not ill.’

‘No, but what you’ve been through means that you have the right to treatment,’ Erik replies matter-of-factly.

‘You don’t know what I’ve been through,’ the man says, then whispers something to himself.

‘I know you haven’t been given any tranquillisers,’ Erik says calmly. ‘But I’d like you to know that the option is there, if—’

‘What the fuck do I want a load of pills for?’ he butts in. ‘Will pills help? Will they make everything all right?’

‘No, but—’

‘Will they let me see Sanna again?’ he shouts. ‘That’s not going to happen – is it?’

‘Nothing can change what’s happened,’ Erik says seriously. ‘But your relationship to what has happened will change, regardless of whether you—’

‘I don’t even understand what you’re saying.’

‘I’m just trying to find a good way to explain that the way you’re feeling is part of a process, and that you can accept my help with that process if you want to.’

Björn glances at him briefly, then slips further away along the wall.

Margot puts her little recording device on the table, babbles the date and time, and the names of those present in the room.

‘This is the fifth interview with Björn Kern,’ she concludes, then turns towards him as he stands picking at the back-rest of the sofa. ‘Björn, can you tell me in your own words—’

‘About what?’ he asks quickly. ‘About what?’

‘About when you got home,’ Margot replies.

‘What for?’ he whispers.

‘Because I want to know what happened, and what you saw,’ she says curtly.

‘What do you mean? I just got home, isn’t that allowed?’

He puts his hands over his ears and stands there panting. Erik notes that the knuckles of both his hands are bleeding.

‘What did you see?’ Margot asks wearily.

‘Why are you asking me that? I don’t know why you’re asking me. Fucking hell …’

Björn shakes his head and rubs his mouth and eyes hard.

‘I want you to feel safe here, in this room,’ Erik says. ‘You don’t think you’re allowed to relax, you might not think it’s possible, but it is.’

The man picks at the edge of a piece of wallpaper with his fingernails, then tears off a little strip.

‘This is what I’m thinking,’ he says, without looking at them. ‘I’m thinking I’ve got to do it all again, but do it right this time … I’ve got to go home and go in through the door, and then it will be right.’

‘How do you mean, right?’ Erik asks, managing to catch his eye.

‘I know how it sounds, but what if it’s true, you can’t know,’ he says, making a despairing gesture to keep them quiet. ‘I can go in, through the door, and call Sanna’s name … She knows I’ve got something for her, I always have, something from duty-free … and I take my shoes off and go inside …’

He looks utterly distraught.

‘There’s soil on the floor,’ he whispers.

‘Was there soil on the floor?’ Margot asks.

‘Shut up!’ Björn yells, his voice cracking.

He walks over the soil-strewn floor, picks up the other pot-plant and throws it at the wall. The plastic pot shatters and soil rains down behind the sofa.

‘Fucking HELL!’ he gasps.

He leans both hands against the wall, his head hanging, and a string of saliva drops to the floor.

‘Björn?’

‘Fuck it, this is hopeless,’ he says, with a sob in his voice.

‘Björn,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Margot is here to find out more about what happened. That’s her job. My job is to help you. I’m here for your sake … I’m used to seeing people who are having trouble, people who have suffered a terrible loss, who’ve experienced terrible things … things no one should have to go through, but which unfortunately are part of life for some of us.’

The man doesn’t respond. He just sobs quietly. His eyes are dark, bloodshot and glassy.

‘Do you want to stand over there?’ Erik asks gently. ‘You wouldn’t rather sit in the armchair?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Nor do I …’

‘Good,’ Björn whispers, turning towards him.

‘I’ve already mentioned it, and I know what you said, but it’s my job to offer you all the help that’s available … I can give you a sedative. It won’t get rid of the terrible thing that’s happened, but it will help to calm the panic you’re feeling inside.’

‘Can you help me?’ the man whispers after a pause.

‘I can help you take the first steps towards … towards getting through the worst of it,’ Erik explains quietly.

‘I start to shake when I think about the front door at home … because I must have gone through a different door, the wrong door.’

‘I can understand why you’d feel that.’

Björn moves his lips cautiously, as though they were hurting him.

‘Do you want me to sit down?’ he asks, glancing cautiously at Erik.

‘If it would make you feel more comfortable,’ Erik replies.

Björn sits down for the first time, and Erik notices Margot looking at him, but doesn’t return the look.

‘What happens when you walk through the wrong door?’

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ he replies.

‘But you do remember?’

‘Can you … can you get rid of the panic?’ the man whispers to Erik.

‘That’s your decision,’ Erik says. ‘But I’m happy to sit here and talk to you with Margot … or you and I could talk on our own … and we could also try hypnosis – that might help you through the worst of it.’

‘Hypnosis?’

‘Some people find it works well,’ Erik replies simply.

‘No.’ Björn smiles.

‘Hypnosis is just a combination of relaxation and concentration.’

Björn laughs silently with his hand over his mouth, then stands up and walks along the wall again until he reaches the corner and turns to look at Erik.

‘I think maybe the drugs you mentioned might be a good idea …’

‘OK.’ Erik nods. ‘I can give you Stesolid – have you heard of that before? It will make you feel warm and tired, but also a lot calmer.’

‘OK, good.’

Björn slaps the wall several times with one palm, then walks over to the water dispenser.

‘I’ll ask a nurse to bring you the pill,’ Erik says.

He leaves the room, confident that Björn Kern will request hypnosis fairly soon.

9

The building at 4 Lill-Jans plan differs from those around it, with its dark façade and Gothic design, ornamental brickwork, oriels, pilasters and arches.

The curtains on the ground floor are closed, otherwise it would be possible to see in through the windows.

Erik looks at the address on the piece of paper, hesitates for a moment, then goes in through the large doorway. He hasn’t told anyone about this.

His stomach flutters as he approaches the door. He can hear gentle piano music in the stairwell. He looks at the time, sees that he’s slightly early, and returns to the front door to wait.

Back in the spring he found a flyer advertising piano lessons in his letterbox, and rather rashly booked an intensive course for his son Benjamin, who would be turning eighteen at the start of the summer.

It’s never too late to learn to play an instrument, he thought. He himself had always dreamed of playing the piano, sitting down alone to play a melancholic nocturne by Chopin.

But the day before Benjamin’s birthday Nelly pointed out that you didn’t have to be a psychologist to see that he was projecting his own dream on to his son.

Erik quickly booked a series of driving lessons instead. Benjamin was happy, and Simone thought it a very generous gift.

He was sure he had cancelled the piano lessons. But that morning he had received an email reminding him not to miss the first lesson.

Erik feels ridiculously embarrassed, nevertheless he’s decided to attend the first lesson himself, to give it a chance.

The idea of walking off and sending a text to say that he had already cancelled the lessons is whirling round his head as he returns to the door, raises his finger and rings the bell.

The piano music doesn’t stop, but he hears someone run lightly across the floor.

A small child opens the door, a girl of about seven, with big, pale eyes and tousled hair. She’s wearing a polka-dot dress and is holding a toy hedgehog in her hand.

‘Mummy’s got a pupil,’ she says in a low voice.

The beautiful music streams through the flat.

‘I’ve got an appointment at seven o’clock … I’m here for a piano lesson,’ he explains.

‘Mummy says you have to start when you’re little,’ the girl says.

‘If you want to get good, but I’m not going to do that,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be happy if the piano doesn’t block its ears or throw up.’

The girl can’t help smiling.

‘Can I take your coat?’ she remembers to ask.

‘Can you manage to carry it?’

He puts his heavy coat in her thin arms and watches her disappear towards the tall cupboards further inside the hall.

A woman in her mid-thirties comes towards him along the corridor. She seems deep in thought, but perhaps she’s just listening to the music.

Her hair is black, and cut in a short, boyish style, and her eyes are hidden behind small round sunglasses. Her lips are pale pink, and her face appears to be completely free of make-up, yet she still looks like a French film star.

He realises that she must be Jackie Federer, the piano teacher.

She’s wearing a black, loose-knit sweater and a suede skirt, and has flat ballet-pumps on her feet.

‘Benjamin?’ she asks.

‘My name is Erik Maria Bark, I booked the lessons for my son, Benjamin … they were a birthday present, but I never told him about the gift … I’ve come instead, because I’m actually the one who wants to learn how to play.’

‘You want to learn to play the piano?’

‘Unless I’m too old,’ he hurries to say.

‘Come in, I’m just at the end of a lesson,’ the woman says.

He follows her back through the corridor, and sees her trace the fingers of one hand along the wall as she walks.

‘I got Benjamin another present, obviously,’ Erik explains to her back.

She opens a door and the music gets louder.

‘Have a seat,’ the woman says, and sits down on the edge of the sofa.

Light is streaming into the room from high windows looking out on to a leafy inner courtyard.

A sixteen-year-old girl is sitting with her back straight at a black piano. She is playing an advanced piece, her body rocking gently. She turns a page of the score, then her fingers run across the keys and her feet press deftly at the pedals.

‘Stay in time,’ Jackie says, her chin jutting.

The girl blushes but goes on playing. It sounds wonderful, but Erik can see that Jackie isn’t happy.

He wonders if she used to be a star, a famous concert pianist whose name he ought to know; Jackie Federer, a diva who wears dark glasses indoors.

The piece comes to an end, its notes lingering in the air until they ebb away. They’ve almost vanished when the girl takes her foot off the right pedal and the damper muffles the strings.

‘Good, that sounded much better today,’ Jackie says.

‘Thank you,’ the girl says, picking up her score and hurrying out.

Silence descends on the room. The large tree in the courtyard is casting swaying green shadows across the pale wooden floor.

‘So you want to learn to play the piano,’ Jackie says, getting up from the sofa.

‘I’ve always dreamed of learning, but I’ve never got round to it … Naturally, I’ve got absolutely no talent at all,’ Erik explains quickly. ‘I’m completely unmusical.’

‘That’s a shame,’ she says in a quiet voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we might as well have a go,’ she says, and puts her hand out to the wall.

‘Mummy, I’ve mixed some juice,’ the little girl says, and comes into the room with a tray containing glasses of juice.

‘Ask our guest if he’s thirsty.’

‘Are you thirsty?’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ Erik says, and takes a sip. ‘Do you play the piano as well?’

‘I’m better than Mummy was at my age,’ the girl replies, as if that’s a phrase she’s heard many times.

Jackie smiles and strokes her daughter’s hair and neck rather clumsily, before turning back towards him.

‘You’ve paid for twenty lessons,’ she says.

‘I have a tendency to go over the top,’ Erik admits.

‘So what do you want to get out of the course?’

‘If I’m honest, I fantasise about being able to play a sonata … one of Chopin’s nocturnes,’ Erik says, and feels himself blush. ‘But I’m aware I’m going to have to start with “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep”.’

‘We can work with Chopin, but perhaps an étude instead.’

‘If there’s a short one.’

‘Madeleine, can you get me Chopin … opus 25, the first étude.’

The girl searches the shelf next to Jackie, pulls out a folder and removes the score. Only when she puts it in her mother’s hand does Erik realise that the teacher is blind.

10

Erik can’t help smiling to himself as he sits in front of the highly polished black piano with the name C. Bechstein, Berlin picked out in small gold lettering.

‘He needs to lower the stool,’ the girl says.

Erik stands up and lowers the seat by spinning it a few times.

‘We’ll start with your right hand, but we’ll pick out some notes with your left.’

He looks at her fair face, with its straight nose and half-open mouth.

‘Don’t look at me, look at the notes and the keyboard,’ she says, reaching over his shoulder and putting her little finger gently on one of the black keys. A high note echoes inside the piano.

‘This is E flat … We’ll start with the first formation, which consists of six notes, six sixteenths,’ she says, and plays the notes.

‘OK,’ Erik mutters.

‘Where did I start?’

He presses the key, producing a hard note.

‘Use your little finger.’

‘How did you know …’

‘Because it’s natural – now, play,’ she says.

He struggles through the lesson, concentrating on her instructions, stressing the first note of the six, but loses his way when he has to add a few notes with his left hand. A couple of times she touches his hand again and tells him to relax his fingers.

‘OK, you’re tired, let’s stop there,’ Jackie says in a neutral voice. ‘You’ve done some good work.’

She gives him notes for the next lesson, then asks the girl to show him to the door. They pass a closed door with ‘No entry!’ scrawled in childish writing on a large sign.

‘Is that your room?’ Erik asks.

‘Only Mummy’s allowed in there,’ the child says.

‘When I was little I wouldn’t even let my mummy come into my room.’

‘Really?’

‘I drew a big skull and hung that on the door, but I think she went in anyway, because sometimes there were clean sheets on the bed.’

The evening air is fresh when he steps outside. It feels like he’s hardly been breathing during the course of the lesson. His back is so tense that it hurts, and he still feels strangely embarrassed.

When he gets home he has a long, hot shower, then he calls the piano teacher.

‘Yes, this is Jackie.’

‘Hello, Erik Maria Bark here. Your new pupil, you know …’

‘Hello,’ she says, curious.

‘I’m calling to … to apologise. I wasted your whole evening and … well, I can see it’s hopeless, it’s too late for me to …’

‘You did some good work, like I said,’ Jackie says. ‘Do the exercises I gave you and I’ll see you again soon.’

He doesn’t know what to say.

‘Goodnight,’ she says, and ends the call.

Before he goes to bed he puts on Chopin’s opus 25, to hear what he’s aiming at. When he hears the pianist Maurizio Pollini’s bubbling notes, he can’t help laughing.

11

The sun is high above the trees, and the blue-and-white plastic tape is fluttering in the breeze. A transparent shadow of the tape dances on the tarmac.

The police officers posted at the cordon let through a black Lincoln Towncar, and it rolls slowly along Stenhammarsvägen as a reflection of the green gardens runs across the black paint like a forest at night.

Margot Silverman pulls over to the kerb and glides smoothly to a halt behind the command vehicle, and sits there for a while with her hand on the handbrake.

She’s thinking about how hard they worked to try to identify Susanna Kern before time ran out, then, once an hour had passed and they realised it was too late, carried on anyway.

Margot and Adam had gone down to see their exhausted IT experts, and had just been told that it wasn’t possible to trace the video clip when the call came in.

Shortly after two o’clock in the morning the forensics team were at the scene, and the entire area between Bromma kyrkväg and Lillängsgatan had been cordoned off.

Throughout the day the arduous task of examining the crime scene continued as further attempts were made to question the victim’s husband, with the help of psychiatrist Erik Maria Bark.

The police have carried out door-to-door inquiries in the neighbourhood, they’ve checked recordings from nearby traffic-surveillance cameras, and Margot has booked a meeting for herself and Adam to see a forensics expert called Erixon.

She takes a deep breath, picks up her McDonald’s bag, and gets out of the car.

Outside the cordon blocking off Stenhammarsvägen is a growing pile of flowers, and there are now three candles burning. A few shocked neighbours have gathered in the parish hall, but most of them have stuck to their plans for the weekend.

They have no suspects.

Susanna’s ex-husband was playing football at Kristineberg sports club with their son when the police caught up with him. They already knew that he had an alibi for the time of the murder, but took him to one side to tell him.

Margot has been told that after he was informed, he went back in goal and saved penalty after penalty from the boy.

This morning Margot drew up a plan for the initial stages of the investigation in the absence of any witnesses or forensic results.

Paying particular attention to people convicted of sex crimes who have either been released or given parole recently, they’re planning to track down anyone who’s been institutionalised or attended a clinic for obsessive disorder therapy in the past couple of years, and then work closely with the criminal profiling unit.

Margot crumples the paper bag in her hand while she’s still chewing, then hands it to a uniformed officer.

‘I’m eating for five,’ she says.

Wearily she lifts the crime-scene tape over her head, then walks heavily towards Adam, who is waiting outside the gate.

‘Just so you know, there’s no serial killer,’ she says sullenly.

‘So I heard,’ he replies, and lets her go through the gate ahead of him.

‘Bosses,’ she sighs. ‘What the hell are they thinking? The evening tabloids are going to speculate, it doesn’t matter what we say; the police are fair game to them, but we have to follow the rules. It’s like shooting a fucking barrel.’

‘Fish in a barrel,’ Adam corrects her.

‘We don’t know what effect the media are likely to have on the perpetrator,’ she goes on. ‘He might feel exposed and become more cautious, withdraw for a while … or all the attention could feed his vanity and make him overconfident.’

Bright floodlights are shining through the windows of the house, as if it were a film location or the setting for a fashion shoot.

Erixon the forensics expert opens a can of Coca-Cola and hurries to drink it, as though there were some magic power in the first bubbles. His face is shiny with sweat, his mask is tucked below his chin, and his protective white overalls are straining at the seams to accommodate his huge stomach.

‘I’m looking for Erixon,’ Margot says.

‘Try looking for a massive meringue that cries if you so much as mention the numbers 5 and 2,’ Erixon replies, holding out his hand.

While Margot and Adam pull on their thin protective overalls, Erixon tells them he’s managed to get a print of a rubber-soled boot, size 43, from the outside steps, but all the evidence inside the house has been ruined or contaminated thanks to the efforts of the victim’s husband to clean up.

‘Everything’s taking five times as long,’ he says, wiping the sweat from his cheeks with a white handkerchief. ‘We can’t attempt the usual reconstruction, but I’ve had a few ideas about the course of events that we can talk through.’

‘And the body?’

‘We’ll take a look at Susanna, but she’s been moved, and … well, you know.’

‘Put to bed,’ Margot says.

Erixon helps her with the zip of her overalls, as Adam rolls up the sleeves of his.

‘We could start a kids’ programme about three meringues,’ Margot says, placing both hands on her stomach.

They sign their names on the list of visitors to the crime scene, then follow Erixon to the front door.

‘Ready?’ Erixon asks with sudden solemnity. ‘An ordinary home, an ordinary woman, all those good years – then a visitor from hell for a few short minutes.’

They go inside, the protective plastic rustles, the door closes behind them, the hinges squealing like a trapped hare. The daylight vanishes, and the sudden shift from a late summer’s day to the gloom of the hallway is blinding.

They stand still as their eyes adjust.

The air is warm and there are bloody handprints on the door frame and around the lock and handle, fumbling in horror.

A vacuum cleaner with no nozzle is standing on a plastic sheet on the floor. There’s a trickle of dark blood from the hose.

Adam’s mask moves rapidly in front of his mouth and beads of sweat break out on his forehead.

They follow Erixon across the protective boards on the floor towards the kitchen. There are bloody footprints on the linoleum. They’ve been clumsily wiped, and then trodden in again. One side of the sink is blocked with wet kitchen roll, and a shower-scraper is visible in the murky water.

‘We’ve found prints from Björn’s feet,’ Erixon says. ‘First he went round in his blood-soaked socks, then barefoot … we found his socks in the rubbish bin in the kitchen.’

He falls silent and they carry on into the passageway that connects the kitchen with the dining and living rooms.

A crime scene changes over time, and is gradually destroyed as the investigation proceeds. So as not to miss any evidence, forensics officers start by securing rubbish bins and vehicles parked in the area, and make a note of specific smells and other transitory elements.

Apart from that, they conduct a general examination of the crime scene from the outside in, and approach the body and the actual murder scene with caution.

The living room is bathed in bright light. The cloying smell of blood is inescapable. The chaos is oddly invisible because the furniture has been wiped and put back in position.

Yesterday evening Margot saw the video of Susanna as she stood in this room eating ice cream with a spoon, straight from the tub.

A plane comes in to land at Bromma Airport with a thunderous roar, making the glass-fronted cabinet rattle. Margot notes that all the porcelain figures are lying down, as if they were asleep.

Flies are buzzing around a bloody mop that’s been left behind the sofa. The water in the bucket is dark red, the floor streaked. It’s possible to see the trail of the mop by the damp marks left on the skirting boards and furniture.

‘First he tried to hoover up the blood,’ Erixon says. ‘I don’t really know, but he seems to have mopped the floor, then wiped it with a dishcloth and kitchen roll.’

‘He doesn’t remember anything,’ Margot says.

‘Almost all the original blood patterns have been destroyed, but he missed some here,’ Erixon says, pointing to a thin spatter on one strip of wallpaper.

He’s used the old technique and has stretched eight threads from the outermost marks on the wall to find the point where they converge – the point where the blood originated.

‘This is one precise point … the knife goes in at an angle from above, fairly deep,’ Erixon says breathlessly. ‘And of course this is one of the first blows.’

‘Because she’s on her feet,’ Margot says quietly.

‘Because she’s still on her feet,’ he confirms.

Margot looks at the cabinet containing the prone porcelain figures, and thinks that Susanna must have stumbled and hit it when she was trying to escape.

‘This wall has been cleaned,’ Erixon shows them. ‘So I’m having to guess a bit now, but she was probably leaning with her back against it, and slid down … She may have rolled over once, and may have kicked her legs … either way, she certainly lay here for a while with a punctured lung.’

Margot bends over and sees the blood that has been exhaled across the back of the sofa, from below, possibly during a cough.

‘But the blood carries on over there, doesn’t it? It looks like it,’ she says, pointing. ‘Susanna struggled like a wild animal …’

‘And we don’t even know where Björn found her?’ Adam asks.

‘No, but we do have a large concentration of blood over there,’ Erixon says, and points.

‘And there,’ Margot says, gesturing towards the window.

‘Yes, she was there, but she was dragged there … she was in various different places after she died, she lay on the sofa, and … in the bathroom, as well as …’

‘So now she’s in the bedroom,’ Margot says.

12

The white light of the floodlamps fills the bedroom, forming blinding suns in the glass of the window. Everything is illuminated, every thread, every swirling mote of dust. A trail of blood runs across the pale grey carpet to the bed, like tiny black pearls.

Margot stops inside the door, but hears the others carry on towards the bed, then the rustling of their overalls stops.

‘God,’ Adam gasps in a muffled voice.

Once again Margot thinks of the video, of Susanna walking about with her trousers dangling from one foot as she kicked to get rid of them.

She lowers her eyes and sees that her clothes have been turned the right way and are now piled neatly on the chair.

‘Margot? Are you OK?’

She meets Adam’s gaze, sees his dilated pupils, hears the dull buzz of flies, and forces herself to look at the victim.

The covers have been pulled up under her chin.

Her face is nothing but a dark-red, deformed pulp. He’s hacked, cut, stabbed and carved away at it.

She goes closer and sees a single eye staring crookedly up at the ceiling.

Erixon folds the covers back. They’re stiff with dried blood; skin and fabric have stuck together. There’s a faint crunching sound as the dried blood comes loose, and little crumbs rain down.

Adam raises one hand to his mouth.

The inhuman brutality was concentrated around her face, neck and chest. The dead woman is naked and smeared in blood, with more stab-wounds and further bleeding beneath her skin.

Erixon photographs the body, and Margot points at a mottled green patch to the right of her stomach.

‘That’s normal,’ Erixon says.

Her pubic hair has started to regrow around the reddish blonde tuft on her pudenda. There are no visible marks or injuries to the insides of the thighs.

Erixon takes several hundred pictures of the body, from the head resting on the pillow all the way down to the tips of her toes.

‘I’m going to have to touch you now, Susanna,’ he whispers, and lifts her left arm.

He turns it over and looks at the defensive wounds, cuts which indicate that she tried to fend off the attack.

With practised gestures he scrapes under her fingernails, the most common place to find a perpetrator’s DNA. He uses a new tube for each nail, attaches a label and makes a note on the computer on the bedside table.

Her fingers are limp, because rigor mortis has loosened its grip now.

When he’s done with her nails he carefully pulls a plastic bag over her hand and fastens it with tape, ahead of the post-mortem.

‘I pay house visits to ordinary people every week,’ Erixon says quietly. ‘They’ve all got broken glass, overturned furniture and blood on the floor.’

He walks round the bed and carries on with the nails of the other hand. Just as he’s about to pick it up he stops.

‘There’s something in her hand,’ he says, and reaches for his camera. ‘Do you see?’

Margot leans forward and looks. She can make out a dark object between the dead woman’s fingers. She must have been clutching it tightly because of rigor mortis, but now it’s visible as her hand relaxes.

Erixon picks up the woman’s hand and carefully lifts the object. It’s as if she still wants to hold on to it, but is too tired to struggle.

His bulky frame blocks Margot’s view, but then she sees what the victim was clutching in her hand.

A tiny, broken-off porcelain deer’s head.

The head is shiny, chestnut-brown, the broken surface at the bottom white as sugar.

Did the perpetrator or her husband put it in her hand?

Margot thinks of the glass-fronted cabinet, she’s almost certain that all the porcelain figures were intact, even if they had fallen over.

She steps back to get an overview of the bedroom. Beside the dead woman Erixon stands, hunch-backed, photographing the little brown head. Adam is sitting slumped on a pouffe in front of the wardrobe. It looks like he’s still trying not to throw up.

Margot walks back out to the glass-fronted cabinet again, and stands for a while in front of the toppled figurines. They’re all lying as if they were dead, but none of them is broken, none is missing its head.

Why is the victim holding a small deer’s head in her hand?

She looks over towards the bright light of the bedroom and thinks that she ought to go and take one last look at the body before it’s moved to the pathology department in Solna.

13

It’s morning, and Erik Maria Bark is standing at the till in the cafeteria of the Psychology Clinic, buying a cup of coffee. As he takes his wallet out to pay, he feels the ache in his shoulders from his piano lesson.

‘It’s already been paid for,’ the cashier says.

‘Already paid for?’

‘Your friend has paid for your coffee all the way up to Christmas.’

‘Did he say what his name was?’

‘Nestor,’ she replies.

Erik smiles and nods, thinking that he really must talk to Nestor about his over-effusive gratitude. It’s Erik’s job to help people, Nestor doesn’t owe him anything.

He’s still thinking of his former patient’s friendly, cautious manner when he hears muted footsteps behind him and turns round. The pregnant superintendent is rolling towards him, waving a shrink-wrapped sandwich in his direction.

‘Björn’s fallen asleep, and seems to be feeling a bit better,’ she says breathlessly. ‘He wants to help us, and is willing to try hypnosis.’

‘I’ve got an hour, if we can start now,’ Erik says, quickly drinking his coffee.

‘Do you think it’s going to work on him?’ she asks as they head in the direction of the treatment room.

‘Hypnosis is just a way of getting his brain to relax, so that he can begin to sort his memories in a less chaotic way.’

‘But the prosecutor’s unlikely to be able to use statements made under hypnosis,’ she says.

‘No,’ Erik smiles. ‘But it might mean that Björn will be in a fit state to testify later on … and it could definitely help move the investigation forward.’

When they enter the room Björn is standing behind one of the armchairs, clutching its back with his hands. His eyes are dull, as if they were made from worn plastic.

‘I’ve only seen hypnosis on television,’ he says in a fragile voice. ‘I mean, I’m not sure I really believe in it …’

‘Just think of hypnosis as a way to help you feel better.’

‘But I want her to leave,’ he says, looking at Margot.

‘Of course,’ Erik says.

‘Can you talk to her?’

Margot remains seated on the sofa, there’s no change in her expression.

‘You’ll have to go and wait outside,’ Erik says quietly.

‘I’ve got symphysis, I need to sit down.’

‘You know where the cafeteria is,’ he replies.

She sighs and stands up, takes her mobile out and heads towards the door, opens it, then turns back towards Erik.

‘Would you mind coming outside for a moment?’ she says amiably.

‘OK,’ he says, and follows her into the corridor.

‘We haven’t got time to nursemaid him,’ she whispers.

‘I understand how you feel, but I’m a doctor and it’s my job to help him.’

‘I’ve got a job as well,’ Margot says in a voice thin with irritation. ‘And it involves stopping a murderer. This is serious, Björn knows things that—’

‘This isn’t an interrogation,’ he interrupts. ‘You know that, we’ve already talked about it.’

He watches the superintendent fighting her own impatience, then she nods as if she understands and accepts his words.

‘As long as it doesn’t harm him,’ she says, ‘from where I’m standing … well, every tiny detail could be of vital importance to the investigation.’

14

Erik shuts the door behind him, unfolds the stand and attaches the camera to it. Björn watches him, rubbing his forehead hard with one hand.

‘Do you have to film it?’ he asks.

‘It’s just a case of documenting what I do,’ Erik replies. ‘And I’d rather not have to be taking notes the whole time.’

‘OK,’ Björn says, as though he hadn’t really listened to Erik’s reply.

‘You can start by lying down on the sofa,’ Erik says as he goes over to the window and draws the curtains.

The room fills with a pleasant semi-darkness, and Björn lies back and shuffles down a little, then closes his eyes. Erik sits down on a chair, moves closer to him, and sees how tense he is. Thoughts are still racing through his head, as different impulses tug at his body.

‘Breathe slowly through your nose,’ Erik says. ‘Relax your mouth, your chin and cheeks … feel the back of your head lying with all its weight on the pillow, feel your neck relax … you don’t need to hold your head up now, because your head is resting on the pillow … Your jaw muscles are relaxing, your forehead is smooth and untroubled, your eyelids are feeling heavier …’

Erik takes his time, and moves through the whole body, from Björn’s head to his toes, then back up to his weary eyelids and the weight of his head again.

With soporific monotony, Erik slips into the induction, speaking in a falling tone of voice as he tries to gather his strength in advance of what is coming.

Björn’s body gradually begins to exhibit an almost cataleptic relaxation. A mental trauma can lead to increased receptivity to hypnosis, as if the brain were longing for a fresh command, a way out of an unsustainable state.

‘The only thing you’re listening to is my voice … if you hear anything else, it only makes you feel more relaxed, and more focused on my words … I’m about to start counting backwards, and for each number you hear, you’ll relax a bit more.’

Erik thinks about what’s coming, what’s waiting inside the house, what Björn saw when he walked in through the door: the illuminated moment when the shock hit with full force.

‘Nine hundred and twelve,’ he says quietly. ‘Nine hundred and eleven …’

With each exhalation Erik says a number, slowly and monotonously. After a while he breaks the logical sequence, but still carries on the countdown. Björn is now down at a perfect depth. The sharp frown on his brow has relaxed and his mouth looks softer. Erik counts, and sinks into hypnotic resonance with a curious shiver in his stomach.

‘Now you’re deeply relaxed … you’re resting nice and calmly,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Soon you’re going to revisit your memories of Friday night … When I finish counting down to zero, you will be standing outside your house, but you’re completely calm, because there’s no danger … Four, three, two, one … Now you’re standing in the street outside your house, the taxi is driving away, the tyres are crunching on the grit covering the tarmac …’

Björn opens his eyes, his eyes gleaming, but his gaze is focused inward, into his memories, and his heavy eyelids close once more.

‘Are you looking at the house now?’

Björn is standing in the cool night air in front of his house. A strange glow is lighting up the sky in time with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. It looks like the house is leaning forward as the light expands and the shadows withdraw.

‘It’s moving,’ he says almost inaudibly.

‘Now you’re walking up to the door,’ Erik says. ‘The night air is mild, there’s nothing unpleasant …’

Björn starts as some jackdaws fly up from a tree. They’re visible against the sky, their shadows move across the grass, and then they’re gone.

‘You’re perfectly safe,’ Erik says as he sees Björn’s hand move anxiously over the seat of the sofa.

15

Deep in his trance, Björn slowly approaches the door. He keeps to the stone path, but something about the black shimmer of the window catches his attention.

‘You’ve reached the door, you take your key out and put it in the lock,’ Erik says.

Björn carefully pushes the handle, but the door is stuck. He tries harder, and there’s a sticky sound when it eventually opens.

Erik sees that Björn’s brow is sweating, and repeats in a soothing voice that there’s nothing to be scared of.

Björn tries to open his eyes and whisper something. Erik leans forward, and feels his breath against his ear.

‘The doorstep … something odd about it …’

‘Yes, this doorstep has always been odd,’ Erik replies calmly. ‘But once you’ve crossed it, everything will be just as it was on Friday.’

Erik notes that the whole of Björn’s face is covered with a sheen of sweat as his chin begins to tremble.

‘No, no,’ he whispers, shaking his head.

Erik realises that he needs to put him in deeper hypnosis if he’s to be able to enter the house.

‘All you have to do now is listen to my voice,’ Erik says. ‘Because soon you’ll be in an even more relaxed state, and there’s nothing to be worried about there … You’re sinking deeper as I count: four … you’re sinking, three … getting calmer, two … one, and now you’re completely relaxed, and can see that the doorstep isn’t any sort of barrier …’

Björn’s face is slack, his mouth is hanging open, one corner wet with saliva: he’s in a deeper state of hypnosis than Erik had intended.

‘If you feel ready, you can … cross the threshold now.’

Björn doesn’t want to, he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to, but he still takes a step into the hall. His looks along the corridor towards the kitchen. Everything is the same as usual, there’s an advertisement from Bauhaus on the doormat, too many shoes piled up on the shoe-rack, the umbrella that always falls over does so again, and his keys jangle as he puts them on the chest of drawers.

‘Everything is the same as usual,’ he whispers. ‘The same as …’

He falls silent when he notices a strange, rolling movement from the corner of his eye. He daren’t turn to look in that direction, and stares straight ahead while something moves at the edge of his field of vision.

‘There’s something strange … off to the side … I …’

‘What did you say?’ Erik asks.

‘It’s moving, off to the side …’

‘OK, just let it go,’ Erik replies. ‘Look straight ahead and keep going.’

Björn walks through the hall, but his eyes keep getting drawn to the side, towards the clothes hanging in the porch. They’re moving slowly in the gloom, as if a wind were blowing through the house. The sleeves of Susanna’s trenchcoat lift in a gust, then fall back.

‘Look ahead of you,’ Erik says.

Someone suffering mental trauma experiences a chaotic jumble of memories that press in on them from all sides: they lose all coherence, fade away and lurch into view, all mixed up.

All Erik can do is try to lead Björn through the rooms, towards the fundamental insight that he couldn’t have prevented his wife’s death.

‘I’m in the kitchen now,’ he whispers.

‘Keep going,’ Erik says.

There’s a bag of newspapers for recycling in the passageway leading to the door of the cellar. Björn takes a cautious step forward, looking straight ahead, but he still sees a kitchen drawer slide open, and it rattles when it comes to a halt.

‘One drawer is open,’ he mutters.

‘Which one?’

Björn knows it’s the drawer containing the knives, and he knows that he’s the one opening it, seeing as he washed a large knife several hours earlier.

‘Oh, God … I can’t … I …’

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re safe, and I’ll be with you as you go further in.’

‘I’m walking past the door to the cellar, towards the living room … Susanna must have gone to bed already …’

It’s quiet, the television is switched off, but something’s different, the furniture seems to be in the wrong places, as if a giant had picked the house up and given it a gentle shake.

‘Sanna?’ Björn whispers.

He reaches out his hand towards the light switch. The room doesn’t light up, but the glow fills the windows that look out onto the garden. He can’t help thinking he’s being watched, and feels an urge to close the curtains.

‘God, oh God, oh God,’ he suddenly whimpers, his face trembling.

Erik realises that Björn is there now, in the midst of his memory of the traumatic event, but he’s barely describing anything, he’s keeping it to himself.

Björn is getting closer, sees himself in the black window, sees the bushes outside move in the wind, far beyond the reflections.

He’s gasping even though he’s under deep hypnosis, his body tenses and his back arches.

‘What’s happening?’ Erik asks.

Björn stops when he sees someone with a dark grey face looking back at him in the window. Right next to the glass. He takes a step back and feels his heart pounding hard in his chest. A branch of the rosebush sways and scrapes the window ledge. He realises that the grey face isn’t outside. There’s someone sitting on the floor in front of the window. He can see their reflection.

A calm voice repeats that there’s nothing to be scared of.

He moves to the side and realises that it’s Susanna. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the window.

‘Sanna?’ he says quietly, so as not to startle her.

He can see her shoulder, some of her hair. She’s leaning back against an armchair, looking out. He approaches cautiously and feels that the floor is wet beneath his feet.

‘She’s sitting down,’ he mutters.

‘She’s sitting?’

Björn goes closer to the armchair by the window, and then the light in the ceiling comes on and the room is bathed in light. He knows he switched it on, but is still frightened when the bright light fills the room.

There’s blood everywhere.

He’s trodden in blood, it’s splashed across the television and sofa, and up the walls, there are smears of blood on the floor, trickling into the gaps between the wood.

She’s sitting on the floor in a dark-red pool. A dead woman wearing Sanna’s kimono. Dust has settled on the pool of blood around her.

Erik sees Björn’s face tense, and his lips and the tip of his nose turn white. As soon as Björn has realised that the dead woman is his wife, Erik is planning to bring him out of the hypnosis.

‘Who can you see?’ he asks.

‘No … no,’ he whispers.

‘You know who it is,’ Erik says.

‘Susanna,’ he says slowly, and opens his eyes.

‘You can move back now,’ Erik says. ‘I’m going to wake you up in a moment, and—’

‘There’s so much blood, God, I don’t want to … Her face, it’s been destroyed, and she’s sitting perfectly still, with—’

‘Björn, listen to my voice, I’m going to count from—’

‘She’s sitting with her hand over her ear, and there’s blood dripping from her elbow,’ he says, panting for breath.

Erik feels an icy chill as adrenalin fills his veins for a few seconds, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. With his heart pounding he glances towards the closed door of the treatment room and hears a trolley rattle as it moves away.

‘Look at your own hands,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘You’re looking at your own hands and you’re breathing slowly. With each breath you’re feeling calmer—’

‘I don’t want to,’ Björn whispers.

Erik can feel that he’s forcing him, but he has to know the position Björn’s wife was sitting in when he found her.

‘Before I wake you up, we need to go deeper,’ he says, swallowing hard. ‘Beneath the house that you’re in is another house, identical to the other one … but down there is the only place you can see Susanna clearly. Three, two, one, and now you’re there … She’s sitting on the floor in the pool of blood, and you can look at her without feeling frightened.’

‘Her face is almost gone, it’s just blood,’ Björn says sluggishly. ‘And her hand is stuck to her ear …’

‘Keep going,’ Erik says, glancing at the door again.

‘Her hand is tangled up in … in the cord of her kimono.’

‘Björn, I’m going to bring you up now … to the house above, and the only thing you know there is that Susanna is dead and that there was nothing you could have done to save her … That’s the only thing you’re going to take with you when I wake you up, you’re going to leave everything else behind.’

16

Erik closes his office door and goes over to his desk. He feels that his back is wet with sweat when he sits down.

‘It’s nothing,’ he whispers anxiously to himself.

He moves the mouse to wake his computer up, then logs in. With his hand trembling he pulls open the top drawer, presses a Mogadon out of a blister-pack and swallows it without water.

He quickly signs into the database of patients, and notices how cold his fingers are as he waits to be able to perform a search.

He jumps when Superintendent Margot Silverman opens the door without knocking. She walks in and stops in front of him with her hands clasped round her stomach.

‘Björn Kern says he can’t remember what you talked about.’

‘That’s natural,’ Erik replies, minimising the document.

‘How did you get on with the hypnosis, then?’ she asks, running her hand over the wooden elephant from Malaysia.

‘He was definitely receptive …’

‘So you were able to hypnotise him?’ she smiles.

‘I’m afraid I forgot to start the camera,’ Erik lies. ‘Otherwise I could have shown you, he went into a trance almost instantly.’

‘You forgot to start the camera?’

‘You know that this wasn’t an official interview,’ he says, a touch impatiently. ‘This was a first step towards what we call affective stabilisation, so that—’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ she cuts him off.

‘So that you can have a functional witness later on,’ he concludes.

‘How much later? Will he be able to say anything later today?’

‘I think he’s going to realise what happened fairly quickly, but talking about it is another matter.’

‘So what happened? What did he say? He must have said something, surely?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No fucking oath of confidentiality bollocks now,’ she interrupts. ‘I have to know, otherwise people will die.’

Erik goes over to the window and leans on the sill. Far below a patient is standing smoking, thin and bent-backed in his hospital gown.

‘I took him back,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Into the house … it was rather complicated, because it was very recent, and full of fragments of terrible memories.’

‘But he saw everything … could he see everything?’

‘It was only to make him understand that he couldn’t have saved her.’

‘But he saw the murder scene, and his wife? Did he?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Erik replies.

‘So what did he say?’

‘Not much … he talked about blood … and the wounds to her face.’

‘Was she in a particular position? A posture with sexual implications?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was she sitting up or lying down? How did her mouth look, where were her hands? Was she naked? Violated?’

‘He said very little,’ Erik replies. ‘It can take a long time to reach details of that sort …’

‘I swear, if he doesn’t start talking I’ll take him into custody,’ she says in a loud voice. ‘I’ll drag him off to headquarters and watch him like a hawk until—’

‘Margot,’ Erik interrupts in a friendly voice.

She looks at him with a subdued expression, nods and breathes through her mouth, then pulls out a business card and puts it down on his desk.

‘We don’t know who his next victim’s going to be. It could be your wife. Think about that,’ she says, and leaves the room.

Erik feels his face relax. He walks slowly back to his desk. The floor is starting to feel soft beneath his feet. As he sits down in front of his computer there’s a knock on the door.

‘Yes?’

‘That charming superintendent has left the building,’ Nelly says, peering round the door.

‘She’s only trying to do her job.’

‘I know, she doesn’t really seem too bad …’

‘Stop it,’ he says, but can’t help smiling.

‘No, but she was pretty funny,’ Nelly says and laughs.

Erik rests his head on his hand and she turns serious and walks in, closes the door behind her and looks at him.

‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing,’ he replies.

‘Tell me,’ she insists, sitting down on the corner of his desk.

Her red woollen dress crackles with static electricity against her nylon tights as she crosses her legs.

‘I don’t know,’ Erik sighs.

‘What’s up with you?’ she laughs.

Erik stands up, takes a deep breath and looks at her.

‘Nelly,’ he says, and she can hear how empty his voice sounds. ‘I need to ask you about a patient … Before you started working here, Nina Blom put together a team for a complicated research project.’

‘Go on,’ she says, looking at him with obvious curiosity.

‘I know I outlined my cases to you, but this may not have been included, I mean …’

‘What’s the patient’s name?’ she asks calmly.

‘Rocky Kyrklund – do you remember him?’

‘Yes, hang on,’ she says tentatively.

‘He was a priest.’

‘Exactly, I remember, you talked about him quite a lot,’ she says as she thinks. ‘You had a file of pictures from the crime scene, and—’

‘You don’t remember where he ended up?’ he interrupts.

‘That was years ago,’ she replies.

‘He’s still inside, though, isn’t he?’

‘We’d better hope so,’ she replied. ‘He’d killed people, after all, hadn’t he?’

‘A woman.’ Erik nods.

‘That’s right, now I remember. Her whole face was destroyed.’

17

Nelly stands behind Erik as he makes his way through the patient database on his computer. He types Rocky Kyrklund’s name, searches, and discovers that he was sent to Karsudden District Hospital.

‘Karsudden,’ he says quietly.

She brushes a strand of blonde hair from her cheek and looks at him, her eyes narrowing.

‘Do you want to tell me why we’re talking about this patient?’

‘Rocky Kyrklund’s victim had been posed. You won’t remember, but she was lying on the floor with her face horribly disfigured, and her hand round her neck … I’ve just hypnotised Björn Kern, and … and he described details that were very reminiscent of the old murder.’

‘The one committed by the priest?’

‘I don’t know, but Björn Kern said his wife’s face had been completely destroyed … and that she was sitting with her hand over her ear.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘I don’t know,’ Erik mutters.

‘I mean, you did tell that … lovely pregnant lady?’

‘I didn’t tell her anything.’ Erik says.

‘You didn’t?’ she asks, a sceptical smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘Because it emerged while he was under hypnosis, and—’

‘But he wanted to talk, didn’t he?’

‘I might have misheard,’ Erik says.

‘Misheard?’ she laughs.

‘It’s just so sick – I can’t think clearly any more.’

‘Erik, it probably isn’t important, but you have to tell the police, that’s why they’re here,’ Nelly says gently.

He walks over to the window. The area where the patients stand and smoke is empty now. But he can still see the cigarette butts and sweet wrappers that have been tossed on the ground, and a blue shoe-cover that’s been pushed into the ashtray.

‘It’s a long time ago, but to me … Do you know what those weeks were like? I didn’t want Rocky to be released,’ Erik says slowly. ‘It was everything … the brutality, the eyes, the hands …’

‘I know I read all about it,’ Nelly says. ‘I don’t remember the details of your recommendation, but I know you said he was seriously bloody dangerous and that there was a severe risk of a relapse.’

‘What if he’s out? I’ve got to call Karsudden,’ Erik says, then picks up his phone, checks his computer, and dials the number for Simon Casillas, the senior consultant in charge.

Nelly sits down on Erik’s sofa while he talks to the doctor, and smiles at him when he looks at her as he exchanges the usual pleasantries and when he ends the conversation by repeating that the consultant’s article in Swedish Psychiatry really was excellent.

The sun passes behind a cloud and darkness falls across the room, as if a huge figure were standing in front of the building.

‘Rocky is still in Ward D:4,’ Erik says. ‘And he’s never been let out on parole.’

‘Does that feel better?’

‘No,’ he whispers.

‘Are you losing your grip?’ she asks, so seriously that he can’t help smiling.

He sighs and puts his hands to his face, then slowly lowers them, feeling his fingertips press gently against his eyelids and down his cheeks before he looks at Nelly again.

Her back is straight as she looks at him carefully. A tiny, sharp little wrinkle has appeared between her thin eyebrows.

‘OK, listen,’ Erik says. ‘I know this is completely wrong, but in one of the last conversations I had with Rocky, he claimed he had an alibi for the night of the murder, but I didn’t want him to be released simply because he’d bought himself a witness.’

‘What are you trying to say?’ she asks quietly.

‘I never passed that information on.’

‘No way,’ she says.

‘He could have been released—’

‘Bloody hell, you can’t do that!’ she interrupts.

‘I know, but he was guilty and he would have killed again.’

‘That’s not our business, we’re psychologists, we’re not detectives, and we aren’t judges …’

She takes a few agitated steps, then stops and shakes her head.

‘Fucking hell,’ she gasps. ‘You’re mad, you’re completely—’

‘I can understand you being angry.’

‘Yes, I am angry. I mean, you know, if this gets out you’d lose your job.’

‘I know what I did was wrong, it’s tormented me ever since, but I’ve always been utterly convinced that I stopped a murderer.’

‘Shit,’ she mutters.

He picks up the business card from his desk and begins to dial the superintendent’s number.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘I need to tell her about Rocky’s alibi, and the whole business about the hand and the ear, and—’

‘Go ahead,’ she interrupts. ‘But what if you were right, what if his alibi wasn’t real? Then any similarities are just coincidence.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Then ask yourself what you’re going to do with the rest of your life,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to give up being a doctor, you’ll lose your income, you might even face charges, all the scandal and gossip in the papers—’

‘It’s my own fault.’

‘Find out if the alibi checks out first – if it does, then I’ll report you myself.’

‘Thanks,’ he laughs.

‘I’m being serious,’ she says.

18

Erik leaves the car in front of the garage, hurries up the path to his dark house, unlocks the door and goes inside. He turns the light on in the hall but doesn’t take his outdoor clothes off, just carries on down the steep staircase to the cellar that contains his extensive archive.

In the locked steel cabinets he keeps all the documents from his years in Uganda, from the major research project at the Karolinska Institute, and about his patients at the Psychology Clinic. All the written material is collected in the form of logbooks, personal journals and extensive notes. The recordings of his sessions have been saved on eight external hard-drives.

Erik’s heart is thumping as he unlocks one of the cabinets and searches back in time to the year when his life crossed paths with that of Rocky Kyrklund.

He pulls the file out of a black box and hurries upstairs to his study. He switches the lamp on, glances at the black window, removes the elastic band round the file, and opens it on the desk in front of him.

It was nine years ago, and life was very different. Benjamin was still in primary school, Simone was writing her dissertation in art history, and he himself had just started working at the Crisis and Trauma Centre with Professor Sten W Jakobsson.

He no longer remembers the exact details of how he was contacted and invited to join a team for a forensic psychology project. He had actually decided not to take part in anything like that again but, given the particular circumstances, changed his mind when his colleague Nina Blom asked for his help.

Erik remembers spending the evening in his new office, reading the material the prosecutor had sent over. The man who was going to be evaluated was a Rocky Kyrklund, and he was vicar of the parish of Salem. He was being held in custody on suspicion of having murdered Rebecka Hansson, a forty-three-year-old woman who had attended Mass and then stayed behind to speak to him in private on the Sunday before she was murdered.

The murder had been extremely aggressive, fuelled by hatred. The victim’s face and arms had been destroyed. She was found lying on the linoleum floor of her bathroom, with her right hand around her neck.

There was fairly persuasive forensic evidence. Rocky had sent her a number of threatening text messages, and his fingerprints and strands of his hair were found in her home, and traces of Rebecka’s blood were found on his shoes.

An arrest warrant was issued and he was eventually picked up seven months later in conjunction with a serious traffic accident on the motorway at Brunnby. He had stolen a car at Finsta and was heading for the airport at Arlanda.

In the accident Rocky Kyrklund suffered serious brain damage which led to epileptic seizures in the frontal and temporal lobes of his brain.

He would suffer recurrent bouts of automatism and memory loss for the rest of his life.

When Erik met Rocky Kyrklund, his face was criss-crossed with red scars from the accident, his arm was in plaster, and his hair had just started to grow again after several operations. Rocky was a large man with a booming voice. He was almost two metres tall, broad-shouldered, with big hands and a thick neck.

Sometimes he would faint, falling off his chair, knocking over the flimsy table holding glasses and a jug of water, and hit his shoulder on the floor. But sometimes his epileptic attacks were almost invisible. He just seemed a bit subdued and distant, and afterwards he couldn’t remember what they had been talking about.

Erik and Rocky got on fairly well. The priest was undeniably charismatic. He somehow managed to give the impression of speaking straight from the heart.

Erik leafs through the private journal in which he made notes during their conversations. The various subjects can be traced from one session to the next.

Rocky had neither admitted nor denied the murder; he said he couldn’t remember Rebecka Hansson at all, and couldn’t explain why his fingerprints had been found in her home, or how her blood came to be on his shoes.

During the best of their conversations, Rocky would circle the small islands of memories in an attempt to discern a bit more.

Once he said that he and Rebecka Hansson had had intercourse in the sacristy, albeit interrupted. He could remember details, such as the rough rug they had been lying on. An old gift from the young women of the parish. She had begun to menstruate, leaving a small bloodstain, like a virgin, he said.

During the following conversations he couldn’t remember any of this.

The conclusion of the examination was that the crime had been committed under the influence of severe mental disturbance. The team believed that Rocky Kyrklund suffered from a grandiose, narcissistic personality disorder with elements of paranoia.

Erik leafs past a circled note, ‘paying for sex + drug abuse’, in the journal, followed by some ideas for medication.

Naturally he shouldn’t have had an opinion on the matter of guilt, but as time passed Erik became convinced that Rocky was guilty, and that his mental disorder constituted a serious risk of further crimes.

During one of their last sessions, Rocky was talking about a ceremony to mark the end of the school year in a church decked out with spring greenery, when he suddenly looked up at Erik and said he hadn’t murdered Rebecka Hansson.

‘I remember everything now, I’ve got an alibi for the whole of that evening,’ he said.

He wrote down the name Olivia, and an address, then gave the sheet of paper to Erik. They carried on talking, and Rocky began to speak in broken fragments, then fell completely silent, looked at Erik, and suffered a severe epileptic attack. Afterwards Rocky didn’t remember anything, he didn’t even recognise Erik, just kept whispering about wanting heroin, saying he could kill a child if only he was given thirty grams of medical diacetylmorphine in a bottle with an unbroken seal.

Erik never took Rocky’s claim of an alibi seriously. At best it was a lie; at worst Rocky could have bribed or threatened someone to support the alibi.

Erik threw away the scrap of paper, and Rocky Kyrklund was found guilty and sentenced to secure psychiatric care, with severe restrictions on any parole application.

And nine years later a woman is murdered in Bromma in a way that was reminiscent of Rebecka Hansson’s murder, Erik thinks, closing the file bearing Rocky’s name.

Aggressive violence directed at the face, neck and chest.

But, on the other hand, murders of this sort aren’t altogether unusual. They can be triggered by anything from the jealousy of an ex-husband, aggression linked to Rohypnol and anabolic steroids, so-called honour killings, or a pimp making an example of a prostitute trying to break away from him.

The only concrete connection is that Susanna Kern was left at the scene of the murder with her hand covering her ear, just like Rebecka Hansson was found on the floor with her hand round her own neck.

Perhaps Susanna Kern merely got tangled up in the belt of her kimono during the struggle.

The parallels certainly aren’t unambiguous, but they are there, and they’re forcing Erik to do something he should have done a long time ago.

He puts the file in his desk drawer and looks up the number of senior consultant Simon Casillas at Karsudden Hospital once more.

‘Casillas,’ the man answers in a voice like dried leather.

‘Erik Maria Bark from the Karolinska.’

‘Hello again.’

‘I’ve checked my diary, and I could actually squeeze in a visit.’

‘A visit?’

The sound of a squash court is audible in the background, a ball hitting the wall, the squeak of shoes.

‘I’m taking part in a research project for the Osher Centre at the Institute which involves us following up on old patients, right across the spectrum … which means I’m going to have to interview Rocky Kyrklund.’

Before they end the conversation Erik hears himself babble about the fabricated research project, about health-service funding, tax declarations, online CBT, and someone called Doctor Stünkel.

He slowly puts his phone down on the desk. Watches the little screen turn black as it slips into dormancy. The room is perfectly still. His leather seat creaks quietly like a moored boat. Through the open window he can hear the hiss of an evening shower approach across the gardens.

He bends forward and rests his elbows on the desk, leans his head on his hands and asks himself what on earth he’s doing. What did I just say? he thinks. And who the hell is Stünkel?

This could be a crazy idea, he knows that. But he also knows he has no choice. If Rocky’s alibi was genuine, then he must be released, even if that would mean a media frenzy and a miscarriage of justice.

Erik skims through the logbook. There are no notes about an alibi, but towards the end one page has been torn out. He leafs forward, then stops. From that last session with Rocky there’s a faint note in pencil that Erik doesn’t remember. In the middle of the page, it says ‘a priest with dirty clothes’ across the lines, then the remainder of the book is blank.

He stands up and goes out into the kitchen to find something to eat. While he walks through the library he repeats to himself that he has to find out if Rocky’s alibi was real.

If it was genuine, then this new murder could be connected to the old one, and Erik will have to confess everything.

19

Saga Bauer is driving slowly through the vast campus of the Karolinska Institute. As she approaches Retzius väg 5, she turns into the deserted car park and stops in front of the empty building.

Even though she’s tired and not wearing any make-up, hasn’t washed her hair and is wearing baggy clothes, most people would probably say she was the most beautiful person they had ever seen.

Recently there’s been something hungry and hunted about her appearance: the bright blue of her eyes makes her creamy white skin look radiant.

On the floor in front of the passenger seat is a green holdall containing underwear, a bulletproof vest and five cartridges of ammunition: .45 ACP, hollow-tipped.

Saga Bauer has been on sick leave from her job with the Security Police for more than a year, and she hasn’t visited the boxing club in all that time.

The only time she’s missed work was during Barack Obama’s visit to Stockholm. She stood at a distance and watched the President’s cortège. Being constantly on the lookout for threats is an occupational hazard. She remembers the tingle that ran through her body when she identified a potential vantage point from which to fire a rocket-propelled grenade, an unguarded window, but a moment later the danger had passed and nothing had happened.

The Forensic Medicine Department is closed, all the lights in the red-brick building seem to be off, but a white Jaguar with a damaged front bumper is parked on the path right in front of the entrance.

Saga leans to the side, opens the glove compartment, takes out the glass jar and leaves the car. The air is mild and smells of freshly mown grass. She feels her Glock 21 bouncing under her left arm, and can hear a faint sloshing sound from the jar as she walks.

Saga has to clamber across the flowerbed to get past Nils Åhlén’s car. The thorns of the wild rose make a scratching sound as they let go of her military trousers. The branches sway and a few rose petals drift to the ground.

The lock of the front door is prevented from clicking shut with the help of a rolled-up information leaflet.

She’s been here enough times before to find her way. The grit on the poorly cleaned floor crunches as she heads down the corridor towards the swing-door.

She can’t help smiling when she looks at the jar, and the cloudy liquid, the particles circling round.

The memory flashes through her, and her free hand goes involuntarily to one of the scars he left on her face, the deep cut just below her eyebrow.

Sometimes she thinks he must have seen something special in her, that that was why he spared her life, and sometimes she thinks that he simply considered death too easy – he wanted her to live with the lies he had made her believe, in the hell he had created for her.

She’ll never know.

The only thing that is certain is that he chose not to kill her, and she chose to kill him.

She thinks of the darkness and the deep snow as she walks down the empty corridor of the Forensic Medicine Department.

‘I hit him,’ she whispers to herself.

She moistens her mouth, and in her mind’s eye sees herself firing and hitting him in the neck, arm and chest.

‘Three shots to the chest …’

She changed her magazine and shot him again when he’d fallen into the rapids, she held the flare up and saw the cloud of blood spread out around him. She ran along the bank, shooting at the dark object, and carried on firing even though the body had been carried off by the current.

I know I killed him, she thinks.

But they never found his body. The police sent divers under the ice, and checked both banks with sniffer-dogs.

Outside the office is a neat metal sign bearing his name and title: Nils Åhlén, Professor of Forensic Medicine.

The door is open, and the slight figure is sitting at his neat desk reading the newspaper with a pair of latex gloves on his hands. He’s wearing a white polo-neck shirt under his white coat, and his pilot’s sunglasses flash as he looks up.

‘You’re tired, Saga,’ he says amiably.

‘A bit.’

‘Beautiful, though.’

‘No.’

He puts the newspaper down, pulls off the gloves and notices the quizzical look in her eyes.

‘To save getting ink on my fingers,’ he says, as though it were obvious.

Saga doesn’t answer, just sets the jar down in front of him. The chopped-off finger moves slowly in the alcohol, through a cloud of wispy particles. A swollen and half-rotten index finger.

‘So you think that this finger belonged to …’

‘Jurek Walter,’ Saga says curtly.

‘How did you get hold of it?’ Nils Åhlén asks.

He picks up the jar and holds it up to the light. The finger falls against the inside of the glass as if it were pointing at him.

‘I’ve spent more than a year looking …’

To start with Saga Bauer borrowed sniffer-dogs and walked up and down both banks of the river, from Bergasjön all the way to Hysingsvik on the Baltic coast. She followed the shoreline, combed the beaches, studied the currents of Norrfjärden all the way down to Västerfladen, and made her way out to every island, talking to anyone who went fishing in the area.

‘Go on,’ Åhlén said.

She looks up and meets his relaxed gaze behind the shimmering surface of his sunglasses. His latex gloves are lying on the desk in front of him, inside out, in two little heaps. One is quivering slightly, either from a draught or because of the rubber contracting.

‘This morning I was walking along the beach out at Högmarsö,’ she explains. ‘I’ve been there before, but I gave it another go … the terrain on the north side is quite tricky, a lot of forest on the cliffs at the headland.’

She thinks of the old man walking towards her from the other direction with an armful of silver-grey driftwood.

‘You’ve gone quiet again.’

‘Sorry … I bumped into a retired church warden … he said he’d seen me the last time I was there, and asked what I was looking for.’

Saga went with him to the inhabited part of the island. Less than forty people live there. The warden’s house is tucked behind the white chapel and freestanding bell tower.

‘He said he found a dead body on the shore towards the end of April …’

‘A whole body?’ Åhlén asks in a low voice.

‘No, just the torso and one arm.’

‘No head?’

‘No one can live without a torso,’ she says, and can hear how agitated her voice sounds.

‘No,’ Åhlén replies calmly.

‘The warden said the body must have been in the water all winter, because it was badly swollen, and very heavy.’

‘They look terrible,’ Åhlén said.

‘He brought the body back through the forest in his wheelbarrow, and laid it on the floor of the tool-shed behind the chapel … but the smell drove his dog mad, so he had to take it to the old crematorium.’

‘He cremated it?’

She nods. The crematorium had been abandoned for decades, but in the middle of the overgrown foundations was a sooty brick oven with a chimney. The warden used to burn rubbish in the oven, so he knew it worked.

‘Why didn’t he call the police?’ Åhlén asked.

Saga thinks of the way the churchwarden’s house stank of fried food and old clothes. His neck was streaked with dirt and the bottles of home-brew in the fridge had dirty marks from his fingers.

‘He had a still at home … I don’t know. But he did take a few pictures with his mobile in case the police showed up and started asking questions … and he kept the finger at the bottom of his fridge.’

‘Have you got the pictures?’

‘Yes,’ she says, and pulls out her phone. ‘It must be him … look at the gunshot wounds.’

Åhlén looks at the first picture. On the bare cement floor of the tool-shed lies a bloated, marbled torso with just one arm. The skin has split across the chest and slipped down. There are four ragged gunshot holes on the body. The water has made a black mark on the pale grey floor – a shadow that gets narrower towards the drain in the floor.

‘That looks good, very good,’ Nils Åhlén said, handing her phone back.

There is a tense look in his eyes as he gets to his feet and picks the glass jar up from the desk, and he looks at her as if he were about to say something else, but walks out of the room instead.

20

Saga follows Nils Åhlén through a dark corridor with narrow wheel-tracks on the floor, into the closest pathology lab. The chilly fluorescent lights in the ceiling flicker a few times before settling and lighting up the white tiled walls. Beside one of the metal tables is a desk with a computer and a large bottle of Trocadero.

The room smells of disinfectant and drains. A bright yellow hose is attached to one of the taps. A trickle of water runs from the end of the hose towards the drain in the floor.

Åhlén walks straight over to the long, plastic-covered post-mortem table with its double trough and drainage runnels.

He pulls over a chair for Saga, then places the glass jar on the slab.

She watches him put on protective overalls, a mask and latex gloves. Then he stops, quite still, in front of the jar, like an old person disappearing into a memory. Saga is on the point of saying something when Åhlén takes a deep breath.

‘The right finger of a body found in brackish water, preserved in strong alcohol at a temperature of eight degrees for four months,’ he says to himself.

He photographs the jar from various angles, then unscrews the lid bearing the words BOB Raspberry Jam.

Using a pair of steel tweezers he removes the finger, lets it drip for a while, then puts it down on the post-mortem table. The nail has come off, and is still lying in the murky liquid. A nauseating smell of rotten seawater and decaying flesh spreads through the room.

‘It’s certainly true that the finger was removed from the body long after death,’ he says to Saga. ‘With a knife or perhaps a pair of pliers or secateurs …’

Åhlén is breathing audibly through his nose as he carefully rolls the finger over so he can photograph it from every angle.

‘We can get a good fingerprint from this,’ he says seriously.

Saga has backed away, and is standing with her hand over her mouth, watching as Åhlén picks up the dead finger and holds it against a print-scanner.

The machine bleeps when the print has been scanned.

The tissue is swollen and pudgy, but the fingerprint that appears in the little screen is still very clear.

The papillary lines are really the ridges between the cells and sweat pores that develop in the epidermis while an embryo is still in the womb.

Saga stares at the oval containing a labyrinth of swirls.

The room feels full of suppressed anticipation.

Åhlén takes off his protective clothing again and logs into the computer, hooks up the scanner and clicks on the icon with the text LiveScan.

‘I’ve got a private AFIS system,’ he says straight out as he clicks another icon and types in a new password.

Saga sees him search for ‘Walter’, then click to bring up the digital image of the ID form that was compiled at the time of Jurek’s arrest. The sharp reproductions of the thumb and fingerprints from both hands were made in ink.

Saga tries to control her breathing.

Sweat is trickling down her sides from her armpits.

Åhlén whispers something to himself, and drags the best image from LiveScan across to the search box of the AFIS system, then clicks the button saying Analysis and Comparison, and immediately gets a result.

‘What’s happening?’ Saga says, and swallows hard.

The reflections of the fluorescent lights slide across his glasses. She sees his hand shake as he points at the screen.

‘The details of the initial level are rather vague … mostly just patterns,’ Åhlén explains, and clears his throat quickly. ‘The second level are so-called Galton details … you can see the length of the papillary lines and the way they relate to each other. The differences are only the result of tissue breakdown … And the third level, that’s primarily concerned with the layout of pores, and there the match is perfect.’

‘Do you mean that we’ve found Jurek?’ she whispers.

‘I’ll send the DNA to the National Forensics Lab in Linköping, but purely as a formality,’ he replies with a nervous smile. ‘You’ve found him, there’s no doubt that it’s him. It’s over now.’

‘Good,’ she says, feeling hot tears well up in her eyes.

The initial relief is full of contradictory impulses and emptiness. Her heart is still pounding hard in her chest.

‘You’ve said all along that you were sure you killed Jurek – why was it so important to find his body?’ Åhlén asks.

‘I couldn’t try to find Joona before I’d found it,’ she replies, rubbing her cheeks with her hand to wipe the tears away.

‘Joona’s dead,’ Åhlén says.

‘Yes,’ she smiles.

Joona’s jacket and wallet were found in the possession of a homeless man who hung around Strömparterren, at the end of the island housing the parliament building in Stockholm. Saga’s watched the video of the interview plenty of times. The homeless man identified himself as Constantine the First. He usually borrowed one of the fishing boats and slept outside a heating vent.

He sat in the interview room with his big beard and dirty fingers, cracked lips and a wary look in his eyes. In a rattling voice he told them about the big Finn who told him to keep his distance, before taking his jacket off and swimming out into the water. He watched him swim out towards Strömbron until he reached the fast-flowing current and disappeared.

‘You don’t believe he’s dead?’ Åhlén asks calmly.

‘Several years ago he phoned me … he wanted me to find out some information about a woman in Helsinki, in secret,’ Saga says. ‘At the time I thought the woman had something to do with the case at Birgittagården.’

‘What about her, then?’

‘She was seriously ill, she was in hospital for an operation … Her name was Laura Sandin,’ Saga says, holding Åhlén’s gaze. ‘But she was really … really Summa Linna, his wife, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ he nods.

‘I tried to get hold of Laura to tell her that Joona was dead,’ Saga explains. ‘Laura had been in a cancer hospice for palliative care, but two days after Joona’s suicide she was discharged to spend her last days at home … but neither Laura nor her daughter are still at their address on Elisabetsgatan.’

‘Really?’ Åhlén says, his thin nostrils turning pale.

‘They aren’t anywhere,’ Saga says, taking a step towards him.

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I think Joona arranged his suicide so he could go and pick up his wife and daughter and go into hiding with them.’

Nils Åhlén’s eyes are red, and his mouth is twitching slightly with emotion when he speaks:

‘Joona was the only person who believed that Jurek’s reach extended beyond the isolation unit, and as usual, he was right … If we hadn’t done this, Jurek would have killed Summa and Lumi, just as he killed Disa.’

‘Nils, I need to find Joona and tell him that Jurek Walter is dead,’ Saga says. ‘He needs to know that the body’s been found.’

She puts her hand on his arm and sees his shoulders slump when he makes his mind up.

‘I don’t know where they are,’ he eventually says. ‘But if Summa is dying, like you say … I know where you could try looking …’

‘Where?’

‘Go to the Nordic Museum,’ he says in a thick voice, as if he were worried about changing his mind. ‘There’s a small bridal crown, a Sámi bridal crown made of woven roots. Look at it carefully.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good luck,’ Åhlén says seriously, then hesitates. ‘No one wants to hug a pathologist, but …’

Saga hugs him hard, then leaves the room and hurries along the corridor.

21

Saga parks in front of the large flight of steps leading up to the Nordic Museum, drinks a sip of cold coffee from a 7-Eleven mug, and looks at the people around her, all dressed for summer. It’s as if she hasn’t really paid attention to her surroundings before now. Adults and children, tired from the sun or long picnics, or excited and expectant on their way to the amusement park or some restaurant.

She’s barely noticed the summer passing her by again. Since Joona disappeared she has withdrawn from the world, searching for Jurek’s body.

Now it’s time to bring this to an end.

Saga gets out of the car and goes up the steps. There’s a broken syringe on one of the top steps.

She walks in through the imposing entrance, buys a ticket, picks up a plan of the museum and carries on into the entrance hall. A colourful statue of Gustav Vasa sits on a huge wooden throne gazing off towards the replica of a post-war home that’s been installed in the museum.

As she walks towards the staircase she catches a glimpse of a text about the people’s home and the Social Democratic vision of a modern, supportive and equal Sweden in which all families had the right to a home with hot water, a kitchen and bathroom.

She jogs up the stone steps and carries on to the section for Sámi handicrafts. A few visitors are walking along the glass cabinets containing jewellery, knives with reindeer-horn handles, cultural artefacts and clothes.

She stops in front of a display featuring a bridal crown. This must be the one Åhlén meant. It’s a beautiful piece of work, made of woven birch-root, with points that look like the fingers of two interlaced hands.

Saga looks at the small lock on the case, sees that it would be easy to pick, but the cabinet is alarmed and there’s a risk that a guard would arrive before she had time to look at the crown.

An elderly woman stops next to her and says something in Italian to a man pushing a stroller a short distance away.

The man speaks to the guard and is helped towards the lifts. A girl with straight fair hair is looking at the ceremonial Sámi costumes.

There’s a crackle of velcro as Saga pulls out her tiny dagger for hand-to-hand fighting from its sheath below her left armpit. She carefully slides the tip in next to the lock on the glass door, and jerks it. The door shatters and the splinters fall to the floor as an alarm goes off.

The girl looks at Saga in astonishment as she calmly puts the knife away, opens the door and removes the bridal crown.

It looks smaller outside the case, and weighs practically nothing. Saga stares at it as the alarm blares.

Åhlén told her that Summa’s mother had woven the crown for her own wedding, and that Summa had worn it for hers, and then donated it to the museum of handicrafts in Luleå.

Saga sees the guard hurrying back, and carefully turns the crown over in her hands, looks inside it and sees that someone has burned the name ‘Nattavaara 1968’ into it with a brand. She puts the crown back in the case and closes the shattered door.

She knew there was some sort of family connection to Nattavaara, and assumes that that’s where Joona is at the moment.

Saga feels her heart swell at the thought of being able to tell Joona Linna that it’s all over.

The guard’s cheeks are flushed as he stops five metres away and points at her with his radio without managing to get a word out.

22

The train pulls out of Stockholm Central Station, rocking noisily across the points as it rolls away from the dirty sidings. To the left, big white boats are gliding along on Karlbergssjön, while to the right is a concrete wall covered in badly painted-over graffiti.

Seeing as the bunks were all booked, Saga has had to take an ordinary seat. She shows her ticket to the conductor, then eats a sandwich with her eyes fixed outside the window. As the train passes Uppsala she takes off her military boots, folds her jacket around her pistol and uses that as a pillow.

The train journey to Nattavaara, over a thousand kilometres away, will take almost twelve hours.

The train rumbles on through the night. Lights pass by outside like tiny stars, fewer and fewer the further north they get. Warm air streams from the scorching-hot radiator by the panel beside her seat.

In the end the night outside the window is nothing but solid darkness.

She closes her eyes and thinks about what Nils Åhlén told her. When Joona and his partner Samuel Mendel caught Jurek Walter many years ago, Jurek announced his plan for revenge before he was isolated in the secure unit at the Löwenströmska Hospital. Samuel thought it was an empty threat, but somehow Jurek managed to reach out from his cell and snatch Samuel’s wife and two sons.

Joona realised the threat was serious. With Nils Åhlén’s help, he arranged for his wife and little daughter to die in a car accident. Summa and Lumi were given new identities and had no further contact with Joona. As long as Jurek was alive, there was a risk that his threat might be put into practice. In hindsight, Joona saved them from a terrible death by sacrificing their life together.

But Saga can reassure Joona now. She’s going to find him and reassure him. Jurek Walter is dead, his remains have been found and identified.

At the thought of that, an almost erotic shiver runs through her body. She leans back in her seat, shuts her eyes, and falls asleep.

For the first time in ages, she sleeps properly.

When she wakes up the train is standing still and chill morning air is streaming into the carriage. She sits up and sees that she is now in Boden. She has been asleep for almost ten hours, and needs to change trains for the last part of the journey to Nattavaara.

She stretches, puts her boots on, tucks her gun in its holster, picks up her jacket and gets off the train. She buys a large cup of coffee at the station, then returns to the platform. She watches a group of young men in military fatigues and green berets getting on to a train heading in the other direction.

Someone has smeared chewing tobacco on the glass of the station clock.

A black locomotive with red undercarriage approaches with a squeal of brakes. Rubbish blows across the sleepers. The train stops and wheezes slowly at the deserted platform. Saga is the only person who gets on the train to Gällivare, and she has the carriage to herself.

The journey to Nattavaara is supposed to take less than an hour. Saga drinks her coffee, goes to the toilet, washes her face, then sits in her seat and watches the landscape go past, vast stretches of forest with the occasional red cottage.

Her plan is to go to the village shop or parish hall and ask about people who have moved in recently – there can hardly be that many.

It’s almost eleven o’clock in the morning when Saga Bauer steps on to the platform. The station is little more than a shack with a sign on its roof. In the weeds in front of the shack is a bench with peeling paint and rusting armrests.

Saga starts to walk along the road through the dark green, whispering forest. There’s no sign of anyone, but occasionally she hears dogs barking.

The road surface is uneven and cracked from frost.

She carries on, over a bridge that stretches across the valley of the Pikku Venetjoki, then she hears the sound of an engine behind her. An old Volkswagen pickup is heading towards her, and she waves her arms to stop it.

A suntanned man in his seventies, wearing a grey sweater, winds down his window and nods in greeting. Beside him sits a woman the same age, in a padded green jerkin and pink-framed glasses.

‘Hello,’ Saga says. ‘Do you live in Nattavaara?’

‘We’re just passing through,’ he replies.

‘We’re from Sarvisvaara … another metropolis,’ the woman says.

‘Do you know where the grocery store is?’

‘It closed last year,’ the old man says, picking at the wheel. ‘But we’ve got a new shop now.’

‘That’s good,’ Saga smiles.

‘It’s not a shop,’ the old woman says.

‘I call it a shop,’ he mutters.

‘But that’s wrong,’ she says. ‘It’s a service point.’

‘Then I’d better stop doing my shopping there,’ he sighs.

‘Where’s the service point?’ Saga asks.

‘In the same building as the old shop,’ the woman replies with a wink. ‘Jump up on the back.’

‘She’s hardly a high-jumper,’ the man retorts.

Saga climbs up on to the wheel, grabs hold of the edge of the pickup and swings herself over, then sits down with her back to the cab.

During the drive she hears the old couple carry on arguing, to the point where the pickup almost drives into the ditch. The bumper thuds and grit flies up under the vehicle, which is surrounded by a cloud of dust.

They drive into the village and stop in front of a large, red building with a sign for ice creams outside, along with symbols showing that the shop acts as an agent for the Post Office, the National Lottery, as well as a pickup point for prescriptions and supplies from the state-owned alcohol monopoly.

Saga clambers down, thanks the pair for the lift, and goes up the steps. A little bell on the door rings as she walks in.

She finds a bag of dill-flavoured crisps, then goes over to the young man at the counter.

‘I’m looking for a friend who moved here just over a year ago,’ she says without further elaboration.

‘Here?’ he asks, then looks at her for a while before lowering his eyes.

‘A tall man … with his wife and daughter.’

‘Ah,’ he says, blushing.

‘Do they still live here?’

‘Just follow the Lompolovaara road,’ he says, pointing. ‘Up to the bend at Silmäjärvi …’

Saga leaves the shop and heads in the direction he indicated. Tractor-tyres have furrowed the ground and the verge is virtually non-existent. There’s a beer can in the grass. The wind in the trees sounds like a distant sea.

She eats some of the crisps as she walks, then puts the rest in her bag and wipes her hands on her trousers.

Saga has walked six kilometres by the time she sees a rust-red house at a point where the road bends round a broad tarn. There’s no car in sight, but there’s smoke coming out of the chimney. The garden around the house consists of tall meadow grass.

She stops and hears the insects in the ditch.

A man comes out of the house. She watches his figure move through the trees.

It’s Joona Linna.

It’s him, but he’s lost weight, and he’s leaning on a stick. He’s got a curly blond beard and strands of hair are sticking out from his black woolly hat.

Saga walks towards him. The grit crunches beneath her boots.

She sees Joona stop beside a woodshed, lean his stick against the wall, pick up an axe and split a large log, then he picks up another one and splits that, then rests for a moment before picking up the pieces and carries on chopping.

She doesn’t call out because she knows he’s already seen her, probably long before she saw him.

He’s wearing a moss-green fleece beneath an aviator’s jacket made of coarse leather. The folds have cracked and the sheepskin lining of the collar has turned yellow.

She walks over and stops five metres away from him. He stretches his back, turns round and looks at her with eyes as grey as pale fire.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he says quietly.

‘Jurek’s dead,’ she says breathlessly.

‘Yes,’ he replies, and goes on chopping.

He picks up a new log and places it on the chopping block.

‘I found his body,’ Saga says.

His swing goes wrong, the axe catches and he loses his grip. He stands for a while with his head lowered. Saga looks down into the large wood-basket and sees that there’s a sawn-off shotgun taped to one side of it.

23

Joona leads her through a dark entrance hall. He doesn’t say anything, but holds a door opens and ushers her into a little kitchen with copper saucepans on the walls.

An elk-hunting rifle with telescopic sights is hanging under the windowsill, and on the floor are at least thirty boxes of ammunition.

The sun is shining through the drawn curtains. On the table is a coffee pot and two cups.

‘Summa died last spring,’ he explains.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says quietly.

He puts the wood-basket down on the floor and slowly straightens his back. There’s a faint smell of smoke in the kitchen, and she can hear the pine logs crackling behind the closed hatch of the iron stove.

‘So you found the body?’ he says, looking at her.

‘I wouldn’t have come otherwise,’ she replies seriously. ‘Call Åhlén if you want confirmation.’

‘I believe you,’ he says.

‘Call him anyway.’

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, then, leaning on the draining board, he makes his way to the other door, nudges it open and says something quietly into the gloom in Finnish.

‘This is my daughter, Lumi,’ Joona says as a girl comes into the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ Saga says.

Lumi has straight brown hair, a friendly, curious smile, but her eyes are as grey as ice. She’s tall and thin, dressed in a simple blue cotton shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

‘Are you hungry?’ Joona asks.

‘Yes,’ Saga replies.

‘Sit yourself down.’

She sits down on a chair and Joona gets out bread, butter and cheese, then starts chopping tomatoes, olives and peppers. Lumi heats some water and grinds coffee beans in a manually operated mill. Saga looks at the dimly lit room behind them, and sees a sofa and a stack of books on a table. Hanging from a drip-stand is a night-vision sight and a mount allowing it to be attached to a rifle for nocturnal hunting.

‘Where was he?’ Joona asks.

‘He drifted ashore on Högmarsö,’ Saga replies.

‘Who?’ Lumi asks, glancing at the control panel for some twenty motion detectors that’s attached to the wall beneath the spice-rack.

‘Jurek Walter,’ Joona says, cracking twelve eggs into the frying pan.

‘I’ve found his body,’ Saga says.

‘So he’s dead?’ she asks lightly.

‘Lumi, can you take over for a minute?’ Joona says, then leaves the kitchen.

His heavy steps echo through the hall, then the front door closes. Lumi gets some dried basil and rubs it between her palms.

‘Dad says he had to leave me and Mum,’ Lumi says, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘He says Jurek Walter would have killed us if we’d had any contact with him at all.’

‘He did the right thing, he saved your lives, there was no other way,’ Saga says.

Lumi nods and turns towards the stove. A few tears drip on to the black metal range in front of her.

Lumi wipes her face, lowers the heat, and then carefully turns the omelette with a spatula.

Through the closed curtains Saga can see Joona standing out on the road with a phone pressed to his ear. She knows he’s talking to Nils Åhlén. He’s frowning, and his jaw muscles are tense.

Lumi turns the stove off and lays the table as she looks at Saga curiously.

‘I know you’re not going out with Dad,’ the girl says after a while. ‘He’s told me about Disa.’

‘We used to work together.’ Saga smiles.

‘You don’t look like a police officer,’ the girl says.

‘Security Police,’ Saga says curtly.

‘You don’t look like one of them either,’ she laughs, sitting down opposite Saga. ‘But if you say you’re from the Security Police, then you must be Saga Bauer.’

‘Yes.’

‘Dig in,’ Lumi says. ‘It’ll get cold.’

Saga thanks her, helps herself to some omelette, bread and cheese, and pours coffee for the two of them.

‘How is Joona?’ she asks.

‘Yesterday I’d probably have said not good,’ Lumi says. ‘He’s freezing most of the time and hardly sleeps, he keeps watch over me, makes himself stay awake … I don’t know how he manages it.’

‘He’s very stubborn,’ Saga says.

‘Is he?’

They laugh.

‘You know, I didn’t have my dad for so many years,’ the girl says, and her eyes grow moist. ‘I barely remembered him. I mean, nothing can make up for that, but … we’ve spent more than a year sitting and talking … every day, for hours … I’ve told him about me and Mum, what we did and how we were … and he’s talked about himself … There can’t be many people who’ve talked so much with their dad.’

‘Not me, that’s for certain,’ Saga says.

Lumi stands up when a motion sensor reacts to Joona’s approach. She switches the alarm off and then they hear the front door open, followed by footsteps in the hall.

Joona comes into the kitchen, puts his stick down, leans against the table, then sinks on to a chair.

‘Åhlén is certain,’ he says, helping himself to some food.

‘We’re quits now,’ Saga says, looking him in the eye. ‘I don’t care what you think, but we’re quits … I killed him, and I found the body.’

‘You’ve never owed me anything.’

Joona is leaning forward slightly, with his arms wrapped round his body, taking small mouthfuls of food. Lumi puts a thick blanket round his shoulders, then sits back down.

‘Lumi’s going to study in Paris,’ Joona says, smiling at his daughter.

‘We don’t know that,’ she says quickly.

A smile flits across her pale face. Saga sees Joona’s hands shake as he picks up his cup and drinks some coffee.

‘I’m cooking venison fillet tonight,’ he says.

‘My train back leaves in two hours,’ Saga says.

‘With chanterelles and cream,’ he adds.

She smiles. ‘I have to go.’

24

Erik is early for his piano lesson, and stands on the pavement opposite the door to Lill-Jans plan 4. The curtains on the ground floor are open, and he can see straight into Jackie Federer’s flat. She’s in the kitchen, she runs her hand along the wall-mounted cupboards, takes out a glass, then holds her finger under the tap. He can see that she’s wearing a black skirt and an unbuttoned blouse. He walks across the street to see better, gets closer to the window and can now see that her wet hair has dripped down the back of her silk blouse. She drinks the water, wipes her mouth with her hand, then turns round.

Erik stretches and catches a glimpse of her stomach and navel through the opening of her unbuttoned shirt. A woman with a pushchair stops on the pavement and stares at him, and he suddenly realises how he must look. He hurries to reach the pavement and goes in through the entrance. Once again he stands in the darkness outside the door of her flat and moves his finger towards the bell.

Since the hypnosis session he has been thinking that Rocky’s alibi may well have been genuine, and has had to double his nightly dose of Stilnoct in order to get any sleep. The earliest he has been able to book a visit to Karsudden Hospital is first thing tomorrow morning.

When Jackie opens the door her blouse is buttoned. She smiles calmly at him and the light in the stairwell reflects off her dark glasses.

‘I’m a bit early,’ he says.

‘Erik,’ she smiles. ‘Welcome.’

They go inside and he sees that her daughter has pinned up a drawing of a skull under the no entry sign.

He follows Jackie along the passageway, watching her right hand trace the wall, and it strikes him that she seems to move with no obvious caution. Her shiny blouse is hanging outside her black skirt, across the small of her back.

As her hand reaches the door frame she switches the light on and heads out across the living-room floor until she comes to the rug, where she stops and turns towards him.

‘Let’s hear how far you’ve got,’ Jackie says, and gestures to the piano.

He sits down, opens the score and brushes his fringe from his forehead. He puts his right thumb on the right key and spreads his fingers.

‘Opus 25,’ he says with jokey solemnity.

He starts to play the notes that Jackie set him for homework. Even though she’s told him not to, he can’t help looking at his hands the whole time.

‘It must be awful for you to have to listen to this,’ he says. ‘I mean, if you’re used to beautiful music.’

‘I think you’ve been very good,’ she replies.

‘Can you get music scores in braille – you must be able to?’ he asks.

‘Louis Braille was a musician, so that happened fairly naturally … but in the end you have to memorise everything anyway, because of course you need both hands when you’re playing,’ she explains.

He puts his fingers on the keys and takes a deep breath, then the doorbell rings.

‘Sorry, I’ll just get that,’ Jackie says, and stands up.

Erik watches her go out into the hall and open the door. Outside stands her daughter, next to a tall woman in gym clothes.

‘How was the match?’ Jackie asks.

‘One-one,’ the girl replies. ‘Anna scored our goal.’

‘But it was your pass,’ the woman says kindly.

‘Thanks for bringing Maddy home,’ Jackie says.

‘My pleasure … on the way we talked about not having to be the best in the world, but that maybe she could be a bit pushier.’

Erik doesn’t hear Jackie’s reply, but the door closes and then Jackie kneels down in front of her daughter and feels her hair and face gently.

‘So you’re going to have to be a bit pushier,’ she says softly.

She returns to Erik, apologises for the interruption, sits down and explains what he should do next.

Erik struggles to get his hands to work independently of each other, and feels his back start to sweat.

After a while the little girl comes into the room. She’s changed into a casual dress and sits down on the floor to listen.

Erik tries to play the section, but gets the fourth bar wrong, starts again, but makes the same mistake, and laughs at his own failure.

‘What’s so funny?’ Jackie asks calmly.

‘Just that I’m playing like a broken robot,’ Erik replies.

‘My hedgehog makes mistakes as well,’ Madeleine says consolingly, holding up her stuffed toy.

‘My left hand is the worst,’ Erik says. ‘It’s as if my fingers don’t want to hit the right bits.’

Madeleine blinks but manages to keep a straight face.

‘Keys, I mean,’ Erik says quickly. ‘Maybe your hedgehog says “bits”, but I say keys.’

The girl looks down with a broad grin. Jackie gets up from her chair.

‘You need to rest,’ she says. ‘We’ll run through the first bit of musical theory before we end the lesson.’

‘I’ll go and put the dishwasher on,’ the girl says.

‘You know it’s bedtime soon – you’ll have to make sure you’ve got time.’

They sit down at the table. Erik picks up the jug and pours two glasses of water. It feels impossible not to sneak glances at Jackie as she explains about G-clef, F-clef, and different overtones. Her blouse is creased at the waist, and her face looks thoughtful. He can make out her simple bra and breasts beneath the silk.

He feels a nervous temptation in being able to look at her without her knowing.

He carefully shifts position so he can see up between her thighs and catch a glimpse of her plain white underwear.

His heart beats faster as she parts her legs slightly, he has a feeling that she knows she’s being looked at.

She takes a sip of water.

Her open eyes are only just visible behind her dark glasses.

He looks between her thighs again, leans a little closer, but the next moment she crosses her legs and puts the glass down.

Jackie smiles and then says that she imagines that he works as a lecturer at the university, or as a priest. Erik replies that the truth is somewhere in between, and tells her about his work at the Psychology Clinic, and his research into hypnosis, then falls silent.

She gathers together the various sheets of music theory, taps them on the table to neaten them, then puts them down in front of him.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Erik asks.

‘Yes,’ she says simply.

‘You turn your face towards me when you talk – does that come naturally, or do you have to learn that?’

‘It’s a concession to what sighted people find pleasant,’ she answers honestly.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Erik says.

‘Like switching the light on when you enter a room to alert sighted people that you’re there …’

She falls silent and her slender fingers trace the rim of her glass.

‘Sorry, I’m being horribly rude and embarrassing, asking about such things …’

‘Most people prefer not to talk about their impaired vision. Which I can understand,’ Jackie says. ‘We’d all rather be seen as individuals and all that … but I think it’s better to talk.’

‘Good.’

He looks at her soft pink lipstick, the curve of her cheekbones, her boyish haircut and the green-tinted vein pulsing in her neck.

‘Isn’t it odd, being able to hypnotise other people and see into their secret, private thoughts?’ she asks.

‘It’s not like I’m spying on them.’

‘Isn’t it?’

25

The bright sky is reflected in the cellophane covering the carton of ten packets of cigarettes on the seat beside Erik as he slowly drives into the area of parkland, past a sign saying that access is prohibited and that all visits must be announced in advance.

Karsudden District Hospital is the largest secure psychiatric facility in Sweden, with room for one hundred and thirty criminals who have been sentenced to treatment rather than prison as a result of mental illness.

His stomach is churning with anxiety. Soon he will be seeing Rocky Kyrklund, to ask him about his supposed alibi.

If it is genuine, then the latest murder could be connected to the old one, and Erik will have to tell the police everything.

Because if Rocky was innocent, there may well be parallels between the old murder and the new one. And it would be no coincidence that Susanna Kern was found with her hand strapped to her ear.

It’s not inevitable that I’ll lose my job, he tells himself. That will depend on whether the police decide to pass the case on to a prosecutor.

In front of the entrance to the administrative block is a sign showing a camera with a line across it. Yet at the same time this place is full of surveillance cameras, Erik thinks.

He picks up the cigarettes and starts to walk towards the white building.

A snail’s trail shimmers across the path in front of the reception area.

In the sharp sunlight inside the doors, the dust is clearly visible as it drifts towards the battered furniture and worn floor.

Erik shows his ID, is given a name badge, and gets no further than the magazine rack next to the waiting area before a man with blond highlights in his hair comes in.

‘Erik Bark?’

‘Yes,’ Erik replies.

The man stretches his lips into a semblance of a smile, and introduces himself as Otto. There’s something exhausted about the man’s face, a sadness that’s impossible to hide.

‘Casillas would have liked to have been here himself, but …’

‘I understand, don’t worry,’ Erik says, and feels his face flush as he thinks of his lies about Dr Stünkel and the research project.

They set off, and the man explains that he’s a care assistant, and has worked at Karsudden for years.

‘We’ll go the long way round … no one likes the tunnels,’ Otto mutters as they head outside.

‘Do you know Rocky Kyrklund?’ Erik asks.

‘He was here when I started,’ Otto says, gesturing towards the high fences and dismal brown buildings.

‘What do you make of him?’

‘A lot of people are a bit frightened of Kyrklund,’ he replies.

They go in through Entrance D, and over to a locker room where Erik has to leave any loose possessions.

‘Can I take the cigarettes with me?’ Erik asks.

Otto nods. ‘They’ll probably come in useful.’

The orderly puts Erik’s keys, pen, mobile and wallet in a plastic bag, seals it and hands him a receipt.

Then he unlocks a heavy door that leads to another door with a coded lock. They pass through and walk down a corridor with a grey linoleum floor and secure doors leading to small rooms with beds in them.

The air is heavy with disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke.

From one room comes the sound of a porn film. The door is open and Erik sees a fat man lean forward on a plastic chair and spit on the floor.

They go through another airlock and find themselves in a shadowy exercise yard. Six-metre-high fences link two brick buildings, forming a cage around a yellowing patch of grass edged with cinder paths.

A skinny man in his twenties is sitting on a park bench, his face tense. Two carers are talking over by one of the brick walls, and at the far end a thickset man is standing facing the fence.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Otto asks.

‘No need.’

The former priest is standing smoking as he faces the high fence. His eyes are roaming across the grass of the parkland towards the leafy trees. By his feet is a mug of instant coffee.

Erik walks along the path, which is littered with cigarette butts and discarded plugs of chewing tobacco.

I’m about to meet the priest I let down because I’d already judged him, he thinks. If Rocky Kyrklund does have an alibi, I’m going to confess what I did to the police, and take the consequences.

Dust from the path swirls around his legs, and he knows Rocky can hear him approaching.

‘Rocky?’ he says.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Erik Maria Bark.’

Rocky lets go of the fence and turns round. He’s tall, one metre ninety. His shoulders are even broader than Erik remembers, he’s got a full beard, specked with grey, and back-combed hair. His eyes are green, and his face radiates a chilly pride. He’s wearing a pilled, camouflage-green sweater with worn elbows. His sturdy arms are hanging by his sides, a cigarette clasped between his fingers.

‘The senior consultant said you liked Camels,’ Erik says, and attempts to give him the cigarettes.

Rocky juts his chin out and looks down at him. He doesn’t reply, and shows no sign of accepting the gift.

‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ Erik says. ‘I was involved in your trial nine years ago, I was part of the group that conducted the psychological assessment.’

‘What conclusion did you reach?’ Rocky says in a dark voice.

‘That you needed neurological and psychiatric treatment,’ Erik replies calmly.

Rocky flicks his glowing cigarette at Erik. It hits him in the chest and falls to the ground. A few sparks fly out.

‘Go in peace,’ Rocky says calmly, then purses his lips.

Erik stubs the cigarette out and sees that two carers are approaching across the grass, carrying an alarm.

‘What’s going on here?’ one of them asks as they stop.

‘It was an accident,’ Erik says.

The men stay for a few moments, but neither Erik nor Rocky say anything. In the end the guards go back to their coffee.

‘You lied to them,’ Rocky says.

‘I do that sometimes,’ Erik replies.

Rocky’s face remains impassive, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes now.

‘Have you received neurological and psychiatric treatment?’ Erik asks. ‘You have a right to it. I’m a doctor, do you want me to look at your notes and rehabilitation plan?’

Rocky shakes his head slowly.

‘You’ve been here for a long time, but have never applied for parole.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Don’t you want to get out?’

‘I accept my punishment,’ Rocky says in his deep voice.

‘You had trouble remembering back then – is that still the case?’ Erik asks.

‘Yes.’

‘But I remember our conversations, and sometimes it sounded like you thought you were innocent of the murder.’

‘Naturally … I surrounded myself with lies in an attempt to escape, they crawled all over me like a swarm of bees, and I tried to avoid responsibility by blaming someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘That doesn’t matter … I was guilty, but I let the lies crawl all over me.’

Erik bends over and puts the cigarettes down at Rocky’s feet, then takes a step back.

‘Do you want to talk about the person you wanted to blame?’ he asks.

‘I don’t remember, but I know I thought of him as a preacher, an unclean preacher …’

The priest falls silent and turns back towards the fence. Erik goes and stands next to him and looks out at the trees.

‘What was his name?’

‘I can’t remember names any more, I don’t remember their faces, scattered like ashes …’

‘You called him a preacher – was he a colleague of yours?’

Rocky’s fingers clutch the fence and his chest rises and falls as he breathes.

‘I only remember that I was scared, that was probably why I tried to blame him.’

‘You were scared of him?’ Erik asks. ‘What had he done? Why were you …’

‘Rocky? Rocky!’ says a patient who has walked up behind them. ‘Look what I’ve got for you!’

They turn round and see the skinny man holding out a jam biscuit in a napkin.

‘Eat it yourself,’ Rocky says.

‘I don’t want to,’ the other inmate says eagerly. ‘I’m a sinner, God and His angels hate me, and—’

‘Shut up!’ Rocky roars.

‘What have I done? Why are you—’

Rocky takes hold of the man by the chin, looks him in the eyes, then spits in his face. The man loses his balance when Rocky lets go, and the biscuit falls to the ground.

The guards approach across the grass again.

‘What if someone came forward and gave you an alibi?’ Erik says quickly.

Rocky’s green eyes stare into his without blinking.

‘Then they’d be lying.’

‘Are you sure about that? You don’t remember anything from—’

‘I don’t remember an alibi, because there wasn’t one,’ Rocky interrupts.

‘But you do remember your colleague – what if he was the one who murdered Rebecka?’

‘I murdered Rebecka Hansson,’ Rocky says.

‘Do you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know anyone called Olivia?’

Rocky shakes his head, then looks towards the approaching guards and raises his chin.

‘Before you ended up here?’

‘No.’

The guards push Rocky up against the fence, hit the backs of his knees, force him to the ground and put handcuffs on him.

‘Look out for him!’ the other patient cries.

The larger of the guards puts his knee on Rocky’s back while the other one holds his baton to his throat.

‘Look out for him …’ the other patient sobs.

As Erik follows one of the guards away from Ward D, he starts to smile to himself. There is no alibi. Rocky killed Rebecka Hansson, and there’s no connection between the murders.

Out in the car park he stops and takes several deep breaths as he looks up past the trees in the park at the bright sky. A feeling of liberation is spreading through his body, as a longstanding burden is lifted from his shoulders.

26

Nils Åhlén, professor of forensic medicine, pulls in and parks his white Jaguar across two parking spaces.

The National Criminal Investigation Department want him to take a look at two homicides.

Both bodies have already been through post-mortems. Åhlén has read the reports. They’re beyond reproach, far more thorough than is strictly necessary. Even so, the head of the preliminary investigation has asked him to take a second look at both bodies. They’re still fumbling in the dark, and want him to try to identify any subtle similarities, signatures or messages.

Margot Silverman believes she’s dealing with a narcissistic serial killer, and thinks the murderer is trying to communicate.

Åhlén leaves his car and breathes in the morning air. There’s almost no wind today, the sun is shining and the blue blinds have been lowered in all the windows.

There’s something next to the entrance. At first Nils Åhlén thinks someone’s dumped rubbish behind the railing of the little concrete steps, but then he sees that it’s a human being. A bearded man is asleep on the tarmac, with his back leaning against the cement foundations of the brick wall. He’s wrapped in a blanket, and his forehead is resting against his tucked-up knees.

It’s a warm morning, and Åhlén hopes the man is left to sleep in peace before the security guards find him. He adjusts his aviator’s sunglasses and walks towards the door, but stops when he notices the man’s clean hands and the white scar running across his right knuckles.

‘Joona?’ he asks gently.

Joona Linna raises his head and looks at him, as though he wasn’t asleep, just waiting to be addressed.

Åhlén stares at his old friend. Joona is almost unrecognisable. He’s lost a lot of weight, and is sporting a thick, fair beard. His pale face is grey, with dark rings under his eyes, and his hair is long and messy.

‘I want to see the finger,’ he says.

‘I might have guessed.’ Åhlén smiles. ‘How are you? You look OK.’

Joona takes hold of the railings and pulls himself up heavily, then picks up his bag and stick. He knows how he looks, but he can’t help it, he’s still grieving.

‘Did you fly or drive down?’ Åhlén asks.

Joona peers at the lamp above the door. At the bottom of the glass under the bulb is a small heap of dead insects.

After Saga’s visit, Joona went with his daughter Lumi to visit Summa’s grave in Purnu. Then they walked down to the little sandy beach at Autiojärvi and talked about the future.

He knew what she wanted to do, without her having to say anything.

In order for Lumi not to lose her place at the Paris College of Art, she had to be there to enrol in two days’ time. Joona arranged for her to live with his friend Corinne Meilleroux’s sister in the eighth arrondissement. They didn’t have time to make too many other arrangements, but he gave Lumi enough money to get by.

And a whole load of useful tips about close combat and automatic weapons, she joked.

He drove her to the airport, and it took a real effort not to go to pieces. She gave him a hug and whispered that she loved him.

‘Or did you catch the train?’ Åhlén asks patiently.

He returned to the house in Nattavaara, dismantled the alarm system, locked the weapons in the cellar, and packed a rucksack. Once he’d turned the water off and shut the house up, he walked to the railway station and caught the train to Gällivare, made his way to the airport and flew to Arlanda, then caught the bus in to Stockholm. He covered the last five kilometres to the campus of the Karolinska Institute on foot.

‘I walked,’ he replies, without noticing the look of surprise on Åhlén’s face.

Joona waits, with one hand on the black iron railings as Åhlén unlocks the blue door. They walk together along the corridor with its muted colours and worn floor.

Joona can’t walk quickly with his stick, and has to stop and cough several times.

They pass the door to the toilets and are approaching a window containing a large pot plant that seems to consist mainly of roots. Dandelion seeds are drifting through the air in the sunshine outside. Something moves unexpectedly out there. Joona’s instinct is to duck down and draw his gun, but he forces himself to walk over to the window instead. An old woman is standing on the pavement, waiting for a dog that’s running back and forth among the dandelions.

‘How are you?’ Åhlén asks.

‘I don’t know.’

Joona’s body is trembling, and he goes into the toilet, leans over the basin and drinks some water straight from the tap. He straightens up and dries his face with a paper towel, then goes back out into the corridor.

‘Joona, I’ve got the finger in the locked cabinet in the pathology lab, but … I’m meeting Margot Silverman in half an hour … You can wait in my room instead if you don’t feel up to it—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Joona interrupts.

27

Nils Åhlén opens the swing-door to the pathology lab, and holds it open for Joona. Together they walk into the bright room with its shimmering white tiles. Joona puts his rucksack down by the wall next to the door, but keeps the blanket round his shoulders.

A cloying stench of decay lingers over the room in spite of the whirring fans. There are two bodies on the post-mortem tables. The more recent one is covered, and blood is slowly trickling down the stainless steel gutter.

They go over to the desk with the computer. Joona waits quietly as Åhlén unlocks a heavy door.

‘Sit down,’ he says as he puts the glass jar on the table.

He pulls a folder out of a box, opens it and places the test results from the National Forensics Lab, the old ID documents, the fingerprint analysis and enlargements of the images from Saga’s phone in front of Joona.

Joona sits down and stares at the jar. After a few seconds he picks it up, holds it up to the light, examines it closely, and nods.

‘I’ve kept everything here because I had a feeling you’d show up,’ Åhlén says. ‘But, like I said on the phone, you’ll see that it all checks out. The old man who found the body cut the finger off, as you can see from the angle of the cut … and that happened long after death, just as he explained to Saga.’

Joona carefully reads the report from the laboratory. They had built up a DNA profile based on thirty STR regions. The match was one hundred per cent, thus confirming the results of the fingerprint analysis.

Not even identical twins have the same fingerprints.

Joona lays out the photographs of the mutilated body in front of him and examines the violet-coloured entry-wounds.

He leans back and closes his burning eyelids.

Everything checks out.

The angles of the shots are just as Saga described. The size and constitution of the body, the size of the hand, the DNA, the fingerprint …

‘It’s him,’ Åhlén says quietly.

‘Yes,’ Joona whispers.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Åhlén asks.

‘Nothing.’

‘You’ve been declared dead,’ Åhlén says. ‘There was a witness to your suicide, a homeless man who—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Joona interrupts. ‘I’ll sort it out.’

‘Your flat was sold when your estate was wound up,’ Åhlén explains. ‘They got almost seven million for it, the money went to charity.’

‘Good,’ Joona says bluntly.

‘How has Lumi taken everything?’

Joona looks over at the window, watching the slanting light and the shadows of the dirt on the glass.

‘Lumi? She’s gone to Paris,’ he replies.

‘I mean, how did she deal with you coming back after so many years, how has she dealt with the loss of her mother, and …’

Joona stops listening to Åhlén as memories spread out inside him. More than a year ago he made his way in secret to Finland. He thinks about the afternoon when he arrived at the gloomy Radiotherapy and Cancer Clinic in Helsinki to fetch Summa. She could still walk with a Zimmer frame at the time. He can remember exactly how the light fell in the foyer, reflecting off the floor, the windows and pale woodwork, as well as the row of wheelchairs. They walked slowly past the unstaffed cloakroom and the confectionery machine and emerged into the fresh winter air.

Åhlén’s phone buzzes, and he pushes his sunglasses up onto his nose and reads the text message.

‘Margot’s here, I’ll go and let her in,’ he says, and heads towards the door.

Summa had chosen to have palliative care in her flat on Elisabetsgatan, but Joona took her and Lumi to her grandmother’s house in Nattavaara, where they had six happy months together. After the years of chemotherapy, radiation, cortisone and blood transfusions, all that was left was pain relief. She had morphine patches that lasted for three days, and took another 80 milligrams of OxyNorm every day.

Summa loved the house and the countryside around it, the air and light that streamed into the bedroom. Her family was together at last. She grew thinner, lost her appetite, lost all the hair on her body, and her skin became as soft as a baby’s.

Towards the end she weighed almost nothing, her whole body hurt, but she still liked it when Joona carried her round, and sat her on his lap so they could kiss.

28

Joona sits motionless, staring at the glass jar containing the amputated finger. The particles in the liquid have sunk to the bottom.

He really is dead.

Joona smiles to himself as he repeats the sentence in his head.

Jurek Walter is dead.

He disappears into recollections of his staged suicide, and is still sitting there with the blanket round his shoulders when Margot Silverman and Nils Åhlén come into the pathology lab.

‘Joona Linna. Everyone said you were dead,’ Margot says with a smile. ‘Can I ask what the hell actually happened?’

Joona meets her gaze, and thinks that he was forced to do what he did, he was forced to take every step he had taken over the past fourteen years.

Margot stands still, staring into Joona’s eyes, into their greyness, as she hears Åhlén remove the protective covering from his sterilised tools.

‘I came back,’ Joona replies in a deep Finnish accent.

‘A bit too late,’ Margot says. ‘I’ve already got your job and your room.’

‘You’re a good detective,’ he replies.

‘Not good enough, according to Åhlén,’ she says breezily.

‘I just said you ought to let Joona look at the case,’ Åhlén mutters, stretching the latex gloves before putting them on.

While Åhlén begins his external inspection of Maria Carlsson’s body, Margot tries to explain the case to Joona. She recounts all the details about the tights and the quality of the film, but doesn’t get the response or the follow-up questions she had been expecting, and after a while she starts to worry that he might not even be listening.

‘According to the victim’s calendar, she was about to go off to a drawing class,’ Margot says, glancing at Joona. ‘We’ve checked, and it’s true enough, but there’s a small “h” at the bottom of the page of the calendar that we don’t understand.’

The legendary superintendent has aged. His blond beard is thick and his matted hair is hanging down over his ears, and curling at the back of his neck, over the padded collar of his jacket.

‘The films suggest narcissism, obviously,’ she goes on, sitting down on a stainless steel stool with her legs wide apart.

Joona is thinking about the perpetrator watching the woman through the window. He can come as close as he wants, but there’s still a pane of glass between them. It’s intimate, but he’s still shut out.

‘He wants to communicate something,’ Margot says. ‘He wants to make a point … or compete, match his strength against the police, because he feels so damn strong and smart while the police are still miles behind him … And that feeling of invincibility is going to lead to more murders.’

Joona looks over at the first victim, and his eye is caught by her white hand, resting beside her hip, cupped like a small bowl, like a mussel-shell.

He stands up with some effort, with the help of his stick, thinking that something attracted the perpetrator to Maria Carlsson, made him cross his boundary as an observer.

‘And that’s why,’ Margot goes on. ‘That strong sense of superiority is why I think there could be some sort of signature, that we haven’t seen …’

She falls silent when Joona walks away from her, heading towards the post-mortem table with weary steps. He stops in front of the body and leans on his stick. His heavy leather aviator’s jacket is open, its sheepskin lining visible. As he leans over the body, his holster and Colt Combat come into view.

She stands up, and feels the child in her belly has woken up. It falls asleep when she moves about, and wakes up if she sits or lies down. She holds one hand to her stomach as she walks over to Joona.

He’s looking closely at the victim’s ravaged face. It’s like he doesn’t believe she’s dead, as if he wanted to feel her moist breath against his mouth.

‘What are you thinking?’ Margot asks.

‘Sometimes I think that our idea of justice is still in its infancy,’ Joona replies, without taking his eyes from the dead woman.

‘OK,’ she says.

‘So what does that make the law?’ he asks.

‘I could give you an answer, but I’m guessing you have a different one in mind.’

Joona straightens up, thinking that the law chases justice the way Lumi used to chase spots of reflected light when she was little.

Åhlén follows the original post-mortem as he conducts his own. The usual purpose of an external examination is to describe visible injuries, such as swellings, discolouration, scraped skin, bleeding, scratches and cuts. But this time he is searching for something that could have been overlooked between two observations, something beyond the obvious.

‘Most of the stab-wounds aren’t fatal, and that wasn’t the point of them either,’ Åhlén says to Margot and Joona. ‘If it was, they wouldn’t have been aimed at her face.’

‘Hatred is stronger than the desire to kill,’ Margot says.

‘He wanted to destroy her face,’ Åhlén nods.

‘Or change it,’ Margot says.

‘Why is her mouth gaping like that?’ Joona asks quietly.

‘Her jaw is broken,’ Åhlén says. ‘There are traces of her own saliva on her fingers.’

‘Was there anything in her mouth or throat?’ Joona asks.

‘Nothing.’

Joona is thinking about the perpetrator standing outside filming her as she puts on her tights. At that point he is an observer who needs, or at least accepts, the boundary presented by the thin glass of the window.

But something lures him over that boundary, he repeats to himself, as he borrows Åhlén’s thin torch. He shines it into the dead woman’s mouth. Her saliva has dried up and her throat is pale grey. There’s no sign of anything in her throat, her tongue has retracted, and the inside of her cheeks are dark.

In the middle of her tongue, at its thickest part, is a tiny hole from a piece of jewellery. It could almost be part of the natural fold of the tongue, but Joona is sure her tongue was pierced.

He goes over and looks at the first report, and reads the description of the mouth and stomach.

‘What are you looking for?’ Åhlén asks.

The only notes under points 22 and 23 are the injuries to the lips, teeth and gums, and at point 62 it says that the tongue and hyoid bone are undamaged. But there’s no mention of the hole.

Joona carries on reading, but there’s no mention of any item of jewellery being found in the stomach or gut.

‘I want to see the film,’ he says.

‘It’s already been examined tens of thousands of times,’ Margot says.

Leaning heavily on his stick, Joona raises his face, and his grey eyes are now as dark as thunderclouds.

29

Margot signs Joona in as her guest at the reception of the National Criminal Investigation Department, and he has to put on a visitor’s badge before they pass through the security doors.

‘There are bound to be loads of people wanting to see you,’ Margot says as they walk towards the lifts.

‘I haven’t got time,’ he says, taking his badge off and throwing it in a waste-paper bin.

‘It’s probably a good idea to prepare yourself for shaking a few hands – can you manage that?’

Joona thinks of the mines he laid out behind the house in Nattavaara. He made the ANNM out of ammonium nitrate and nitromethane, so that he had a stable secondary explosive substance. He had already armed two mines with three grams of pentaerythritol tetranitrate as a detonator, and was on his way back to the outhouse to make the third detonator when the entire bag of PETN exploded. The heavy door was blown off, and knocked his right leg out of its socket.

The pain had been like a flock of black birds, heavy jackdaws landing on his body and covering the ground where he lay. They rose again, as though they’d been blown away, when Lumi ran over to him and held his hand in hers.

‘At least I’ve still got my hands,’ he says as they pass a group of sofa and armchairs.

‘That makes it easier.’

Margot holds the lift door open and waits for him to catch up.

‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to see on the video,’ she says.

‘No,’ he says, and follows her in.

‘I mean, you seem pretty bloody weird,’ she smiles, ‘but I almost think I like that.’

When they emerge from the lift the corridor is already full of their colleagues. Everyone comes out of their rooms, leaving a passageway open between them.

Joona doesn’t look anyone in the eye, doesn’t smile back at anyone, and doesn’t answer anyone. He knows what he looks like. His beard is long and his hair scruffy, he’s limping and leaning on his stick, and he can’t stand up straight.

No one seems to know how to handle his return; they want to see him, but they mostly seem rather shy.

Someone’s holding a bundle of papers, someone else a mug of coffee. These are people he saw every day for many years. He walks past Benny Rubin, who’s standing eating a banana with a neutral expression on his face.

‘I’ll go as soon as I’ve seen the film,’ Joona tells Margot as he carries on past the doorway of his old room.

‘We’re working in room 22,’ Margot says, pointing along the corridor.

Joona stops to catch his breath for a moment. His injured leg hurts and he presses the stick into the floor to give his body a break.

‘Which rubbish tip did you find him on?’ Petter Näslund says with a grin.

‘Idiot,’ Margot says.

The head of the National Criminal Police, Carlos Eliasson, comes towards Joona. His reading glasses are swinging on a chain round his neck.

‘Joona,’ he says warmly.

‘Yes,’ Joona replies.

They shake hands and patchy applause breaks out in the corridor.

‘I didn’t believe it when they said you were in the building,’ Carlos says, unable to contain his smile. ‘I mean … I can’t really take it in.’

‘I just want to look at something,’ Joona says, and tries to walk on.

‘Come and see me afterwards and we’ll have a talk about the future.’

‘What’s there to say about that?’ Joona says, and walks away.

His work there feels distant now, further away than his childhood. There’s nothing for me to come back to, he thinks.

He wouldn’t be here now if the first victim’s hand hadn’t been cupped like a little bowl by her hip.

That made a small spark begin to smoulder inside him.

Her slender fingers could have been Lumi’s. A deep-seated curiosity woke up inside him, and he suddenly felt compelled to get closer to the body.

‘We need you here,’ Magdalena Ronander says as they shake hands.

It’s no longer his job, but when he was confronted with the first victim, he felt a connection that he’d like to be able to control. Maybe he can give Margot a hand with the early stages, just until she can see a way through.

Joona stumbles as pain shoots down his leg, his shoulder hits the wall and he hears his leather jacket scrape against the rough wallpaper.

‘I put a note on the intranet that you were going to be coming,’ Margot says as they stop outside room 822.

Anja Larsson, his assistant for all those years, is standing in the doorway of her room. Her face is red. Her chin starts to quiver and tears well up in her eyes as he stops in front of her.

‘I’ve missed you, Anja,’ he says.

‘Have you?’

Joona nods, and looks her in the eye. His pale grey eyes have a dull shimmer, as if he had a fever.

‘Everyone said you were dead, that you’d … But I couldn’t believe that … I didn’t want to, I … I suppose I always thought you were too stubborn to die,’ she smiles as tears run down her cheeks.

‘It just wasn’t my time,’ he replies.

The corridor starts to empty as everyone returns to their rooms; they’ve already seen enough of the fallen hero.

‘What do you look like?’ Anja says, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her blouse.

‘I know,’ he says simply.

She pats his cheek.

‘You’d better go, Joona. They’re waiting for you.’

30

Joona enters the operations room and closes the door behind him. On the long wall is a huge map of Stockholm with the crime scenes marked on it. Next to the map pictures from the examination of the scenes have been stuck up: footprints, bodies, blood-spatter patterns. There’s a large photograph of the porcelain deer’s head, with its reddish-brown glazed fur and eyes like black onyx. Joona looks at the copy of Maria Carlsson’s Filofax. The day she was murdered she had written ‘class 19.00 – squared paper, pencils, ink’, and underneath she had scribbled the letter ‘h’.

On the other wall they’ve tried to map the victims’ profiles. They’ve begun to identify family connections and other relationships. Their movements – workplaces, friends, supermarkets, gyms, classes, buses, cafés – have been marked with pins.

Adam Youssef stands up from his computer and walks over to Joona, shakes his hand, then pins a picture of a kitchen knife on the wall.

‘It’s just been confirmed that this knife was the murder weapon. Björn Kern washed it up and put it back in the drawer … but we had a number of stab-wounds through the sternum, so it was fairly easy to reconstruct the type of blade we were looking for … and it turned out that there were still tiny traces of blood on it.’

Youssef catches his breath, scratches his head hard a couple of times, then moves on to the enlargement of the deer’s head.

‘The porcelain figure is made of Meissen china,’ he says, letting his finger linger over the animal’s glistening black eye. ‘But the rest of the deer wasn’t at the crime scene … Björn Kern hasn’t yet been able to give any sort of coherent statement, so we don’t know if he was the one who put it in her hand …’

Joona stops and looks at the photograph of Maria Carlsson’s body. The dead woman is sitting propped up against a radiator under a window, wearing a pair of tights.

He reads the report from the examination of the crime scene. There’s no mention of any tongue-stud or similar item of jewellery being found in her home.

Adam shoots a questioning glance at Margot behind Joona’s back.

‘He wants to look at the film of Maria Carlsson,’ she says.

‘OK. What for?’

She smiles. ‘We’ve missed something.’

‘Probably,’ he laughs, and scratches his neck.

‘You can borrow my computer,’ Margot says amiably.

Joona thanks her and sits down on her chair, adjusts the media-player to full-screen and starts the clip. Just as Margot has described, it shows a thirty-year-old woman filmed in secret through her bedroom window as she pulls on a pair of black tights.

He sees her face, completely unaware, her downturned eyes, the calm set of her mouth, which then switches to something approaching lethargy. Her hair is hanging round her face, it looks like it’s just been washed. She’s wearing a black bra and she’s trying to get her tights to sit properly.

There’s a lamp with a clouded white shade and alabaster base in the window, and her shadow moves across the chest of drawers and the flowery wallpaper. She slips her hand between her thighs and tries to pull the thin nylon material up towards her crotch, and he can see her breathing through her mouth as the film ends.

‘Did you see what you were looking for?’ Adam asks, leaning over Joona’s shoulder.

Joona remains seated in front of the screen, then plays the film again, watches her struggle with her tights, then freezes the picture after thirty-five seconds and clicks to advance it frame by frame.

‘We’ve done that too,’ Adam says, stifling a belch.

Joona moves closer to the screen and watches Maria Carlsson as she moves very slowly, breathing with her mouth open. Her eyes blink and her long lashes cast shadows across her cheeks. Her right hand sinks weightlessly between her thighs to her crotch.

‘This won’t do,’ Adam says to Margot. ‘We need to get on.’

‘Give him a chance,’ she replies.

Maria Carlsson turns jerkily towards the camera, the grey shadow crosses her face, as if she were being lifted up from a bath full of lead. Her lips part, the light from the lamp in the window shines on her face, making her eyes glow, and there’s a shimmer in her mouth, then the film ends.

Behind Joona, Adam and Margot have started to talk about investigating the people in the drawing class that Maria was about to set out for; they’ve already tried to find out if any of their names begin with ‘H’, but without success so far.

Joona moves the cursor and plays the last five seconds again. The light plays across her hair, her ear and cheeks, making her eyes shine, and then her mouth flashes.

He enlarges the image as far as he can without losing too much focus, then shifts the enlarged area so that it covers her mouth, and looks at the last few frames again. Her parted lips fill the screen, light shines in and the pink tip of her tongue becomes visible. He clicks to advance the image, frame by frame. The curve of her tongue comes into view, becomes lighter, and in the next shot it looks like a white sun fills the whole of her mouth. The sun contracts. And in the penultimate frame the glow has shrunk to a white dot on a grey pea.

‘He took the jewellery,’ Joona says quietly.

The two detectives fall silent and turn to look at him and the computer screen. It takes a few moments for them to interpret the enlarged image, the pink tongue and hazy stud.

‘OK, we missed the fact that her tongue was pierced,’ Adam says in a rasping voice.

Margot is standing with her legs apart and her hands round her stomach, and looks at Joona as he leans against the desk and gets up from the chair.

‘You saw that she had a hole in her tongue and wanted to watch the film to see if the stud was there,’ she says, picking up her phone.

‘I just thought her mouth was important,’ Joona says. ‘Her jaw was broken, and she had her own saliva on her hand.’

‘Impressive,’ Margot says. ‘I’ll request an enlargement from Forensics at once.’

Joona stands still, staring at the pictures and maps on the wall as Margot speaks into the phone.

‘We’re collaborating with the BKA,’ Margot explains once she’s hung up. ‘The Germans are way out in front when it comes to this sort of thing, in all forms of image enhancement … Have you met Stefan Ott? Handsome guy, curly hair. He’s developed his own programs, which J-lab …’

‘OK, so we’ve got an item of jewellery on the film,’ Adam says, thinking out loud. ‘The degree of violence is aggressive, fuelled by hatred … probably jealousy, and …’

Margot’s inbox bleeps and she opens the email and clicks on the image so that it fills the whole screen.

In order to improve the contrast of the stud itself, the image enhancement software has changed all the colours. Maria Carlsson’s tongue and cheeks are blue, almost like glass, but at the same time the stud is clearly visible.

‘Saturn,’ Margot whispers.

At the end of the stud piercing Maria’s tongue is a silver sphere with a ring around its equator, just like the planet Saturn.

‘That’s not an “h”,’ Joona says.

They turn and see that he’s looking at the photograph of Maria’s Filofax where it says ‘class 19.00 – squared paper, pencils, ink’, then on the line below the letter ‘h’.

‘That’s the symbol for Saturn,’ he says. ‘It actually represents a scythe or sickle. That’s why it’s slightly crooked, and sometimes it’s crossed up at the top.’

‘Saturn … the planet. The Roman god,’ Margot says.

31

Joona and Margot have taken their shoes off and are standing looking through a pane of glass. The room inside is warm and damp.

‘I’ve tested for allergens, and it turns out that I’m allergic to mindfulness,’ she says.

To the strains of Indian music, about thirty perspiring women are moving with mechanical symmetry on their yoga mats.

Margot got five officers to check through Maria Carlsson’s Internet traffic once more: her email, Facebook and Instagram accounts. The stud in her tongue is only visible in a few pictures, and is only mentioned by one of her friends on Facebook before all communication between them ceased.

‘You got lick it, before we kick it. Me too wanna pierce my tongue.’

The woman who had posted that was called Linda Bergman, and she was an instructor in Bikram yoga in the centre of Stockholm. They were in very regular contact for six months before she suddenly unfriended Maria.

Linda Bergman emerges from the staffroom dressed in jeans and a grey sweater. She’s suntanned, and has quickly showered and put on some make-up.

‘Linda? I’m Margot Silverman,’ Margot says, shaking the woman’s hand.

‘You didn’t say what this was about, and I can honestly say that I have absolutely no idea,’ she says.

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