Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness. Lars Kepler
boy must have realised from an early age that he was not like the other children. Joona considers the endless loneliness of a boy rejected by his mother. A person who has been the indisputable favourite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of the conqueror, but the opposite results not only in an absence of this feeling but also the presence of an active darkness. The only one who gave Josef love and care was Evelyn, and he couldn’t cope with being rejected by her; the slightest indication that she was distancing herself from him plunged him into despair and rage, his fury directed increasingly at the beloved younger sister.
Joona nods at Sunesson, the officer on guard, who is standing outside the door of Josef Ek’s room, then glances in at the boy. A heavy drip stand right next to the bed is supplying him with both fluid and blood plasma. The boy’s feet protrude from beneath the pale blue blanket; the soles are dirty, hairs and bits of grit and rubbish are stuck to the surgical tape covering the stitches. The television is on, but he doesn’t appear to be watching it.
The social worker, Lisbet Carlén, is already in the room. She hasn’t noticed Joona yet; she is standing by the window adjusting a barrette in her hair.
Josef is bleeding anew from one of his cuts; the blood runs along his arm and drips to the floor. An older nurse leans over the boy, tending to his dressings. She loosens the compress, tapes the edges of the wound together once again, wipes the blood away, and leaves the room.
“Excuse me,” says Joona, catching up with her in the hallway.
“Yes?”
“How is he? How is Josef getting on?”
“You’ll have to speak to the doctor in charge,” the nurse replies, setting off once again.
“I will,” says Joona with a smile, hurrying after her. “But there’s something I’d like to show him. Would it be possible for me to take him there—in a wheelchair, I mean?”
The nurse stops dead and shakes her head. “Under no circumstances is the patient to be moved,” she says sternly. “What a ridiculous idea. He’s in a great deal of pain, he can’t move, there could be new bleeds, and he could begin to haemorrhage if he were to sit up.”
Joona returns to Josef’s room, walking in without knocking, and turns off the TV. He switches on the tape recorder, mutters the date and time and those present, and sits down. Josef opens his heavy eyes and looks at him with a mild lack of interest. The chest drain emits a pleasant, low-pitched, bubbling noise.
“You’ll be discharged soon,” says Joona.
“Good,” says Josef faintly.
“Although you’ll immediately be transferred to police custody.”
“What do you mean? Lisbet said the prosecutor isn’t prepared to take any action,” says Josef, glancing over at the social worker.
“That was before we had a witness.”
Josef closes his eyes gently. “Who?”
“We’ve talked quite a bit, you and I,” says Joona. “But you might want to change something you’ve already said or add something you haven’t said.”
“Evelyn,” he whispers.
“You’re going to be inside for a very long time.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, Josef, I’m telling the truth. Trust me. You’ll be arrested, and you now have the right to legal representation.”
Josef attempts to raise his hand but doesn’t have the strength. “You hypnotised her,” he says with a smile.
Joona shakes his head.
“It’s her word against mine,” he says.
“Not exactly,” says Joona, contemplating the boy’s clean, pale face. “We also have forensic evidence.”
Josef clamps his jaws tightly together.
“I haven’t got a lot of time, but if there’s anything you want to tell me, I can stay for a little while longer,” says Joona pleasantly.
He allows half a minute to pass, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, and then gets to his feet, picks up the tape recorder, and leaves the room with a brief nod to the social worker.
In the car outside the hospital, Joona considers whether he should have confronted Josef with Evelyn’s story, just to see the boy’s reaction. There is a simmering arrogance in Josef Ek that might lead him to incriminate himself if he were sufficiently provoked.
He considers going back inside for a moment, but he doesn’t want to be late for dinner with his girlfriend. Josef Ek will keep until next time.
36
friday, december 11: evening
It is dark and misty when he parks the car outside Disa’s cream-coloured building on Lützengatan. He feels frozen as he makes his way to the front door, glancing at the frosty grass, the black branches of the trees.
He tries to recall Josef, lying there in his bed, but all he can remember is the chest drain, bubbling and rattling away. Yet he has the feeling he saw something important without comprehending it. The sense that something isn’t right continues to nag at him as he takes the lift up to Disa’s apartment and rings the bell. While he waits, Joona can hear someone on the landing up above, sighing spasmodically or weeping quietly.
Disa opens the door looking stressed, wearing only her bra and panty-hose.
“I assumed you’d be late,” she explains.
“Well, I’m slightly early instead,” says Joona, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
“Perhaps you could come inside and shut the door before all the neighbours see my ass.”
The welcoming hall smells of food. The fringe of a pink lampshade tickles the top of Joona’s head.
“I’m doing sole with almonds and new potatoes,” says Disa.
“With melted butter?”
“And mushrooms, and parsley.”
“Delicious.”
The one-bedroom apartment is rather shabby, but with an inherent elegance; high ceilings with varnished wood panelling, a beautifully varnished parquet floor, and graceful windows framed in teak.
Joona follows Disa into her bedroom, still trying to remember what it was that he saw in Josef’s room. Disa’s laptop is in the middle of her unmade bed, with books and sheets of paper strewn around.
He settles into an armchair and waits for her to finish dressing. Without a word she turns her back to him so he can zip up a close-fitting, simply cut dress.
Joona glances at one of Disa’s open books and spies a large, black-and-white photo of a graveyard. A group of men, archaeologists, dressed in clothing from the 1940s, are walking along towards the back of the picture, peering at the photographer. It looks as if the site has just begun to be excavated; the surface of the ground is marked with dozens of small flags.
“Those are graves,” she says quietly. “The flags show the location of the graves. The man who conducted the dig on this site was called Hannes Müller; he died a while ago, but he was at least a hundred years old. Stayed on at the institute until the end. He looked like a sweet old tortoise.”
She stands in front of the long mirror, weaves her straight hair into two thin braids, and turns to face him.
“How do I look?”
“Lovely,” says Joona.
“Yes,” she replies sadly. “How’s your mum?”
Joona catches hold of her hand. “She’s fine,” he whispers. “She sends you