Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness. Lars Kepler
“Perhaps Erik thought it was someone else at the door.”
“Who?”
“I think he’s seeing a woman called Daniella,” she says, without meeting her father’s gaze.
46
sunday, december 13 (feast of st lucia): morning
Simone wakes at five o’clock. Kennet must have carried her to bed and tucked her in. She goes straight to Benjamin’s room with a flicker of hope in her chest, but the feeling is swept away as she stands in the doorway, gazing at the empty bed.
She doesn’t cry, but she thinks that the taste of tears and fear has permeated everything, as a single drop of milk turns clear water cloudy. She tries to take control of her thoughts, to not think about Benjamin, not properly, to not let the fear in.
The light is on in the kitchen. Kennet has covered the table with bits of paper. On the counter, the police radio is making a murmuring, buzzing noise. Kennet stands completely still, staring into thin air; then he runs his hand over his chin a couple of times.
“I’m glad you managed to get some sleep,” he says.
She shakes her head.
“Sixan?”
“Yes,” she mumbles; she goes over to the sink and splashes her face with cold water. As she dries herself with the kitchen towel she sees her reflection in the window. It is still dark outside, but soon the dawn will come with its net of winter cold and December darkness.
Kennet scribbles on a scrap of paper, moves another sheet, and makes a note of something on a pad. She sits down opposite her father and tries to analyse how Josef Ek got into their apartment and where he might have taken Benjamin.
“Son of the Right Hand,” she whispers.
“What, dear?” asks Kennet, still writing.
“Nothing.”
She was thinking that Son of the Right Hand is the Hebrew meaning of Benjamin. In the Old Testament, Rachel was the wife of Jacob. He worked for fourteen years so he could marry her. She bore him two sons: Joseph, who interpreted the dreams of the pharaoh, and Benjamin, the Son of the Right Hand.
Simone’s face contracts with suppressed tears. Without a word, Kennet leans over and squeezes her shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he says.
She nods.
“I got this just before you woke up,” he says, tapping a folder that is lying on the table.
“What is it?”
“You know, the house in Tumba where Josef Ek … This is the crime-scene investigator’s report.”
“I thought you’d retired?”
“I have my ways.” He smiles and pushes the folder over to her; she opens it and reads the systematic analysis of fingerprints, handprints, marks showing where bodies have been dragged, strands of hair, traces of skin under fingernails, damage to the blade of a knife, marrow from a spinal cord on a pair of slippers, blood on the television, blood on the lamp, on the rag rug, on the curtains.
Photographs fall out of a plastic pocket. Simone tries not to look, but her brain still manages to capture the image of a horrific room: everyday objects, bookshelves, a music system, all black with blood.
On the floor there are mutilated bodies and body parts.
She stands up abruptly and leans over the sink, retching.
“Sorry,” says Kennet. “I wasn’t thinking … Sometimes I forget that not everyone is a policeman.”
She closes her eyes and thinks of Benjamin’s terrified face and a dark room with cold, cold blood on the floor. She leans forward and throws up. Slimy strings of mucus and bile land among the coffee cups and spoons. She clings to the counter and breathes steadily, calming herself. Above all, she fears losing control of her emotions, lapsing into a state of helpless hysteria. She rinses her mouth, her pulse beating loudly in her ears, and turns to look at Kennet.
“I’m fine,” she says faintly. “I just can’t connect all this with Benjamin.”
Kennet gets a blanket and wraps it around her, gently guiding her back to her chair.
“I’m not sure if I can do this,” she says.
“You’re doing fine. Now, I need you to listen to me. If Josef Ek has taken Benjamin, he must want something. He hasn’t done anything like this before. It’s not an escalation, which is what we might typically expect from a serial killer when he changes his MO. No, I think Josef Ek was looking for Erik, but when he didn’t find him, he took Benjamin instead. Perhaps to do an exchange.”
“In that case, he must be alive, mustn’t he?”
“Absolutely,” says Kennet. “We just have to figure out where Ek’s hidden him, where Benjamin is.”
“Anywhere. He could be anywhere.”
“On the contrary,” says Kennet.
She looks at him.
“It’s almost exclusively a question of his home or a summer cottage.”
“But this is his home,” she says, raising her voice and tapping the plastic pocket of photographs with her finger.
47
sunday, december 13 (feast of st lucia): morning
Kennet repeats to himself the words ‘his home,’ takes the file with the photos and the write-up from the forensic investigation of the house, hides them underneath his notepad, and turns around to face his daughter.
“Dutroux,” he says.
“What?” asks Simone.
“Do you remember the case of Marc Dutroux?”
“No.”
In his matter-of-fact fashion, Kennet tells her about Dutroux, who kidnapped and tortured six girls in Belgium. Julie Lejeune and Melissa Russo starved to death while Dutroux was serving a short prison sentence for stealing a car. Eefje Lambrecks and An Marchal were buried alive in the garden.
“Dutroux had a house in Charleroi,” he goes on. “In the cellar he had built a storeroom with a secret door weighing over four hundred pounds. It was impossible to detect the room by knocking to find a hollow space. The only way to find it was to measure the house; the measurements inside and outside didn’t match. Sabine Dardenne and Laetitia Delhez were found alive.”
Simone tries to get to her feet. Her heart is beating peculiarly, hammering her chest from inside. She cannot believe there are men driven by a need to wall people in, men calmed by the fear of their victims down in the darkness, behind silent walls.
“Benjamin needs his medication,” she whispers.
Simone watches her father go over to the telephone. He dials a number, waits for a moment, then says quickly, “Charley? Listen, there’s something I need to know about Josef Ek … No, it’s about his house, the house in Tumba.”
There is silence for a while; then Simone can hear someone speaking in a rough, deep voice.
“Yes,” says Kennet. “I realise you’ve checked it out. I’ve had a look at the report.”
The other person continues talking. Simone closes her eyes and listens to the hum of the police radio, which becomes part of the muted bumblebee buzz of the voice on the phone.
“But you haven’t measured the house?” she hears her father ask. “No, of course not …”
She opens her eyes and suddenly