Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1 and 2: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare - Lars Kepler

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When he informed Jens Svanehjälm of Evelyn’s sudden change of heart, Jens had listened in silence, sighing heavily as Joona went over the cruel motive behind the crime.

      “To be perfectly honest, Joona,” he had said eventually, “this is all a little bit thin, bearing in mind that Josef Ek accused his sister of being behind the whole thing. What we really need is a confession or some kind of forensic evidence.”

      Joona glances around the room, rubs his hand over his face, then calls Daniella Richards to arrange a suitable time to continue questioning Josef, when the suspect will have a lower level of analgesics in his body.

      “His head must be clear,” says Joona.

      “You could come in at five o’clock,” says Daniella.

      “This afternoon?”

      “His next dose of morphine isn’t due until six. It levels out around teatime.”

      Joona looks at the clock. It’s 2:30 p.m.

      “That would suit me very well,” he says.

      After the conversation with Daniella Richards, he calls Lisbet Carlén and informs her of the time.

      In the staff room he takes an apple from the fruit bowl; when he returns to his office, his seat is occupied by Erixon, the crime-scene technician. His entire body is wedged against the desk. His face is bright red, and he is puffing and panting as he waves a weary hand at Joona.

      “If you shove that apple in my mouth, you’ll have a suckling pig all ready for Christmas,” he says.

      “Oh, shut up,” says Joona, taking a bite.

      “I deserve it,” says Erixon. “Since that Thai place opened on the corner, I’ve put on twenty-five pounds.”

      Joona shrugs. “The food’s really good.”

      “Fuckin’ A.”

      “So what did you find in the women’s locker room?” asks Joona.

      Erixon holds up a chubby hand in a defensive gesture. “Don’t say, What did I tell you?”

      Joona grins. “We’ll see,” he says diplomatically.

      “All right,” says Erixon, wiping the sweat from his cheeks. “There was hair belonging to Josef Ek in the drain, and there was blood from his father between the tiles on the floor.”

      “What did I tell you?” Joona beams.

      In the lift down to the foyer, Joona calls Jens Svanehjälm again.

      “I’m glad you called,” says Jens. “I’m getting a lot of shit about this hypnosis business. They’re saying we ought to scrap the preliminary investigation into Josef, that it’s just going to cost money and—”

      “Hold on.”

      “But I’ve decided to—”

      “Jens?”

      “What?” he replies irritably.

      “We’ve got forensic evidence,” he says seriously. “We can link Josef Ek to the first crime scene and to his father’s blood.”

      Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm breathes heavily on the other end of the phone. “Joona, you know you’ve called at the last possible minute.”

      “But I’m in time.”

      “Yes.”

      They are just about to hang up when Joona says, “What did I tell you?”

      “What?”

      “I was right, wasn’t I?”

      There is silence at the other end of the line. Then Jens says, slowly and deliberately, “Yes, Joona, you were right.”

      They end the conversation, and the smile fades from the detective’s face. He walks along the glass wall facing the courtyard and checks the time once again. In half an hour he wants to be at the Nordic Museum.

       34

       friday, december 11: afternoon

      Joona walks up the staircase in the museum and down the long, empty corridors, passing hundreds of illuminated display cases without even glancing at them. He does not see the tools, the treasures, or the fine examples of handicrafts; he does not notice the exhibitions, the folk costumes, or the large photographs.

      The guard has already drawn up a chair next to the faintly illuminated display case. Without saying a word, Joona sits down as usual and contemplates the Sami bridal headdress, sewn by descendents of indigenous people from the Scandinavian peninsula. Fragile and delicate, it widens out into a perfect circle. The pieces of lace are reminiscent of the cup of a flower, or a pair of hands brought together with the fingers stretching upward. Slowly Joona moves his head, so that the light gradually moves. The headdress is woven from roots, tied by hand. The material was dug from the ground, but it shines like gold.

      The present is gone, but the memory lingers mercilessly.

      He is driving a car, the rain has stopped, but the puddles of water glow like fire in the sunset. Everything is so wonderfully beautiful, and then gone forever.

      This time, Joona sits in front of the display case for an hour before he gets to his feet, nods to the guard, and slowly leaves the museum. The slush on the ground is dirty, and he can smell diesel from a boat beneath the bridge, Djurgårdsbron. He is ambling toward Strandvägen when his mobile rings. It’s Nils Åhlén, the Chief Medical Officer.

      “I’m glad I got hold of you,” The Needle says when Joona answers.

      “Have you finished the postmortem?”

      “More or less.”

      Joona sees a young father on the pavement, tipping a buggy up over and over again to make his child laugh. A woman is standing motionless at a window, gazing out into the street; when he catches her eye, she immediately takes a step backwards into her apartment.

      “Did you find anything unexpected?” asks Joona.

      “Well, I don’t know …”

      “But?”

      “Joona, these bodies were subjected to a great deal of violence. Particularly the little girl.”

      “I realise that,” says Joona.

      “Many of the wounds were inflicted purely for pleasure. It’s appalling.”

      “Yes,” says Joona, thinking about how things looked when he arrived at the scenes of the crimes: the shocked police officers, the feeling of chaos in the air, the bodies inside. He remembers Lillemor Blom’s ashen cheeks as she stood outside smoking, her hands shaking. He recalls how the blood had splashed on the windowpanes, had run down the inside of the patio doors at the back of the house.

      “And then there’s this business with the rather surgical cut to the stomach,” says The Needle.

      “Have you come to any conclusion about that?”

      The Needle sighs. “Well, it’s just as we thought. The cut was inflicted some two hours after death. Someone turned her body over and used a sharp knife to cut open the old C-section scar.” He leafs through his papers. “However, our perpetrator doesn’t know much about section caesarea. Katja Ek had an emergency C-section scar running down from the navel in a vertical line.”

      “And?”

      The Needle puffs loudly. “Well, the thing is, the cut in the womb is always horizontal, even if the cut in the stomach is vertical.”

      “But Josef didn’t know that,” says Joona.

      “No,” replies The Needle. “He simply opened the stomach without realising that a C-section always involves

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