LITMIR.BIZ

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get a move on, over here.”

      Carlos Eliasson, Head of the National CID, is waving to him in the pale yellow light by the reception desk. Through the window he can see Sunesson sitting on a bench weeping, his face crumpled. A younger colleague sits down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

      Joona shows his ID and the officer moves to one side, his expression surly. Large parts of the entrance have been cordoned off with police tape. The journalists’ cameras flash outside the glass walls, while inside the crime team is busy taking their photographs.

      Carlos is leading the investigation and is responsible for both the overall strategic approach and the immediate tactical detail. He issues rapid instructions to the scene-of-crime coordinator and then turns to Joona.

      “Have you got him?” asks Joona.

      “We have eyewitnesses who saw him making his way outside using a wheeled walker,” says Carlos. “It’s down at the bus stop.” He glances at his notes. “Two buses have left since then, plus seven taxis and patient transport vehicles … and probably a dozen or so private cars, and just one ambulance.”

      “Have you sealed off the exits?”

      “Too late for that.”

      A uniformed officer is waved through.

      “We’ve traced the buses—no luck,” he says.

      “What about the taxis?” asks Carlos.

      “We’ve finished with Taxi Stockholm and Taxi Kurir, but …” The officer waves a hand helplessly as if he can no longer remember what he was going to say.

      “Have you contacted Erik Maria Bark?” asks Joona.

      “We called him straight away. There was no answer, but we’re trying to get hold of him.”

      “He needs protection.”

      “Rolle!” yells Carlos. “Did you get hold of Bark?”

      “I just called,” replies Roland Svensson.

      “Try again,” says Joona.

      “I need to speak to Omar in Central Control,” says Carlos, looking around. “We need to put out a national alert.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Stay here, check if I’ve missed anything,” says Carlos. He calls over Mikael Verner, one of the technicians from the murder squad.

      “Tell Detective Linna what you’ve found so far,” Carlos orders.

      Verner looks at Joona, his face expressionless, and says in a nasal voice, “A dead nurse … Several witnesses saw the suspect making his way out with a wheeled walker.”

      “Show me,” says Joona.

      They go up the fire escape together, since the lifts are still being examined.

      Joona contemplates the red footprints left by the barefoot Josef Ek on his way down to the exit. There is a smell of electricity and death. A bloody handprint on the wall suggests that he stumbled or had to support himself. Joona sees blood on the metal lift door and something that looks like the greasy imprint of a forehead and the tip of a nose.

      They continue along the corridor and stop in the doorway of the room where he spoke to Josef only an hour or so ago. A pool of almost black blood surrounds a body on the floor.

      “She was a nurse,” says Verner tersely. “Ann-Katrin Eriksson.”

      Joona looks at the dead woman’s pale blonde hair and lifeless eyes. Her uniform is bunched up around her hips. It looks as if the murderer tried to pull up her dress, he thinks.

      “It seems likely the murder weapon was a scalpel,” says Verner.

      Joona mutters something, takes out his phone, and rings the holding cells at Kronoberg. A sleepy male voice replies, saying something Joona doesn’t hear.

      “Joona Linna here,” he says quickly. “I need to know if Evelyn Ek is still with you.”

      “What?”

      Joona repeats his question. “Is Evelyn Ek still there?”

      “You’ll need to ask the duty officer,” the voice responds sourly.

      “Put him on, please.”

      “Just a minute,” says the man, putting the phone down.

      Joona hears him walk away, followed by the squeak of a door. Then there is an exchange of words, and something bangs. Joona looks at his watch. He’s already been at the hospital for ten minutes.

      He heads down to the main door, keeping the phone to his ear.

      “Kronoberg,” says a genial voice.

      “Joona Linna, National CID. I need to know the status of one of your detainees: Evelyn Ek,” he says briefly.

      “Evelyn Ek,” says the voice thoughtfully. “Right, yes. We let her go; it wasn’t easy. She wanted to stay here.”

      “And you just put her on the street?”

      “No, no, the prosecutor was here; she’s in”—Joona can hear pages turning—“she’s in one of our safe apartments.”

      “Good,” he says. “Put some officers outside her door. Do you hear me?”

      “We’re not idiots.”

      Joona finds Carlos, who is intently studying something on the screen of his laptop. He tries to get his attention but when he fails he just keeps going, out through the glass doors.

      On Joona’s police radio, Omar at Central Control is repeating the code word Echo, the designation for the deployment of dog units. Joona guesses that they have traced most of the cars by this time, with no results.

      He wanders over to the abandoned walker, left at the bus stop, and looks around. He blots out the people who are watching from the other side of the police cordon, he blots out the flashing blue lights and the agitated movements of the police officers, he blots out the flashing cameras of the journalists, and instead he allows his gaze to roam over the car park and in between the various buildings of the hospital complex.

      Joona sets off, stepping over the fluttering tape cordoning off the area. He pushes his way through the group of curious onlookers and heads for Northern Cemetery, following the fence and peering among the black silhouettes of trees and gravestones. A network of paths, some better lit than others, extends over an area of roughly 150 acres, containing memorial groves, a crematorium, and 30,000 graves.

       39

       friday, december 11: evening

      Joona passes the lodge by the gate to the large cemetery, increases his speed, glances over at Alfred Nobel’s pale obelisk, and moves on past the enormous crypt.

      In the quiet here, the wind rustles through the bare branches of the trees and his own footsteps echo faintly between gravestones and crosses. Some kind of heavy vehicle thunders along in the distance on the motorway. Something rustles among the dry leaves beneath a bush. Here and there, candles are burning by the graves in misty glass containers.

      Joona makes for the eastern edge of the cemetery, the area facing the slip road for the motorway. Suddenly, he sees a pale form moving in the darkness among the tall gravestones, heading for the cemetery’s office, perhaps 400 yards away. He stops and tries to focus his eyes. The figure has an angular, stooping shape. Joona begins to run between monuments and plantings, flickering candle flames and carved angels. He sees the slender figure hurry across the frosty grass, his white clothes flapping around him.

      “Josef!” Joona shouts. “Stop!”

      The boy keeps going, disappearing behind a huge family plot with a wrought-iron

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