Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (29 page)

The bastion of mortar and arched windows that is Lindhaga Hospital is hidden away in a hilly, forest-clad area an hour’s drive from Stockholm.

Twenty-six years ago, the building was converted from private rehabilitation centre into a joint centre run by the government’s correctional department and a university psychology faculty. Bars, pool tables and gyms were quietly replaced by a small number of Sweden’s most difficult criminals. The staff is trained and numerous. No one has escaped.

From a distance, the hospital looks to Lena like a nineteenth-century mansion overlooking a tranquil archipelago. Its proud front faces the sea and a scattering of small distant islands, while open grassy fields stretch away from the building’s sides and rear. Beyond the fields are dense and deep spruce forests where the gloom hangs heavy even in daylight.

The hospital’s sole sign is mounted next to the only gate in the brick wall that encircles the building. There are no signposts at the nearby highway; if you cannot find the hospital, you have no business there.

She leaves her car on the half-empty parking lot and walks up to the gate, treading carefully on the packed snow so as not to slip; sudden moves hurt her ribs, as does laughing, or being awake. The cold stings her bruised cheeks, but at least the wind is calm, barely disturbing the snowflakes that fall around her.

The sun attempts to break through the overcast morning sky and leaves spokes of light across the frozen water. Muffled classical music sounds from inside the house. Apart from the single barbed wire on top of the wall, the place looks inconspicuous, but she knows that motion detectors and cameras hide along the hospital’s perimeter.

Lena presses the button on the intercom and waits. After a moment, a woman’s voice asks for Lena’s name.

“Lena Franke, Stockholm Police Force. I have an appointment with John Andersson.”

The gates open, and Lena crosses the yard to the warmth of the small reception. Five minutes later, she has completed the paperwork and is introduced to a calm, smiling man carrying a key ring and a large baton.

The man escorts her to a cell halfway down a green corridor lit by a soft homely light. Paintings and bookshelves adorn the walls, metre-high flowers struggle in the poor light, the carpets are perfectly aligned. Thick iron rods bar all windows in the corridor.

She looks through the reinforced glass and sees John sitting on his bed, gazing out through a window at the sea. Three weeks have passed since John was ushered away from Arlanda. Reports said he had been compliant and cooperative, showing no aggression or violent tendencies. Two cuffs around his ankles secure him to a pair of metal hoops in the floor. There are no books, flowers, cutlery or pens. Utterly still, he looks like a statue lost in reveries.

Having watched John’s manoeuvring and actions up close, she cares little for professional opinions. Her gun is left behind in her car. She would not bring the weapon inside the cell even if doing so was allowed.

Ever since John’s sudden transformation from unfeeling executioner into confused and passive amnesic, she wants to believe he is changed, and she knows how much she wants to believe it. His obedience can be a thin disguise stretched over a murderous devil. She cannot trust him. Not yet.

“I’ll have to accompany you,” the nurse says in a hushed voice. “You understand.”

Lena nods. He unlocks the door, and they step into the room. John does not turn to face them.

“John?” Lena asks. No reaction. “John?”

John turns away from the window and looks at Lena. Recognition flashes over his face. “You,” he says. “Hello.”

“I’m Lena Franke. Do you remember me?”

He nods. “I’m not likely to forget you in a hurry.”

“Just making sure. They say you actually lost your memory.” That is still hard to believe, but she wants to keep all options open.

“I did,” John says. “It came back. Most of it.”

Behind Lena, the nurse closes and locks the door. The wires from John’s manacles rustle softly as he shifts on the bed. Lena sits down on a chair on the other side of the room and puts her bag on the floor.

In the first hospital reports, John claimed to know nothing about what had happened during the two frenzied days the police searched for him. Later reports detailed how he had broken down into hysterics when he was confronted with what he had done. Gradually, his memories had returned, bringing more trauma. Or so the psychologists say. Lena is unconvinced.

John smiles at her, but he looks hollowed out, a fragile shell of a man who had lost much and done things both unforgettable and unforgivable. If he puts on a show, he does it well.

“So you recall what happened?” Lena says.

“I’m afraid so.” John grimaces, looks down at his bed and out through the window. “I feel so sorry for him.”

“Niklas?”

John shakes his head. “Nils. My job mate. He must’ve been terrified. I can never make up for it.” He pauses. “I feel sorry for that policeman too.”

“Who?”

“The one I shot outside Tom’s office. I heard. Did they save his finger?”

“No,” Lena says. “But he’s alive. What about the murderer?”

John turns back to look at Lena. She meets his eyes and looks for a glimmer of the hell-bent avenger, but she sees only a tired man.

“What about him?” John asks.

“Do you feel any remorse?”

John sighs. “Should I have killed him? No. Does he deserve to live? I think I’ll let you answer that one.”

“Seen enough violence, have you?”

“I’ve seen enough of many things.”

Lena brushes a speck of dust from her trousers. “For the record, I still don’t buy your story. I would like to, but I can’t. A blackout all the way up until your arrest? It’s just too convenient.”

John smiles at the floor. “Things were black, all right.”

“Not a single memory of what went down, you said in the report. Come on. You can do better than that.”

“You think I’m lying.” John glances up at Lena.

“I’m naturally suspicious. It goes with the job.”

“I don’t blame you. Some of the doctors think I’m covering up. They work hard to keep a straight face.” John chuckles. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

“But you’re sticking to your story?”

“I’m being as honest as I can be.”

“Work with me,” Lena urges. “If you don’t remember anything, that means you were out for over a day. Didn’t you sleep?” She knows she is pushing John, but she wants a sign that he is truly recovering.

“Once.”

“Did you dream?”

“In a way.” John runs his hand across his face. “But nothing I will relay to the doctors.”

“Are you laughing?”

“Sorry,” John says. “I’m tired. But I’m glad you came. I wanted to thank you.”

“I didn’t bring any flowers.”

“I mean for saving me. I would have killed Tom. I came very, very close.”

“You do know that Tom is dead, don’t you?”

“Yes, but not because of me,” John says. “And I caused enough pain as it is. I’ll be here for a long time. But perhaps they’ll let me out one day, and if they do, it’ll be because of you.”

Lena bites her lip while they share a long silence. Their eyes do not meet, but the pause is not uncomfortable.

“What happened?” John asks.

Lena looks up. “I know they’ve already told you everything. They wanted to jog your memory.”

“Before that,” John says. “What happened to Molly? I saw–” John’s hands grip the bed sheets hard. “I know she was shot, but I don’t know why.”

Lena scratches her neck, looks down, and sighs. She does not need this. Counsellors and psychotherapists can wrap the horror in gentle words and deal with the responses. In her mouth, the words have edges.

“Please?” John urges.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He closes his eyes and leans back into his pillow. “I need to know.”

Lena gives John a summary of what she knows: In the wake of the hunt, the police pieced together a picture of the failed robbery with help from Mick following his surgery. He has lost sight in one eye and will slur for the rest of his life, but when he grew lucid, he was happy to talk. He would do anything to stay in the hospital and away from John.

Niklas is also alive, but only with the aid of an array of machines. The doctors give him a one-in-ten chance, and if he makes it, he will be bed-bound for the rest of his miserable life.

When Lena finishes, John is crying.

“I warned you – oh, damn it.” Lena rises and takes her jacket off the chair. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

“No,” John says. “Stay. Please.”

Lena pauses in mid-rise and sits down again. “Sure.” She waits while John takes a shuddering breath and wipes his nose.

“It was about money, then,” John asks. “Nothing worse?”

“Just money. It was quick.” The words make her cringe, but if she were in John’s shoes, they are what she would want to hear.

Minutes pass while John regains his composure. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Again.”

“Anything else I can do, let me know.”

“What happened to you?” John asks.

“Incredibly, I still got my job. I got a warning, but my boss was backed up by a profiler who said I’d been right all along. She said I ‘acted inexpertly but possibly prevented the loss of further lives’, end quote.”

“What does that mean?” John asks.

“It’s a fancy way of saying I screwed up, but possibly saved people from getting shot. I reckon my boss still had to pull a few strings to keep me on the force.”

Or, Lena suspects, Gren had pulled a great thick bundle of ropes. There are several reasons why she should have been kicked out, but Gren, after an endless briefing with Agnes, had put his own job on the line to save Lena’s.

Lena had tried to coax Gren into telling her what he and Agnes had discussed, but so far, Gren had been quiet. One day, she would walk through fire to find out what they had said about her.

“And my colleague backed me up, too,” Lena adds.

“Agnes?”

“How do you know her name?”

“One of the doctors let it slip. She was the one who shot Tom, right?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Of course.” John smiles. “I’d like to thank her too. For saving you.”

Lena hesitates. “What did you see of what happened?” she asks.

“It looked as if Tom tried to kill you. That is why she – ah, why Tom was shot, right?”

“Correct.”

According to Agnes’s statement, Tom had reached for his inner pocket. Agnes had thought he was reaching for a concealed weapon, and, being closer than the task force and having a clear shot, she had fired.

But Tom had given up. There had been no concealed weapon, no threat, and no danger. Instead, Lena had succumbed to that gleeful, homicidal persona that hid in her head, and she would have shot Tom if Agnes had not beaten her to the task. It is possible that Agnes could have misread Tom’s moves, but it was unlikely.

“Can I send her message?” John asks.

Lena shakes her head. “Agnes is gone.” In the tumult that followed, she had lost sight of Agnes, and she had not managed to contact her since.

“Oh,” John says. “Did she quit?”

“I have no idea. Apparently, she filed the necessary reports, left for home, and vanished. Everyone’s as baffled as I am.”

Lena is sharing what might be officially classified information with John, but she could not care less: A bond between them had been created when their paths had crossed. It is a connection she cannot and will not attempt to explain to anyone else.

Should the beast inside him gain the upper hand, he might turn on her, but she knows he is struggling not to let that happen. He wants to be in control. And in that constant fight, they are united.

“That’s unfortunate,” John says.

Lena nods. “You can say that again. I haven’t even had a chance to talk to her since Tom was shot.”

Lena had still been at the hospital ward when Agnes had strolled out of the office and disappeared into a clear winter’s morning. Clean desk, sorted files, no calls. Gun and ID card in a drawer, the rest of her equipment in her open locker. When the police finally broke into her spotless flat, the fridge was clean and switched off, the bed made, all sinks dry. Phone and credit card tracing showed nothing.

The next day, Agnes’s landlord called in and said someone had dropped the keys into his mailbox during the night, along with the remaining rent and a cancellation of the tenancy. The day after that, Agnes’s signed resignation form arrived at the police personnel office.

Officially, the search is still on, but Gren and his superior commanders made an official statement: Pressure had gotten the best of Agnes, and she had probably gone to ground. Most likely, she was staying with a relative or a friend. They dropped the search. There are juridical matters to iron out, but tracking her takes too much resources.

Lena has not told anyone of the Post-it note Agnes had slipped into Lena’s calendar while Lena still was at the hospital. Revealing the existence of the message would be wrong; the message was for Lena alone, and the four words were as cryptic as the woman who had penned them: