Stalker (22 page)

Margot opens her leather bag and hands Erik a copy of the verdict, and the forensic psychiatric evaluation.

The standard lamp shines warmly off the polished oak floor and leather binding of the volumes in the built-in bookcases. It’s so dark outside the leaded windows that the fruit trees’ dense network of branches is completely invisible.

Erik sits down opposite Adam at the little octagonal table, leafs through the material, nods and looks up.

‘Yes, I remember him.’

‘We think he has an apprentice, a disciple … maybe a copycat.’

‘That’s possible … if the similarities are that strong … well, I can’t actually give an opinion.’

Margot shakes her wrist to get her watch in the right place.

‘I spoke to Rocky Kyrklund today,’ she says. ‘I asked him a lot of questions, but he just sat there in silence on his bed, staring at the television.’

‘He suffered serious brain damage,’ Erik says, gesturing towards the old evaluation.

‘He could hear and understand everything I said, he just didn’t want to answer.’ Margot smiles.

‘It’s often rather difficult to start with when you’re dealing with this sort of patient.’

She leans forward, so that her stomach ends up resting on her thighs.

‘Can you help us?’

‘How?’

‘Talk to him. He trusted you before, you know him.’

Erik’s heart starts to beat faster. He mustn’t show any feelings, so slowly clasps his hands together to stop them shaking.

They’re probably going to find the tape recordings of the forensic psychiatric evaluation in which Rocky talks about his alibi.

But because Rocky is guilty, Erik can always say that he didn’t take the idea of an alibi seriously if it comes up.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘We want to know who he was working with.’

Erik nods, and thinks that he’ll be free at last after this, he’ll no longer have to carry the burden of knowledge that he can’t offload. He can tell them about the person Rocky blamed, whether or not Rocky just sits there in silence. He could even hypnotise Björn Kern again and then tell them about the hand clasped to Susanna’s ear.

‘Naturally, this is rather outside my usual remit,’ he begins.

‘Of course we’d pay …’

‘That’s not what I meant … I need to know the outline of the task, so I know what to say to my employers.’

Margot nods, with her lips half-open, as though she were about to say something, but decides against it.

‘And I need to know what to say to the patient,’ Erik goes on. ‘I mean, am I allowed to let him know that you think his former associate has started killing again?’

Margot waves her hand. Erik notes that her colleague seems to have stiffened slightly as he sits there with his arms folded.

‘We’ll have to see if we can give any room for negotiation,’ Margot says. ‘We don’t know yet, of course, but you might be able to offer him supervised excursions outside the hospital.’

She falls silent, as if she’s run out of breath. Her hand goes to her stomach. Her thin wedding ring sits tightly around her swollen finger.

‘What did you say to him today?’ Erik asks.

‘I asked which people he had most contact with.’

‘Does he know why you were asking?’

‘No … he didn’t react at all to anything I said.’

‘He has epileptic activity in his brain which affects his memory, and, according to his diagnosis, he suffers from a narcissistic, paranoid disorder … But all the evidence suggests that he’s intelligent …’

Erik falls silent.

‘What are you thinking?’ Margot asks.

‘I’d like the authority to be able to tell him why I’m asking him these questions.’

‘Tell him about the serial killer?’

‘He’ll probably work out that I’m lying otherwise.’

‘Margot,’ Adam says. ‘I have to—’

‘What?’

He looks troubled as he lowers his voice.

‘This is police work,’ he says.

‘We haven’t got a choice,’ she says curtly.

‘I just think you’re going too far now,’ Adam says.

‘Am I?’

‘First you get Joona Linna mixed up in this, and now you’re going to let a hypnotist do police work.’

‘Joona Linna?’ Erik asks.

‘I’m not talking to you,’ Adam says.

‘He’s back,’ Margot says.

‘Where?’

‘Back probably isn’t the right word,’ Adam says. ‘He’s living with the Romanian Roma out in Huddinge, he’s an alcoholic, and—’

‘We don’t know that,’ she interrupts.

‘OK, Joona’s best,’ Adam says.

Margot meets Erik’s quizzical gaze.

‘Joona fainted and ended up in A&E at St Göran’s,’ she says.

‘When?’ Erik asks, getting to his feet.

‘Yesterday.’

Erik immediately picks up his phone and dials the number of a colleague in the hospital’s intensive care unit, and waits as the call goes through.

‘When can you talk to Rocky?’ Margot asks, standing up.

‘I’ll head out there first thing tomorrow,’ Erik says, as his colleague answers the phone.

After a short conversation with the doctor at St Göran’s Hospital, Erik accompanies the two detectives to the door. Katryna and Adam don’t look at each other as they walk out into the hall, and Erik gets the distinct impression that they’ve had a row.

The three of them leave the house and are swallowed up by the darkness as soon as they move beyond the circle of light in front of the door. Erik hears their footsteps on the gravel path leading to the drive, then they come into view again when the insides of their cars light up. He returns to his study and sees that the fax of the emergency records has arrived, and that – in line with correct procedure – the patient’s name and ID number have been blanked out.

Joona arrived by ambulance after a priority-1 call from the emergency command centre. Erik glances through the records of his blood pressure, heartbeat, breathing frequency, oxygenation, temperature and level of consciousness.

He was suffering from malnutrition, fever, confusion and poor circulation.

The triage nurse made the right call from the available evidence when she suspected that he was suffering from blood poisoning.

After checking his blood-gases and lactic acid, she allocated him triage level orange, the second highest level of priority.

Because of his variable vital signs, Joona Linna was placed in a room under close supervision and attached to a monitor.

While they were waiting for the results of his blood analysis they gave him broad-spectrum antibiotics and a colloid solution to help his circulation and fluid balance.

But Joona disappeared before the antibiotics could take effect.

He hadn’t given an address.

Given his symptoms, his condition was life-threatening unless he received treatment.

Erik leaves his study and picks up his jacket in the hall. He doesn’t bother to switch the lights off.

It’s no longer raining. The night air is cool and the car windows are covered with condensation. He turns the windscreen wipers on and waits for them to clear the screen before he drives off.

It’s close to midnight and the streets are almost empty. Beyond the yellow glow of the streetlamps, beyond the speed cameras and barriers and noise-reduction screens, the late summer night is as dark as heavy velvet.

He drives down Storängsleden, turns on to Centralvägen towards Dalhemsvägen, heading into an industrial area with high fences, then emerges into a patch of woodland.

There never used to be any beggars in Sweden, but over the past few years migrants from the EU have become visible in Swedish towns and cities. They’ve come here to plead for help, on their knees in the snow outside supermarkets, with outstretched hands and empty paper cups.

It’s struck Erik several times that modern Swedes have reacted with unexpected generosity to this change, considering the country’s dark history of discrimination and enforced sterilisation.

There are faint lights between the trees. He slows down and drives towards them, turning on to a gravel track, and the tiny monkey attached to his ignition key bounces up and down.

In a clearing he can see sheets flapping on a rope strung between two trees. Lengths of plywood have been nailed together, and covered with tarpaulin and plastic.

Erik turns round and parks with two wheels on the verge. He locks up and walks away from the car, staring in amongst the trees.

The air smells of potatoes and liquid gas. Four battered caravans are standing in a row, with crooked wooden shacks between them. Smoke is rising from a buckled oil-drum; glowing embers drift up, spreading a stench of burning plastic.

Joona Linna is here somewhere, Erik thinks. He’s got advanced blood poisoning and is going to die unless he gets the right antibiotics very soon. No other person on the planet has done as much for Erik as the tall detective.

A woman with a shawl over her head gives him a wary look and hurries away as he approaches.

He carries on towards the first caravan and knocks on the door. On a beautiful rug beneath the caravan stand five shabby pairs of trainers of various sizes.

‘Joona?’ Erik says loudly, and knocks again.

The caravan sways slightly and then the door is opened by an old man with eyes made cloudy by cataracts. Behind him sits a child on a mattress. On the floor a woman is asleep, fully dressed in a woolly hat and a winter coat.

‘Joona,’ Erik says in a subdued voice.

A thickset man in a padded tunic suddenly appears behind him and asks what he wants in broken Swedish.

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine, his name is Joona Linna,’ Erik says.

‘We don’t want problems,’ the man says with an anxious look.

‘OK,’ Erik says, and walks over to the second caravan and knocks on the door. It’s covered with circular scorch marks, as if people had stubbed cigarettes out on it.

A young woman in glasses cautiously opens the door. She’s wearing a thick sweater and baggy sweatpants with damp knees.

‘I’m looking for a sick friend,’ Erik says.

‘Next house,’ she whispers with a frightened look in her eyes.

A tired child has come over and pokes at Erik with a plastic crocodile.

Erik steps across two crutches lying on the ground and walks up to the third caravan. The windows are broken and covered with pieces of cardboard.

In the darkness between the trees an unshaven, tired-looking man is smoking a cigarette.

Erik knocks on the door and opens it when there’s no answer. In the glow of a clock-radio he sees his friend. Joona Linna is lying on a damp mattress with a folded blanket as a pillow. An old woman in an old-fashioned quilted jacket is sitting beside him, trying to get him to drink some water from a spoon.

‘Joona,’ he says quietly.

The floor creaks as Erik climbs inside the caravan. The water in a plastic bucket sloshes with the movement. The carpet on the floor is wet with rain by the door, and there’s a strong smell of damp and cigarette smoke. There are scraps of bluish-grey cloth covering the cardboard-patched windows. As Erik moves further inside he sees a crucifix on the wall.

Joona’s face is emaciated, covered by a grey beard, and his chest looks unnaturally sunken. His eyes look yellow, and his gaze is so unfocused that Erik isn’t sure if he’s actually conscious.

‘I’m going to give you an injection before we leave,’ Erik says, putting his bag down on the floor.

Joona barely reacts when Erik pulls his sleeve up, wipes the crook of his arm with a swab, looks for a vein and then injects a mixture of benzyl-penicillin and aminoglycoside.

‘Can you stand up?’ he asks as he puts a plaster where he stuck the needle.

Joona lifts his head slightly and coughs emptily. Erik helps him get up on one knee. A tin can rolls across the floor. Joona coughs again, points at the woman and tries to say something.

‘I can’t hear,’ Erik says.

‘Crina needs to be paid,’ Joona hisses, and stands up. ‘She’s … helped me.’

Erik nods and takes his wallet out. He gives the woman a five-hundred-kronor note, and she nods and smiles with her lips closed.

Erik opens the door and helps Joona down the steps. A bald man in a crumpled suit stands outside and holds the caravan door open for them.

‘Thanks,’ Erik says.

From the other direction a blond man in a black, shiny jacket is approaching. He’s hiding something behind his back.

Beside the next caravan stands a third man with a soot-stained saucepan in his hand. He’s wearing jeans and a denim waistcoat, and his bare arms are dark with tattoos.

‘You’ve got a nice car,’ he calls out with a grin.

Erik and Joona start to walk towards the road but the blond man blocks their path.

‘We need some rent,’ he says.

‘I’ve already paid,’ Erik says.

The bald man shouts into the caravan and the old woman comes to the door and holds up the money she has just been given. The man snatches the note, says something angrily, then spits at her.

‘We have to collect rent from everyone here,’ the blond man explains, showing the length of metal pipe in his hand.

Erik mutters in agreement and thinks it would be best just to try to get to the car, when Joona stops.

‘Give the money back to her,’ he says, pointing at the bald man.

‘I own the caravans,’ the blond man says. ‘I own all this, every mattress, every single fucking saucepan.’

‘I’m not talking to you,’ Joona says, and coughs into the crook of his arm.

‘It’s not worth it,’ Erik whispers, his heart pounding in his chest.

‘For fuck’s sake, we’ve got a deal with them,’ the tattooed man shouts.

‘Erik, get in the car,’ Joona says, and limps over to the men.

‘It costs more now,’ the blond man says.

‘I’ve got a bit more money,’ Erik says, taking his wallet out.

‘Don’t do it,’ Joona says.

Erik gives a few more notes to the blond man.

‘That’s not enough,’ he says.

‘Give it all back,’ Joona tells the blond man feebly.

‘It’s only money,’ Erik says quickly, and pulls out the last couple of notes.

‘Not to Crina,’ Joona says.

‘Run home and hide before we change our minds,’ the blond man grins, and points at them with the metal pipe.