The Sandman (24 page)

‘My, would you remove the cuffs from the patient’s ankles?’ the young doctor asks.

The woman nods, gets down on her knees and unlocks the cuffs. The hair on her head rises up from the static electricity in Saga’s clothes.

The young doctor and the guard go through the door with her, wait until it bleeps, then carry on to one of the three doors in the corridor.

‘Unlock the door,’ the doctor orders the man with the baton.

The guard takes out a key, unlocks the door, then tells her to go in and stand on the red cross on the floor with her back to the door.

She does as he asks and hears the lock click as the key is turned again.

In front of her is another metal door, and she knows this one is locked, and leads straight out into the dayroom.

The room is furnished with no thought to anything but security and function. All it contains is a bed fixed to the wall, a plastic chair, a plastic table and a toilet, with no seat or lid.

‘Turn round, but stay on the cross.’

She does as she’s told and sees that the little hatch in the door is open.

‘Come slowly over here and hold out your hands.’

Saga walks over to the door, clasps her hands tightly together and puts them through the narrow opening. The cuffs are removed and she backs away from the door again.

She sits down on the bed while the guard informs her of the unit’s rules and routines.

‘You can watch television and socialise with the other patients in the dayroom between one o’clock and four o’clock,’ he concludes, then looks at her for a few moments before closing and bolting the hatch.

Saga remains seated and thinks that she is in position now, that her mission has started. The seriousness of the moment make her stomach tingle, and the feeling spreads through her arms and legs. She knows she’s a closely guarded patient in the secure unit of Löwenströmska Hospital, and she knows that serial killer Jurek Walter is very close.

She curls up on her side, then rolls over onto her back and stares straight up at the CCTV camera in the ceiling. It’s hemispherical in shape, black and shiny as a cow’s eye.

It’s been a long time since she swallowed the microphone and she daren’t leave it any longer. She can’t let the microphone slip into her duodenum. When she goes over to the tap and drinks some water her stomach ache kicks in again.

Breathing slowly, Saga kneels down by the drain in the floor, turns away from the camera and sticks two fingers down her throat. She vomits the water back up, then sticks her fingers in deeper and eventually manages to retrieve the little capsule containing the microphone and quickly hides it in her hand.

The secret investigative team, Athena Promacho, has been sitting listening to the sounds of Saga Bauer’s stomach for two hours since she arrived at Löwenströmska Hospital.

‘If anyone walked in now they’d think we were some sort of new-age sect,’ Corinne says with a smile.

‘It’s actually quite beautiful,’ Johan Jönson says.

‘Relaxing,’ Pollock grins.

The whole team is sitting with their eyes half-closed, listening to the gently bubbling, fizzing sounds.

Suddenly there’s a roar that almost breaks the big loudspeakers as Saga vomits up the microphone. Johan Jönson knocks over his can of Coca-Cola and Nathan Pollock starts shaking.

‘Well, at least we’re awake now,’ laughs Corinne, and her jade bracelet jangles pleasantly as she runs an index finger over one eyebrow.

‘I’ll call Joona,’ Nathan says.

‘Good.’

Corinne Meilleroux opens her laptop and notes the time in the logbook. Corinne is fifty-four years old, with a French-Caribbean background. She’s slim, and always wears tailored suits with silk tops under her jacket. Her face looks stern, with pronounced cheekbones and narrow temples. She wears her grey-streaked black hair tied with a clasp at the back of her neck.

Corinne Meilleroux worked for Europol for twenty years, and has been with the Security Police in Stockholm for seven years.

Joona is standing in Mikael Kohler-Frost’s hospital room. Reidar is sitting on a chair holding his son’s hand. The three of them have been talking for four hours, trying to identify any fresh details that could help pinpoint the place where Mikael was held captive with his sister.

Nothing new has emerged, and Mikael looks very tired.

‘You need to get some sleep,’ Joona tells him.

‘No,’ Mikael says.

‘Just for a while.’ The detective smiles as he switches off the recording.

Mikael’s breathing is already heavy and even as Joona pulls the newspaper out of his coat-pocket and sets it down in front of Reidar.

‘I know you asked me not to,’ Reidar says, meeting his gaze without wavering. ‘But how could I live with myself if I don’t do absolutely everything I can?’

‘I understand,’ Joona says. ‘But it could cause problems, and you have to be prepared for that.’

One whole page of the paper is covered with a digital image of how Felicia might look today.

A young woman bearing a strong resemblance to Mikael, with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Her black hair is shown hanging loose around her pale, serious face.

Large lettering announces that Reidar is offering a reward of twenty million kronor to anyone who can provide information that leads to Felicia being found.

‘We’re already getting loads of e-mails and calls,’ Joona explains. ‘We’re trying to follow them all up, but … I’m sure most of them mean well, they believe they’ve seen something, but there are still plenty just hoping to get rich.’

Reidar slowly folds the newspaper, whispers to himself, then looks up.

‘Joona, I’m doing whatever I can, I … my daughter’s been held captive for so long, and she might die without ever …’

His voice cracks and he looks away for a moment.

‘Do you have children?’ he asks, his voice barely audible.

Before Joona has time to lie, his phone rings in his jacket. He apologises, answers it, and hears Pollock’s soft voice explaining that Athena Promacho is hooked up.

Saga lies down on the bed with her back to the camera in the ceiling and carefully peels the silicon covering from the fibre-optic microphone. Barely moving at all, she slips it into the lining of her trousers.

Suddenly there’s an electronic buzz from the door to the dayroom – and then the lock clicks. It’s open. Saga sits up, her heart beating hard.

The microphone needs to be installed in a good position right away. She might only get one chance. She mustn’t miss it. She’ll be found out if she gets searched.

She doesn’t know what the dayroom looks like, if the other patients are in there, or if there are cameras or guards.

Maybe the room is nothing but a trap where Jurek Walter is waiting for her.

No, there’s no way he could possibly know about her mission.

Saga throws the pieces of silicon in the toilet and flushes them away, then goes over to the door, opens it a crack and hears a rhythmic throbbing sound, cheerful voices from the television and a whining, hissing noise.

She remembers Joona’s advice and forces herself to go back to her bed and sit down.

Never show any urgency, she thinks. Never do anything unless you have a valid reason for doing it, a justification.

Through the crack in the door she can hear music from the television, the hissing sound of the running machine, and heavy footsteps.

A man with a sharp, stressed voice speaks occasionally, but never gets any response.

Both patients are out there.

Saga knows she has to go in and install the microphone.

She gets up and goes over to the door again, and stands there for a while, trying to breathe slowly.

A smell of aftershave hits her.

She grasps the door handle, takes a deep breath, opens the door wide. She can hear the rhythmic thuds more clearly as she takes a couple of steps into the dayroom with her head lowered. She doesn’t know if she’s being watched, but decides to let them get used to the sight of her before looking up.

A man with a bandaged hand is sitting on the sofa in front of the television, and another is walking with long strides on the running machine. The man on the machine is facing away from her, but although she can only see his back and neck, she’s sure it’s Jurek Walter.

He’s marching along, and the sound of his rhythmic steps fills the room.

The man on the sofa belches and swallows several times, wipes the sweat from his cheeks and one of his legs starts to bounce nervously. He’s overweight, in his forties, with thin hair, a blond moustache and glasses.

‘Obrahiim,’ he mutters, staring at the television.

His leg bounces as he suddenly points at the screen.

‘There he is,’ he says loudly. ‘I’d turn him into my slave, my skeleton slave. Fucking hell … Look at those lips … I’d—’

He falls silent abruptly as Saga walks across the room, stops in one corner and watches the television. It’s a repeat of the European ice-skating championship in Sheffield. The sound and picture alike are made worse by the reinforced glass. She can feel the man on the sofa looking at her, but doesn’t meet his gaze.

‘I’d whip him first,’ he goes on, still facing Saga. ‘I’d make him really scared, like a whore … I mean, fucking hell …’

He coughs, leans back, closes his eyes as if waiting for pain to pass, feels his neck with his hand, then lies there panting.

Jurek Walter is still striding along on the running machine. He looks bigger and stronger than she had imagined. There’s an artificial palm in a pot next to the machine, and its dusty leaves sway as he walks.

Saga looks round for somewhere to hide the microphone, preferably away from the television so as not to interfere with its reception of other voices. The back of the sofa would make sense, but she can’t really imagine Jurek is the sort to sit and watch television.

The man on the sofa tries to get up, and looks as though he’s about to throw up from the effort. He cups his hand over his mouth and swallows a few times before turning back to watch television again.

‘Start with the legs,’ he says. ‘Cut everything off, peel the skin away, muscles, sinew … he can keep his feet so he can walk quietly …’

Jurek stops the running machine and leaves the room without giving either of them so much as a glance. The other patient slowly gets up.

‘Zyprexa makes you feel like shit … and Stemetil doesn’t work on me, it just fucks my insides up …’

Saga stays where she is for a little while, facing the television, watching as the figure skater speeds up and hearing the sound of skates cutting across the ice. She can feel the other patient’s staring eyes as he slowly approaches.

‘My name’s Bernie Larsson,’ he says in an intimate voice. ‘They don’t think I can fuck with all the bastard Suprefact in my system, but they don’t know a fucking thing …’

He jabs his finger in her face, but she stands her ground, her heart pounding.

‘They don’t know a fucking thing,’ he repeats. ‘They’re so fucking brain-damaged …’

He falls silent, staggers aside and burps loudly. Saga is thinking that she might be able to place the microphone in the artificial palm next to the running machine.

‘What’s your name?’ Bernie asks, panting.

She doesn’t answer, just stands there with her eyes lowered, looking towards the television, thinking that her time is running out. Bernie walks behind her back and quickly sticks his hand round and pinches
her hard on the nipple. She pushes his hand away and feels anger start to bubble up inside her.

‘Little Snow White,’ he smiles with his sweaty face. ‘What’s the matter with you? Can I feel your head? It looks so fucking soft. Like a shaved cunt …’

From the little she’s seen of Jurek Walter, the running machine is what he’s most interested in inside the dayroom. He was on it for at least an hour, then he went straight back into his room.

Saga walks slowly over to the running machine and steps up onto it. Bernie follows her, biting a fingernail and pulling off a sharp fragment. Sweat is dripping from his face onto the dirty vinyl floor.

‘Do you shave your cunt? You have to do that, yeah?’

Saga turns and stares at him intently. His eyelids are heavy, his eyes have a drugged look about them, his blond moustache hides the scar left by a cleft palate.

‘You never touch me again,’ she replies.

‘I can kill you,’ he says, scratching her neck with his sharpened nail.

She feels the wound sting as a loud voice echoes from the loudspeaker:

‘Bernie Larsson, step back.’

He tries to touch her between the legs as the doors open and a guard with a baton comes in. Bernie moves away from Saga and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

‘No touching,’ the guard says sternly.

‘OK, I know, fucking hell.’

Bernie feels his way wearily over the armrest of the sofa and sits down heavily, then shuts his eyes and belches.

Saga gets off the running machine and turns to the guard.

‘I want to see a legal ombudsman,’ she says.

‘Stay where you are,’ the guard says, glancing at her.

‘Can you pass on the message?’

Without replying, the guard goes over to the airlock and is let out. It’s as if she hadn’t said anything, as if her words had stopped mid-air before reaching him.

Saga turns away and slowly approaches the artificial palm. She sits down on the edge of the running machine, right beside it, and looks at one of its lower leaves. The underneath isn’t too dirty and the glue on the microphone will firm up in four seconds.

Bernie is staring up at the ceiling, licking his lips, then he shuts his eyes again. Saga watches him as she slides a finger into the lining of her trousers, gets the microphone out and hides it in her hand. She pulls off one of her shoes and leans forward to adjust its tongue, thereby shielding the palm from the camera. She shifts position slightly, and is just reaching out to the leaf to attach the microphone as the sofa creaks.