by Lars Kepler
Lumi stands up when a motion sensor reacts to Joona’s approach. She switches the alarm off and then they hear the front door open, followed by footsteps in the hall.
Joona comes into the kitchen, puts his stick down, leans against the table, then sinks on to a chair.
‘Åhlén is certain,’ he says, helping himself to some food.
‘We’re quits now,’ Saga says, looking him in the eye. ‘I don’t care what you think, but we’re quits … I killed him, and I found the body.’
‘You’ve never owed me anything.’
Joona is leaning forward slightly, with his arms wrapped round his body, taking small mouthfuls of food. Lumi puts a thick blanket round his shoulders, then sits back down.
‘Lumi’s going to study in Paris,’ Joona says, smiling at his daughter.
‘We don’t know that,’ she says quickly.
A smile flits across her pale face. Saga sees Joona’s hands shake as he picks up his cup and drinks some coffee.
‘I’m cooking venison fillet tonight,’ he says.
‘My train back leaves in two hours,’ Saga says.
‘With chanterelles and cream,’ he adds.
She smiles. ‘I have to go.’
24
Erik is early for his piano lesson, and stands on the pavement opposite the door to Lill-Jans plan 4. The curtains on the ground floor are open, and he can see straight into Jackie Federer’s flat. She’s in the kitchen, she runs her hand along the wall-mounted cupboards, takes out a glass, then holds her finger under the tap. He can see that she’s wearing a black skirt and an unbuttoned blouse. He walks across the street to see better, gets closer to the window and can now see that her wet hair has dripped down the back of her silk blouse. She drinks the water, wipes her mouth with her hand, then turns round.
Erik stretches and catches a glimpse of her stomach and navel through the opening of her unbuttoned shirt. A woman with a pushchair stops on the pavement and stares at him, and he suddenly realises how he must look. He hurries to reach the pavement and goes in through the entrance. Once again he stands in the darkness outside the door of her flat and moves his finger towards the bell.
Since the hypnosis session he has been thinking that Rocky’s alibi may well have been genuine, and has had to double his nightly dose of Stilnoct in order to get any sleep. The earliest he has been able to book a visit to Karsudden Hospital is first thing tomorrow morning.
When Jackie opens the door her blouse is buttoned. She smiles calmly at him and the light in the stairwell reflects off her dark glasses.
‘I’m a bit early,’ he says.
‘Erik,’ she smiles. ‘Welcome.’
They go inside and he sees that her daughter has pinned up a drawing of a skull under the no entry sign.
He follows Jackie along the passageway, watching her right hand trace the wall, and it strikes him that she seems to move with no obvious caution. Her shiny blouse is hanging outside her black skirt, across the small of her back.
As her hand reaches the door frame she switches the light on and heads out across the living-room floor until she comes to the rug, where she stops and turns towards him.
‘Let’s hear how far you’ve got,’ Jackie says, and gestures to the piano.
He sits down, opens the score and brushes his fringe from his forehead. He puts his right thumb on the right key and spreads his fingers.
‘Opus 25,’ he says with jokey solemnity.
He starts to play the notes that Jackie set him for homework. Even though she’s told him not to, he can’t help looking at his hands the whole time.
‘It must be awful for you to have to listen to this,’ he says. ‘I mean, if you’re used to beautiful music.’
‘I think you’ve been very good,’ she replies.
‘Can you get music scores in braille – you must be able to?’ he asks.
‘Louis Braille was a musician, so that happened fairly naturally … but in the end you have to memorise everything anyway, because of course you need both hands when you’re playing,’ she explains.
He puts his fingers on the keys and takes a deep breath, then the doorbell rings.
‘Sorry, I’ll just get that,’ Jackie says, and stands up.
Erik watches her go out into the hall and open the door. Outside stands her daughter, next to a tall woman in gym clothes.
‘How was the match?’ Jackie asks.
‘One-one,’ the girl replies. ‘Anna scored our goal.’
‘But it was your pass,’ the woman says kindly.
‘Thanks for bringing Maddy home,’ Jackie says.
‘My pleasure … on the way we talked about not having to be the best in the world, but that maybe she could be a bit pushier.’
Erik doesn’t hear Jackie’s reply, but the door closes and then Jackie kneels down in front of her daughter and feels her hair and face gently.
‘So you’re going to have to be a bit pushier,’ she says softly.
She returns to Erik, apologises for the interruption, sits down and explains what he should do next.
Erik struggles to get his hands to work independently of each other, and feels his back start to sweat.
After a while the little girl comes into the room. She’s changed into a casual dress and sits down on the floor to listen.
Erik tries to play the section, but gets the fourth bar wrong, starts again, but makes the same mistake, and laughs at his own failure.
‘What’s so funny?’ Jackie asks calmly.
‘Just that I’m playing like a broken robot,’ Erik replies.
‘My hedgehog makes mistakes as well,’ Madeleine says consolingly, holding up her stuffed toy.
‘My left hand is the worst,’ Erik says. ‘It’s as if my fingers don’t want to hit the right bits.’
Madeleine blinks but manages to keep a straight face.
‘Keys, I mean,’ Erik says quickly. ‘Maybe your hedgehog says “bits”, but I say keys.’
The girl looks down with a broad grin. Jackie gets up from her chair.
‘You need to rest,’ she says. ‘We’ll run through the first bit of musical theory before we end the lesson.’
‘I’ll go and put the dishwasher on,’ the girl says.
‘You know it’s bedtime soon – you’ll have to make sure you’ve got time.’
They sit down at the table. Erik picks up the jug and pours two glasses of water. It feels impossible not to sneak glances at Jackie as she explains about G-clef, F-clef, and different overtones. Her blouse is creased at the waist, and her face looks thoughtful. He can make out her simple bra and breasts beneath the silk.
He feels a nervous temptation in being able to look at her without her knowing.
He carefully shifts position so he can see up between her thighs and catch a glimpse of her plain white underwear.
His heart beats faster as she parts her legs slightly, he has a feeling that she knows she’s being looked at.
She takes a sip of water.
Her open eyes are only just visible behind her dark glasses.
He looks between her thighs again, leans a little closer, but the next moment she crosses her legs and puts the glass down.
Jackie smiles and then says that she imagines that he works as a lecturer at the university, or as a priest. Erik replies that the truth is somewhere in between, and tells her about his work at the Psychology Clinic, and his research into hypnosis, then falls silent.
She gathers together the various sheets of music theory, taps them on the table to neaten them, then puts them down in front of him.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Erik asks.
‘Yes,’ she says simply.
‘You turn your face towards me when you talk – does that come naturally, or do you have to learn that?’
‘It’s a concession to what sighted people find pleasant,’ she answers honestly.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Erik says.
‘Like switching the light on when you
enter a room to alert sighted people that you’re there …’
She falls silent and her slender fingers trace the rim of her glass.
‘Sorry, I’m being horribly rude and embarrassing, asking about such things …’
‘Most people prefer not to talk about their impaired vision. Which I can understand,’ Jackie says. ‘We’d all rather be seen as individuals and all that … but I think it’s better to talk.’
‘Good.’
He looks at her soft pink lipstick, the curve of her cheekbones, her boyish haircut and the green-tinted vein pulsing in her neck.
‘Isn’t it odd, being able to hypnotise other people and see into their secret, private thoughts?’ she asks.
‘It’s not like I’m spying on them.’
‘Isn’t it?’
25
The bright sky is reflected in the cellophane covering the carton of ten packets of cigarettes on the seat beside Erik as he slowly drives into the area of parkland, past a sign saying that access is prohibited and that all visits must be announced in advance.
Karsudden District Hospital is the largest secure psychiatric facility in Sweden, with room for one hundred and thirty criminals who have been sentenced to treatment rather than prison as a result of mental illness.
His stomach is churning with anxiety. Soon he will be seeing Rocky Kyrklund, to ask him about his supposed alibi.
If it is genuine, then the latest murder could be connected to the old one, and Erik will have to tell the police everything.
Because if Rocky was innocent, there may well be parallels between the old murder and the new one. And it would be no coincidence that Susanna Kern was found with her hand strapped to her ear.
It’s not inevitable that I’ll lose my job, he tells himself. That will depend on whether the police decide to pass the case on to a prosecutor.
In front of the entrance to the administrative block is a sign showing a camera with a line across it. Yet at the same time this place is full of surveillance cameras, Erik thinks.
He picks up the cigarettes and starts to walk towards the white building.
A snail’s trail shimmers across the path in front of the reception area.
In the sharp sunlight inside the doors, the dust is clearly visible as it drifts towards the battered furniture and worn floor.
Erik shows his ID, is given a name badge, and gets no further than the magazine rack next to the waiting area before a man with blond highlights in his hair comes in.
‘Erik Bark?’
‘Yes,’ Erik replies.
The man stretches his lips into a semblance of a smile, and introduces himself as Otto. There’s something exhausted about the man’s face, a sadness that’s impossible to hide.
‘Casillas would have liked to have been here himself, but …’
‘I understand, don’t worry,’ Erik says, and feels his face flush as he thinks of his lies about Dr Stünkel and the research project.
They set off, and the man explains that he’s a care assistant, and has worked at Karsudden for years.
‘We’ll go the long way round … no one likes the tunnels,’ Otto mutters as they head outside.
‘Do you know Rocky Kyrklund?’ Erik asks.
‘He was here when I started,’ Otto says, gesturing towards the high fences and dismal brown buildings.
‘What do you make of him?’
‘A lot of people are a bit frightened of Kyrklund,’ he replies.
They go in through Entrance D, and over to a locker room where Erik has to leave any loose possessions.
‘Can I take the cigarettes with me?’ Erik asks.
Otto nods. ‘They’ll probably come in useful.’
The orderly puts Erik’s keys, pen, mobile and wallet in a plastic bag, seals it and hands him a receipt.
Then he unlocks a heavy door that leads to another door with a coded lock. They pass through and walk down a corridor with a grey linoleum floor and secure doors leading to small rooms with beds in them.
The air is heavy with disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke.
From one room comes the sound of a porn film. The door is open and Erik sees a fat man lean forward on a plastic chair and spit on the floor.
They go through another airlock and find themselves in a shadowy exercise yard. Six-metre-high fences link two brick buildings, forming a cage around a yellowing patch of grass edged with cinder paths.
A skinny man in his twenties is sitting on a park bench, his face tense. Two carers are talking over by one of the brick walls, and at the far end a thickset man is standing facing the fence.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Otto asks.
‘No need.’
The former priest is standing smoking as he faces the high fence. His eyes are roaming across the grass of the parkland towards the leafy trees. By his feet is a mug of instant coffee.
Erik walks along the path, which is littered with cigarette butts and discarded plugs of chewing tobacco.
I’m about to meet the priest I let down because I’d already judged him, he thinks. If Rocky Kyrklund does have an alibi, I’m going to confess what I did to the police, and take the consequences.
Dust from the path swirls around his legs, and he knows Rocky can hear him approaching.
‘Rocky?’ he says.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Erik Maria Bark.’
Rocky lets go of the fence and turns round. He’s tall, one metre ninety. His shoulders are even broader than Erik remembers, he’s got a full beard, specked with grey, and back-combed hair. His eyes are green, and his face radiates a chilly pride. He’s wearing a pilled, camouflage-green sweater with worn elbows. His sturdy arms are hanging by his sides, a cigarette clasped between his fingers.
‘The senior consultant said you liked Camels,’ Erik says, and attempts to give him the cigarettes.
Rocky juts his chin out and looks down at him. He doesn’t reply, and shows no sign of accepting the gift.
‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ Erik says. ‘I was involved in your trial nine years ago, I was part of the group that conducted the psychological assessment.’
‘What conclusion did you reach?’ Rocky says in a dark voice.
‘That you needed neurological and psychiatric treatment,’ Erik replies calmly.
Rocky flicks his glowing cigarette at Erik. It hits him in the chest and falls to the ground. A few sparks fly out.
‘Go in peace,’ Rocky says calmly, then purses his lips.
Erik stubs the cigarette out and sees that two carers are approaching across the grass, carrying an alarm.
‘What’s going on here?’ one of them asks as they stop.
‘It was an accident,’ Erik says.
The men stay for a few moments, but neither Erik nor Rocky say anything. In the end the guards go back to their coffee.
‘You lied to them,’ Rocky says.
‘I do that sometimes,’ Erik replies.
Rocky’s face remains impassive, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes now.
‘Have you received neurological and psychiatric treatment?’ Erik asks. ‘You have a right to it. I’m a doctor, do you want me to look at your notes and rehabilitation plan?’
Rocky shakes his head slowly.
‘You’ve been here for a long time, but have never applied for parole.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Don’t you want to get out?’
‘I accept my punishment,’ Rocky says in his deep voice.
‘You had trouble remembering back then – is that still the case?’ Erik asks.
‘Yes.’
‘But I remember our conversations, and sometimes it sounded like you thought you were innocent of the murder.’
‘Naturally … I surrounded myself with lies in an attempt to escape, they crawled all over me like a swarm of bees, and I tried to avoid responsibility by blaming someone else.’
‘Who?’
Erik bends over and puts the cigarettes down at Rocky’s feet, then takes a step back.
‘Do you want to talk about the person you wanted to blame?’ he asks.
‘I don’t remember, but I know I thought of him as a preacher, an unclean preacher …’
The priest falls silent and turns back towards the fence. Erik goes and stands next to him and looks out at the trees.
‘What was his name?’
‘I can’t remember names any more, I don’t remember their faces, scattered like ashes …’
‘You called him a preacher – was he a colleague of yours?’
Rocky’s fingers clutch the fence and his chest rises and falls as he breathes.
‘I only remember that I was scared, that was probably why I tried to blame him.’
‘You were scared of him?’ Erik asks. ‘What had he done? Why were you …’
‘Rocky? Rocky!’ says a patient who has walked up behind them. ‘Look what I’ve got for you!’
They turn round and see the skinny man holding out a jam biscuit in a napkin.
‘Eat it yourself,’ Rocky says.
‘I don’t want to,’ the other inmate says eagerly. ‘I’m a sinner, God and His angels hate me, and—’
‘Shut up!’ Rocky roars.
‘What have I done? Why are you—’
Rocky takes hold of the man by the chin, looks him in the eyes, then spits in his face. The man loses his balance when Rocky lets go, and the biscuit falls to the ground.
The guards approach across the grass again.
‘What if someone came forward and gave you an alibi?’ Erik says quickly.
Rocky’s green eyes stare into his without blinking.
‘Then they’d be lying.’
‘Are you sure about that? You don’t remember anything from—’
‘I don’t remember an alibi, because there wasn’t one,’ Rocky interrupts.
‘But you do remember your colleague – what if he was the one who murdered Rebecka?’
‘I murdered Rebecka Hansson,’ Rocky says.
‘Do you remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know anyone called Olivia?’
Rocky shakes his head, then looks towards the approaching guards and raises his chin.
