by Lars Kepler
‘What could I know?’ she says, looking at them in confusion.
‘We’re just trying to find the person who did this,’ Nelly says, brushing the hair from Irina’s face.
‘You spoke to your sister on the phone,’ Joona goes on. ‘Did she tell you where she lived, or what her job was?’
‘There are those men who trick girls from poor countries, who say they’re going to get good jobs, but Natalia was smart, she said it wasn’t anything like that, that it was real. She promised me, but I’ve been to the furniture factory … no one there had heard of Natalia, durnaja dziauˇtjynka … They’re not employing anyone, haven’t done for years.’
Her eyes are red from crying, and tiny red spots have appeared on the fair skin of her forehead.
‘What’s the name of the factory?’ Erik asks.
‘Sofa Zone,’ she says blankly. ‘It’s out in Högdalen.’
Nelly remains seated on the floor with Irina, stroking her head and promising to stay with her for as long as she wants. Erik exchanges a quick glance with Nelly, then walks back out through the noisy kitchen with Joona.
80
Margot Silverman is sitting in front of a computer in the investigation room, looking at Erik’s recording of Rocky’s hypnosis again.
His large head is drooping forward as he describes his visit to the Zone in a languid voice. He talks about the dealers and strippers, and the fact that he thought he could pick up some money there.
As Margot listens her eyes drift along the walls of the room. The victims’ patterns of movement are marked in three different colours on the large map.
Every place, every street where they could have come into contact with the preacher is marked.
On the screen, Rocky shakes his head as he says that the preacher smells of fish-guts.
Margot sees the pin in the map marking Rebecka Hansson’s home in Salem.
Serial killers usually stick to their home patch, but in this case the locations are spread out across the most densely populated metropolitan district in Scandinavia.
‘The preacher snorts back some snot, then starts to speak in a really high voice,’ Rocky says, breathing unevenly.
Margot shudders, and watches the big man squirm on his chair and howl with angst as he describes the way the preacher cuts the woman’s arm off.
‘It sounds like when you stick a spade into mud …’
After the discovery out in Skogskyrkogården, no one doubts that the preacher is the serial killer that they’re all looking for.
She knows it was Joona who persuaded Nils Åhlén to order the body to be exhumed. It would have been much easier if she could work with Joona openly, but Benny Rubin and Petter Näslund are backing up Adam, resisting his involvement.
Margot doesn’t have the authority to let Joona join the investigation, but she’s sure as hell not going to stop him from conducting his own inquiries.
Rocky shakes his head and his shadow moves across the glossy Playboy pinup on the wall behind him.
‘The preacher chops her arm off at the shoulder,’ Rocky gasps. ‘Loosens the tourniquet and drinks …’
‘Listen to my voice now,’ Erik says.
‘And drinks the blood from her arm … while Tina lies bleeding to death on the floor … Dear God in heaven … Dear God …’
Inside Margot’s womb the baby moves so violently that she has to lean back and close her eyes for a while.
The preliminary investigation is proceeding systematically according to established routines, but no one really believes that’s going to produce results in time.
The police have knocked on doors and questioned many hundreds of neighbours, they’ve examined all the footage from surveillance and traffic cameras around the crime scenes.
Unless Rocky returns to Karsudden Hospital soon, so that Erik can question him properly, they’ll have to make a public appeal for information about him.
Margot switches the video off, and has a strong feeling that she’s being watched, so gets up and closes the curtains over the window looking out on to the park.
She opens her bag and takes out her powder compact, looks at herself in the little mirror, and puts some more powder on. Her nose has got shiny and the rings under her eyes look darker. She reapplies her lipstick, blots her lips on a letter from the National Police Board, adjusts her hair, then calls Jenny on Skype.
She can see herself on the screen, and as the call is connected she undoes one button on her blouse and moves backwards slightly so that her cheeks are framed better.
Jenny answers almost immediately. She looks cross but attractive, with her messy black hair tumbling over her thin shoulders. She’s wearing a washed-out vest and the little golden heart is shimmering against her neck.
‘Hi, baby,’ Margot says quietly.
‘Have you caught the bad guy yet, then?’
‘I thought I was the bad guy?’ Margot says.
Jenny smiles and stifles a yawn.
‘Did you call the bank about that ridiculous charge?’
‘Yes, and apparently there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Jenny replies.
‘That can’t be right.’
‘So call them yourself.’
‘I just meant … OK, never mind … It’s so irritating when they deduct payments for … oh, what the hell.’
‘What did you want?’ Jenny asks, picking at her armpit.
‘How are the girls?’ Margot asks.
‘Fine,’ Jenny says, glancing off to one side. ‘But Linda’s still a bit down. She needs to learn to make new friends … she’s far too nice.’
‘Being nice is a good thing, surely?’ Margot points out.
‘But she doesn’t know what to do when her best friend says she’s got fed up of her. She just gets upset and sits and waits.’
‘She’ll learn.’
Margot would like to be able to tell Jenny about the investigation, about the meaningless hatred and her feeling that the preacher is close by, watching them all.
She feels worried for herself, because she keeps forgetting all the things that normal people know, and the fact that she’s going to have a baby, and that people can be happy and secure.
‘You look nice,’ Margot says, tilting her head to one side.
‘No, I don’t.’ Jenny grins, then yawns loudly. ‘Right, I’m going to carry on watching a repeat of the Stockholm Horse Show.’
‘OK, I’ll call again later.’
Jenny blows her a kiss and ends the call, leaving Margot looking at her own face. Her father’s nose and those thick, colourless eyebrows. I look like someone’s aunt, she thinks. Like my dad, if he’d been a woman.
The suspicion that there’s something wrong between her and Jenny is snaking its way through Margot’s head when Adam Youssef comes into the room and opens the window facing the park.
He’s been in a meeting with Nathan Pollock and Elton Eriksson from the National Murder Unit in an attempt to prune the list of potential perpetrators and help move the preliminary investigation forward.
‘I had Pollock as one of my lecturers when I was training,’ Margot says.
‘Yes, he said,’ Adam replies as he sits down and leafs through a bundle of papers.
‘Have you got the new profile there?’ Margot asks.
Adam runs his hands through his thick hair in frustration.
‘They just keep repeating things we already know …’
‘That’s how it works, setting up things that seem obvious as the parameters,’ she replies, leaning back.
‘The murders are characterised by a high degree of risk-taking, forensic awareness and excessive brutality,’ he reads. ‘The victims are women of child-bearing age, the crime scenes are the victims’ homes … The motive is instrumental and the violence probably expressive.’
Margot listens to the generalisations and thinks about the fact that Anja’s list of names has grown even longer.
Considering that Sweden is the most secular country in the world, she can
’t help thinking that there are an awful lot of priests and preachers.
They’ve now got almost five hundred people with direct connections to various faith organisations in the Stockholm area who match the general profile.
This investigation has ground to a halt, she finds herself thinking once more.
If only they had one sighting, just one decent piece of information to go on.
They need to bring things into focus.
There isn’t enough time to check out more than five hundred men. Given the murderer’s momentum so far, the video of his next victim could appear at any time.
In order to limit the search as things stand, we need to add in some uncertain parameters, she thinks. Previous violent crimes, for instance, or personality disorders.
‘There are forty-two men who’ve been suspects in other cases, nine have been convicted of violent crimes, none for stalking, none for murder, and none for brutality that bears any resemblance to our serial killer’s,’ Adam says. ‘Eleven have convictions for sexual offences, thirty for drugs …’
‘Just give me someone to shoot,’ she says wearily.
‘I’ve got three names … none of them is a perfect match, but two of them have been investigated for crimes of violence against more than one woman …’
‘Good.’
‘The first one is a Sven Hugo Andersson, a vicar in the parish of Danderyd … the other one’s a Pasi Jokala, he used to be active in the Philadelphia Church, but now he’s got his own congregation, known as the Gärtuna Revivalists …’
‘And the third one?’
‘I’m not sure, but he’s the only one of these five hundred who has a documented personality disorder that matches the profile. A twenty-year-old diagnosis for borderline psychosis. But he’s got no criminal record, doesn’t feature in either police or social service registers … and he’s also been married for ten years, which doesn’t fit the profile at all.’
‘Better than nothing,’ she says.
‘Anyway, his name’s Thomas Apel, and he’s the so-called stake president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, out in Jakobsberg.’
‘We’ll start with the violent ones,’ she says, and stands up.
Adam goes to his office to call his wife and tell her he’s got to work late, and Margot stops in the kitchen, looks in the cupboard and pops Petter Näslund’s packet of jam biscuits in her bag before she walks out.
Adam’s account of the perpetrator profile has made her think about stalker and serial killer Dennis Rader, whom she wrote an essay about when she was training. He used to call the police and media to tell them about his murders. He even used to send the police objects he’d taken from his victims.
In his case, the perpetrator profile was completely wrong. They had been looking for a divorced, impotent loner whereas Rader was married, had children, and was active in both the church and the scouting movement.
81
They go together in Margot’s comfortable Lincoln. To make room for her stomach she’s had to move the seat so far back that she can barely reach the pedals with her feet.
Only two of the three names are left. It turns out that Sven Hugo Andersson was in Danderyd Hospital for a bypass operation when Sandra Lundgren was murdered.
Once they’re past Södertälje they head along the 225 motorway, through fields of yellow rape, past a large industrial area dominated by Astra Zeneca’s pale grey facility. They pass beneath some tall electricity pylons, then head into a forested area.
Margot puts a biscuit in her mouth, chews, tasting the crumbly mixture of sugar and butter, then the chewy, tart jam.
‘Are those Petter’s biscuits?’ Adam asks.
‘He gave them to me,’ she says, popping the next biscuit in her mouth.
‘He wouldn’t even offer one to his wife.’
‘But he was very insistent that you have a couple,’ she says, passing him the packet.
Adam takes a biscuit and eats it with a smile, holding one hand under his mouth so as not to drop crumbs in Margot’s car.
The road gets narrower, grit flies up behind them and Margot has to slow down. They can make out the occasional cottage down by the lake.
Pasi Jokala was convicted of aggravated assault, rape and attempted rape.
Margot hasn’t been on operational duty since she got pregnant, but she’s choosing to see this as an extension of office work, given that Pasi Jokala has no listed phone number.
‘Do you think he’s dangerous?’ Adam asks.
The two of them know that they shouldn’t have come out here without the National Task Force if they really believe they’ve found the unclean preacher. But, just to be on the safe side, Margot has brought her Glock and four extra magazines.
‘He has problems with aggression and a lack of impulse control,’ she says. ‘But who the hell hasn’t?’
Pasi Jokala is registered as living at the same address as the Gärtuna Revivalist Church.
Margot turns off onto a narrow gravel road through sparse forest, and can see the lake again. Some fifty cars are parked along the side of the road, but she drives all the way to the fence before stopping.
‘We don’t have to do this now,’ Adam says.
‘I’m just going to take a look,’ Margot says, checking her gun before putting it back in its holster and struggling out of the car.
They’re standing in front of a rust-red cottage with a white cross made of LED lights covering the gable end. The light inside looks like it’s filtering out of the building through narrow gaps in the wood. Behind the house a wild meadow stretches down towards the lake.
The windows are covered on the inside.
A loud voice can be heard through the walls.
A man shouts something and Margot feels a sudden pang of unease.
She keeps walking, her holster rubbing against her. It’s sitting too high, now that her stomach has grown. They walk past a water-butt, thistles a metre tall, and a rusty lawnmower. Dozens of slugs lurk in the shadowy grass beside the wall.
‘Maybe we should wait here until they’ve finished?’ Adam wonders.
‘I’m going in,’ Margot says curtly.
They open the door and walk into the hall, but now everything is completely silent, as if everyone were waiting for them to arrive.
On the wall is a poster about meetings beside the lake, and a group trip to Alabama. On a table is a bundle of printouts about fundraising for the Gärtuna Revivalists’ new church, next to a buckled cashbox and twenty copies of the Redemption Hymnal.
Adam is hesitant, but she waves him towards her. It may be a church, but she still wants him in the right position if there’s going to be any gunfire.
Margot holds her stomach with one hand as she walks through the next door.
She can hear the sound of murmuring voices.
The rest of the building is a single white church hall. The beams of the roof are held up by pillars, and everything is painted brilliant white.
There are rows of white chairs on the white floor, and up at the front is a small stage.
A couple of dozen people have stood up from their seats. Their eyes are fixed on the man on the stage.
Margot realises that the man in front of them is Pasi Jokala. He’s wearing a blood-red shirt with open cuffs that are hanging down over his hands. His hair is sticking up from one side of his head, and his face is sweaty. His chair is lying on its side behind him. The members of the small choir are silent, looking at him with their mouths open. Pasi raises his head wearily and gazes out across the congregation.
‘I was the mud beneath His feet, the dust in His eye, the dirt under His nails,’ he says. ‘I sinned, and I sinned on purpose … You know what I have done to myself, and to others, you know what I said to my own parents, to my mother and father.’
The congregation sighs and shuffles uncomfortably.
‘The sickness of sin was raging in me …’
‘Pasi,’ a woman whimpers, look
ing at him with moist eyes.
They all start to mutter prayers.
‘You know that I mugged a man, and beat him with a rock,’ Pasi goes on with growing intensity. ‘You know what I did to Emma … and when she forgave me, I left her and Mikko, you know that I drank so much that I ended up in hospital …’
The congregation is moving agitatedly now, chairs scrape the floor, some topple over, and one man falls to his knees.
The atmosphere grows more tense, and Pasi’s voice is hoarse from chanting. The meeting seems to be reaching a crescendo. Margot retreats towards the door, as she sees two women holding each other’s hands and speaking a strange language, incomprehensible, repetitive words, faster and faster.
‘But I put my life in the Lord’s hands and was baptised in the Holy Spirit,’ Pasi goes on. ‘Now I am the drop of blood running down Christ’s cheek, I am the drop of blood …’
The congregation cheers and applauds.
The little choir starts to sing with full force: ‘The chains of sin are broken, I am free, I am free, I am delivered of my sin, I am free, saved and free, hallelujah, hallelujah, Jesus died for me! Hallelujah, hallelujah, I am free, I am free …’
The congregation joins in, clapping along, and Pasi Jokala stands there with his eyes closed, sweat running down his face.
82
Margot and Adam wait outside the church and watch the congregation emerge. They’re smiling and chatting, switching their phones on and reading messages as they head towards their cars, waving and saying their goodbyes.
After a while Pasi comes out alone.
His red shirt is unbuttoned down his chest and the fabric is dark with sweat under the arms. He’s holding a plastic bag from Statoil in his hand as he carefully locks the door.
‘Pasi?’ Margot says, taking a few steps towards him.
‘The pallets are in the garage … but I need to get to the Co-op before they shut,’ he says, heading towards the gates.
‘We’re from the National Criminal Investigation Department,’ Adam says.
‘Would you please stop!’ Margot says in a sharper tone of voice.
He comes to a halt with one hand on the gatepost and turns towards Margot.
