by Karin Nordin
Esme held back her instinct to rush down the stairs, taking each step in a cautious stride, until she was at the bottom. She searched the entire basement for signs of anyone else before making her way back to Sixten. Then she holstered her weapon, called in an “officer down” on her mobile phone, and checked the younger detective for a pulse.
Sixten was lying on his side, one hand dangling limply over his belly, which was bleeding out onto the mouldy concrete. He had a pulse, but it was faint.
‘I took a shot, but I missed,’ Sixten wheezed. ‘I’m sorry, boss …’
‘Don’t worry. Help is on its way. I’m going to move you so I can get a better look at that wound.’ Esme rolled the younger detective over onto his back and tore open his shirt. Aside from a weak groan, Sixten barely reacted to being repositioned. There was so much blood Esme could barely see skin. She pressed her bare hands on the wound. A breathy hiss escaped Sixten’s lips as he slipped into unconsciousness. ‘Don’t die on me, Sixten. Not after forcing me to listen to your stupid jokes for the last few months. Don’t you fucking dare.’
The blood seeped through her fingers. Esme pressed harder. She yelled upstairs for help. Yelled until her voice was hoarse and the muscles in her forearms went numb from holding pressure to Sixten’s belly.
‘Holy shit. Holy shit. Is he dead?’
For a split second Esme imagined it was Kjeld’s voice, but when she looked up she saw Daniel, face taut in shock at the sight of Sixten.
‘I need help! Get me something to push into this wound! I can’t let him die.’ Esme pushed down harder on Sixten’s stomach, but the blood continued to seep through her fingers. She adjusted her position and bore her full weight down on his abdomen. ‘Wake up, you stupid rookie! Wake up!’
Sixten’s face went white. Still Esme continued to press on the gash in his belly. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. They’d disappeared into the blood, which pooled fast, spilling out over Sixten’s side and staining the ground around her knees.
In the background Esme heard Daniel shouting for help, but she kept her focus on Sixten. The younger detective’s eyelids drooped. Skin sallow. The muscles in Esme’s arms shuddered as she pushed her last bit of strength onto Sixten’s wound.
By the time the paramedics arrived she’d lost all feeling in her arms and Sixten had stopped breathing.
Chapter 56
Kjeld stood in the corridor outside Sixten’s hospital room, peering in the small window at the figure on the bed. Esme had called him on impulse soon after arriving at Sahlgrenska. She’d been in a panic, overwrought by what had happened and barely intelligible on the phone. Without thinking, Kjeld drove to the hospital to make sure she was all right. By the time he arrived, Esme was less frantic and in a subdued state of shock. Sixten, on the other hand, was in bad shape. Kjeld could barely recognise him for all of the tubes, lines, and equipment in the small space around him.
The doctors didn’t have a prognosis yet. The wound to his stomach, which they’d later attributed to one of Daniel Santelmann’s kitchen knives, hadn’t been easy for the surgeon to repair, but for the time being it was stable. The bigger problem had been the injury sustained to Sixten’s head. The doctor theorised that either by force or accident, Sixten had fallen down the stairs, possibly in pursuit of his attacker, and hit his head. The trauma resulted in a build-up of pressure on his brain that could only be relieved by putting Sixten in a medically induced coma. That was the state he was in now. Unconscious and unaware. And whenever Kjeld asked a passing nurse or physician about Sixten’s condition he received the same practised reply: “Too soon to tell.”
Esme walked up beside him, two cups of coffee in hand. She held one out to Kjeld. He accepted it with a grateful nod and took a sip. It was sweet. Disgustingly sweet. Creamy. And he winced from the taste.
‘Oh, shit. That one’s mine. Caramel cappuccino.’ Esme took the cup from Kjeld and gave him the other.
‘I don’t know how you can drink that. Tastes like chalk.’ Kjeld brought the new cup to his lips in a more cautious sip.
‘Better than that nasty dishwater coffee you make.’
‘Mm.’ Kjeld’s attention returned to the window, watching for any signs of wakefulness from Sixten’s unconscious form. He knew it was ridiculous to expect to see anything. Until the doctors believed it was safe to pull him out of the coma, there’d be very little to see in the way of movement or activity. They said that even if Sixten did recover from the head trauma, there was a risk that a prolonged unconscious state, however temporary, could result in adverse effects. Many of which might be lifelong. It was possible that even if he did regain consciousness and the full range of his faculties that he might not be able to return to work.
It wasn’t until he looked at Esme, however, really looked at her and saw how she was feverishly trying to hide her own emotions behind a facade of stoicism, the harshness of which looked peculiar on her normally soft features, that he realised she was trying to process the guilt of Sixten’s situation. Esme had been in charge, after all. He’d been injured under her watch. She’d been responsible for his safety and well-being. And her refusal to show any emotion confirmed to Kjeld that she was breaking on the inside.
‘He’s going to be fine,’ Esme said, holding the paper cup between both hands to preserve the warmth of the beverage in her palms. Her tone didn’t waver in confidence, but Kjeld had the impression she was reassuring herself.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘No, but I choose to believe it.’
Kjeld didn’t know what to believe.
He sipped the coffee. It tasted better than the sludge they made at the office, but not by much. ‘We’re missing something crucial on this case.’
‘Kjeld, you’re supposed to be on leave …’
‘I think we’re wrong. I don’t think these are two separate cases. I think they’re the same case. Andrea and Jonny were both involved in drug-related crimes. Jonny was actively trying to recruit Louisa for Second Life. Louisa, Jonny, and Daniel were all survivors of former crimes. Andrea used to traffic drugs from Romania when she first moved to Sweden. And Second Life is under investigation as a front for international drug trafficking from Eastern Europe. We should be focusing on Second Life.’
‘What about Daniel?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m certain he’s connected to this somehow. He used to do finances for private organisations that weren’t exactly on the up-and-up. It’s possible he could be working for Second Life.’ Kjeld paused. ‘Also, I spoke to Vidar again and he claims he saw Jonny talking to a suspicious woman.’
‘Did he say who it was?’
‘He didn’t know, but he gave me a description. You should bring him in and have him sit with a sketch artist.’
‘How do we know this woman isn’t just a girlfriend or a stranger at a bar?’
‘We don’t, but I have a feeling about it.’
Esme shook her head. ‘You’re too close to this.’
That comment took Kjeld by surprise. ‘What?’
‘Well, maybe close isn’t the right word.’ Esme sighed into her cup. ‘What I mean to say is that I think you came back to work too quickly.’
Kjeld scoffed. ‘That’s absurd. Work is all I have to focus on.’
‘But that’s not true.’ Esme looked up to him. ‘You’ve just been through a traumatising discovery with your family, you’re struggling to maintain your relationship and responsibilities to your daughter, you still haven’t opened up to me or Bengt about what happened with Nils, you’ve thrown yourself in on another high-profile case, you’re the subject of perpetual media backlash, someone blew up your car, and you’re getting into fights with people.’
Kjeld raised a hand to the area around his eye. It was swollen and tender to the touch. He hadn’t looked in a mirror recently, but he could tell from how sore the skin was that it was bad.
‘I know how long it takes for a bruise to form, Kjeld. That wasn’t from the exp
losion.’
‘It wasn’t a fight,’ he mumbled.
‘And now you’re lying to me. That hurts, Kjeld. I thought we were closer than that.’ Esme shook her head and looked away from him, turning her attention back to the window. ‘You know the worst of it? It’s the fact that you’re not even working as well as you think you are because you refuse to deal with everything else.’
Esme’s words felt like a stab to the gut and for a long moment he refused to look at her. He merely stared off at the wall opposite the window, reining in his urge to argue with her. His instinct was to tell her she was wrong. While, yes, those things had been difficult to deal with, he refused to believe they were affecting his ability to focus on the investigation. He’d put his father, sister, and Nils behind him. Liam had made it clear that Bengt was also out of his reach. Yes, he’d screwed things up with Tove again, but he could fix that. He could figure out a way to make that work. Just like he could figure out this case.
But logic told him that Esme was telling him the truth. His refusal to accept that he was incapable of sweeping these events under the rug and moving on was blinding him to his own insecurities.
‘I can’t change those things,’ Kjeld said after a pause. ‘I can’t go back and change my relationship with my father or my sister. I can’t change what Nils did or the fact that I didn’t see it soon enough. Or didn’t want to see it.’
‘Nobody is asking you to change anything, Kjeld. I’m not asking you to change anything. But I worry about you and where all of this is headed if you don’t confront what’s happened to you. If you won’t talk with me about it, fine. But you need to talk to someone.’
That was the problem, wasn’t it? There’d been a time in his life when he could have talked to Bengt about these things. A time when Bengt would have listened without judgement. Or Esme. She’d offered more than once to listen to him. But he never gave her the chance. Why? Because he was stubborn? Because he hated feeling vulnerable? Or perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps he was afraid that others would see him the way he saw himself. Defenceless, exposed, weak.
‘I am talking to someone. I’ve been seeing the station therapist regularly.’
Esme raised a disbelieving brow. ‘Well, from what I see, it’s not helping. Maybe you need to talk to someone else.’
Esme reached out and placed a hand on his elbow. ‘It’s gone too far. You need to do something before it gets worse. Before you start making decisions you can’t turn back from.’
There was an ache in Kjeld’s chest. It was pinched and heavy, weighing him down. When he took a deep breath it caught in his throat like a piece of food that refused to be swallowed.
Esme was right. He wasn’t performing at his best. Not mentally, at least.
Esme gave his elbow a gentle squeeze, bringing him out of his thoughts and into the moment.
‘I know,’ Kjeld said. ‘And if you think it’s necessary I’ll find someone else to talk to. I promise. And I know I’m not technically on the case anymore—’
‘You’re not technically at work anymore.’
‘—but I need to see this through. I have to find the person who’s doing this.’
Esme let go of his arm, placing both hands on the small paper cup before she took a sip. He had the impression she was doing so in order to hide her face from him. Her eyes glistened as she looked past the window to Sixten. Liam’s words echoed in his thoughts. You’re a user, Kjeld. A parasite. You latch on to good people and suck everything out of them until there’s nothing left. Had he done that to Esme? Had he ignored her pain because of his own?
‘It looks like there might be some viable prints on the knife used against Sixten,’ Esme said without looking at him. ‘There could be DNA, too. We’re on the right track with the list. We know what to look for with the victims and who to focus on. That’ll make it more difficult for the killer now. He’s going to mess up.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am.’
‘There is one thing that bothers me about all of this.’
‘Only one?’ Esme tried to joke, but it fell flat.
‘How could someone orchestrate all of this without leaving a single shred of usable evidence? Why hasn’t this killer made a mistake yet?’
Esme looked at him with knowing sympathy, but didn’t say anything. Instead that constant concern which always seemed to wash over her face when they were talking to each other pinched her brows near the centre of her forehead.
It took Kjeld a moment to make the connection with what he’d said. Nils had also orchestrated an unbelievable amount of chaos on his own. And when he was finally caught, Kjeld suspected it wasn’t because he’d made a mistake but because he wanted to be caught. Why couldn’t someone else be equally capable of staying one step ahead of them?
‘You should go home and get some sleep.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to wait until the doctor comes back.’ She twirled the silver ring on her thumb with one hand as she stared through the window at Sixten, the beeping of monitors filling the soundless void between them. ‘I think his mother lives in the area. I should probably call her.’
Kjeld finished off the rest of the gritty coffee and crumpled up the cup before tossing it in a nearby bin. He was about to head off when he saw the corner of Esme’s lip tremble. When she caught him looking, however, she inhaled a deep breath and brought the cup to her mouth.
‘Sixten and I didn’t get off to a good start.’
Esme almost laughed. ‘Neither did we.’
‘Do you remember when he introduced himself?’
‘I remember he brought up Nils and you almost punched him in the nose.’
Kjeld scratched the back of his neck. ‘I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. He just wanted to know what it was like when we first met. He wasn’t interested in Nils as a murderer. He was interested in our working relationship. He wanted to know if I was nervous to be partnered alongside a detective with such a productive track record. Someone with a good reputation.’
Esme paused before responding. ‘What was it like meeting him on your first day as a detective?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Kjeld said. ‘I’d already met him. Our paths crossed earlier in my career. Back when I was still passing out parking tickets, if you can believe it.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It feels like ancient history now. Anyway, I should have been nicer to Sixten. He’s a good investigator and a good person.’
Esme fell quiet, her attention drifting to the window. Kjeld followed her gaze, watching as the monitor beside Sixten’s bed continued displaying the same jagged lines. He supposed that was at least a sign of hope. But when he averted his gaze back to Esme she didn’t look optimistic.
‘Are you okay, Esme?’
Her eyelashes fluttered in surprise at the question. He thought he saw a dampness in her eyes, but she blinked it away before giving him a smile that only half reached her eyes. ‘I’m fine, Kjeld. Go get some sleep. Don’t worry about me.’
Chapter 57
Kjeld hadn’t been home from the hospital for more than twenty minutes before there was a knock at the door. Tired and groggy from another long day of chasing dead ends, he trudged back to the entrance and opened the door without checking the peephole.
‘What the hell happened to your eye?’ Bengt asked as he squeezed past Kjeld and into the apartment.
Kjeld, having once again forgotten the dark bruise that had formed along the outer edge of his eye, floundered for an appropriate response. He quickly remembered Liam’s threat about seeing Bengt and thought about turning the man away, but before he could say anything Bengt was removing his coat and slipping off his shoes.
‘Yeah, sure, come in,’ Kjeld mumbled.
Bengt shook off the damp snowflakes from his hair and hung up his coat on the rack on the wall. Then he bent down and neatly lined up his shoes side by side on the thin doormat Kjeld rarely
used before making his way further into the apartment. He’d always been a stickler about shoes in the house. It was a tradition Kjeld had all but given up when he went back to living alone.
An awkward silence filled the space between them and when Kjeld opened his mouth the apology fell forth before he realised it. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bengt blinked, confused. ‘Sorry for what?’
Bengt ran his fingers back through his hair, smoothing out the droplets of water from the melted snowflakes. A rosy blush coloured his cheeks. And the reminder that Bengt was healthy – in remission from the cancer that had stretched their relationship to the literal limits – caused a knot to form in Kjeld’s throat.
‘Everything.’
Bengt laughed. ‘Well, that certainly covers it all then, doesn’t it?’
Bengt brought a finger to the side of Kjeld’s eye. Kjeld flinched, not so much from pain as from surprise, and Bengt pulled his hand away as though suddenly realising that their relationship wasn’t supposed to include those kinds of affectionate concerns.
‘Who are you picking fights with now?’
‘No one,’ Kjeld lied. ‘I walked into a door.’
‘Are you sure a door didn’t walk into you?’
Bengt brushed past him and into the living room. Compared to the place they’d once shared together, Kjeld’s apartment was stark. Bare. More akin to a college student’s residence than the home of a man pushing forty. And Kjeld suddenly felt a twinge of embarrassment.
The rustling of Oskar digging up the clay granules in his litter box interrupted the silence, tugging Kjeld out of his thoughts. ‘Drink?’
Bengt eyed him warily. ‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘Shouldn’t have a drink or shouldn’t stop by your ex’s flat at—’ Kjeld glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Almost one o’clock in the morning?’
‘Either.’ Bengt paused. ‘Both.’