The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Have you ever had phone sex?’

  Billy stopped dead. Surprised to say the least.

  ‘No … Have you?’

  ‘No. Would you like to try it?’

  ‘I’m not in the hotel.’

  ‘When will you be back there?’

  ‘Soon – in a few minutes,’ Billy said, gazing up at the facade.

  ‘Call me then.’

  ‘OK.’

  Maya ended the call, and Billy slipped the phone in his pocket. This was something new. He actually had no idea how it worked, and it felt a bit … embarrassing. Were they just going to talk, or was Maya thinking of Skype? Maybe she had an idea, and all he had to do was go along with her.

  As he reached the steps leading up to the main door, he met Sebastian coming out.

  ‘Hi, where are you off to?’ Billy asked as he grabbed the open door.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason, I was just wondering.’

  ‘Carry on wondering.’

  Down the steps, off down the well-tended path, out onto the street and he was gone.

  Billy stared after him.

  Sebastian had gone out. His room was empty. The opportunity might not arise again; no one knew how long they would be staying here. He couldn’t turn up on Sebastian’s doorstep with a bottle of wine and pinch some DNA when he went to the bathroom – partly because Sebastian didn’t drink, and partly because, unlike Vanja, he would think it was seriously weird. They didn’t have that kind of relationship.

  Billy thought about what he was planning to do. What would happen if he got caught? There wasn’t much of a friendship to wreck, they were definitely no more than colleagues. Which was a bit strange, really, because Billy was the only member of the team who hadn’t had a negative attitude towards Sebastian when he first turned up, and yet Sebastian was much closer to both Ursula and Vanja, both of whom had wanted rid of him at any price from the start. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. They were women. Billy didn’t know how it worked, but Sebastian seemed to have an almost magical touch when it came to the opposite sex – at least when it came to getting them into bed. It wasn’t something to admire; he abused women the way other people abused alcohol. Presumably he felt just as bad the morning after as an alcoholic did after a bender. Or did he? Billy didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. The only thing of interest right now as far as Sebastian Bergman was concerned was whether or not he was Vanja’s father, and in order to find that out, Billy needed a sample of his DNA.

  He went over to the reception desk.

  ‘Hi – my colleague has just gone out and I’ve left my laptop in his room. Any chance I could borrow the key for a couple of minutes?’

  No problem.

  It was dark in the forest, and he was crawling along the narrow track at a snail’s pace. He had killed the car’s headlights when he turned off the main road, and now he was forced to navigate by moonlight. He leaned forward as far as he could, trying to make something out. He wanted to park as close as possible so that he could get in and out quickly, but he didn’t want anyone to see the car. He spotted a little opening by the side of the track, a field of last year’s tall grass. He didn’t want to be facing the wrong way when he was leaving, so he turned the car around, then got out. It couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes’ walk to the hospital. He planned to head down to the main road, which ran parallel with the track a few hundred metres away, keeping to the edge of the forest so that he could duck in among the trees if anyone came. Not that anyone was likely to be around at 02:45.

  The whole of Torsby was sleeping.

  Apart from him.

  He retrieved his small rucksack from the back seat and set off. It was a clear, chilly night, and the bright moon cast a dreamlike glow on the trees surrounding him. The rucksack felt heavy, although it shouldn’t. Guilt weighed things down, he had realised lately. It was as if other physical laws applied if you did things you would never have thought you were capable of.

  Certain things weighed more.

  Others less.

  Killing children.

  That weighed most of all.

  He pushed away that last thought; it always affected him more than he wanted it to. It hurt.

  The main road below him was deserted, just as he had expected, but he still stayed on the edge of the forest even though he could have made significantly faster progress if he’d gone down to the verge.

  But he stuck to the plan. Didn’t change a thing. Plans were made to be followed.

  ★ ★ ★

  After about ten minutes he caught a glimpse of the upper part of the hospital, half-hidden behind a grassy slope that he knew led to the car park at the back. The slope was densely planted with shrubs, which he intended to use as cover. The hospital had two entrances, the one for ambulances and the main one at the front. He wasn’t going to use either of them. He was going to get in via one of the emergency exits. There were several on every side of the building, and he had often seen both staff and patients standing outside smoking with the doors wide open, even at night. With a bit of luck, that meant they weren’t alarmed. It was worth a try, anyway. He cut through the bushes and was suddenly struck by a strong, sweet perfume – a scent that reminded him of the summer, of long walks. As he reached the top of the slope he crouched down and peered at the car park, which was almost empty – only four cars in a space that was big enough for twenty times that number. He waited for a little while just to make sure that no one was on their way to one of the cars, then ran across the tarmac as fast as he could to the nearest door. He took out his black leather gloves and put them on. Tried the door. Locked. It gave a little when he pulled at it, and he briefly wondered whether to try breaking it open with his knife, but instead he decided to try the next emergency exit, where he had definitely seen members of staff smoking. He moved fast, keeping close to the wall. When he reached the door, he saw that he was in luck for once. One of the smokers had forgotten to move the little stone that was used to hold the door open. He stepped into the dark corridor and closed the door behind him.

  Stage one completed. Things would be more difficult from now on. He saw a reddish-orange button for the lights glowing in the gloom, but decided to use his little LED torch instead. He got it out of the side pocket of his rucksack and switched it on. Saw that he was in a yellow basement. He passed a hospital trolley and several doors marked ‘STOREROOM’. He stopped and went back; perhaps he could find a change of clothes that would make it easier for him to move around upstairs.

  That was the weakness in his plan: the risk of being discovered and identified. He might just be able to minimise that risk.

  The first storeroom contained cloths, rolls of protective paper and bandages. He looked in a few boxes and found one containing masks. He took one out and put it on over his nose and mouth. He could feel his warm breath on his lips and cheeks; he felt better already. At least his face was partly covered.

  The second room was a linen store, but in the third room his luck was in once more: boxes and boxes of clothes, all marked with different sizes. He gathered together the best combination he could find: green scrubs, including a cap. It felt like something that would be worn in theatre, and no doubt it would look odd if anyone saw him, prepped for an operation at three o’clock in the morning, but it did make him virtually unrecognisable. He put down his torch and got changed. He folded up his coat and hid it in one of the boxes, then pulled on the scrubs over his shirt and trousers. He covered his head with the cap, and found a pair of sterile gloves. He took what he needed out of his rucksack, then hid it in a box next to the one containing his coat. Unfortunately there were no pockets in his scrubs, and he had to find somewhere to conceal the knife and the small Taser he had brought with him. He would have preferred a pistol, but he needed something significantly quieter this time. The last time any possible witnesses had been far away; this time they would be in the adjoining rooms.

  He went back out into the corridor
and returned to the trolley he had passed earlier. He unlocked the wheels and tried pushing it backwards and forwards a few times. It moved easily and quietly, although one wheel seemed to pull to the side a little.

  He slipped the hunting knife and the Taser under the pillow, then checked out the area in his new outfit, looking for alternative escape routes. He found two staircases and a lift, plus four emergency exits in addition to the one he had used to get in. Good.

  He wheeled the trolley over to the lift. He would go up in the lift, back down the stairs. That was the plan. He pressed the call button and heard the machinery whirr into action. He would begin on the ground floor, where the general wards were; the girl should be there.

  The lift arrived and he stepped inside. Looked at the control panel: three buttons, B, G and 1. He pulled the trolley in after him, checked the items under the pillow one more time, then pressed G. The metal doors closed and the lift rose slowly and smoothly. He felt the tension return.

  This was his last chance.

  The lift stopped. He had arrived.

  ★ ★ ★

  The man wheeled the trolley along in front of him. So far he hadn’t seen a soul. The corridor with its shiny green floor was deserted. He stopped, listened. The staff on the night shift must be around somewhere, and he would prefer to know where they were before they saw him. A short distance away he heard voices coming from a room with the door open. At least two people. Women. He decided to go in the opposite direction. The corridor went all the way around the building in a square, so he would be able to check out the entire floor whichever route he took. He was happier with the voices behind him; he didn’t really want to walk past the door. They died away after a little while, and soon the only sound was the muted metallic click of the trolley’s wheels. He glanced at each door as he passed by. They were all identical: white, windowless, closed. No names or patient details on display, which was what he had been hoping for. That made things a lot more complicated. He really didn’t want to open every single door; that would seriously increase the risk of being caught. It might be necessary eventually, but he wasn’t going to start that way. The first thing was to get an overview, go right the way round this floor if the worst came to the worst, and then search each room if there was no other option. Difficult things became easier if you had an overview. He knew that from experience.

  A little way ahead, one of the doors was ajar. He moved forward, stopped, listened. The room was as silent as the grave. He decided to look inside. He was sure it wouldn’t be the girl’s room – he couldn’t be that lucky – but it would give him the chance to see what the rooms looked like. The doors were all the same, so that probably applied to the interiors as well. He considered taking the knife with him, but thought better of it.

  Overview first.

  Action only once the target has been located.

  Cautiously he pushed open the door.

  It was in darkness; the only light came from the corridor behind him. Four beds. Three in use. Women, he thought, all asleep. He made up his mind to keep going, but with a fresh insight. He had been so focused on the girl that it hadn’t crossed his mind that there might be more than one patient in a room. It wasn’t exactly news to him, but it annoyed him. It didn’t change anything, but he didn’t like the realisation that he hadn’t thought of everything.

  He set off again, pushing the trolley. He felt more comfortable that way. Soon he reached the corner; he slowed down and carefully manoeuvred the trolley. The faulty wheel made it heavier than he had expected, and it slid over to the left. He had to make a real effort to stop it crashing into the wall. He straightened it up, and at the same time saw a figure in his peripheral vision. A man in police uniform, sitting on a chair.

  The man felt a shiver run down his spine; suddenly all his senses were on full alert. There could be only one patient with a police officer stationed outside her door.

  He had arrived.

  The policeman glanced at his watch, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Perhaps he was going to have a little nap. The man pushed the trolley along, and the policeman turned drowsily towards the sound. He’s just seeing a hospital employee in scrubs, the man told himself, but picked up speed to give the policeman less time to wonder why someone was pushing a trolley around at this time of night.

  The officer nodded as the trolley drew level with his chair.

  The man reached under the pillow, took out the Taser, pressed it against the officer’s neck and fired in one fluid movement. The compact black-and-yellow object crackled with electricity. Too loud, he thought, but it was too late. The policeman’s body jerked spasmodically several times, his arms flew up and his legs flailed horribly. For a second it looked as if the power of the electric charge would bring him to his feet, but instead he thudded down on the floor. And stayed there. Out cold.

  According to the Internet, it would be ten or fifteen minutes before the paralysis eased. He remained standing there for a few seconds just to be on the safe side, hoping no one had heard anything. The voices from the staffroom were faintly audible, but only if he listened really hard. To him the brief interlude had seemed incredibly noisy, but the lack of shouts or footsteps heading in his direction reassured him. The coast was clear. He stepped over the other man’s body, opened the door and looked inside.

  A lamp glowed in the corner. Only one bed was occupied.

  Good.

  Or not. Instead of a little girl, there was a woman lying on top of the covers. She seemed to be wearing her own clothes rather than a hospital gown.

  It must be the wrong room.

  But there had been a police officer sitting outside. There couldn’t possibly be someone else in the hospital who needed a police guard. This was Torsby. It had to be the right room.

  He had to get rid of the unconscious body anyway, so he slipped back outside, grabbed the man’s legs, pulled him into the room and dumped him by the bed next to the door. Then he closed the door and moved towards the sleeping woman.

  There was a coat draped over the end of the bed, and a pair of dark-coloured shoes below it. He took a closer look. Long, dark, almost black hair, a round, attractive face. She definitely didn’t appear to be a patient. She wasn’t dressed like a patient, and she was lying on top of the covers, very close to the edge of the bed with both arms outstretched towards the middle, as if someone had been lying in her arms.

  Hadn’t he read in the paper that the girl’s mother was abroad? Difficult to get hold of?

  Presumably the police had found her. But where was the girl? Was she being examined? Had she been whisked away because of some emergency? But then the mother wouldn’t be lying here fast asleep. It didn’t make sense.

  Nothing made sense.

  He was starting to worry about the amount of time that was passing as he stood there feeling confused and indecisive. He needed to make up his mind about what to do. The problem was that he had only theories. He was guessing. He had nothing to go on.

  On the pale wooden bedside table he saw something that lessened his confusion. Next to two glasses, one half full of juice and one empty, lay a sketch pad and some coloured pens. Someone had been drawing. He moved silently around the bed, picked up the first picture. An ambulance parked next to some trees, a man carrying a little girl. A little girl with long dark hair and big eyes. They were emerging from something that must be a cave.

  He was in the right room.

  The girl had been here. He headed for the door.

  She ought to be nearby. She must be nearby. Sometimes there was a simple answer to something that seemed inexplicable. There were no toilets in the rooms; if you wanted to pee in the middle of the night, you would have to go somewhere else.

  He quickly opened the door and looked out. It was just as quiet and deserted as before. The bathroom wasn’t far from the policeman’s chair. He had to move fast now. He had very little time left. He stopped about a metre from the toilet door.

&n
bsp; He had been right.

  The locking mechanism showed red.

  Someone was in there.

  He quickly turned back to the trolley, reached under the pillow and grabbed the knife. How much time had elapsed? The policeman would need a little while to recover once he came round, but the woman would be wide awake as soon as the uniformed man on the floor started moaning and groaning. It had been stupid to drag him in there. Stupid to stand around for so long.

  He had made some mistakes.

  But he had found her.

  He gripped the handle of the knife more tightly and got ready. Edged towards the locked door. Placed his ear against it and listened. Nothing. He pressed closer until it almost hurt. Still nothing.

  Could the red display mean that the toilet was closed, out of order? Was he standing here with his knife poised, listening to an empty room? He was just about to try and pick the lock with the point of the knife when he heard the familiar sound of flushing water. He quickly positioned himself against the wall next to the door on the hinge side, so that he would be hidden when it opened. Best to remain concealed as long as possible. He would look terrifying, with his mask, his surgical cap and his great big hunting knife; she would probably start screaming at the top of her voice as soon as she saw him. Better to let her come out first; with a bit of luck she would have her back to him. He would have time to cover her mouth with his left hand before she saw him, then he could stab her hard between the shoulder blades with his right hand. All the way to her heart with a single blow, hopefully. Unfortunately both the spine and the ribcage were in the way, so he was prepared for the possibility that he might need several blows in order to achieve the desired result. Actually it would be safer to cut her throat, but he had discounted that idea from the start. There was something about the slender neck of a girl. The soft skin. The neat throat. She would be too close to the child she was. It was a strange thought, but that was how he felt. And he knew you had to listen to your internal voice in situations like this, otherwise you could be beset by doubts and lose focus. That couldn’t happen. He had to carry this through without hesitation. He couldn’t afford to get it wrong.