by Kepler, Lars
‘We cover everything where—’
A door opens in the distance, they hear the hum of the coffee machine, then My walks into the security control room.
‘What are you doing huddled up in here?’ she asks with a grin.
‘Sven’s going through the security system with me,’ Anders replies.
‘And there was me thinking you were watching while I took my clothes off,’ she jokes with a sigh.
77
They fall silent and watch the screen covering the dayroom. Jurek Walter is walking on the running machine with even strides, and Bernie Larsson gradually slips down until he is lying with his neck against the low back of the sofa. His shirt slides up and his fat stomach moves as he breathes. His face is sweaty, one of his legs is bouncing nervously and he seems to be talking to the ceiling.
‘What’s he doing?’ My asks, looking at the others. ‘What’s he saying?’
Anders shrugs. ‘No idea.’
The only sound audible in the security control room is the ticking of a golden, solar-powered Chinese cat waving its paw.
Anders thinks back to Bernie Larsson’s medical notes from Säter. Twenty-one years ago he was sentenced to secure psychiatric care for what was described as a bestial series of rapes.
Now he’s slumped on the sofa, yelling up at the ceiling. Saliva is spraying from his mouth. He’s making aggressive slicing gestures with his hands, and throws the cushion beside him onto the floor.
Jurek Walter does what he has always done. With long strides he walks his nine kilometres on the running machine, then stops it, gets off and heads in the direction of his room.
Bernie shouts something at him as he leaves. Jurek stops in the doorway and turns back towards the dayroom again.
‘What’s happening now?’ Anders asks anxiously.
Sven quickly picks up his radio and calls two colleagues, then hurries out. Anders leans forward and watches Sven as he appears on one of the monitors. He’s walking along the corridor, talking to the other guards, then he stops outside the airlock, evaluating the situation.
Nothing happens.
Jurek is standing in the doorway, between the rooms, precisely where his face is in shadow. He’s not moving, but both Anders and My can see that he’s talking. Bernie is slumped in the sofa, eyes closed as he listens. After a while his bottom lip starts to quiver. The whole scenario plays out in little more than a minute, then Jurek turns and disappears into his room.
‘Back to your lair,’ My mutters.
One of the other monitors shows Jurek from above. Slowly he walks into his room, sits down on the plastic chair directly beneath the CCTV camera, and stares at the wall.
After a while Bernie Larsson gets up from the sofa in the dayroom. He wipes his mouth a few times before shuffling off to his room.
Another monitor shows Bernie Larsson going over to the sink, leaning forward and rinsing his face. He stands there as water runs over his face, then he walks to the door to the dayroom, presses his thumb against the inside of the frame and slams the door shut as hard as he can. The door bounces back and Bernie sinks to his knees, shrieking out loud.
78
It’s ten o’clock in the morning and sharp winter light is shining on Magdalena Ronander as she returns to police headquarters from her yoga session. Petter Näslund is standing in front of a large-scale map of the residential area where the two Kohler-Frost children disappeared. He frowns as he pins up photographs from the old investigation. Magdalena says a quick hello, throws her bag onto her chair, and goes over to the whiteboard. She quickly strikes through the lines of inquiry they managed to follow up yesterday. Benny Rubin, Johnny Isaksson and Fredrik Weyler are sitting round the conference table making notes.
‘We need to take another look at everyone who was employed at Menge’s Engineering Workshop at the same time as Jurek Walter,’ she says.
‘I’ve compiled the interviews with Richard van Horn from yesterday,’ Johnny says. He’s blond and thin, and sports the same haircut that Rod Stewart had in the 1980s.
‘Who’s calling Reidar Frost today?’ Petter asks, twirling a pen between his fingers.
‘I can take care of that,’ Magdalena replies calmly.
‘Wonder if they want us to carry on looking for Wee Willie Winkie,’ Benny says.
‘Joona wants us all to take the whole Sandman thing seriously,’ Petter reminds him.
‘I found a great clip on YouTube,’ Benny says, searching his mobile.
‘Do we have to?’ Magdalena sighs, picking up a heavy file from the table.
‘But have you seen that clown who hides from stupid cops?’ Benny asks, putting his phone down.
‘No,’ Petter replies.
‘No, because I’m probably the only person in the room who’s actually managed to catch sight of him,’ Benny laughs.
Magdalena is smiling as she opens the file.
‘Who’s going to help me find the last people connected to Agneta Magnusson?’ she asks.
She’s the woman who was found alive in the grave in Lill-Jan’s Forest when Jurek Walter was caught. The two bodies in the plastic barrel that was buried nearby belonged to her brother and nephew.
‘Her mother vanished years ago, and her dad disappeared just after she was found.’
‘Didn’t they all disappear?’ Fredrik Weyler asks.
‘Not her husband,’ Magdalena says, glancing at the file.
‘This whole thing’s so sick,’ Fredrik whispers.
‘But her husband is still alive, and—’
‘Does yoga make you more flexible?’ Benny asks, slapping both hands down on the table with a bang.
‘Why did you do that?’ Magdalena asks gravely.
79
Magdalena Ronander says hello to the large woman who’s just opened the door. She has fine laughter lines at the corners of her eyes, and the name Sonja tattooed on her shoulder.
Everyone with any connection to Agneta Magnusson was questioned by the police thirteen years ago. All their houses and flats were searched by forensics officers, as well as summer houses, shacks, sheds, children’s dens, caravans, boats and cars.
‘I called earlier,’ Magdalena says, showing her police ID.
‘Oh, yes,’ the woman nods. ‘Bror’s waiting for you in the living room.’
Magdalena follows the woman through the little 1950s house. There’s a smell of fried steak and onions from the kitchen. A man in a wheelchair is sitting in a living room with dark curtains.
‘Is that the police?’ he asks in a dry voice.
‘Yes, it’s the police,’ Magdalena says, pulling the piano stool over and sitting down in front of the man.
‘Haven’t we talked enough?’
It’s been thirteen years since anyone questioned Bror Engström about what happened in Lill-Jan’s Forest, and in that time he’s got old, she thinks.
‘I need to know more,’ Magdalena says gently.
Bror Engström shakes his head.
‘There’s nothing left to say. Everyone vanished. In just a few years they were all gone. My Agneta and … her brother and nephew … and then Jeremy, my father-in-law … He stopped talking when … when they went missing, his children and grandson.’
‘Jeremy Magnusson,’ Magdalena says.
‘I liked him a lot … But he missed his children so terribly.’
‘Yes,’ Magdalena says quietly.
Bror Engström’s clouded eyes close at the memory.
‘One day he was just gone, him too. Then I got my Agneta back. But she was never herself again.’
‘No,’ Magdalena says.
‘No,’ he whispers.
She knows that Joona made countless visits to see the woman in the long-stay ward where she was being looked after. She never regained the power of speech, and died four years ago. The brain damage was too severe for anyone ever to reach her again.
‘I suppose I should sell off Jeremy’s forests,’ the man says. ‘But I can’t do it
. They meant everything to him. He was always trying to get me to go up to the hunting cabin with him, but it never quite happened … and now it’s too late.’
‘Where’s the cabin?’ she asks, taking out her phone.
‘Way up in Dalarna, beyond Tranuberget, not far from the Norwegian border … I’ve got the maps from the Land Registry somewhere, if Sonja can find them.’
The hunting cabin isn’t on the list of locations searched by forensics. It’s probably nothing, but Joona has said that they mustn’t leave any stone unturned.
80
A police officer and a forensics expert are making their way across the deep snow between the dark trunks of the pine trees on snowmobiles. In some places they can go faster and cover longer distances by using cleared boundary lines and foresters’ tracks, leaving a cloud of smoke and snow behind them.
Stockholm wanted them to get out to a hunting cabin beyond Tranuberget. Apparently it had been owned by a Jeremy Magnusson, who disappeared thirteen years ago. The National Criminal Investigation Department have asked them to conduct a thorough forensic examination of the place, and to take video footage and photographs. Anything there is to be seized and packed up, and any potential evidence and biological matter is to be secured.
The two men on the snowmobiles know that the Stockholm Police are hoping to find something that might throw light on the disappearance of Magnusson and other members of his family. Obviously it should have been searched thirteen years ago, but at the time the police hadn’t been aware of the hunting cabin’s existence.
Roger Hysén and Gunnar Ehn are driving side by side down a slope at the edge of the forest in blinding light. They emerge onto a sunlit bog where everything is glistening white, completely untouched, and continue at speed across the ice before swinging north into denser forest once more.
The forest has grown so wild on the southern side of Tranuberget that they almost miss the building entirely. The low timber shack is completely covered in snow. It’s piled up higher than the windows, and is at least a metre thick on the roof.
All that’s visible are a few silver-grey timber planks.
They get off their snowmobiles and begin to dig the cabin out.
The small windows are covered by faded curtains inside.
The sun is going down, nudging the treetops as it sinks towards the great expanse of bog.
When the door is finally uncovered they’re sweating, and forensics expert Gunnar Ehn can feel his scalp itching under his hat.
A tree is rubbing against another in the wind, making a desolate creaking sound.
In silence the two men roll out a sheet of plastic in front of the door and get out their boxes, unpacking boards to walk on. They pull on protective outfits and gloves.
The door is locked and there’s no key on the hook under the eaves.
‘The daughter was found buried alive in Stockholm,’ Roger Hysén says, glancing briefly at his colleague.
‘I’ve heard the talk,’ Gunnar says. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’
Roger inserts a crowbar into the crack next to the lock and pushes. The frame creaks. He pushes it further in and shoves harder. The frame splinters and Roger gives the door a tentative tug, then pulls as hard as he can. It swings open and bounces back.
‘Shit,’ Roger whispers behind his mask.
The draught from the unexpected movement has made all the dust that’s settled inside the house fly up into the air. Gunnar mutters that it doesn’t matter. He reaches into the dark cabin and puts two boards on the floor.
Roger unpacks the video camera and hands it over. Gunnar bends down beneath the low lintel, steps inside the cabin and stops on the first board.
It’s so dark inside that he can’t see anything at first. The air is dry from the swirling dust.
Gunnar sets the camera to record, but the light won’t switch on. He tries recording the room anyway, but all he manages to get are vague outlines.
The whole cabin resembles a murky aquarium.
There’s an odd-looking shadow in the middle of the room, like a large grandfather clock.
‘What’s happening?’ Roger calls from outside.
‘Give me the other camera.’
Gunnar passes the video camera out and is given the ordinary camera in its place. He checks the viewscreen. Unable to see anything but black, he snaps a picture at random. The flash fills the room with a white glow.
Gunnar screams when he sees the long, thin figure right in front of him. He takes a step back, loses his footing, drops the camera, puts out an arm to regain his balance and knocks over a coat stand.
‘What the fuck was that …?’
He backs out, hitting his head on the lintel and cutting himself on the loose splinters sticking out from the frame.
‘What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Roger asks.
‘Someone’s in there,’ Gunnar says, grinning nervously.
Roger switches on the light on the video camera, opens the door cautiously, bends down and slowly makes his way inside. The floor creaks beneath the boards. The light from the camera searches through the dust and over the furniture. A branch scratches against the window. It sounds like someone knocking anxiously.
‘OK,’ he gasps.
In the dim light from the camera he sees that a man has hanged himself from the beam in the roof. A very long time ago. The body is thin and the skin has dried out and is stretched across the face. The mouth is wide open and black. His leather boots are lying on the floor.
The door behind the police officer creaks as Gunnar comes back in.
The sun has gone down behind the treetops and the windows are black. Carefully they spread out a body bag beneath the corpse.
The branch hits the window again, and slides over the glass with a scrape.
Roger reaches over to hold the body while Gunnar cuts the rope, but just as he touches the swaying corpse its head comes lose from the neck. The body collapses at their feet. The skull thuds on the wooden floor, dust swirls up around the room once more, and the old noose swings noiselessly.
81
Saga is sitting quite still inside the van, gazing out of the window. The chains attached to her handcuffs rattle in time with the motion of the vehicle.
She hasn’t wanted to think about Jurek Walter. She’s actually managed to keep her distance from what she knows about his murders since she accepted the mission.
But that’s no longer possible. After three days of monotony at Karsudden Hospital, the Prison Service decision to transfer her is being put into practice. She’s on her way to the secure unit of Löwenströmska Hospital.
Her encounter with Jurek is drawing closer.
In her mind’s eye she can clearly see the photograph that was at the front of his file: his wrinkled face and those clear, pale eyes.
Jurek worked as a mechanic and lived a solitary and withdrawn life until his arrest. There was nothing in his flat that could be linked to his crimes, yet he was still caught red-handed.
Saga had been drenched with sweat by the time she finished reading the reports and looking at the photographs of the crime scenes. One large colour picture showed the forensics team’s numbered signs in the clearing, as well as a heap of damp soil, a grave and an open coffin.
Nils Åhlén had produced a thorough forensic record of the woman’s injuries, after she’d been buried alive for two years.
Saga feels travel-sick and looks out at the road and trees flitting past. She thinks about how malnourished the woman was, and about her pressure sores, frostbite and lost teeth. Joona had described how the weak, emaciated woman had tried to climb out of the coffin time after time, but how Jurek kept pushing her back down.
Saga knows she shouldn’t be thinking about this.
A shudder of anxiety slowly spreads out from her stomach.
She tells herself that under no circumstances must she let herself feel afraid. She’s in control of the situation.
The van brakes and the handcuf
fs rattle.
The plastic barrel and the coffin had both been equipped with air tubes leading up above ground.
Why couldn’t he have just killed them outright?
It’s incomprehensible.
Saga moves on to considering what Mikael Kohler-Frost had said about his captivity in the capsule, and her heart beats faster as she thinks of Felicia alone there, the little girl with the loose plait and riding hat.
It has stopped snowing, but there’s no sign of the sun. The sky remains overcast and blind. The van leaves the old main road and slowly turns right as it enters the hospital grounds.
A woman in her forties is sitting in the bus shelter with two shopping bags in her hands, taking deep drags on a cigarette.
Government approval is required to establish a secure unit, but Saga knows that the legislation allows plenty of leeway for the institutions to conduct their own evaluations.
Ordinary laws and rights cease to apply inside those locked doors. There’s no real scrutiny or supervision. The staff are lords of their own Hades, as long as none of their patients escape.
82
Saga’s hands and ankles are still cuffed as she is led down an empty corridor by two armed guards. They’re both walking fast and holding her upper arms tightly.
It’s too late to change her mind now – she’s on her way to meet Jurek Walter.
The textured wallpaper is scratched and the skirting boards scuffed. On the ivory-coloured floor is a box of old shoe-covers. The closed doors they pass on the way have small plastic signs with numbers on them.
Saga has a stomach ache and tries to stop, but is pushed onward.
‘Keep going,’ one of the guards says.
The isolation unit at Löwenströmska Hospital has a very high security level, way above the requirements for level one. That means that the building itself is basically impossible to break in or out of. The rooms have fireproof steel doors, fixed inner ceilings and walls that have been reinforced with thirty-five-millimetre-thick metal plate.