The Dangerous Game (9 page)

Knutas’s ears pricked up.

‘A difficult ex? What’s her name?’

‘Diana Sierra. She’s been a real pain. Won’t let him go. She keeps ringing him all the time, and sending text messages.’

‘Is she a model, too?’

‘Uh-huh. Unfortunately. And for the same agency. Luckily, she does a lot of work abroad, so I haven’t run into her yet, and I hope I never do.’

‘I understand. That should be all for now. Thank you for coming in,’ said Knutas. ‘We’ll let you know if we need to ask you any more questions.’

‘Do you have any idea who did this?’

‘Not yet. But we have plenty of leads to follow up. Don’t worry. We’ll solve this case.’

Knutas patted her on the arm.

He hoped that he was right.

THE CORRIDOR EXTENDS
through the entire ward. Agnes jogs mechanically from one end to the other. She has a hard time sitting still. She needs to work off as much energy as possible, even though the opportunities for doing so are very limited here. Much to the annoyance of the staff, she is always coming up with new excuses for getting up and moving about. For instance, she needs to fetch the newspaper she’s left on her nightstand. When she comes back to the communal lounge she stands there reading an article for two minutes, then returns to her room to put the paper back. Then she continues on to the art room, stares at the felt-tip pens for a few minutes, and heads back to the lounge. There, she rummages about in the games cupboard but doesn’t find anything of interest, then remembers that she has a pack of cards somewhere in her wardrobe and she could play patience. Back to her room again, where she looks through her belongings until she finds the cards, but by then she has lost any desire to play. Maybe she could knit something. So once again she returns to the art room and looks at all the different kinds of yarn, but she can’t make up her mind which to choose. Now and then, one of the nurses says to her, ‘Sit down.’ Agnes complies, but the next second she jumps up again. She has thought of something else.

Finally, her list of excuses runs out, and she makes do with plodding back and forth along the corridor. When Per appears, she stops and pretends to be studying a picture on the wall.

‘How’s it going?’ he asks.

‘Okay. I’m just a little restless.’

‘I can understand that. It’s not so strange.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got meetings right now, for another hour or so. But how about a game of backgammon later on? And, this time, I plan to win.’

‘Sure.’

Agnes gives him a wan smile. It’s lucky he’s here. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Per gives her a quick hug before he disappears into his office and closes the door. She sighs and continues her endless wandering.

They’ve made an attempt to spruce up the decor so the place won’t seem so depressing. The walls are painted a warm yellow, the curtains have a pattern of different-sized red circles against a yellow background. The chairs are also covered in a colourful fabric. And the framed posters on the walls show scenes of rugged mountains, a deep-blue sea, a sunset, and a summertime meadow filled with fiery red poppies that remind her of Gotland.

She doesn’t like the way they’ve tried to make the ward more cheerful. As if that would help anyone who’s being held here. They’re trapped in this hell. The patients move like automated zombies from the food lab to the communal lounge, from the art room to the warm room. Her life has come to a standstill; she is imprisoned in her obsession and sees no way out. Anxiety frequently threatens to suffocate her. Sometimes, she can’t breathe and, occasionally, she is seriously convinced that her heart will stop beating. That she’s going to die in this place. The warm, yellow interior feels like a slap in the face. It’s like a children’s hospital, she thinks, where kids with cancer or some other terminal illness lie in bed surrounded by stuffed animals and cheerful drawings. It’s too bloody macabre.

She reaches the end of the corridor and turns around. Passes the art room for what must be the tenth time. She sees Linda and Sofia sitting there, making beaded trivets. Beaded trivets! That’s what little kids make in childcare centres. The one thing they want to do here is diminish the patients, she thinks. Make us non-people. And she does feel like a nonperson. She has lost all hold on real life, can hardly remember what it’s like. Sometimes, she tries to recall what things were like before, to remind herself that she really did have a perfectly ordinary life, just like everybody else. She has nothing to do here, so the only sensible thing is to think about life outside. Transport herself there in her mind. Think about things that she used to do before she came here, about the friends she had, and about school.

Yet she avoids thinking about Mamma and Martin. As soon as they appear in her mind, she tries to escape and think about something else. It’s too painful.

But now, as she walks along the corridor, the memories come back, whether she likes it or not.

The accident happened on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday in February when she was only thirteen. The weather had changed overnight; the temperature dropped and the roads were slippery. Mamma was going to pick up Martin in Stenkumla, where he’d been visiting a friend. Agnes remembers the conversation as if it were yesterday. She was the one who had picked up the phone when Mamma rang from the car. Her happy, eager voice saying, ‘We’ll be home soon, just need to swing by Atterdags and pick up some shopping. We’ll eat at seven. Meatballs and potatoes with gravy and lingonberries.’

But that dinner never happened. One minute after they said goodbye to each other, a long-distance lorry coming from the opposite direction had skidded into a vehicle, veered into the other lane and then run head-on into her mother’s car. The police said afterwards that she had had no chance of avoiding the collision. They died instantly. Both Mamma and Martin.

Agnes heard the news less than an hour after she’d talked to her mother on the phone. Someone rang the bell, and her father went to the door. Agnes was upstairs in her own room, so she didn’t hear what was said. She remembers only seeing her bedroom door open a short time later, and Pappa’s face. How he came in, as if entreating her, his hands held out, his lower lip quivering, terror in his eyes. Yes, that was what she saw. Pure terror. No grief, no despair. It was too soon; all of that would come later. She knew at once that something serious had happened. She stared at his mouth, his trembling lips. He tried to say something. He reached for her hand; his own was shaking. She remembers his voice. It sounded metallic, hollow. ‘Something terrible has happened, Agnes. Come here and sit next to me.’ He took her arm and walked her over to the bed, where he sat down. She sank on to the bed beside him. A sound had started up in her head, way in the back, but it was getting louder by the second. A wave of resistance surged inside her. No, she refused to hear what he was going to say. She didn’t want to know. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t. She wanted to escape, run as far away as possible. She was looking at the bedspread through a blur. She was already crying, even though her father hadn’t yet told her anything. She didn’t want this to be happening. She was only thirteen years old, just a child. Wasn’t prepared for something like this. She wanted to shut her eyes and cover her ears. Why weren’t Mamma and Martin home? Why didn’t she hear her mother’s cheerful voice downstairs in the front hall, as usual? Why wasn’t Martin pulling off his shoes and jacket and opening the fridge, like he always did the minute he stepped in the door?

‘There’s been an accident,’ her father said. He squeezed her hand. Tears were now falling on to her fingers. ‘Mamma and Martin were in a car accident.’ She stared angrily at the bedspread. The pattern billowed before her tear-filled eyes, moving up and down, back and forth. The sound in the back of her head was getting louder. ‘It was a lorry. It was a bad crash, Agnes. They didn’t make it. They’re dead. They’re both dead.’ His voice broke and she broke and the whole world broke. At that very instant. Right there and then. She hardly remembers what happened after that. Somebody came. They drove to the hospital. White coats, worried eyes, cautious gestures. Someone took them into the room where Mamma and Martin were lying. Two metal-framed beds, next to each other. Each of them lying under a blanket. Their bodies and faces covered. Her mother and brother. They no longer existed, and yet there they lay. She remembers noticing the clock on the wall. It was seven o’clock exactly. Right now, they should have been eating dinner, the four of them sitting at the kitchen table. Just like always.

Meatballs and potatoes with gravy and lingonberries.

THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM
met for a second time late on Tuesday afternoon. They had a lot of material to share and go over. During the day, everyone had worked on the Hotel Fabriken interviews. Officers had been sent out to knock on doors, and Sohlman had returned from Furillen after spending the whole day supervising the technical examination of the crime scene.

Knutas started the meeting by giving his colleagues an update on Markus Sandberg’s condition. He had undergone surgery and was heavily sedated. So far, he was alive, but his condition was still critical. Knutas then reported on the latest developments in the case, especially what he had learned from the writer Olof Hellström in Kyllaj. The witness thought that he had seen the perpetrator with his own eyes.

‘How reliable is he?’ asked Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.

‘I see no reason to doubt what he told me,’ said Knutas.

‘But there’s no real evidence supporting his story,’ Jacobsson interjected. ‘We’ve inspected the dock where the man supposedly came ashore. There are no traces of blood, no footprints or anything else that might confirm the author’s claim.’

‘Didn’t he wait to ring the police until after he found out about what happened on Furillen? He could just be a crank,’ said Wittberg.

‘What about the boat?’ asked Norrby. ‘If he’s telling the truth, we should be able to find it.’

‘It’s still missing,’ said Knutas with a sigh. ‘Tomorrow we’re sending out a helicopter to look for it. Right now, there’s none available.’

‘Any tyre tracks?’ asked Sohlman, who hadn’t had time to get involved in the search that had been done in Kyllaj.

‘We found a lot of tracks, but it’s hard to make any sense of them. It rained overnight, you know. And people sometimes drive down there to take a walk or let their dogs run about. Things like that. We’ll have to see. So far there are no solid leads.’

‘Are there any other witnesses of interest in Kyllaj or in the vicinity?’ asked the prosecutor. ‘Besides Olof Hellström, that is.’

‘No, there are only a few permanent residents, and nobody who lives on the road saw anything unusual last night. As far as we know, at least. We haven’t been able to get hold of everyone yet.’

‘What about the axe?’ the prosecutor went on. ‘Has it been found?’ Sohlman shook his head.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘He could have thrown it into the sea, of course,’ said Jacobsson, sighing. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find it any time soon.’

‘I’m afraid you’re probably right,’ Knutas admitted. He turned to Sohlman. ‘Okay, Erik, we’d like to hear more from you. What can you tell us?’

Sohlman got up and pulled down the screen at the front of the room as he began talking.

‘First, I’d like everyone to see what it looked like inside the hermit’s cabin. I think that’s important so you’ll understand what sort of person we’re dealing with here. Or at least what his state of mind must have been when he launched the assault.’

He signalled for Jacobsson, who was sitting nearest the wall, to switch off the light. The first picture showed a modest cabin, not much bigger than an ordinary garden shed, with unpainted wooden cladding. There was one window and a door. A plain metal roof and a thin metal pipe for a chimney. In front stood a simple wooden bench. Underneath was a small, blue insulated bag.

‘Do you see that bag there?’ said Sohlman pointing. ‘Inside is a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two champagne glasses. Apparently, he was expecting a visitor. And I assume it was Jenny Levin.’

The steps leading up to the door consisted simply of two logs that had been placed upside down in the gravel. Surrounding the cabin stood bare trees with white, ghostlike branches, a few withered juniper shrubs and some dwarf pines whose boughs had been twisted by the wind. Visible a short distance away was the latrine, along with a
rauk
jutting up from the undergrowth. The photograph revealed nothing of the drama that had been played out inside the cabin.

The next picture was also devoid of drama. It showed a forged-metal plate with six hooks fastened to the wall. From the hooks hung a wooden washing-up brush, a couple of clothes hangers, a dark-blue linen hand towel and a pair of old-fashioned scissors. But, in the next picture, which was a close-up, they could see that there was blood on the hand towel and also spattered on the wall. The next photo showed the entire interior of the cabin. It was a room with dark, greyish-brown wood panelling, an unmade bed in one corner, a small table next to the window and a beautifully designed chair, which had toppled over. There was also a wood stove made of black cast iron. On the light-coloured pine floorboards lay a sheepskin rug, and next to the stove stood two brownpaper sacks containing neatly stacked wood, with sections of newspaper stuck in between. On the floor lay a shattered paraffin lamp and other pieces of glass. Several smashed cameras were strewn about. There was blood everywhere – on the wood in the sacks, on the ceiling, on the window facing the sea. On the sheepskin rug and on the floor.

‘It was a vicious assault, as you can see,’ Sohlman went on. ‘We’ve found strands of hair, crumpled balls of paper and cigarette butts that we’ve sent to the crime lab in Linköping. There are lots of fingerprints in the cabin, of course, but they could be from any number of individuals. There are footprints in the gravel outside but, unfortunately, they’re not very clear because Jenny Levin and our own officers have walked through the area. But there are a few clear prints from an old rubber boot, size seven and a half. Sandberg’s camera equipment was smashed to pieces, but his computer survived. It was stowed away inside a cupboard. His wallet was on the windowsill, untouched, with cash and credit cards inside. His mobile phone is missing but, if it’s turned on, we should be able to trace it. The weapon used by the perpetrator was most likely an axe. We haven’t found it at the scene. This was clearly a crime committed by someone in a state of intense rage.’