Kitabı oku: «The Sandman»
THE SANDMAN
LARS KEPLER
Translated from the Swedish by Neil Smith
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Lars Kepler 2012
Translation copyright © Neil Smith 2014
All rights reserved
Originally published in 2012 by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Sweden, as Sandmannen
Lars Kepler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design © Claire Ward HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photography © Henry Steadman/Arcangel Images
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780008241841
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2018 ISBN: 9780007467808
Version: 2018-02-23
International Praise for Lars Kepler:
‘A terrifying and original read’
Sun
‘A rollercoaster ride of a thriller full of striking twists’
Mail on Sunday
‘Sensational’
Lee Child
‘An international book written for an international audience’
Huffington Post
‘Ferocious, visceral storytelling that wraps you in a cloak of darkness. It’s stunning’
Daily Mail
‘One of the best – if not the best – Scandinavian crime thrillers I’ve read’
Sam Baker, Red
‘A creepy and compulsive crime thriller’
Mo Hayder
‘Intelligent, original and chilling’
Simon Beckett
‘Mesmerizing … a bad dream that takes hold and won’t let go’
Wall Street Journal
‘One of the most hair-raising crime novels published this year’
Sunday Times
‘Grips you round the throat until the final twist’
Woman & Home
‘A serious, disturbing, highly readable novel that is finally a meditation on evil’
Washington Post
‘A genuine chiller … deeply scarifying stuff’
Independent
‘Far above your average thriller … you’ll be terrified’
Evening Standard
‘A pulse-pounding debut that is already a native smash’
Financial Times
‘The cracking pace and absorbing story mean it cannot be missed’
Courier Mail
‘Utterly outstanding’
Morgenavisen Jyllands-Posten , Denmark
‘Disturbing, dark and twisted’
Easy Living
‘Creepy and addictive’
She
‘Brilliant, well written and very satisfying. A superb thriller’
De Telegraaf , Netherlands
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
International Praise for Lars Kepler
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Epilogue
Read on for an exclusive extract from the next Joona Linna thriller, Stalker
About the Author
Also by Lars Kepler
About the Publisher
It’s the middle of the night, and snow is blowing in from the sea. A young man is walking across a high railway bridge, towards Stockholm. His face is as pale as misted glass. His jeans are stiff with frozen blood. He is walking between the rails, stepping over the sleepers. Fifty metres below him the ice on the water is just visible, like a strip of cloth. A blanket of snow covers the trees and oil tanks in the harbour are barely visible; the snow is swirling in the glow from the container crane far below.
Warm blood is trickling down the man’s lower left arm, into his hand and dripping from his fingertips.
The rails start to sing and whistle as a night-train approaches the two-kilometre-long bridge.
The young man sways and sits down on the rail, then gets to his feet again and carries on walking.
The air is buffeted in front of the train, and the view is obscured by the billowing snow. The Traxx train has already reached the middle of the bridge when the driver catches sight of the man on the track. He blows his horn, and sees the figure almost fall, then it takes a long step to the left, onto the oncoming track, and grabs hold of the flimsy railing.
The man’s clothes are flapping around his body. The bridge is shaking heavily under his feet. He is standing still with his eyes wide open, his hands on the railing.
Everything is swirling snow and tumbling darkness.
His bloody hand has started to freeze as he carries on walking.
His name is Mikael Kohler-Frost. He has been missing for thirteen years, and was declared dead seven years ago.
1
Secure Criminal Psychology Unit
Löwenströmska Hospital
The steel gate closes behind the new doctor with a heavy clang. The metallic echo pushes past him and continues down the spiral staircase.
Anders Rönn feels a shiver run down his spine when everything suddenly goes quiet.
As of today, he is going to be working in the secure criminal psychology unit.
For the past thirteen years, the strictly isolated bunker has been home to the ageing Jurek Walter. He was sentenced to psychiatric care with specific probation requirements.
The young doctor doesn’t know much about his patient, except that he has been diagnosed with: ‘Schizophrenia, non-specific. Chaotic thinking. Recurrent acute psychosis, with erratic and extremely violent episodes’.
Anders Rönn shows his ID at level zero, removes his mobile and hangs the key to the gate in his locker before the guard opens the first door of the airlock. He goes in and waits for the door to close before walking over to the next door. When a signal sounds, the guard opens that one too. Anders turns round and waves before carrying on along the corridor towards the isolation ward’s staffroom.
Senior Consultant Roland Brolin is a thickset man in his fifties, with sloping shoulders and cropped hair. He is standing smoking under the extractor fan in the kitchen, leafing through an article on the pay gap between men and women in the health-workers’ magazine.
‘Jurek Walter must never be alone with any member of staff,’ the consultant says. ‘He must never meet other patients, he never has any visitors, and he’s never allowed out into the exercise yard. Nor is he …’
‘Never?’ Anders asks. ‘Surely it isn’t permitted to keep someone …’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Roland Brolin says sharply.
‘So what’s he actually done?’
‘Nothing but nice things,’ Roland says, heading towards the corridor.
Even though Jurek Walter is Sweden’s worst-ever serial killer, he is completely unknown to the public. The proceedings against him in the Central Courthouse and at the Court of Appeal in the Wrangelska Palace were held behind closed doors, and all the files are still strictly confidential.
Anders Rönn and Senior Consultant Roland Brolin pass through another security door and a young woman with tattooed arms and pierced cheeks winks at them.
‘Come back in one piece,’ she says breezily.
‘There’s no need to worry,’ Roland says to Anders in a low voice. ‘Jurek Walter is a quiet, elderly man. He doesn’t fight and he doesn’t raise his voice. Our cardinal rule is that we never go into his cell. But Leffe, who was on the night-shift last night, noticed that he had made some sort of knife that he’s got hidden under his mattress, so obviously we have to confiscate it.’
‘How do we do that?’ Anders asks.
‘We break the rules.’
‘We’re going into Jurek’s cell?’
‘You’re going in … to ask nicely for the knife.’
‘I’m going in …?’
Roland Brolin laughs loudly and explains that they’re going to pretend to give the patient his normal injection of Risperidone, but will actually be giving him an overdose of Zypadhera.
The Senior Consultant runs his card through yet another reader and taps in a code. There’s a bleep, and the lock of the security door whirrs.
‘Hang on,’ Roland says, holding out a little box of yellow earplugs.
‘You said he doesn’t shout.’
Roland smiles weakly, looks at his new colleague with weary eyes, and sighs heavily before he starts to explain.
‘Jurek Walter will talk to you, quite calmly, probably perfectly reasonably,’ he says in a grave voice. ‘But later this evening, when you’re driving home, you’ll swerve into oncoming traffic and smash into an articulated lorry … or you’ll stop off at the DIY store to buy an axe before you pick the kids up from preschool.’
‘Should I be scared now?’ Anders smiles.
‘No, but hopefully careful,’ Roland says.
Anders doesn’t usually have much luck, but when he read the advert in the Doctors’ Journal for a full-time, temporary but long-term position in the secure unit of the Löwenströmska Hospital, his heart had started to beat faster.
It’s only a twenty-minute drive from home, and it could well lead to a permanent appointment.
Since working as an intern at Skaraborg Hospital and in a health centre in Huddinge, he has had to get by on temporary contracts at the regional clinic of Sankt Sigfrid’s Hospital.
The long drives to Växjö and the irregular hours proved impossible to combine with Petra’s job in the council’s recreational administration and Agnes’s autism.
Only two weeks ago Anders and Petra had been sitting at the kitchen table trying to work out what on earth they were going to do.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ he had said, perfectly calmly.
‘But what alternative do we have?’ she had whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ Anders had replied, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Agnes’s teaching assistant at her preschool had told them that Agnes had had a difficult day. She had refused to let go of her milk-glass, and the other children had laughed. She hadn’t been able to accept that break-time was over, because Anders hadn’t come to pick her up like he usually did. He had driven straight back from Växjö, but hadn’t reached the preschool until six o’clock. Agnes was still sitting in the dining room with her hands round the glass.
When they got home, Agnes had stood in her room, staring at the wall beside the doll’s house, clapping her hands in that introverted way she had. They don’t know what she can see there, but she says that grey sticks keep appearing, and she has to count them, and stop them. She does that when she’s feeling particularly anxious. Sometimes ten minutes is enough, but that evening she had to stand there for more than four hours before they could get her into bed.
2
The last security door closes and they head down the corridor to the only one of the isolation cells that is being used. The fluorescent light in the ceiling reflects off the vinyl floor. The textured wallpaper has a groove worn into it from the food trolley, one metre up from the floor.
The Senior Consultant puts his pass card away and lets Anders walk ahead of him towards the heavy metal door.
Through the reinforced glass Anders can see a thin man sitting on a plastic chair. He is dressed in blue jeans and a denim shirt. The man is clean-shaven and his eyes seem remarkably calm. The many wrinkles covering his pale face look like the cracked clay at the bottom of a dried-up riverbed.
Jurek Walter was only found guilty of two murders and one attempted murder, but there’s compelling evidence linking him to a further nineteen murders.
Thirteen years ago he was caught red-handed in Lill-Jan’s Forest on Djurgården in Stockholm, forcing a fifty-year-old woman back into a coffin in the ground. She had been kept in the coffin for almost two years, but was still alive. The woman had sustained terrible injuries, she was malnourished, her muscles had withered away, she had appalling pressure sores and frostbite, and had suffered severe brain damage. If the police hadn’t followed and arrested Jurek Walter beside the coffin, he would probably never have been stopped.
Now the consultant takes out three small glass bottles containing yellow powder, puts some water into each of the bottles, shakes them carefully, then draws the contents into a syringe.
He puts his earplugs in, then opens the small hatch in the door. There’s a clatter of metal and a heavy smell of concrete and dust hits them.
In a dispassionate voice the Senior Consultant tells Jurek Walter that it’s time for his injection.
The man lifts his chin and gets up softly from the chair, turns to look at the hatch in the door and unbuttons his shirt as he approaches.
‘Stop and take your shirt off,’ Roland Brolin says.
Jurek Walter carries on walking slowly forward and Roland quickly closes and bolts the hatch. Jurek stops, undoes the last buttons and lets his shirt fall to the floor.
His body looks as if it was once in good shape, but now his muscles are loose and his wrinkled skin is sagging.
Roland opens the hatch again. Jurek Walter walks the last little bit and holds out his sinewy arm, mottled with hundreds of different pigments.
Anders washes his upper arm with surgical spirit. Roland pushes the syringe into the soft muscle and injects the liquid far too quickly. Jurek’s hand jerks in surprise, but he doesn’t pull his arm back until he’s given permission. The Senior Consultant closes and hurriedly bolts the hatch, removes his earplugs, smiles nervously to himself and then looks inside.
Jurek Walter is stumbling towards the bed, where he stops and sits down.
Suddenly he turns to look at the door and Roland drops the syringe.
He tries to catch it but it rolls away across the floor.
Anders steps forward and picks up the syringe, and when they both stand and turn back towards the hatch they see that the inside of the reinforced glass is misted. Jurek has breathed on the glass and written ‘JOONA’ with his finger.
‘What does it say?’ Anders asks weakly.
‘He’s written Joona.’
‘Joona?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
The condensation clears and they see that Jurek Walter is sitting as if he hadn’t moved. He looks at the arm where he got the injection, massages the muscle, then looks at them through the glass.
‘It didn’t say anything else?’ Anders asks.
‘I only saw …’
There’s a bestial roar from the other side of the heavy door. Jurek Walter has slid off the bed and is on his knees, screaming as hard as he can. The sinews in his neck are taut, his veins swollen.
‘How much did you actually give him?’ Anders asks.
Jurek Walter’s eyes roll back and turn white, he reaches out a hand to support himself, stretches one leg but topples over backwards, hitting his head on the bedside table, then he screams and his body starts to jerk spasmodically.
‘Bloody hell,’ Anders whispers.
Jurek slips onto the floor, his legs kicking uncontrollably. He bites his tongue and blood sprays out over his chest, then he lies there on his back, gasping.
‘What do we do if he dies?’
‘Cremate him,’ Brolin says.
Jurek is cramping again, his whole body shaking, and his hands flail in every direction until they suddenly stop.
Brolin looks at his watch. Sweat is running down his cheeks.
Jurek Walter whimpers, rolls onto his side and tries to get up, but fails.
‘You can go inside in two minutes,’ the Senior Consultant says.
‘Am I really going in there?’
‘He’ll soon be completely harmless.’
Jurek is crawling on all fours, bloody slime drooling from his mouth. He sways and slows down until he finally slumps to the floor and lies still.
3
Anders looks through the thick reinforced glass window in the door. Jurek Walter has been lying motionless on the floor for the last ten minutes. His body is limp in the wake of his cramps.
The Senior Consultant pulls out a key and puts it in the lock, then pauses and peers in through the window before unlocking the door.
‘Have fun,’ he says.
‘What do we do if he wakes up?’ Anders asks.
‘He mustn’t wake up.’
Brolin opens the door and Anders goes inside. The door closes behind him and the lock rattles. The isolation room smells of sweat, but of something else as well. A sharp smell of acetic acid. Jurek Walter is lying completely still, with just the slow pattern of his breathing visible across his back.
Anders keeps his distance from him even though he knows he’s fast asleep.
The acoustics in there are odd, intrusive, as if sounds follow movements too quickly.
His doctor’s coat rustles softly with each step.
Jurek is breathing faster.
The tap is dripping in the basin.
Anders reaches the bed, then turns towards Jurek and kneels down.
He catches a glimpse of the Senior Consultant watching him anxiously through the reinforced glass as he leans over and tries to look under the fixed bed.
Nothing on the floor.
He moves closer, looking carefully at Jurek before lying flat on the floor.
He can’t watch Jurek any longer. He has to turn his back on him to look for the knife.
Not much light reaches under the bed. There are dustballs nestled against the wall.
He can’t help imagining that Jurek Walter has opened his eyes.
There’s something tucked between the wooden slats and the mattress. It’s hard to see what it is.
Anders stretches out his hand, but can’t reach it. He’ll have to slide beneath the bed on his back. The space is so tight he can’t turn his head. He slips further in. Feels the unyielding bulk of the bed-frame against his ribcage with each breath. His fingers fumble. He needs to get a bit closer. His knee hits one of the wooden slats. He blows a dustball away from his face and carries on.
Suddenly he hears a dull thud behind him in the isolation cell. He can’t turn round and look. He just lies there still, listening. His own breathing is so rapid he has trouble discerning any other sound.
Cautiously he reaches out his hand and touches the object with his fingertips, squeezing in a bit further in order to pull it free.
Jurek has made a short knife with a very sharp blade fashioned from a piece of steel skirting.
‘Hurry up,’ the Senior Consultant calls through the hatch.
Anders tries to get out, pushing hard, and scratches his cheek.
Suddenly he can’t move, he’s stuck, his coat is caught and there’s no way he can wriggle out of it.
He imagines he can hear the sound of shuffling from Jurek.
Perhaps it was nothing.
Anders pulls as hard as he can. The seams strain but don’t tear. He realises that he’s going to have to slide back under the bed to free his coat.
‘What are you doing?’ Roland Brolin calls in a brittle voice.
The little hatch in the door clatters as it is bolted shut again.
Anders sees that one pocket of his coat has caught on a loose strut. He quickly pulls it free, holds his breath and pushes himself out again. He is filled with a rising sense of panic. He scrapes his stomach and knee, but grabs the edge of the bed with one hand and pulls himself out.
Panting, he turns round and gets unsteadily to his feet with the knife in his hand.
Jurek is lying on his side, one eye half-open in sleep, staring blindly.
Anders hurries over to the door and meets the Senior Consultant’s anxious gaze through the reinforced glass and tries to smile, but stress cuts through his voice as he says:
‘Open the door.’
Roland Brolin opens the hatch instead.
‘Pass the knife out first.’
Anders gives him a quizzical look, then hands the knife over.
‘You found something else as well,’ Roland Brolin says.
‘No,’ Anders replies, glancing at Jurek.
‘A letter.’
‘There wasn’t anything else.’
Jurek is starting to writhe on the floor, and is gasping weakly.
‘Check his pockets,’ the Senior Consultant says with a stressed smile.
‘What for?’
‘Because this is a search.’
Anders turns and walks cautiously to Jurek Walter. His eyes are completely shut again, but beads of sweat are starting to appear on his furrowed face.
Reluctantly Anders leans over and feels inside one of his pockets. The denim shirt pulls tighter across Jurek’s shoulders and he lets out a low groan.
There’s a plastic comb in the back pocket of his jeans. With trembling hands Anders checks the rest of his tight pockets.
Sweat is dripping from the tip of his nose. He has to keep blinking hard.
One of Jurek’s big hands opens and closes several times.
There’s nothing else in his pockets.
Anders turns back towards the reinforced glass and shakes his head. It’s impossible to see if Brolin is standing outside the door. The reflection of the lamp in the ceiling is shining like a grey sun in the glass.
He has to get out now.
It’s taken too long.
Anders gets to his feet and hurries over to the door. The Senior Consultant isn’t there. Anders peers closer to the glass, but can’t see anything.
Jurek Walter is breathing fast, like a child having a nightmare.
Anders bangs on the door. His hands thud almost soundlessly against the thick metal. He bangs again. There’s no sound, nothing is happening. He taps on the glass with his wedding ring, then sees a shadow growing across the wall.
His shiver runs up his back and down his arms. With his heart pounding and adrenalin rising through his body, he turns round. He sees Jurek Walter slowly sitting up. His face is slack and his pale eyes are staring straight ahead. His mouth is still bleeding and his lips look weirdly red.
4
Anders is shouting and pounding at the heavy steel door, but the Senior Consultant still isn’t opening it. His pulse is thudding in his head as he turns to face their patient. Jurek Walter is still sitting on the floor, and blinks at him a few times before he starts to get up.
‘It’s a lie,’ Jurek says, dribbling blood down his chin. ‘They say I’m a monster, but I’m just a human being …’
He doesn’t have the energy to stand up and slumps back, panting, onto the floor.
‘A human being,’ he repeats.
With a weary gesture he puts one hand inside his shirt, pulls out a folded piece of paper and tosses it over towards Anders.
‘The letter he was asking for,’ he says. ‘For the past seven years I’ve been asking to see a lawyer … Not because I’ve got any hope of getting out … I am who I am, but I’m still a human being …’
Anders crouches down and reaches for the piece of paper without taking his eyes off Jurek. The crumpled man tries to get up again, leaning on his hands, and although he sways slightly he manages to put one foot down on the floor.
Anders picks up the paper from the floor, and finally hears a rattling sound as the key is inserted into the lock of the door. He turns and stares out through the reinforced glass, feeling his legs tremble beneath him.
‘You shouldn’t have given me an overdose,’ Jurek mutters.
Anders doesn’t turn round, but he knows that Jurek Walter is standing up, staring at him.
The reinforced glass in the door is like a screen of grainy ice. He can’t see who’s standing on the other side turning the key in the lock.
‘Open, open,’ he whispers as he hears breathing behind his back.
The door slides open and Anders stumbles out of the isolation cell. He stumbles straight into the concrete wall of the corridor and hears the heavy clang as the door shuts, then the rattles as the powerful lock responds to the turn of the key.
Panting, he leans back against the cool wall. Only then does he see that it wasn’t the Senior Consultant who rescued him but the young woman with the pierced cheeks.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she says. ‘Roland must have lost it completely, he’s always incredibly careful about security.’
‘I’ll talk to him …’
‘Maybe he got ill … I think he’s diabetic.’
Anders wipes his clammy hands on his doctor’s coat and looks up at her again.
‘Thank you for letting me out,’ he says.
‘I’d do anything for you,’ she jokes.
He tries to give her his carefree, boyish smile, but his legs are shaking as he follows her out through the security door. She stops in the control room, then turns back towards him.
‘There’s only one problem with working down here,’ she says. ‘It’s so damn quiet that you have to eat loads of sweets just to stay awake.’
‘That sounds OK.’
On a monitor he can see Jurek sitting on his bed with his head in his hands. The dayroom with its television and running machine is empty.
5
Anders Rönn spends the rest of the day concentrating on familiarising himself with the new routines, with a doctor’s round up on Ward 30, individual treatment plans and discharge tests, but his mind keeps going back to the letter in his pocket and what Jurek had said.
At ten past five Anders leaves the criminal psychology ward and emerges into the cool air. Beyond the illuminated hospital precinct the winter darkness has settled.
Anders warms his hands in his jacket pockets, and hurries across the pavement towards the large car park in front of the main entrance to the hospital.
It was full of cars when he arrived, but now it’s almost empty.
He screws up his eyes and realises that there’s someone standing behind his car.
‘Hello!’ Anders calls, walking faster.
The man turns round, rubs his hand over his mouth and moves away from the car. Senior Consultant Roland Brolin.
Anders slows down as he approaches the car and pulls his key from his pocket.
‘You’re expecting an apology,’ Brolin says with a forced smile.
‘I’d prefer not to have to speak to hospital management about what happened,’ Anders says.
Brolin looks him in the eye, then holds out his left hand, palm up.
‘Give me the letter,’ he says calmly.
‘What letter?’
‘The letter Jurek wanted you to find,’ he replies. ‘A note, a sheet of newspaper, a piece of cardboard.’
‘I found the knife that was supposed to be there.’
‘That was the bait,’ Brolin says. ‘You don’t think he’d put himself through all that pain for nothing?’
Anders looks at the Senior Consultant as he wipes sweat from his upper lip with one hand.
‘What do we do if the patient wants to see a lawyer?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ Brolin whispers.
‘Has he ever asked you that?’
‘I don’t know, I wouldn’t have heard, I always wear earplugs.’ Brolin smiles.
‘But I don’t understand why …’
‘You need this job,’ the Senior Consultant interrupts. ‘I’ve heard that you were bottom of your class, you’re in debt, you’ve got no experience and no references.’
‘Are you finished?’
‘You should give me the letter,’ Brolin replies, clenching his jaw.
‘I didn’t find a letter.’
Brolin looks him in the eye for a moment.
‘If you ever find a letter,’ he says, ‘you’re to give it to me without reading it.’
‘I understand,’ Anders says, unlocking the car door.
It seems to Anders as if the Senior Consultant looks slightly more relaxed as he gets in the car, shuts the door and starts the engine. When Brolin taps on the window he ignores him, puts the car in gear and pulls away. In the rear-view mirror Brolin stands and watches the car without smiling.
6
When Anders gets home he quickly shuts the front door behind him, locks it and puts the safety chain on.
His heart is beating hard in his chest – for some reason he ran from the car to the house.
From Agnes’s room he can hear Petra’s soothing voice. Anders smiles to himself. She’s already reading Seacrow Island to their daughter. It’s usually much later before the bedtime rituals have reached the story. It must have been a good day again today. Anders’s new job has meant that Petra has risked cutting her own hours.
There’s a damp patch on the hall rug around Agnes’s muddy winter boots. Her woolly hat and snood are on the floor in front of the bureau. Anders goes in and puts the bottle of champagne on the kitchen table, then stands and stares out at the garden.
He’s thinking about Jurek Walter’s letter, and no longer knows what to do.
The branches of the big lilac are scratching at the window. He looks at the dark glass and sees his own kitchen reflected back at him. As he listens to the squeaking branches, it occurs to him that he ought to go and get the shears from the storeroom.
‘Just wait a minute,’ he hears Petra say. ‘I’ll read to the end first …’
Anders creeps into Agnes’s room. The princess-lamp in the ceiling is on. Petra looks up from the book and meets his gaze. She’s got her light brown hair pulled up into a ponytail and is wearing her usual heart-shaped earrings. Agnes is sitting in her lap and saying repeatedly that it’s gone wrong and they have to start the bit about the dog again.
Anders goes in and crouches down in front of them.
‘Hello, darling,’ he says.
Agnes glances at him quickly, then looks away. He pats her on the head, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, then gets up.
‘There’s food left if you want to heat it up,’ Petra says. ‘I just have to reread this chapter before I can come and see you.’
‘It all went wrong with the dog,’ Agnes repeats, staring at the floor.
Anders goes into the kitchen, gets the plate of food from the fridge and puts it down on the worktop next to the microwave.
Slowly he pulls the letter out of the back pocket of his jeans and thinks of how Jurek repeated that he was a human being.
In tiny, cursive handwriting, Jurek had written a few faint sentences on the thin paper. In the top right corner the letter is addressed to a legal firm in Tensta, and simply constitutes a formal request. Jurek Walter asks for legal assistance to understand the meaning of his being sentenced to secure psychiatric care. He needs to have his rights clarified, and would like to know what possibility there is of getting the verdict reconsidered in the future.
Anders can’t put a finger on why he suddenly feels unsettled, but there’s something strange about the tone of the letter and the precise choice of wording, combined with the almost dyslexic spelling mistakes.
Thoughts about Jurek’s words are chasing round his head as he walks into his study and takes out an envelope. He copies the address, puts the letter in the envelope, and sticks a stamp on it.
He leaves the house and heads off into the chill darkness, across the grass towards the letter-box up by the roundabout. Once he’s posted the letter he stands and just watches the cars passing on Sandavägen for a while before walking back home.
The wind is making the frosted grass ripple like water. A hare races off towards the old gardens.
He opens the gate and looks up into the kitchen window. The whole house resembles a doll’s house. Everything is lit up and open to view. He can see straight into the corridor, to the blue painting that has always hung there.
The door to their bedroom is open. The vacuum cleaner is in the middle of the floor. The cable is still plugged into the socket in the wall.
Suddenly Anders sees a movement. He gasps with surprise. There’s someone in the bedroom. Standing next to their bed.
Anders is about to rush inside when he realises that the person is actually standing in the garden at the back of the house.
He’s simply visible through the bedroom window.
Anders runs down the paved path, past the sundial and round the corner.
The man must have heard him coming, because he’s already running away. Anders can hear him forcing his way through the lilac hedge. He runs after him, holding the branches back, trying to see anything, but it’s far too dark.
7
Mikael stands up in the darkness when the Sandman blows his terrible dust into the room. He’s learned that there’s no point holding your breath. Because when the Sandman wants the children to sleep, they fall asleep.
He knows full well that his eyes will soon feel tired, so tired that he can’t keep them open. He knows he’ll have to lie down on the mattress and become part of the darkness.
Mum used to talk about the Sandman’s daughter, the mechanical girl, Olympia. She creeps in to the children once they’re asleep and pulls the covers up over their shoulders so they don’t freeze.
Mikael leans against the wall, feels the furrows in the concrete.
The thin sand floats like fog. It’s hard to breathe. His lungs struggle to keep his blood oxygenated.
He coughs and licks his lips. They’re dry and already feel numb.
His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier.
Now the whole family is swinging in the hammock. The summer light shines through the leaves of the lilac bower. The rusty screws creak.
Mikael is smiling broadly.
We’re swinging high and Mum’s trying to slow us down, but Dad keeps us going. A jolt to the table in front of us makes the glasses of strawberry juice tremble.
The hammock swings backwards and Dad laughs and holds up his hands like he was on a rollercoaster.
Mikael’s head nods and he opens his eyes in the darkness, stumbles to the side and leans his hand against the cool wall. He turns towards the mattress, thinking that he should lie down before he passes out, when his knees suddenly give way.
He falls and hits the floor, trapping his arm beneath him, feeling the pain from his wrist and shoulder in the sleep to which he has already succumbed.
He rolls heavily onto his stomach and tries to crawl, but doesn’t have the energy. He lies there panting with his cheek against the concrete floor. He tries to say something, but has no voice left.
His eyes close even though he’s trying to resist.
Just as he is slipping into oblivion he hears the Sandman pad into the room, creeping on his dusty feet straight up the walls to the ceiling. He stops and reaches down with his arms, trying to catch Mikael with his porcelain fingertips.
Everything is black.
When Mikael wakes up his mouth is dry and his head aches. His eyes are grimy with old sand. He’s so tired that his brain tries to go back to sleep, but a little sliver of his consciousness registers that something is very different.
Adrenalin hits him like a gust of hot air.
He sits up in the darkness and can hear from the acoustics that he’s in a different room, a larger room.
He’s no longer in the capsule.
Loneliness makes him ice-cold.
He creeps cautiously across the floor and reaches a wall. His mind is racing. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he gave up any thought of escape.
His body is still heavy from its long sleep. He gets up on shaky legs and follows the wall to a corner, then carries on and reaches a sheet of metal. He quickly feels along its edges and realises that it’s a door, then runs his hands over its surface and finds a handle.
His hands are shaking.
The room is completely silent.
Carefully he pushes the handle down, and is so prepared to meet resistance that he almost falls over when the door simply opens.
He takes a long stride into the brighter room and has to shut his eyes for a while.
It feels like a dream.
Just let me get out, he thinks.
His head is throbbing.
He squints and sees that he is in a corridor, and moves forward on weak legs. His heart is beating so fast he can hardly breathe.
He’s trying to be quiet, but is still whimpering to himself with fear.
The Sandman will soon be back – he never forgets any children.
Mikael can’t open his eyes properly, but nonetheless heads towards the fuzzy glow ahead of him.
Maybe it’s a trap, he thinks. Maybe he’s being lured like an insect towards a burning light.
But he keeps on walking, running his hand along the wall for support.
He knocks into some big rolls of insulation and gasps with fear, lurches to the side and hits the other wall with his shoulder, but manages to keep his balance.
He stops and coughs as quietly as he can.
The glow in front of him is coming from a pane of glass in a door.
He stumbles towards it and pushes the handle down, but the door is locked.
No, no, no …
He tugs at the handle, shoves the door, tries again. The door is definitely locked. He feels like slumping to the floor in despair. Suddenly he hears soft footsteps behind him, but daren’t turn round.
8
Reidar Frost drains his wine glass, puts it down on the dining table and closes his eyes for a while to calm himself. One of the guests is clapping. Veronica is standing in her blue dress, facing the corner with her hands over her face, and she starts to count.
The guests vanish in different directions, and footsteps and laughter spread through the many rooms of the manor house.
The rule is that they have to stick to the ground floor, but Reidar gets slowly to his feet, goes over to the hidden door and creeps into the service passageway. Carefully he climbs the narrow backstairs, opens the secret door in the wall and emerges into the private part of the house.
He knows he shouldn’t be alone there, but carries on through the sequence of rooms.
At every stage he closes the doors behind him, until he reaches the gallery at the far end.
Along one wall stand the boxes containing the children’s clothes and toys. One box is open, revealing a pale-green space gun.
He hears Veronica call out, muffled by the floor and walls:
‘One hundred! Coming, ready or not!’
Through the windows he looks out over the fields and paddocks. In the distance he can see the birch avenue that leads to Råcksta Manor.
Reidar pulls an armchair across the floor and hangs his jacket on it. He can feel how drunk he is as he climbs up onto the seat. The back of his white shirt is wet with sweat. With a forceful gesture he tosses the rope over the beam in the roof. The chair beneath him creaks from the movement. The heavy rope falls across the beam and the end is left swinging.
Dust drifts through the air.
The padded seat feels oddly soft beneath the thin soles of his shoes.
Muted laughter and cries can be heard from the party below and for a few moments Reidar closes his eyes and thinks of the children, their little faces, wonderful faces, their shoulders and thin arms.
He can hear their high-pitched voices and quick feet running across the floor whenever he listens – the memory is like a summer breeze in his soul, leaving him cold and desolate again.
Happy birthday, Mikael, he thinks.
His hands are shaking so much that he can’t tie a noose. He stands still, tries to breathe more calmly, then starts again, just as he hears a knock on one of the doors.
He waits a few seconds, then lets go of the rope, climbs down onto the floor and picks up his jacket.
‘Reidar?’ a woman’s voice calls softly.
It’s Veronica, she must have been peeking while she was counting and saw him disappear into the passageway. She’s opening the doors to the various rooms and her voice gets clearer the closer she comes.
Reidar turns the lights off and leaves the nursery, opening the door to the next room and stopping there.
Veronica comes towards him with a glass of champagne in her hand. There is a warm glow in her dark, intoxicated eyes.
She’s tall and thin, and has had her black hair cut in a boyish style that suits her.
‘Did I say I wanted to sleep with you?’ he asks.
She spins round slightly unsteadily.
‘Funny,’ she says with a sad look in her eyes.
Veronica Klimt is Reidar’s literary agent. He may not have written a word in the past thirteen years, but the three books he wrote before that are still generating an income.
Now they can hear music from the dining room below, the rapid bass-line transmitting itself through the fabric of the building. Reidar stops at the sofa and runs his hand through his silvery hair.
‘You’re saving some champagne for me, I hope?’ he asks, sitting down on the sofa.
‘No,’ Veronica says, passing him her half-full glass.
‘Your husband called me,’ Reidar says. ‘He thinks it’s time for you to go home.’
‘I don’t want to, I want to get divorced and—’
‘You mustn’t,’ he interrupts.
‘Why do you say things like that?’
‘Because I don’t want you to think I care about you,’ he replies.
‘I don’t.’
He empties the glass, then puts it down on the sofa, closes his eyes and feels the giddiness of being drunk.
‘You looked sad, and I got a bit worried.’
‘I’ve never felt better.’
There’s laughter now, and the club music is turned up until the vibrations can be felt through the floor.
‘Your guests are probably starting to wonder where you are.’
‘Then let’s go and turn the place upside down,’ he says with a smile.
For the past seven years Reidar has made sure he has people around him almost twenty-four hours a day. He has a vast circle of acquaintances. Sometimes he holds big parties out at the house, sometimes more intimate dinners. On certain days, like the children’s birthdays, it’s very hard indeed to go on living. He knows that without people around him he would soon succumb to the loneliness and silence.
9
Reidar and Veronica open the doors to the dining room and the throbbing music hits them in the chest. There’s a crowd of people dancing round the table in the darkness. Some of them are still eating the saddle of venison and roasted vegetables.
The actor Wille Strandberg has unbuttoned his shirt. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying as he dances his way through the crowd towards Reidar and Veronica.
‘Take it off!’ Veronica cries.
Wille laughs and pulls off his shirt, throws it at her and dances in front of her with his hands behind his neck. His bulging, middle-aged stomach bounces in time to his quick movements.
Reidar empties another glass of wine, then dances up to Wille with his hips rolling.
The music goes into a quieter, gentler phase and Reidar’s old publisher David Sylwan takes hold of his arm and gasps something, his face sweaty and happy.
‘What?’
‘There’s been no contest today,’ David repeats.
‘Stud poker?’ Reidar asks. ‘Shooting, wrestling …’
‘Shooting!’ several people cry.
‘Get the pistol and a few bottles of champagne,’ Reidar says with a smile.
The thudding beat returns, drowning out any further conversation. Reidar gets an oil painting down from the wall and carries it out through the door. It’s a portrait of him, painted by Peter Dahl.
‘I like that picture,’ Veronica says, trying to stop him.
Reidar shakes her hand from his arm and carries on towards the hall. Almost all of the guests follow him outside into the ice-cold park. Fresh snow has settled smoothly on the ground. There are still flakes swirling round beneath the dark sky.
Reidar strides through the snow and hangs the portrait on an apple tree, its branches laden with snow. Wille Strandberg follows, carrying a flare he found in a box in the cleaning cupboard. He tears the plastic cover off, then pulls the string. There’s a pop and the flare starts to burn, giving off an intense light. Laughing, he stumbles over and puts the flare in the snow beneath the tree. The white light makes the trunk and naked branches glow.
Now they can all see the painting of Reidar holding a silvery pen in his hand.
Berzelius, a translator, has brought three bottles of champagne, and David Sylwan holds up Reidar’s old Colt with a grin.
‘This isn’t funny,’ Veronica says in a serious voice.
David goes and stands next to Reidar, the Colt in his hand. He feeds six bullets into the barrel, then spins the cylinder.
Wille Strandberg is still shirtless, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t feel the cold.
‘If you win, you can choose a horse from the stables,’ Reidar mumbles, taking the revolver from David.
‘Please, be careful,’ Veronica says.
Reidar moves aside, raises his arm and fires, but hits nothing, the blast echoing between the buildings.
A few guests applaud politely, as if he were playing golf.
‘My turn,’ David laughs.
Veronica stands in the snow, shivering. Her feet are burning with cold in her thin sandals.
‘I like that portrait,’ she says again.
‘Me too,’ Reidar says, firing another shot.
The bullet hits the top corner of the canvas, there’s a puff of dust as the gold frame gets dislodged and hangs askew.
David pulls the revolver from his hand with a chuckle, stumbles and falls, and fires a shot up at the sky, then another as he tries to stand up.
A couple of guests clap, and others laugh and raise their glasses in a toast.
Reidar takes the revolver back and brushes the snow off it.
‘It’s all down to the last shot,’ he says.
Veronica goes over and kisses him on the lips.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been happier.’
Veronica looks at him and brushes the hair from his forehead. The group on the stone steps whistles and laughs.
‘I found a better target,’ cries a red-haired woman whose name he can’t remember.
She’s dragging a huge doll through the snow. Suddenly she loses her grip of the doll and falls to her knees, then gets back on her feet again. Her leopard-skin-print dress is flecked with damp.
‘I saw it yesterday, it was under a dirty tarpaulin in the garage,’ she exclaims jubilantly.
Berzelius hurries over to help her carry it. The doll is solid plastic, and has been painted to look like Spiderman. It’s as tall as Berzelius.
‘Well done, Marie!’ David cries.
‘Shoot Spiderman,’ one of the women behind them calls.
Reidar looks up, sees the big doll, and lets the gun fall to the snow.
‘I have to sleep,’ he says abruptly.
He pushes aside the glass of champagne Wille is holding out to him and walks back to the house on unsteady legs.
10
Veronica goes with Marie as she searches the house for Reidar. They walk through rooms and halls. His jacket is lying on the stairs to the first floor and they go up. It’s dark, but they can see flickering firelight further off. In a large room they find Reidar sitting on a sofa in front of the fireplace. His cufflinks are gone and his sleeves are dangling over his hands. On the low bookcase beside him there are four bottles of Château Cheval Blanc.
‘I just wanted to say sorry,’ Marie says, leaning against the door.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Reidar mutters, still gazing into the fire.
‘It was stupid of me to drag the doll out without asking first,’ Marie goes on.
‘As far as I’m concerned, you can burn all the old shit,’ he replies.
Veronica goes over to him, kneels down and looks up at his face with a smile.
‘Have you been introduced to Marie?’ she asks. ‘She’s David’s friend … I think.’
Reidar raises his glass towards the red-haired woman, then takes a big gulp. Veronica takes the glass from him, tastes the wine, and sits down.
She pushes her shoes off, leans back and rests her bare feet in his lap.
Gently he caresses her calf, the bruise from the new stirrup leather of her saddle, then up the inside of her thigh towards her groin. She lets it happen, not bothered by the fact that Marie is still in the room.
The flames are rising high in the huge fireplace. The heat is pulsating and her face feels so hot it’s almost burning.
Marie comes cautiously closer. Reidar looks at her. Her red hair has started to curl in the heat of the room. Her leopard-skin dress is creased and stained.
‘An admirer,’ Veronica says, holding the glass away from Reidar when he tries to reach it.
‘I love your books,’ Marie says.
‘Which books?’ he asks brusquely.
He gets up and fetches a fresh glass from the dresser and pours some wine. Marie misunderstands the gesture and holds out her hand to take it.
‘I presume you go to the toilet yourself when you want to have a piss,’ Reidar says, drinking the wine.
‘There’s no need—’
‘If you want wine, then drink some fucking wine,’ he interrupts in a loud voice.
Marie blushes and takes a deep breath. With her hand trembling she takes the bottle and pours herself a glass. Reidar sighs deeply, then says in a gentler tone of voice:
‘I think this vintage is one of the better years.’
Taking the bottle with him, he goes back to his seat.
Smiling, he watches as Marie sits down beside him, swirls the wine in her glass and tastes it.
Reidar laughs and refills her glass, looks her in the eye, then turns serious and kisses her on the lips.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
Reidar kisses Marie softly again. She moves her head away, but can’t help smiling. She drinks some wine, looks him in the eye, then leans over and kisses him.
He strokes the nape of her neck, under her hair, then moves his hand over her right shoulder and feels how the narrow strap of her dress has sunk into her skin.
She puts her glass down, kisses him again, and thinks that she’s mad as she lets him caress one of her breasts.
Reidar suppresses the urge to burst into tears, making his throat hurt, as he strokes her thigh under her dress, feeling her nicotine patch, and moves his hand round to her backside.
Marie pats his hand away when he tries to pull her underwear down, then stands up and wipes her mouth.
‘Maybe we should go back down and join the party again,’ she says, trying to sound neutral.
‘Yes,’ he says.
Veronica is sitting motionless on the sofa and doesn’t meet her enquiring gaze.
‘Are you both coming?’
Reidar shakes his head.
‘OK,’ Marie whispers and walks towards the door.
Her dress shimmers as she leaves the room. Reidar stares through the open doorway. The darkness looks like dirty velvet.
Veronica gets up and takes her glass from the table, and drinks. She has sweat patches under the arms of her dress.
‘You’re a bastard,’ she says.
‘I’m just trying to get the most out of life,’ he says quietly.
He catches her hand and presses it to his cheek, holding it there and looking into her sorrowful eyes.
11
The fire has gone out and the room is freezing cold when Reidar wakes up on the sofa. His eyes are stinging, and he thinks about his wife’s story about the Sandman. The man who throws sand in children’s eyes so that they fall asleep and sleep right through the night.
‘Shit,’ Reidar whispers, and sits up.
He’s naked, and has spilled wine over the leather upholstery. In the distance is the sound of an aeroplane. The morning light hits the dusty windows.
Reidar gets to his feet and sees Veronica lying curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace. She’s wrapped herself in the tablecloth. Somewhere in the forest a deer is calling. The party downstairs is still going on, but is more subdued now. Reidar grabs the half-full bottle of wine and leaves the room unsteadily. A headache is throbbing inside his skull as he starts to climb the creaking oak stairs to his bedroom. He stops on the landing, sighs, and goes back down again. Carefully he picks Veronica up and lays her on the sofa, covers her, then retrieves her glasses from the floor and puts them on the table.
Reidar Frost is sixty-two years old and the author of three international bestsellers, the so-called Sanctum series.
He moved from his house in Tyresö eight years ago, when he bought Råcksta Manor, outside Norrtälje. Two hundred hectares of forest, fields, stables and a fine paddock where he occasionally trains his five horses. Thirteen years ago Reidar Frost ended up alone in a way that shouldn’t happen to anyone. His son and daughter vanished without trace one night after they sneaked out to meet a friend. Mikael and Felicia’s bicycles were found on a footpath near Badholmen. Apart from one detective with a Finnish accent, everyone thought the children had been playing too close to the water and had drowned in Erstaviken.
The police stopped looking, even though no bodies were ever found. Reidar’s wife Roseanna couldn’t deal with him and her own loss. She moved in temporarily with her sister, asked for a divorce and used the money from the settlement to move abroad. A couple of months later she was found in her bath in a Paris hotel. She’d committed suicide. On the floor was a drawing Felicia had given her on Mother’s Day.
The children have been declared dead. Their names are engraved on a headstone that Reidar rarely visits. The same day they were declared dead, he invited his friends to a party, and ever since has taken care to keep going, the way you would keep a fire alight.
Reidar Frost is convinced he’s going to drink himself to death, but at the same time he knows he’d kill himself if he was left alone.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
