Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness

An older daughter is out there somewhere, in extreme danger, if Joona Linna is right.

The telephone on the bedside table begins to ring.

Erik gets up, but instead of answering he opens the curtains and peers across at the façade of the building opposite, trying to gather his thoughts. The dust glazing the windowpanes is clearly visible in the morning sunshine.

Simone has already left for the gallery. He doesn’t understand her outburst, why she was talking about Daniella. He wonders if it’s about something else altogether: the drugs, maybe. He knows he’s very close to a serious dependency on them, but he has to sleep. All the night shifts at the hospital have ruined his ability to sleep naturally. Without pills he would go under, he thinks. He reaches for the alarm clock but manages to knock it on the floor instead.

The telephone stops, but is silent for only a little while before it starts ringing again.

He considers going into Benjamin’s room and lying down beside his son, waking him gently, asking if he’s been dreaming about anything. He picks up the telephone and answers.

“Hi, it’s Daniella Richards.”

“Are you still at the hospital? It’s quarter past eight.”

“I know. I’m exhausted.”

“Go home.”

“No chance,” says Daniella calmly. “You have to come back. That detective is on his way. He seems even more convinced that the perpetrator is after the older sister. He says he has to talk to the boy.”

Erik feels a sudden dark weight behind his eyes. “That’s a bad idea, given his condition.”

“I know. But what about the sister?” she interrupts him. “I’m considering giving the detective the go-ahead to question Josef.”

“It’s your patient. If you think he can cope with it,” says Erik.

“Cope? Of course he can’t cope with it. His condition is critical. His family has been murdered, and he’ll find out about it under questioning from a policeman. But I can’t just sit and wait. I don’t want to let the police at him, but there’s no doubt that his sister is in danger.”

“It’s your call,” Erik says again.

“A murderer is looking for his older sister!” Daniella breaks in, raising her voice.

“Presumably.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in such a state about this,” she says. “Maybe because it isn’t too late. Something could actually be done. I mean, it isn’t often the case, but this time we could save a girl before she—”

“What do you want from me?” asks Erik.

“You have to come in and do what you’re good at.”

Erik pauses, then answers carefully. “I can talk to the boy about what’s happened when he’s feeling a little better.”

“That’s not what I mean. I want you to hypnotise him,” she says seriously.

“No.”

“It’s the only way.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“But there’s nobody as good as you.”

“I don’t even have permission to practise hypnosis at Karolinska.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Daniella,” Erik says, “I’ve promised never to hypnotise anyone again.”

“Can’t you just come in?”

There is silence for a little while; then Erik asks, “Is he conscious?”

“He soon will be.”

He can hear the rushing sound of his own breathing through the telephone.

“If you won’t hypnotise the boy, I’m going to let the police see him.” She ends the call.

Erik stands there holding the receiver in his trembling hand. The weight behind his eyes is rolling in towards his brain. He opens the drawer of the bedside table. The wooden box with the parrot and the native on it isn’t there. He must have left it in the car.

The apartment is flooded with sunlight as he walks through to wake Benjamin.

The boy is sleeping with his mouth open. His face is pale and he looks exhausted, despite a full night’s sleep.

“Benni?”

Benjamin opens his sleep-drenched eyes and looks at him as if he were a complete stranger, before he smiles the smile that has remained the same ever since he was born.

“It’s Tuesday. Time to wake up.”

Benjamin sits up yawning, scratches his head, then looks at the mobile phone hanging round his neck. It’s the first thing he does every morning: he checks whether he’s missed any messages during the night. Erik takes out the yellow bag with a puma on it, which contains the factor concentrate desmopressin, acetyl spirit, sterile cannulas, compresses, surgical tape, painkillers.

“Now or at breakfast?”

Benjamin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

Erik quickly swabs his son’s skinny arm, turns it towards the light coming through the window, feels the softness of the muscle, taps the syringe, and carefully pushes the cannula beneath the skin. As the syringe slowly empties, Benjamin taps away at his cell phone with his free hand.

“Shit, my battery’s almost gone,” he says, then lies back as his father holds a compress to his arm to stop any bleeding.

Gently Erik bends his son’s legs backwards and forwards; then he exercises the slender knee joints and massages the feet and toes. “How does it feel?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his son’s face.

Benjamin grimaces. “Same as usual.”

“Do you want a painkiller?”

Benjamin shakes his head, and Erik suddenly remembers the unconscious witness, the boy with all those knife wounds. Perhaps the murderer is looking for the older daughter right now.