The Hypnotist

“I’m just going to the corner to pick up a take-away; nothing’s going to happen,” he says, going into the hallway.

Simone and Erik smile at each other as they hear the front door close and their son’s rapid footsteps on the stairs.

Erik gets three glasses out of the cupboard, stops, takes Simone’s hand, and holds it against his cheek.

“Bedroom?” she asks.

He looks embarrassingly pleased, just as the telephone rings. “Leave it,” he says.

“It could be Benjamin,” she says, picking up the phone. “Hello?” She hears nothing, just a faint ticking sound, perhaps from a zipper being undone. “Hello?” She puts the telephone down.

“Nobody there?” asks Erik, uneasily.

Simone watches as he goes over to the window and looks down at the street. Once again she hears the voice of the woman who answered her earlier call. Stop it, Erik. She had laughed. Stop what? Fumbling inside her clothes, sucking at her nipple, pushing up her skirt?

“Call Benjamin,” says Erik, his voice strained.

“Why do I need to—” She picks up the phone just as it rings again. “Hello?”

When no one speaks she cuts the connection and dials Benjamin’s number.

“Voicemail.”

“I can’t see him,” says Erik.

“Should I go after him?”

“Maybe.”

“He’ll be furious with me,” she says with a smile.

“I’ll go,” says Erik, moving into the hallway.

He is just taking his jacket off the hanger when the door opens and Benjamin walks in with a plastic bag stacked with cartons of steaming food.

They sit down in front of the TV to watch a movie, eating straight out of the containers. Benjamin laughs at the snappy dialogue, and Erik and Simone glance happily at each other as they did when he was a child, laughing out loud at some children’s programme. Erik puts his hand on Simone’s knee, and she puts her hand on top of his, squeezing it.

Bruce Willis is on his back, wiping blood from his mouth. The telephone rings again and Erik puts down his food and gets up. He goes out into the hallway and answers as calmly as he can.

“Erik Maria Bark.” There is no sound, just a faint clicking. “Right, that’s enough,” he says angrily.

“Erik?” It’s Daniella’s voice. “Is that you, Erik?” she asks.

“We’re just in the middle of eating.” He can hear her rapid breathing.

“What did he want?” she asks.

“Who?”

“Josef,” she replies.

“Josef Ek?”

“Didn’t he say anything?” asks Daniella.

“When?”

“Just now … on the phone.”

Erik can see Simone and Benjamin watching the film in the living room. He thinks about the family out in Tumba. The little girl, the mother and father. The horrendous rage behind the crime.

“What makes you think he called me?” asks Erik.

Daniella clears her throat. “He must have talked the nurse into bringing him a phone. I’ve spoken to the exchange; they put him through to you.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Josef was screaming when I went in; he’d ripped out the catheter. I gave him alprazolam, but he said a lot of things about you before he fell asleep.”

“Like what? What did he say?”

Erik hears Daniella swallow hard, and her voice sounds very tired when she replies.

“That you’d been fucking with his head and you should leave his fucking sister alone if you don’t want to be eliminated. He said it several times. You can expect to be eliminated.”

24

tuesday, december 8: evening

It has been three hours since Joona took Evelyn to the Kronoberg custody centre. She was placed in a small cell with bare walls and horizontal bars over the steamed-up window. A stainless steel sink reeked of vomit. Evelyn stood next to the bunk with its green plastic mattress and stared at Joona inquiringly as he left her there.

Once a suspect has been brought in, the prosecutor has up to twelve hours to decide whether the person should be arrested or released. If he decides not to release, he then has until twelve o’clock on the third day to submit an application to the court asking for the suspect to be arrested. If he fails to do this, the person is free to go. The basis for requesting an arrest can be either probable grounds for suspicion or, more seriously, reasonable grounds for suspicion.

Now Joona is back. Striding toward the women’s unit along the corridor with its shiny white vinyl floor, past monotonous rows of pea-green cell doors, he catches his own reflection in door handles and locks.

Jens Svanehjälm, Chief Prosecutor for the Stockholm district, waits for him outside one of the five interview rooms. Although Svanehjälm is forty years old, he looks no more than twenty, his boyish expression and round, smooth cheeks lending a false impression of innocence and naïveté.

“So,” he says, “did Evelyn force her younger brother to murder their family?”

“According to Josef.”

“Nothing Josef Ek says under hypnosis is admissible. It goes against his right to remain silent and his right to avoid incriminating himself.”

“I realise that,” says Joona. “It wasn’t an interrogation. He wasn’t a suspect. I thought the boy had information that would prevent another murder from taking place.”

Jens says nothing. He scrolls through e-mails on his phone.

“I’ll know soon enough what actually happened,” says Joona.