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

“I’m doing sole with almonds and new potatoes,” says Disa.

“With melted butter?”

“And mushrooms, and parsley.”

“Delicious.”

The one-bedroom apartment is rather shabby, but with an inherent elegance; high ceilings with varnished wood panelling, a beautifully varnished parquet floor, and graceful windows framed in teak.

Joona follows Disa into her bedroom, still trying to remember what it was that he saw in Josef’s room. Disa’s laptop is in the middle of her unmade bed, with books and sheets of paper strewn around.

He settles into an armchair and waits for her to finish dressing. Without a word she turns her back to him so he can zip up a close-fitting, simply cut dress.

Joona glances at one of Disa’s open books and spies a large, black-and-white photo of a graveyard. A group of men, archaeologists, dressed in clothing from the 1940s, are walking along towards the back of the picture, peering at the photographer. It looks as if the site has just begun to be excavated; the surface of the ground is marked with dozens of small flags.

“Those are graves,” she says quietly. “The flags show the location of the graves. The man who conducted the dig on this site was called Hannes Müller; he died a while ago, but he was at least a hundred years old. Stayed on at the institute until the end. He looked like a sweet old tortoise.”

She stands in front of the long mirror, weaves her straight hair into two thin braids, and turns to face him.

“How do I look?”

“Lovely,” says Joona.

“Yes,” she replies sadly. “How’s your mum?”

Joona catches hold of her hand. “She’s fine,” he whispers. “She sends you her love.”

“That’s nice. What else did she say?”

“She said you shouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

“No,” says Disa gloomily. “She’s right, of course.”

Slowly she runs her fingers through his thick, tousled hair. She smiles at him suddenly, then goes over to the laptop, switches it off, and puts it on the chest of drawers.

“Did you know that, according to pre-Christian law, newborn babies were not regarded as fully valid individuals until they had been put to the breast? It was permissible to place a newborn child out in the forest during the period between birth and the first feed.”

“So you became a person through the choice of others,” says Joona slowly.

Disa opens her wardrobe, lifts out a shoebox, and takes out a pair of dark brown sandals with soft straps and beautiful heels, made up of strips of different kinds of wood.

“New?” asks Joona.

“Sergio Rossi. They were a present to myself, because I have such an unglamorous job,” she says. “I spend entire days crawling around in a muddy field.”

“Are you still out in Sigtuna?”

“Yes.”

“What have you actually found?”

“I’ll tell you while we’re eating.”

He points to her shoes. “Very nice,” he says, getting up from the armchair.

Disa turns away with a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Joona,” she says over her shoulder, “but I don’t think they make them in your size.”

He suddenly stops dead. “Hang on,” he says, reaching out to the wall to support himself.

Disa is looking at him inquiringly. “It was just a joke,” she explains.

“No, no, it’s his feet!”

Joona pushes past her into the hallway, pulls his phone out of his overcoat pocket, calls Central Control, and calmly informs them that Sunesson needs immediate backup at the hospital.

“What’s happening?” asks Disa.

“His feet were really dirty,” Joona tells her. “They told me he can’t move, but he’s been out of bed. He’s been out of bed, walking around.”

Joona calls Sunesson, and when no one answers he pulls on his jacket, whispers an apology, and races down the stairs.

37

friday, december 11: evening

At approximately the same time as Joona is ringing Disa’s doorbell, Josef Ek sits up in bed in his room at the hospital.

Last night he checked to see if he could walk: he eased his feet to the floor and stood still for a long time with his hands resting on the bed-frame, as the pain from his many wounds washed over him like boiling oil and the agonising stab from his damaged liver made everything go black. But he could walk. He had stretched out the tubes from the drip and the chest drain, checked what was in the store cupboard, and climbed back into bed.

It is now thirty minutes since the nurse on the night shift came in to see him. The hall is almost silent. Josef slowly pulls out the IV in his wrist, feels the sucking of the tube as it leaves his body. A small amount of blood trickles down onto his knee.

It doesn’t hurt as much when he gets out of bed this time. He moves stiffly over to the cupboard with the scalpels and syringes he’d seen amid the compresses and rolls of gauze bandage. He pushes a few syringes into the wide, loose pocket of his hospital gown. With trembling hands he breaks open the packaging of a scalpel and slices through the chest drain tube. Slimy blood runs out, and his left lung slowly deflates. He can feel the ache behind one shoulder blade and coughs slightly, but he isn’t really aware of the difference, the reduced lung capacity.

Suddenly he hears footsteps out in the corridor, rubber soles against the vinyl flooring. With the scalpel in his hand, Josef positions himself behind the door, peers through the pane of glass, and waits.

The nurse stops to chat with the police officer on guard. Josef can hear them laughing about something.

“But I’ve quit smoking,” she says.

“If you’ve got a nicotine patch I wouldn’t say no,” the police officer goes on.

“I quit those too,” she replies. “But go outside if you need to, I’ll be in here for a while.”

“Five minutes,” says the cop eagerly.

He goes away, there is the rattle of keys, and the nurse enters the room leafing through some papers. She looks up, startled. The laughter lines around the corners of her eyes become more prominent as the blade of the scalpel slices into her throat. He is weaker than he thought and has to stab at her several times. The sudden violence of his movements pulls at the scabs on his body, sending a fiery sensation shooting through him. The nurse does not fall down immediately but tries to hold on to him. They slide down to the floor together. Her body is all sweaty; steaming hot. He tries to stand up but slips on her hair, which has spread out in a wide, blonde sheaf. When he wrenches the scalpel out of her throat, she makes a whistling sound and her legs begin to jerk. Josef stands gazing at her for a while before making his way out into the corridor. Her dress has worked its way up, and he can clearly see her pink panties beneath her tights.

He makes his way down the corridor. He heads to the right, finds some clean clothes on a cart, and changes. Some distance away, a short, stocky woman is moving a mop back and forth across the shining vinyl floor. She is listening to music through headphones. Coming closer, Josef stands behind her and takes out a disposable syringe, stabbing at the air behind her back several times, stopping short of touching her. She continues mopping, oblivious. Josef can hear a tinny beat coming from the headphones. He pushes the syringe back in his pocket, and shoves the woman aside as he walks past. She almost falls over and swears in Spanish. Josef stops dead and turns to face her.