Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1 and 2: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare

“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.

“What did you say?” he asks.

She takes off the headphones and gapes at him.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

She shakes her head quickly and goes on cleaning. He stares at her for a while and then continues on his way towards the lift.

38

friday, december 11: evening

Joona Linna drives along Valhallavägen at high speed, past the stadium where the summer Olympics were held in 1912, and changes lanes to overtake a big Mercedes. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the lighted red-brick façade of Sophiahemmet flickering through the trees. The tyres thunder over a large metal plate. Stomping on the gas, he passes a bus that is just about to pull out from the stop. The driver sounds his horn angrily and for a long time as Joona cuts in ahead of him. The water from a grey puddle splashes up over the parked cars and pavements just past the University of Technology.

Joona runs a red light at Norrtull, passes Stallmästaregården, and hits almost 110 miles per hour on the short stretch along Uppsalavägen before slowing when he reaches the exit ramp that dips steeply beneath the motorway and up towards Karolinska Hospital.

As he parks next to the main entrance, he sees several police cars with blue lights flashing, sweeping across the brown façade of the hospital like terrible wing beats. Reporters and camera crews surround a group of nurses who shiver outside the big doors, fear etched on their faces. A couple of them weep openly in front of the cameras.

Joona tries to go inside but is immediately stopped by a young police officer who is stamping his feet up and down, either with shock or agitation.

“Out,” says the cop, giving him a shove.

Joona looks into a pair of dumb pale-blue eyes. He removes the hand from his chest and says calmly, “National CID.”

There is a stab of suspicion in the pale blue eyes. “ID, please.”

“Joona, get a move on, over here.”

Carlos Eliasson, Head of the National CID, is waving to him in the pale yellow light by the reception desk. Through the window he can see Sunesson sitting on a bench weeping, his face crumpled. A younger colleague sits down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

Joona shows his ID and the officer moves to one side, his expression surly. Large parts of the entrance have been cordoned off with police tape. The journalists’ cameras flash outside the glass walls, while inside the crime team is busy taking their photographs.

Carlos is leading the investigation and is responsible for both the overall strategic approach and the immediate tactical detail. He issues rapid instructions to the scene-of-crime coordinator and then turns to Joona.

“Have you got him?” asks Joona.

“We have eyewitnesses who saw him making his way outside using a wheeled walker,” says Carlos. “It’s down at the bus stop.” He glances at his notes. “Two buses have left since then, plus seven taxis and patient transport vehicles … and probably a dozen or so private cars, and just one ambulance.”

“Have you sealed off the exits?”

“Too late for that.”

A uniformed officer is waved through.

“We’ve traced the buses—no luck,” he says.

“What about the taxis?” asks Carlos.

“We’ve finished with Taxi Stockholm and Taxi Kurir, but …” The officer waves a hand helplessly as if he can no longer remember what he was going to say.

“Have you contacted Erik Maria Bark?” asks Joona.

“We called him straight away. There was no answer, but we’re trying to get hold of him.”

“He needs protection.”

“Rolle!” yells Carlos. “Did you get hold of Bark?”

“I just called,” replies Roland Svensson.

“Try again,” says Joona.