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

“Usually some girl who looks amazed at being photographed in nothing but a pair of panties with a Union Jack on them.”

She smiles at him. “What did they want?”

Erik clears his throat and says dryly, “They asked me if it was possible to hypnotise women to make them horny.”

“Seriously? How professional.”

“Totally.”

“And the second conversation,” she asks. “Was that a journalist from Ritz or Slitz?”

“Radio News,” he replies. “They wondered what my views were on being reported to the Parliamentary Ombudsman.”

“I’m sorry for your sake.”

Erik rubs his eyes and sighs. To Simone it looks as if he’s grown smaller, shrunk by several inches.

“Without the hypnosis,” he says slowly, “Josef Ek might have murdered his sister as soon as he was discharged from the hospital.”

“You still shouldn’t have done it,” says Simone softly.

“No, I know,” he replies, running his finger around his glass. “I wish …”

He falls silent, and Simone is overcome by a sudden desire to touch him, to put her arms around him. But instead she stays where she is and just asks, “What are we going to do?”

“Do?”

“About us. We’ve said things, said we were going to separate. I don’t know where I am with you any more, Erik.”

He rubs his hand over his eyes. “I realise you don’t trust me,” he says, then falls silent.

She meets his eyes, sees the worn face, the straggling hair, and thinks that there was a time when they almost always had fun together.

“I’m not the person you want,” he goes on.

“Stop it,” she says.

“Stop what?”

“You say I’m not happy with you, but you’re the one who’s deceiving me; you’re the one who thinks I’m not enough.”

“Simone, I—”

He touches her hand, but she moves it away. His eyes are dark; she can see that he has taken pills.

“I need to sleep,” says Simone, getting up.

Erik follows her, his face grey and his eyes glazed. On the way to the bathroom, she checks the front door carefully to make sure it’s locked.

“You can sleep in the spare room,” she says.

He nods indifferently, seeming almost anaesthetised. She watches as he enters their bedroom, emerging a moment later with his duvet and pillow.

In the middle of the night, Simone is woken by a sudden jab in her upper arm. She is lying on her stomach; she rolls over onto her side and feels at her arm. The muscle is tense and itchy. The bedroom is in darkness.

“Erik?” she whispers, but remembers he’s sleeping in the spare room.

She turns to face the door and sees a shadow slip out. The parquet floor creaks. She thinks that perhaps Erik has got up for some reason but realises he should be in a deep sleep, thanks to his pills. Suddenly, she’s frightened. She switches on the bedside lamp, turns her arm towards the light, and sees a bead of blood coming from a small pink dot on the skin.

She can hear soft thuds coming from the hallway. Turning off the light, she slips out of bed, her legs weak. She rubs her sore arm as she eases past the threshold. Her mouth is dry, her legs warm but numb. Someone is whispering and laughing in the hallway, a muted, cooing laugh. It doesn’t sound anything like Erik. Then Simone shudders: once again, the front door is wide open. The stairwell is in darkness. Cold air is pouring in. She can hear something from Benjamin’s room, a faint whimpering.

“Mum?” Benjamin seems scared. “Ouch!” she hears him say. He begins to cry.

In the mirror in the corridor, Simone can see someone bending over Benjamin’s bed holding a syringe. Thoughts whirl around in her head. She tries to comprehend what is happening, what she is seeing.

“Benjamin?” she says, her voice high with anxiety. “What’s going on?”

She clears her throat and takes a step closer, but suddenly her legs give way; her hands grope for support, but she is unable to hold herself up. She collapses on the floor, bangs her head against the wall, and feels the pain searing her skull.

She tries again to get up, but she can no longer move; it’s as if she has no connection with her legs, no sensation at all in her lower body. There is a strange fluttering sensation in her chest, and she feels short of breath. Her vision disappears for a few seconds, and when it returns it is cloudy.

Someone is dragging Benjamin along the floor by his legs. His pyjama top has worked its way up, and his arms are windmilling slowly, in confusion. He tries to hold on to the doorframe but is too weak. His head bangs against the threshold. He looks Simone in the eye. He is terrified; his mouth is moving but no words come out. She reaches sluggishly for his hand but misses it. She tries to crawl after him but hasn’t the strength; her eyes roll back in her head; she can see nothing and blinks and perceives only brief fragments as Benjamin is dragged through the hallway and out onto the landing. The door is closed carefully. Simone tries to call for help, but no sound comes; her eyes close, she is breathing slowly, heavily, she can’t get enough air.

Everything goes black.

41

saturday, december 12: morning

Simone’s mouth feels as if it is full of glass fragments. It hurts to breathe. Her tongue, when she tries to move it, feels monstrously large and clumsy. She tries to open her eyes, but her eyelids resist her efforts. Slowly lights appear, sliding past her, metal and curtains, a hospital bed.

Then Erik is sitting on a chair next to her, holding her hand. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed. His eyes are sunken and exhausted; he stares dully into the middle distance. Simone tries to speak, but her throat feels completely raw.

“Where’s Benjamin?”

Erik gives a start. “Simone,” he says. “How do you feel?”

“Benjamin,” she whispers. “Where’s Benjamin?”

Erik closes his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together. He swallows and meets her gaze. “What have you done?” he asks quietly. “I found you on the floor, Sixan. You had almost no pulse, and if I hadn’t found you—” He runs his hand over his mouth, speaking through his fingers. “What have you done?”

Breathing is hard work. She swallows several times. She understands that she has had her stomach pumped, but she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t have time to explain that she didn’t try to take her own life. It’s not important what he thinks. Not right now.

“Where’s our son?” she whispers. “Is he missing?”

“What do you mean?”

Tears pour down her cheeks. “Is he missing?” she repeats.