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

She nods.

“Can’t it be that way? Can’t it be about him?” he goes on. “I want you and me to look for Benjamin—along with the police—the way it should be.”

“I need my father,” she says.

“I need you.”

“I don’t really believe that,” she replies.

“Why not?”

“Because you just want to tell me what to do,” she says.

Erik stops pacing the room and carefully composes his features into a reasonable expression. “Sixan, your father’s retired. There’s nothing he can do.”

“He has contacts,” she says.

“He thinks he has contacts, he thinks he’s still a detective, but he’s only an ordinary pensioner.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“Benjamin isn’t some kind of hobby for old men with too much time on their hands.”

“That’s it. I’m not interested in what you have to say.” She looks at the phone.

“I can’t stay here if he’s coming. You just want him to tell you I’ve done the wrong thing again, like he did when we found out about Benjamin’s illness; it’s all Erik’s fault, always Erik. I know that lets you off the hook—it’s always been very comfortable whenever you’ve needed someone to blame in a crisis—but for me it’s—”

“Bullshit.”

“If he comes here, I’m leaving.”

“That’s your choice,” she says quietly.

His shoulders droop. She is half turned away from him as she punches in the number.

“Don’t do this,” Erik begs. It’s impossible for him to be here when Kennet arrives. He looks around. There’s nothing he wants to take with him. He hears the phone ringing at the other end of the line and sees the shadow of Simone’s eyelashes trembling on her cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he says, and goes out into the hallway.

He hears Simone talking to her father. With her voice full of tears she begs him to come as quickly as he can. Erik takes his jacket from the hanger, leaves the apartment, closes the door, and locks it behind him. Halfway down the stairs, he stops. Maybe he ought to go back and say something. It isn’t fair. This is his home, his son, his life.

“Fuck it,” he says quietly, and continues down to the door and out into the dark street.

45

saturday, december 12: evening

Simone stands at the window, perceiving her face as a transparent shadow in the evening darkness. When she sees her father’s old Nissan Primera double-parked outside the door, she has to force back the tears. She is already standing in the hallway when he knocks on the door; she opens it with the security chain on, closes it again, unhooks the chain, and tries to smile.

“Dad,” she says, as the tears begin to flow.

Kennet puts his arms around her, and when she smells the familiar aroma of leather and tobacco from his jacket she is transported back to her childhood for a few seconds.

“I’m here now, darling,” says Kennet. He sits down on the chair in the hallway and perches Simone on his knee. “Isn’t Erik home?”

“We’ve separated.”

“Oh, my,” says Kennet.

He fishes out a handkerchief, and she slides off his knee and blows her nose several times. Then he hangs up his jacket, noticing that Benjamin’s outdoor clothes are untouched, his shoes are in the shoe rack, and his backpack is leaning against the wall by the front door.

He puts his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, wipes the tears from beneath her eyes with his thumb, and leads her into the kitchen. He sits her down on a chair, gets out a filter and the tin of coffee, and switches on the machine.

“Tell me everything,” he says calmly, as he gets out the mugs. “Start from the beginning.”

So Simone tells him in detail about the first night when she woke up and was convinced there was someone in the apartment. She tells him about the smell of cigarette smoke in the kitchen, about the open front door, about the misty light flooding out of the fridge and freezer.

“And Erik?” asks Kennet, his tone challenging. “What did Erik do?”

She hesitates before she looks her father in the eye. “He didn’t believe me. He said one of us must have been sleepwalking.”

“For God’s sake,” says Kennet.

Simone feels her face beginning to crumple again. Kennet pours them both a cup of coffee, makes a note of something on a piece of paper, and asks her to continue.

She tells him about the jab in her arm that woke her up the following night, how she got up and heard strange noises coming from Benjamin’s room.

“What kind of noises?” asks Kennet.

“Cooing,” she says hesitantly. “Whispering. I don’t know.”

“And then?”

“I asked what was happening, and that’s when I saw someone was there, someone leaning over Benjamin and—”

“Yes?”

“Then my legs gave way, I couldn’t move; I just fell over. All I could do was lie there on the floor. I watched Benjamin being dragged out … Oh God, his face; he was so scared! He called out to me and tried to reach me with his hand, but I was completely incapable of moving by then.” She sits in silence, staring straight ahead.

“Do you remember anything else?”

“What?”

“What did he look like? The man who got in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you notice anything distinguishing about him?”