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

Maja Swartling smiled, revealing dimples; she brought her hands together beneath her chin, bowed deeply and mischievously, and said softly, “Sawadee.”

I realised I was smiling at the Thai greeting as I took the lift up to the director’s office.

Despite the fact that the door was open, I knocked before entering the conference room. Annika Lorentzon was there already, gazing out the picture window at the fantastic view, far out across Northern Cemetery and Haga Park.

“Just gorgeous,” I said.

Annika Lorentzo smiled calmly at me. She was tanned and slim. Once, her beauty had made her runner-up in the Miss Sweden contest, but now a fine network of lines had formed beneath her eyes and on her forehead. She didn’t smell of perfume but rather of cleanliness; a faint hint of exclusive soap surrounded her.

“Mineral water?” she asked, waving in the direction of several bottles.

I shook my head and noticed for the first time that we were alone in the conference room. The others ought to have gathered by now, I thought; my watch showed that the meeting should have begun five minutes earlier.

Annika stood up and explained, as if she’d read my mind, “They’ll be here, Erik. They’ve all gone for a sauna.” She gave a wry smile. “It’s one way of having a meeting without me. Clever, eh?”

At that moment the door opened and five men with bright red faces came in. The collars of their suits were damp from wet hair and wet necks, and they were exuding steamy heat and aftershave.

“Although of course my research is going to be expensive,” I heard Ronny Johansson say.

“Obviously,” Svein Holstein replied, sounding worried.

“It’s just that Bjarne was rambling on about how they were going to start cutting. The finance boys want to slash the research budget right across the board.”

The conversation died away as they came into the room.

Svein Holstein gave me a firm handshake.

Ronny Johansson, the pharmaceutical representative on the board, just waved half-heartedly at me as he took his seat, while at the same time the local government politician, Peter Mälarstedt, took my hand. He smiled at me, puffing and panting, and I noticed he was still perspiring.

Frank Paulsson barely met my eye; he simply gave me the briefest of nods and then stayed on the far side of the room. Everyone chatted for a while, pouring out glasses of mineral water and admiring the view. For one crystal moment I observed them: these people who held the fate of my research in their hands. They were as sleek, well-groomed, and savvy as my patients were awkward, shabby, and inarticulate. Yet my patients were contained in this moment. Their memories, experiences, and all they had suppressed lay like curls of smoke trapped motionless inside this glass bubble.

Annika softly clapped her hands and invited everyone to take their seats around the conference table. The members of the board settled down, whispered, and fidgeted. Someone jingled coins in his pocket. Another flipped through his calendar. Annika smiled gently and said, “Over to you, Erik.”

“My method,” I began, “involves treating psychological trauma through group hypnosis therapy.”

“So we’ve gathered,” said Ronny Johansson.

I tried to provide an overview of what I’d done thus far. I could hear feet shuffling, chair legs scraping against the floor.

“Unfortunately, I have another commitment,” Rainer Milch said after a while. He got to his feet, shook hands with the men next to him, and left the room. My audience listened without really paying attention.

“I know this material can seem dense, but I did provide a summary in advance. It’s fairly comprehensive, I know, but it’s necessary; I couldn’t make it any shorter.”

“Why not?” asked Peter Mälarstedt.

“Because it’s a little too early to draw any conclusions,” I said.

“But if we move forward two years?” he asked.

“Hard to say, but I am seeing patterns emerge,” I said, despite the fact that I knew I shouldn’t go down that path.

“Patterns? What kind of patterns?”

“Can you tell us what you’re hoping to find?” asked Annika Lorentzon, with an encouraging smile.

I took a deep breath. “I’m hoping to map the mental barriers that remain during hypnosis—how the brain, in a state of deep relaxation, comes up with new ways of protecting the individual from the memory of trauma or fear. What I mean—and this is really exciting—is that when a patient is getting closer to a trauma, the core, the thing that’s really dangerous, when the suppressed memory finally begins to float towards the surface during hypnosis, the mind begins to rummage around in a final attempt to protect the secret. What I have begun to realise and document is that the subject incorporates dream material into his or her memories, simply in order to avoid seeing.”

“To avoid seeing the situation itself?” asked Ronny Johansson, with a sudden burst of curiosity.

“In a way. It’s the perpetrator they don’t want to see,” I replied. “They replace the perpetrator with something else, often an animal.”

There was silence around the table. I could see Annika, who had so far looked mainly embarrassed on my behalf, smiling to herself.

“Can this be true?” said Ronny Johansson, almost in a whisper.

“How clear is this pattern?” asked Mälarstedt.

“Clear, but not fully established,” I replied.

“Is there any similar research going on elsewhere in the world?” Mälarstedt wondered.

“No,” Ronny Johansson replied abruptly.

“But does it stop there?” said Holstein. “Or will the patient always find some new way of protecting himself under hypnosis, in your opinion?”

“Yes, is it possible to move beyond this protective mechanism?” asked Mälarstedt.

I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn; I cleared my throat. “I think it’s possible to move beyond the mechanism, to find what lies beneath these images through deeper hypnosis.”

“And what about the patients?”

“I was thinking about them, too,” Mälarstedt said to Annika Lorentzon.

“This is all very tempting, of course,” said Holstein. “But I want guarantees. No psychoses, no suicides.”

“Yes, but—”

“Can you promise me that?”

Frank Paulsson was just sitting there, scraping at the label on his bottle of mineral water. Holstein looked tired and glanced openly at his watch.

“My priority is to help my patients,” I said.

“And your research?”

“It’s—” I cleared my throat again—“it’s a by-product, when it comes down to it,” I said quietly. “That’s how I have to regard it. I would never develop an experimental technique if there was any indication that it was detrimental to a patient’s condition.”

Some of the men around the table exchanged glances.