The Sandman Page 17

  “What’s he doing?” My asks, glancing at the others. “What’s he saying?”

  Anders shrugs. “No idea.”

  The only sound audible in the surveillance room is the ticking of a golden Japanese cat waving its paw.

  Anders thinks back to Bernie Larsson’s medical notes from Säter. Twenty-one years ago, he was sentenced to secure psychiatric care and chemical castration for what was described as a series of bestial attacks.

  Now he’s back on the sofa, yelling up at the ceiling. Saliva is spraying from his mouth. He’s making aggressive slicing gestures with his hands, and he throws the cushion beside him onto the floor.

  Jurek Walter does what he has always done. When he has completed nine kilometers on the treadmill, he gets off and heads in the direction of his room.

  Bernie shouts something at him as he leaves. Jurek stops in the doorway and turns back toward the dayroom.

  “What’s happening now?” Anders asks anxiously.

  Sven picks up his radio, calls two colleagues, and hurries out. Anders leans forward and watches as Sven appears on one of the screens. He’s walking along the corridor, talking to the other guards. He pauses outside the security lock, evaluating the situation.

  Nothing happens.

  Jurek is standing in the doorway, between the rooms, in a spot where his face is in shadow. He’s not moving, but both Anders and My can see that he’s talking. Bernie is sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed as he listens. The whole scenario plays out in little more than a minute. Jurek turns and disappears into his room.

  “Back to your lair,” My mutters.

  One of the other monitors shows Jurek from above. Slowly, he walks into his room, sits on the plastic chair directly beneath the camera, and stares at the wall.

  After a while, Bernie Larsson gets up from the sofa. He wipes his mouth a few times before shuffling off to his room.

  Another monitor shows Bernie Larsson going over to the sink, leaning forward, and running water over his face. Then he walks back to the dayroom door, presses his thumb against the inside of the frame, and slams the door shut as hard as he can. The door bounces back, and Bernie sinks to his knees, screaming.

  78

  Petter Näslund is standing in front of a large-scale map of the residential area from which the two Kohler-Frost children disappeared. He frowns as he pins up photographs from the old investigation. Magdalena walks in, greets him with a quick hello, and goes over to the whiteboard. She strikes through the lines of inquiry they managed to follow up on yesterday. Benny Rubin, Johnny Isaksson, and Fredrik Weyler are sitting around the conference table, jotting down notes.

  “We need to take another look at everyone who was employed at Menge’s Engineering Workshop at the same time as Jurek Walter,” she says.

  “I’ve compiled the interviews from yesterday with Rikard van Horn, the friend of the Kohler-Frost children,” Johnny says.

  “Who’s calling Reidar Frost today?” Petter asks, twirling a pen between his fingers.

  “I can take care of that,” Magdalena volunteers.

  “Wonder if they want us to keep looking for Wee Willie Winkie,” Benny says.

  “Joona wants us all to take the whole Sandman thing seriously,” Petter reminds him.

  “I found this great clip on YouTube,” Benny says, searching his phone.

  “Do we have to?” Magdalena sighs, picking up a heavy file from the table.

  “But have you seen that clown who hides from stupid cops?” Benny asks, putting his phone down.

  “No,” Petter replies.

  “No, because I’m probably the only person in the room who’s actually managed to catch sight of him.” Benny laughs.

  Magdalena is smiling as she opens the file.

  “Who’s going to help me find the last people connected to Agneta Magnusson?” she asks.

  Agneta was the woman who was found alive in the grave in Lill-Jan’s Forest when Jurek was caught. The two bodies in the plastic barrel buried nearby were her brother and nephew.

  “Her mother vanished years ago, and her dad disappeared just after she was found.”

  “Didn’t they all disappear?” Fredrik Weyler asks.

  “Not her husband,” Magdalena says, glancing at the file.

  “This whole thing’s so sick,” Fredrik says.

  79

  Standing on the front porch, Magdalena Ronander says hello to the large woman who’s just opened the door. She has fine laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and the name Sonja tattooed on her shoulder.

  Everyone with even the most tentative connection to Agneta Magnusson was questioned by the police thirteen years ago. All their homes were searched by forensics officers, as well as their storage facilities, cars, boats, and other property.

  “I called earlier,” Magdalena says, showing her police ID.

  “Oh, yes.” The woman nods. “Bror’s waiting for you in the living room.”

  Magdalena follows the woman through the little 1950s-style house. There’s a smell of fried steak and onions from the kitchen. A man in a wheelchair is sitting in a living room with dark curtains.

  “Is that the police?” he asks in a dry voice.

  “Yes, it’s the police,” Magdalena says, pulling the piano stool over and sitting down in front of the man.

  “Haven’t we talked enough?”

  It’s been thirteen years since anyone questioned Bror Engström about what happened in Lill-Jan’s Forest, and in that time he’s grown old, she thinks.

  “I need to know more,” Magdalena says gently.

  Bror Engström shakes his head.

  “There’s nothing left to say. Everyone vanished. In just a few years, they were all gone. My Agneta, and…her brother and nephew…and then Jeremy, my father-in-law. He stopped talking when…when they went missing, his children and grandson.”

  “Jeremy Magnusson,” Magdalena says.

  “I liked him a lot. But he missed his children so terribly.”

  “Yes,” Magdalena says quietly.

  Bror Engström’s clouded eyes close at the memory.

  “One day he was just gone—him, too. Then I got my Agneta back. But she was never herself again.”

  “No,” Magdalena says.

  “No,” he whispers.

  She knows that Joona made countless visits to see the woman in the long-term-care ward. She never regained the power of speech, and died four years ago. The brain damage was too severe for anyone ever to reach her again.

  “I suppose I should sell off Jeremy’s land,” the man says, “but I can’t do it. Those forests meant everything to him. He was always trying to get me to go up to the hunting cabin with him, but it never quite worked out. And now it’s too late.”

  “Where’s the cabin?” she asks, taking out her phone.

  “Way up in Dalarna, beyond Tranuberget, not far from the Norwegian border. I still have the maps from the Land Registry somewhere, if Sonja can find them.”

  The hunting cabin isn’t on the list of locations searched by Forensics. Although it’s probably nothing, neglecting it seems like a significant oversight. Joona said that they must leave no stone unturned.

  80

  A police officer and a forensics expert are making their way on snowmobiles across the deep snow between the dark trunks of the pine trees. In some areas, they can move faster by using cleared boundary lines and foresters’ tracks, leaving a cloud of smoke and snow behind them.

  Stockholm wanted them to investigate a hunting cabin beyond Tranuberget. Apparently, it had been owned by a Jeremy Magnusson, who disappeared thirteen years ago. They have been asked to conduct a thorough forensic examination of the cabin and to take video footage and photographs. Any potential evidence or biological matter is to be secured.

  The two men know that the Stockholm Police are hoping to find something at the cabin that might shed light on the disappearance of Magnusson and other members of his family. It should have been searched thirteen years ag
o, but at the time the police hadn’t been aware of its existence.

  Roger Hysén and Gunnar Ehn are driving snowmobiles side by side down a slope at the edge of the forest in blinding light. They emerge onto a sunlit plain where everything is glistening white, completely untouched, and continue swiftly across the ice before swinging north into denser forest once more.

  The forest has grown so wild on the southern slope of Tranuberget that they almost miss the building entirely. The low timber shack is engulfed in snow, which is piled up higher than the windows and a few feet thick on the roof, leaving only a few silver-gray timber planks visible.

  They get off their snowmobiles and begin to dig the cabin out.

  Faded curtains hang inside the small windows.

  The sun nudges the treetops as it sinks toward the horizon.

  When the door is finally uncovered, they’re sweating. The forensics expert, Gunnar Ehn, can feel his scalp itching under his hat.

  Tree branches rub together in the wind and fill the air with a desolate creaking sound.

  In silence, the two men roll out a sheet of plastic in front of the door and unpack boards to walk on. They put on protective outfits and gloves.

  The door is locked, and there’s no key on the hook under the eaves.

  “The daughter was found buried alive in Stockholm,” Roger Hysén says, glancing briefly at his colleague.

  “I’ve heard the talk,” Gunnar says. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  Roger inserts a crowbar into the crack next to the lock and pushes. The frame creaks. He pushes it farther in and shoves harder. The frame splinters, and Roger gives the door a tentative tug, then pulls as hard as he can. It swings open and bounces back.

  “Shit,” Roger whispers behind his mask.

  The draft from the unexpected movement has made all the dust that had settled inside the house fly up into the air. Gunnar mutters that it doesn’t matter. He reaches into the dark cabin and puts two boards on the floor.

  Roger hands over the video camera. Gunnar stoops under the low lintel and enters the cabin.

  It’s so dark inside that he can’t see anything. The dust in the air is suffocating.

  Gunnar sets the camera to record, but its light won’t switch on. He tries recording the room anyway, but all he manages to get is vague outlines.

  The whole cabin resembles a murky aquarium. There’s an odd-looking shadow in the middle of the room, like a large grandfather clock.

  “What’s happening?” Roger calls from outside.

  “Give me the other camera.”

  Gunnar trades the video camera for the photo camera. He checks the viewfinder, but all he sees is black. He snaps a picture at random. The flash fills the room with a white glow.

  Gunnar screams when he sees the long, thin figure in front of him. He takes a step back, loses his footing, and drops the camera. He puts out an arm to regain his balance and knocks over a coat stand.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  He backs out, hitting his head on the lintel and cutting himself on the loose splinters sticking out from the door frame.

  “What’s happening? What’s going on?” Roger asks.

  “Someone’s in there,” Gunnar says, gritting his teeth.

  Roger manages to switch on the video camera light and slowly makes his way inside. The floor creaks. The light from the camera searches through the dust and over the furniture. A branch scratches against the window and sounds like someone knocking.

  “Oh,” he gasps.

  In the dim light, he sees that a man has hanged himself from a beam in the roof. A very long time ago. The body is thin, and the skin has dried out and is stretched across the face. The mouth is wide open and black. His leather boots are on the floor.

  The door groans open as Gunnar comes back in.

  The sun has vanished behind the treetops, and the windows are dark. Gingerly, they spread out a body bag beneath the corpse.

  The branch hits the window again and scrapes over the glass.

  Roger reaches over to hold the body while Gunnar cuts the rope, but just as he touches the swaying corpse its head comes loose from the neck. The body collapses at their feet. The skull thuds on the wooden floor, dust swirls up around the room once more, and the old noose swings noiselessly.

  81

  Saga is gazing out the window of the van. The chains attached to her handcuffs rattle with the motion of the vehicle.

  She didn’t want to think about Jurek Walter. Since she accepted the mission, she’s managed to keep him out of her mind. But that’s no longer possible. After three days of monotony at Karsudden Hospital, she’s on her way to the secure unit of Löwenströmska. Her encounter with Jurek is drawing closer.

  In her mind’s eye, she can clearly see the photograph that was at the front of his file: his wrinkled face and those clear, pale eyes.

  Jurek worked as a mechanic and lived a solitary and withdrawn life until his arrest. There was nothing in his apartment that could be linked to his crimes, yet he was caught red-handed.

  Saga had been drenched with sweat by the time she finished reading the reports and looking at the images of the crime scenes. One large color photograph showed the forensics team’s bright numbered signs in the clearing next to a heap of damp soil, a grave, and an open coffin.

  The Needle had produced a thorough report on the woman’s injuries after she’d been buried alive for two years.

  Saga feels carsick and looks out at the road and trees sliding past. She thinks about how malnourished the woman was, and about her pressure sores, frostbite, and lost teeth. Joona had described how the emaciated woman had tried to climb out of the coffin time after time but Jurek kept pushing her down.

  Saga knows she shouldn’t be lingering over this.

  A shudder of anxiety spreads out from her stomach.

  She tells herself that under no circumstances can she allow herself to feel afraid. She’s in control of the situation.

  The van brakes, and the handcuffs rattle.

  The plastic barrel and the coffin had both been equipped with air tubes leading aboveground.

  Why didn’t he just kill them?

  It’s incomprehensible.

  Saga considers what Mikael Kohler-Frost had said about his captivity, and she thinks of Felicia alone in the capsule, the little girl with the loose braid and riding hat.

  It has stopped snowing, but there’s no sign of the sun. The sky remains overcast. The van leaves the old main road and eases right as it enters the hospital grounds. A woman in her forties is sitting in the bus shelter with two shopping bags in her hands, taking deep drags on a cigarette.

  Government approval is required to establish a secure unit, but Saga knows that the legislation allows plenty of leeway for the institutions to conduct their own evaluations. Ordinary laws and rights cease to apply inside those locked doors. There’s no real scrutiny or supervision. The staff are lords of their own Hades, as long as none of their patients escape.

  82

  Saga’s hands and ankles are still cuffed as she is led down an empty corridor by two armed guards. They’re both walking fast and holding her upper arms tightly.

  It’s too late to change her mind now—she’s on her way to meet Jurek Walter.

  The textured wallpaper is scratched, and the baseboards scuffed. The closed doors they pass on the way have small plastic signs with numbers on them.

  Saga has a stomachache and tries to stop but is pushed onward.

  “Keep moving,” one of the guards says.

  The isolation unit at Löwenströmska Hospital has a very high security level, far above the requirements for most psychiatric hospitals. The building itself is basically impossible to break into or out of. The rooms have fireproof steel doors, fixed inner ceilings, and walls that have been reinforced with an inch of metal plate.

  A heavy gate clangs shut behind them as they head down the stairs.

  The guard at the security door leading to the cells
takes the bag of Saga’s possessions, checks the documentation, and signs Saga in on the computer. An older man with a baton hanging from his belt is visible on the other side of the door. He’s wearing big glasses and has wavy hair. Saga looks at him through the scratched reinforced glass.

  The man with the baton takes Saga’s papers, leafs through them, peers at her for a moment, then continues reading them.

  Saga’s stomach is cramping. She needs to lie down. She tries to breathe steadily but feels a sudden jolt of pain and leans forward.

  “Stand still,” the guard says in a neutral voice.

  A younger man in a doctor’s coat appears beyond the door. He pulls a pass card through the reader, taps in a code, and walks out to meet her.

  “My name is Anders Rönn. I’m acting chief here,” he says.

  After a superficial search, Saga follows the doctor and the guard with the wavy hair through the security locks. She can smell their body odor in the confined space before the second door opens.

  Saga recognizes the layout of the ward from the plans she has memorized.

  They walk around a corner and over to the unit’s cramped surveillance room. A woman with pierced cheeks is sitting in front of the monitors. She blushes when she sees Saga but greets her with a friendly hello before looking down and writing something in her logbook.

  “My, would you remove the cuffs from the patient’s ankles?” the young doctor asks.

  The woman nods, gets on her knees, and unlocks the cuffs. The hair on her head lifts slightly from the static in Saga’s clothes.

  The young doctor and the guard walk Saga out of the control room to one of the three doors in the corridor.

  “Unlock the door,” the doctor orders the man with the baton.

  The guard takes out a key, opens the door, then tells her to go in and stand on the red cross on the floor with her back to the door.

  She does as he asks and hears the lock click as the key is turned again.

  In front of her is another metal door. She knows that this one is locked and leads straight out into the dayroom.