The Rabbit Hunter Read online

  Blood is dripping from the handle of the oven.

  The man leans over, pulls the knife from Absalon’s stomach and shakes the blood from its blade before leaving the kitchen.

  55

  While Saga is taking a shower at the boxing club, Joona calls Carlos to make sure that the police have gone to Ratjen’s home. He tries calling five times before giving up and leaving a voicemail saying that he’s out of prison, and wants to question Absalon Ratjen as soon as possible.

  ‘We might be able to stop the killer before anyone else dies,’ he concludes.

  Joona and Saga leave the boxing club and walk together towards the car park.

  ‘Verner promised to take care of your release himself,’ Saga says.

  ‘If I don’t hear anything I have to be back at the prison in three hours.’

  They cross the street and walk through the black gates. Suddenly Saga stops.

  ‘My phone just died,’ she says, holding it up. ‘Look, it’s been blocked. I’ll have to go to the office and find out what’s happened.’

  They reach Joona’s Volvo, then see two serious-looking men wearing dark suits and earpieces heading in their direction.

  ‘Move away from the car, Bauer,’ the younger of the two agents calls out.

  Taking her laptop out of her gym bag, Saga does as he says.

  ‘Is this Verner’s idea?’ she asks.

  ‘Give us the laptop,’ the older agent with cropped grey hair says.

  ‘This one?’ Saga asks, unable to hold back a grin.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, and holds out his hand.

  She tosses the laptop over the roof of the car, and it spins through the air before Joona catches it without changing his expression.

  The two agents switch direction and start walking towards him. Melodic folk music is streaming out from an open window at the school. Joona stands still with the computer in his hand. The men walk around the car and approach with don’t-mess-with-us expressions.

  ‘That laptop is being sequestered according to paragraph—’

  Just before they reach him Joona throws the laptop across the car roof again. Saga catches it with one hand and takes a step back.

  ‘This is just childish,’ the older agent says, struggling to suppress an involuntary smile.

  They turn around again and start walking towards Saga. The younger one adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves.

  ‘You realise you’re going to have to give us the computer,’ he says patiently.

  ‘No,’ Saga replies.

  Before they reach her she drops the thin laptop between the grille of a drain-cover. There’s a splash as it hits the water below. The two agents stop and stare at her.

  ‘That was a bit stupid, wasn’t it?’ the older agent says with a frown.

  ‘You have to come with us, Bauer,’ the other one says.

  ‘You should have seen the looks on your faces,’ she says, smiling, and heads off along the side of the building with the two agents.

  She’s much shorter than them, and her leather jacket shimmers damply from her wet hair.

  ‘Do you want me to do anything for you?’ Joona calls after her.

  ‘You need to call Verner,’ she replies, turning to look at him. ‘He promised you wouldn’t have to go back to prison.’

  Once Saga is in the agents’ car and they’ve driven off, Joona takes out his phone and tries Carlos again, then calls the Security Police Communication Centre.

  ‘Security Police.’

  ‘I want to speak to Verner Sandén,’ Joona says.

  ‘He’s in a meeting right now.’

  ‘He needs to take this call.’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Joona Linna. He knows who I am.’

  The line crackles, then Joona hears a recorded voice encouraging him to follow the Security Police on Twitter and Facebook. The voice stops abruptly when the woman comes back.

  ‘He says he doesn’t know you,’ she says in a reserved voice.

  ‘Tell him—’

  ‘He’s in a meeting and can’t take any calls right now,’ she interrupts, then ends the call before he has time to say anything else.

  Even though Joona knows there’s no point, he calls the main government building and says that the Prime Minister is expecting a call from him. In a friendly voice, the secretary asks Joona to send an email to the admin department.

  ‘The address is on our website,’ he says, then hangs up.

  Joona gets in the car and dials Janus Mickelsen’s number, but the call doesn’t go through and an automated voice informs him that the number is not in use. He tries the other contacts on the borrowed phone, but none of the numbers is in use now.

  He looks at his watch.

  If he starts driving now, he can be back at Kumla in time. He has no alternative. He can’t risk getting an extended prison sentence.

  He starts the car and reverses out, then stops to let a woman and guide-dog pass on the pavement before turning right towards Norrtull.

  The news on the radio includes a report that says the security services have averted a major attack on Sweden. As usual, no details of the operation are given, including whether the suspected terrorists were arrested. The Security Police’s Press Officer has issued a statement praising comprehensive strategic surveillance and a highly successful operation.

  56

  Joona walks across the wide stretch of tarmac and hears the electronic gates clang shut behind him.

  He walks into the shadow of the dirty yellow wall of the prison, stops ten metres from the command centre and makes one last attempt to reach Carlos. A recorded voice informs him that the Chief of Police is busy and will be unavailable all day.

  As he is checked back in, it feels like time is slowing down. His hands move sluggishly as they place his watch, wallet, car keys and phone in the blue plastic tray.

  A guard with nicotine-stained fingers counts his money, then signs a receipt for the amount.

  Joona gets undressed and walks naked through the security scanner. Big bruises have blossomed like thunderclouds across his chest, and the wound from the axe has swollen, making the black stitches stick out.

  ‘I see you had fun out there,’ the guard says.

  Joona sits down on the worn wooden bench and puts on the colourless prison clothes and trainers.

  ‘It says here that you’re going to be put in solitary confinement,’ the guard goes on.

  ‘What for? I didn’t request isolation,’ Joona says, taking the grey sack containing linen and hygiene items.

  Another prison guard takes Joona to his new section.

  The empty tunnel smells like damp concrete and the only sound is the guard’s radio.

  Joona tells himself to stop worrying about the killer, he knows he’s going to be cut off from the outside world from now on.

  He isn’t involved in the investigation.

  He’s no longer a police officer.

  They emerge into the isolation unit and he is signed in. He has the rules explained to him, then is led along a silent hallway to his new room, the confined space where he will be spending every hour of the day without any contact with the other inmates.

  When the door of the isolation cell slams shut behind him, he goes over to the heavily barred window and stares out at the yellow wall.

  ‘Olen väsynyt tähan hotelliin,’ Joona says to himself in Finnish.

  He puts the grey sack on the bunk and thinks about the fact that the killer had rabbits’ ears tied around his head like trophies, or fetishised symbols.

  Perhaps hunting and killing rabbits was a form of ritual preparation before the murder.

  He’s killed William Fock and is planning to kill Absalon Ratjen, Joona thinks, picking two pieces of grit from the floor and putting them on the narrow windowsill.

  Two victims.

  He leans over and looks more closely: one piece of grit is yellowish quartz, with a pointed end, and the other
has a shiny surface, like a fish-scale.

  Joona thinks about the recording of the child’s voice, and the rhyme about the rabbits going to hell, one after the other.

  Ten little rabbits, he says to himself.

  Joona looks under the bed, picks up another eight pieces of grit and lines them up on the windowsill beside the others.

  The perpetrator is hunting rabbits. He’s going to kill all ten of them.

  Time doesn’t really seem to reach the isolation cell.

  People in prison are dying almost imperceptibly.

  Joona stands still and watches the light move slowly across the row of tiny stones. The shadows get longer, turn like the hands of a clock.

  Every piece of grit is its own sundial.

  The Security Police thought they were hunting terrorists.

  A terrorist would have been a hell of a lot easier than an elite soldier who’s cracked, he thinks.

  A spree killer.

  A trained terrorist would never leave a witness alive, but for spree killers it’s important not to kill the wrong people.

  He could have a religious or political motive, just like a terrorist. The biggest difference is that he doesn’t answer to anyone but himself.

  And that’s what makes him so hard to predict.

  Joona runs a hand through his unruly hair.

  The chrome around the hatch in the door is full of fingerprints. The light-switch is grimy with dirt, and there are pale lumps of chewing tobacco stuck to the ceiling.

  It doesn’t really make any difference if the police are hunting a serial killer, a rampage killer or a spree killer. The decisive factor is the way that their motivation and behaviour fit together.

  A particular background can nudge someone in a particular direction, which leads to a particular modus operandi.

  A ‘spree killer’ is ‘a person who commits two or more murders without any cooling-off period’, according to the FBI.

  No killer is going to fit any definition perfectly, but some of the pieces of the puzzle can become easier to slot into place with the right knowledge.

  A mass murderer commits his killings in one place, whereas a spree killer moves around.

  A serial killer often sexualises his murders, whereas a spree killer rationalises his.

  The gap between killings is rarely longer than seven days.

  Joona looks at the grains of grit on the windowsill.

  Ten little rabbits.

  The police are dealing with a killer harbouring a sort of rage that in certain circumstances makes him crack and start killing the people he holds responsible.

  He’s either selecting his victims very precisely, or is targeting a specific group, killing as many members of it as possible.

  What initially tends to look coincidental usually turns out to be the exact opposite.

  Joona looks at the grains of grit in the window, then walks impatiently across the floor, over to the door, then back to the window, eight paces in total.

  If this killer is picking his targets carefully, and if he fits the definition of a spree killer, then there’s still something that doesn’t make sense, he thinks.

  There’s a gap in the logic.

  Without doubt, they’re dealing with an intelligent murderer: he cut a hole in the glass door of the Foreign Minister’s home to evade the alarms, he knew where the cameras were, and left no evidence behind.

  And the countdown in the rabbit rhyme suggests that he’s already decided who’s going to die.

  He’s planned ten murders – and starts with the Foreign Minister.

  Why does he do that?

  That’s where the problem is.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  The killer must have realised that the police would devote a huge amount of resources to their hunt for him. He must have realised that his plan would become a great deal harder to carry out if he started with that murder.

  The spree killer starts with the Foreign Minister, Joona thinks. And plans to move on to a high-school teacher in Skövde.

  The Foreign Minister and the teacher, he thinks.

  Very carefully, Joona touches the first two grains of grit, then puts his finger on the third, and suddenly knows the answer to the riddle.

  ‘The funeral,’ he whispers, then walks over to the door and bangs on it.

  That’s why he killed the Foreign Minister first. His funeral is a trap. One of the people on the killer’s list is an even harder target than William Fock.

  The murderer knows that it will take a funeral of this calibre to lure his next target into the open.

  ‘Hello! Come here!’ Joona calls, knocking on the steel door. ‘Hello!’

  The spyhole goes dark and Joona moves away. The rectangular hatch opens and he sees the bearded guard’s face through the thick glass.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the guard asks.

  ‘I need to make a phone call,’ Joona says.

  ‘This is the isolation unit, and that means—’

  ‘I know,’ Joona interrupts. ‘But I don’t want to be here, I want to get back to D-wing, I haven’t asked to be isolated.’

  ‘No, but the management committee thought you needed protection.’

  ‘Protection? What happened?’

  ‘This is none of my business,’ the man says, lowering his voice. ‘But Marko’s dead … I’m sorry. I understand that you were friends.’

  ‘How could he …?’

  Joona falls silent, thinking of how Marko said he’d take the blame for the fight in the yard so that Joona wouldn’t lose his leave. The last Joona saw of his Finnish friend was when the guards knocked him out and cuffed his hands.

  ‘The Brotherhood?’ Joona asks.

  ‘That’s being investigated.’

  Joona takes a step closer, but stops and holds up his hands when he sees the fear in the man’s face.

  ‘Listen to me, it’s extremely important that I make a phone call right now,’ Joona says, trying to sound composed.

  ‘Isolated status is reconsidered every ten days.’

  ‘You know I’m entitled to call my lawyer whenever—’

  The guard slams the hatch shut and locks it. Joona goes over to the door and slaps his hand over the spyhole just as it turns dark. He hears a thud on the other side of the door, and realises that the bearded man has stumbled back and hit the wall behind him.

  ‘More people are going to die!’ Joona shouts, hitting the door. ‘You can’t do this! I need to make that call!’

  Joona takes aim and kicks the door so hard that the walls shake. He kicks again, and sees a thin trickle of cement dust fall to the floor from the side holding the hinges.

  He picks up the chair with both hands and smashes it against the window as hard as he can. One leg snaps as it hits the bars and clatters onto the desk. He does it again, then lets the chair fall to the floor and sits down on the bunk with his hands over his face.

  57

  The evening light slants in through the windows of the orangery, settling in stripes on the kitchen floor.

  The strips of potato start to quiver as Rex lowers the cage into the hot olive oil.

  DJ is standing by the island prepping the dill.

  ‘I’m a suspect,’ Rex says as he watches the fries slowly colour.

  ‘If you were, you’d be lying strapped to a bench with a wet towel over your face,’ DJ jokes.

  ‘Really, though,’ Rex says. ‘Why else would the Security Police come here if they hadn’t identified me on the security-camera footage?’

  ‘Because you were the Foreign Minister’s friend.’

  ‘I think he was murdered.’

  ‘Then I can give you an alibi,’ DJ smiles, and scrapes the dill into the bowl of shrimp.

  ‘But … it would be a scandal.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ DJ says. ‘Even if the recordings were made public … You have no idea what a response we got to your television interview. Everyone loves the idea of you two playing pranks on eac
h other.’

  ‘I’m so bad at lying,’ Rex mutters, lifting the potatoes from the oil.

  ‘We’ll go to the funeral tomorrow, and then we’re in the clear,’ DJ says, rinsing the heavy knife.

  ‘Yes,’ Rex sighs, noticing that DJ has somehow ended up with dill in his blond beard.

  ‘We’ve got the situation under control. It’s fine. The only thing that bothers me is that damn fight,’ DJ says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Rex, I’m so sorry I came here. I panicked.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rex says.

  ‘Surely we’d know if the man had died?’

  ‘Well, you don’t know for sure that he …’

  ‘I’ve been through all the news bulletins, everything.’

  ‘What did he want from you?’

  ‘I don’t feel like talking about it,’ DJ says, shaking his head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing,’ DJ whispers, and turns away.

  ‘You need to talk to me,’ Rex says to DJ’s back.

  ‘I will,’ he replies, and takes several deep breaths. Sammy comes into the kitchen without a shirt on.

  ‘DJ?’ Rex says.

  ‘Later,’ he says quietly.

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Sammy asks with a smile.

  ‘Lots of secrets,’ Rex says with a wink.

  Sammy goes over to the French balcony, opens the door slightly and lights a cigarette.

  ‘Are you still thinking of going to that party out in Nykvarn?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sammy nods, clicking to make his lighter produce a transparent flame.

  ‘As long as you’re home in time for the funeral.’

  Sammy takes a deep drag, making the cigarette crackle, then exhales the smoke through the gap in the door before looking at Rex.

  ‘I’d come home tonight but there are no buses after nine o’clock,’ he says.

  ‘Get a taxi,’ Rex suggests. ‘I’ll pay.’

  Sammy inhales deeply again, then scratches his cheek with his thumb.

  ‘You can’t get a taxi out there in the middle of the night … it’s not exactly Café Opera.’

  ‘Do you want me to pick you up?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t forget you’ve got the award ceremony tonight,’ DJ says, setting the table.