The Rabbit Hunter Page 29

  ‘But here’s where it gets interesting,’ she says.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Joona says as he drives along the edge of a military training area.

  ‘William had some sort of club at the school. It was only for select pupils, I don’t know what the point of it was, but the place where they met was called the Rabbit Hole.’

  ‘The Rabbit Hole,’ Joona repeats. They’re getting close to the answer.

  ‘This is what we’re looking for – isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you have the names of the members?’

  ‘Only Grace and Wille.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Rex says he doesn’t know.’

  ‘But Grace must know,’ Joona says.

  ‘Of course, but she seems to live in Chicago …’

  ‘I can go,’ Joona says.

  ‘No, I’ve already spoken to Verner, I’m leaving as soon as I get an address.’

  ‘Good.’

  Braking gently, he turns into the driveway leading to Ludviksberg School. The main building looks like an old manor-house, with whitewashed stone walls and a hip roof.

  He leaves the car in the visitors’ car park and crosses the lawn to the broad flight of stairs. The ground is covered with blue flowers, but deer or rabbits have been eating them. Joona bends over and picks up one of the spoiled flowers.

  He passes a group of students wearing navy-blue uniforms and carrying stacks of textbooks in their arms.

  In the entrance there’s a large colour photograph of the school grounds with arrows and signs. There are four boarding houses for girls and four for boys, as well as a groundskeeper’s flat, teachers’ homes, stables, sheds, a pump-house, sports facilities and a beach pavilion.

  Joona walks through the glass doors to the headmaster’s office, shows his ID to the secretary and is shown into a large room with polished oak panels and huge windows overlooking the park. Behind the desk hang framed pictures of members of royalty who have been pupils at the school.

  The headmaster is standing in front of a dark leather armchair, a stack of papers in one hand. He’s a thin man in his fifties, clean-shaven, with dark-blond hair parted on the side, and a very rigid posture.

  Joona goes over and hands him the little blue flower, then pulls out a document in a plastic folder.

  ‘Here’s the prosecutor’s request.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ the headmaster says, without even looking at the document. ‘I’m happy to help in any way I can.’

  ‘Where’s the student register?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he smiles, making a sweeping gesture towards a built-in bookcase covering one of the walls.

  Joona goes over to the library. It contains the bound yearbooks for every year since the school was founded. He traces his way across the spines, back thirty years.

  ‘Can I ask what this is about?’ the headmaster says, putting the flower down next to his keyboard before sitting down.

  ‘A preliminary investigation,’ Joona says, and pulls out one of the books.

  ‘I appreciate that, but … I’d just like to know if it’s anything that might reflect badly on the school.’

  ‘I’m trying to stop a spree killer.’

  ‘I don’t know what one of those is,’ the headmaster says.

  Joona pulls out another four yearbooks and puts them on the table.

  He starts to leaf through the thirty-year-old photographs, looking at pictures from a lecture by the author William Golding, as well as St Lucia celebrations, tennis tournaments, cricket, dressage, show-jumping.

  He looks at graduation pictures of students wearing white caps, school balls with big band music, Sunday dinners with white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers and serving staff.

  According to the yearbooks, the boarding school is home to about five hundred and thirty students at any one time. Taking teachers, administrative staff, boarding house staff and other employees into account, there are some six hundred and fifty names in each book.

  One picture shows a very young William Fock, the man who would later become Sweden’s Foreign Minister, receiving a prize from the headmaster at the time.

  Joona slowly packs the five yearbooks into his bag.

  ‘This is a reference library,’ the headmaster protests. ‘You can’t take our yearbooks …’

  ‘Tell me about the Rabbit Hole,’ Joona says, zipping his bag.

  The headmaster’s gaze wavers in momentary surprise, and he sets his chin.

  ‘I have to agree with the international media. The Swedish police might want to try a little harder to find Teddy Johnson’s murderer. Just a little tip, seeing as you and your colleagues seem to be having trouble finding things to occupy your time.’

  ‘There’s a club here at this school,’ Joona says.

  ‘I’m not aware of it.’

  ‘Maybe it’s secret?’

  ‘Sadly I don’t believe that we have any dead poets’ societies,’ the headmaster says coolly.

  ‘So you don’t have any old-fashioned clubs or associations?’

  ‘I’ve allowed you to get insight into our activities, even if I find it hard to believe that you’ll find your killer here, but I won’t answer any questions about the private affairs of our students, or any groups they might or might not belong to.’

  ‘Have any members of staff worked here for more than thirty years?’

  When the headmaster doesn’t answer, Joona walks around the desk and begins to search the computer himself. He opens a set of accounts and finds the employee payroll.

  ‘The stable master,’ the headmaster says weakly.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Emil … something.’

  71

  A group of students are smoking down by the stables. One girl is riding in a paddock, and several horses are grazing in a field behind the building. Students can board their horses at the school, fully serviced, while school is in session.

  Just as Joona is walking into the stable his phone buzzes with a text message from Saga. She’s taking the next direct flight to Chicago to talk to the only known habitué of the Rabbit Hole.

  Grace Lindstrom.

  Now that Joona is near the stalls, the air is heavy with horse, leather and hay. The stable consists of twenty-six stalls and a heated saddle room.

  A thin man in his sixties, wearing a green quilted jacket and wellington boots, is grooming a coffee-brown gelding.

  ‘Emil?’ Joona says.

  The man stops and the horse snorts. Its ears twitch nervously at the unfamiliar voice.

  ‘He looks very good across the withers and loins,’ Joona says.

  ‘That he does,’ the man says without turning around.

  With shaky hands, he puts the brush down.

  Joona walks over to the gelding and pats him on the shoulder. The horse is sensitive and his skin reacts instantly, contracting beneath his hand.

  ‘Bit too twitchy, that’s all,’ Emil says, turning towards Joona.

  ‘Too eager, maybe.’

  ‘You should see him gallop, he runs like the wind.’

  ‘I was just talking to the headmaster, and he said you might be able to help me,’ Joona says, showing his police ID.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of piecing together a complicated puzzle, and I could use some help with one of the pieces from someone who’s worked at the school for a long time.’

  ‘I started as a stable-boy thirty-five years ago,’ Emil replies warily.

  ‘Then you’d know about the Rabbit Hole,’ Joona says.

  ‘No,’ the man says abruptly, then looks towards the low window.

  ‘It’s where some sort of club meets,’ Joona says.

  ‘I need to get back to work,’ Emil says, grabbing a shovel.

  ‘I can see you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who used to meet at the Rabbit Hole?’

  ‘How should I know? I was a stable-boy. I’
m still only the stable master.’

  ‘But I’m sure you see things, have seen things. Haven’t you?’

  ‘I mind my own business,’ Emil replies, but he lets go of the shovel as if all the energy has gone out of him.

  ‘Tell me about the Rabbit Hole.’

  ‘I heard it mentioned in the first few years, but …’

  ‘Who met there?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he whispers.

  ‘What did they do there?’ Joona persists.

  ‘Partied, smoked, drank … the usual.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because that’s how it looked.’

  ‘Did you attend the parties?’

  ‘Me?’ Emil asks with his chin wobbling. ‘You can just go to hell.’

  The horse picks up on his nervousness and gets anxious, stamping and knocking the sides of the stall, making the bridle swing against the wall.

  ‘You looked up towards the pump-house the first time I mentioned the Rabbit Hole – is that where it is?’

  ‘It’s no longer there,’ Emil says, breathing out hard.

  ‘But that’s where it was?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show me.’

  They go out together, up the gravel track, past the groundskeeper’s flat and over to the pump-house, where they leave the road and head off towards the edge of the forest.

  Emil leads Joona to the foundations of an abandoned building covered by weeds and birch saplings. He stops hesitantly in front of a small hole in the ground, picks some strands of long grass and starts pulling them apart.

  ‘Is this the Rabbit Hole?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emil replies, blinking away tears.

  Huge roots have disturbed some of the foundation, and Joona can see a narrow flight of stairs blocked by earth and stones between some thorny bushes.

  ‘What did this place used to be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not welcome up here,’ Emil whispers.

  ‘Why did you stay at the school all these years?’

  ‘Where else would I get to be with such fine horses?’ the man says, then turns to walk back to the stables.

  The overgrown foundation lies fifty metres behind the main residential block of the Haga boarding house.

  Joona puts his bag down on the grass, takes out the oldest yearbook and leafs through the pictures again, looking more closely each time the Haga boarding house appears.

  He stops at a winter picture of blond children with rosy cheeks having a snowball fight.

  Behind them is a beautiful blue pavilion.

  Standing precisely here.

  The Rabbit Hole wasn’t an underground passageway. It wasn’t the cellar beneath an old, abandoned building.

  Thirty years ago there was a beautiful building right here.

  In the photograph the pavilion’s shutters are closed. Gold lettering above the doors spells out ‘Bellando vincere’ as a sort of motto.

  Joona kicks the ground hard at the edge of the overgrown foundation, walks around, pulls up some of the weeds with their roots, leans over and picks up a piece of charred wood. He turns it over, and sees that it’s part of an arched window.

  He returns to the main school building and marches straight in to see the headmaster again, closely followed by the secretary.

  ‘Ann-Marie,’ the headmaster says tiredly. ‘Can you explain visiting hours to the detective, and—’

  ‘If you lie to me again, I’ll arrest you, and drag you to Kronoberg Prison,’ Joona says to the headmaster.

  ‘I’m calling our lawyers,’ the man gasps, reaching for his phone.

  Joona puts the blackened piece of wood on the desk. Soil and tiny crumbs of charcoal scatter across the polished desktop.

  ‘Tell me about the blue building that burned down.’

  ‘The Crusebjörn Pavilion,’ the headmaster says quietly.

  ‘What did the students call it?’

  The headmaster lets go of the phone, runs his hand across his forehead and whispers something to himself.

  ‘What did you say?’ Joona asks sharply.

  ‘The Rabbit Hole.’

  ‘Presumably the school’s management committee was in charge of the maintenance of the pavilion?’ Joona says.

  ‘Yes,’ the headmaster admits.

  Large sweat-stains are spreading out under the arms of his white shirt.

  ‘But the committee allowed the pavilion to be used by some sort of club?’

  ‘Power isn’t always visible,’ the headmaster says dully. ‘The headmaster and school board don’t always make the decisions.’

  ‘Who belonged to the club?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s way above my level. I’d never be granted access.’

  ‘Why did it burn down?’

  ‘It was arson … the police weren’t involved, but one student was expelled.’

  ‘Give me a name,’ Joona says, looking at him with cold grey eyes.

  ‘I can’t,’ the headmaster says. ‘You don’t understand. I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it,’ Joona says.

  The headmaster looks down for a few seconds, his hands trembling on the desk. Eventually he says quietly:

  ‘Oscar von Creutz … He was the one who burned down the pavilion.’

  72

  Joona runs through the main entrance to Danderyd Hospital. The Rabbit Hole is a black hole, pulling everything else towards it.

  Right now there are two threads to follow.

  Two names.

  One is a member, the other is the man who burned the place down.

  Saga has managed to track Grace down, and Joona has asked Anja to help him find Oscar.

  Ludviksberg School had no records of who had access to the Rabbit Hole.

  School management was used to handling certain families’ privileges with discretion.

  The members themselves were the only people who knew who belonged to the club.

  William Fock had flaunted his membership to prove how powerful he was to Rex.

  Anja is a short distance away, waiting by the lifts. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress that clings to her full figure.

  Her strong shoulders betray the fact that she was once an Olympic medallist in swimming. Now she works for the NOU, and before Joona was sent to prison, she was his closest colleague.

  The lift dings just as Joona reaches Anja. They walk in at the same time, look at each other and smile.

  ‘Fifth floor?’ Joona asks, and presses the button.

  ‘You’re supposed to spend a few more years in Kumla,’ Anja mumbles, squinting at him.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Seems to have done you good though. You look more handsome than ever,’ she says, hugging him tight.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispers to her head.

  ‘Liar,’ she smiles.

  They stand there embracing until the doors open on the fifth floor. Anja reluctantly lets go of him and dabs at the corners of her eyes as they head down the hallway.

  ‘How’s Gustav doing?’

  ‘He’s going to be OK,’ she says, trying to make her voice sound bright.

  They pass a glass wall leading to an unmanned reception desk and a waiting room.

  Gustav’s room is further away, but before they reach it Anja stops.

  ‘I’ll go and get some coffee, I think he’d like to speak to you alone,’ she says in a subdued voice.

  ‘OK,’ Joona replies.

  ‘Be nice to him,’ she says, then disappears.

  Joona knocks on the door and goes in. The room is small, with cream walls and a narrow pale wooden wardrobe.

  There’s a large bouquet of flowers in front of the window.

  Gustav is lying in a hospital bed with a blanket over his legs. He’s hooked up to an IV. The bandage from the amputation covers his whole chest.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Joona asks, sitting down on the chair beside the bed.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Gustav says, loo
king at Joona.

  He gestures towards the stump at his shoulder.

  ‘I’m a little high all the time, because they’re pumping me full of drugs, and it seems like all I do is sleep,’ he says, almost managing to squeeze out a smile.

  ‘Did Anja bring the flowers?’

  ‘They’re actually from Janus. I hope he’s not in trouble, because he’s OK. He’s a good leader, a good marksman, and, like you said, he can’t let anything go.’

  His usually amiable face is clenched and pale, his lips almost white.

  ‘Joona, I’ve thought a lot about what I’d say to you when I got the chance … and the only thing I keep coming back to is that I’m ashamed … and I’m so incredibly sorry. I know I’m not supposed to talk about this, but I have to tell you that the operation was a disaster. I still can’t understand it. I lost Sonny and Jamal. I lost the helicopter. I lost Markus, and …’

  His eyes glaze over and he shakes his head and whispers: ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You can’t predict how anything will unfold, no one can,’ Joona says quietly. ‘You do your best, but sometimes things still go wrong. You paid a high price.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ Gustav says. ‘But the others …’

  His words fade away and he closes his eyes, seeming to disappear into thought. Slowly his head slips towards his chest, and Joona realises that he’s asleep.

  When Joona comes out into the hallway, Anja is standing outside the door eating cinnamon buns. He hands her the bag containing the yearbooks from Ludviksberg School and asks her to check all the names against the databases to see if any of them have a criminal record, are missing, or have died.

  ‘I’m just going to say hi to Gustav,’ she says.

  ‘Did you find out anything about Oscar von Creutz?’

  ‘I should get a response any minute now,’ she says, offering him the bag of buns.

  When he puts his hand in she grabs it, and laughs a bit too loudly when he tries to pull free. Then her phone buzzes.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Oscar von Creutz’s registered address is on Österlång Street … and he also has a house on the French Riviera. He’s single, but he’s seeing someone, a Caroline Hamilton, who in my opinion is far too young for him. Neither of them are answering their phones.’