The Rabbit Hunter Read online

  The beautiful nineteenth-century building reaches high above the buildings around it.

  Oscar von Creutz hasn’t been at work all day, and his girlfriend Caroline hasn’t showed up for any of her classes at school.

  Joona rings the doorbell for the penthouse flat, waits a few seconds, then looks through the letterbox and sees post on the hall floor.

  He tugs the handle and can feel that the door hasn’t been double-locked.

  The sun is shining through the stained glass window in the stairwell.

  Joona inserts his lock-pick, nudges it carefully, unlocking cylinder after cylinder, then twists it and hears the mechanism click.

  The door to Oscar von Creutz’s flat swings open and letters and advertisements spill out onto the landing.

  ‘Police!’ Joona shouts. ‘I’m coming in!’

  Drawing his pistol, he moves inside the large hallway, which is lined with built-in cupboards. Heaps of clothes have fallen off hangers and are lying strewn across shoes and boots.

  A plastic bag with shampoo, conditioner and soap has fallen over, and a pool of pink liquid has spread out across the textured limestone floor.

  Joona walks cautiously into a living room. The still air is heavy and stagnant, and yellow light is falling onto the shimmering floor through the windows.

  The top of the coffee table has been smashed, and tiny shards of glass litter the floor.

  The lights are on upstairs. Their glow illuminates the curtain behind the glass wall.

  Joona stands still for a few seconds, then slips into the hallway leading to a kitchen lined with family portraits.

  There’s white powder on the floor, and footprints leading to a closed door.

  ‘Police!’ Joona shouts once more.

  He gently reaches out his hand and pushes the door open. Silence. He can see part of a bathroom.

  He quickly goes inside, aiming his pistol into the gloom, sweeping the barrel across the walls and into the corners.

  Lipstick, face cream, and eyeshadow are all scattered across the bathroom floor and sink.

  He goes over to the bath and sees that it was full of water. The level has sunk, leaving a dirty ring.

  Beneath a bathroom cabinet with an open mirrored door lie some pill bottles and plasters. He can see the hallway behind him in the mirror, and when he moves to one side he sees that someone has dragged their hand across the wall in the direction of the kitchen.

  He thinks about the rabbits trying to get to heaven on a kite.

  The floor creaks under his weight.

  Joona reaches the kitchen, steps over a torn packet of flour, and edges along the wall to the right, aiming his pistol at the dining room.

  A tub of Kalix whitefish roe, some free-range bacon and a bag of stir-fry vegetables stand in the middle of the island, lit up by sunlight.

  The kitchen counter is lined with jars and cereal packets. Most of the wall-mounted cabinets are open.

  Joona walks over to the heavy dining room furniture – a dark-wood table and eighteen chairs – and stops at one end.

  Beside a half-full coffee cup and a plate with an untouched slice of toast lies the morning paper. The news of Teddy Johnson’s murder outside St Johannes’ Church is all over the front page.

  Joona goes upstairs and searches the second bathroom and both bedrooms. In one he finds a half-full suitcase on the unmade double bed. In the other room someone has left underwear and sock drawers open.

  Oscar didn’t find out about Teddy Johnson’s death until he sat down to breakfast with the morning paper.

  The murder sent him into a blind panic. He started to pack, throwing clothes around, and ended up arguing with his girlfriend.

  Oscar was scared.

  And he didn’t think there was any time to lose.

  Maybe he and his girlfriend left everything behind, maybe they managed to take a few things with them.

  The food laid out in the kitchen suggests they were planning to take supplies with them, so they weren’t on their way to the house in France. They were going to a hiding place.

  73

  When Saga wakes up, the plane is over Lake Michigan. From three thousand metres up the water looks perfectly smooth and shimmers metallically.

  She wipes her mouth and thinks about the short text message she received from Joona, telling her that the Rabbit Hole was a building that burned down during Rex’s senior year.

  The fire wasn’t reported to the police, but did have one very unusual repercussion: Oscar von Creutz, a student from a prominent family, was expelled.

  Joona went to Oscar’s home, but says Oscar appears to have fled in panic.

  The cabin crew repeat their request for passengers to prepare for landing.

  Saga pulls her paperback from the seat pocket, tucks it in her bag, then leans back and waits for the plane to land.

  Her trip is covered by an agreement between the Security Police and the FBI after the murder of the acting US Defence Secretary in Sweden, and falls within the remit of the Counter Terrorism Group and international legal cooperation.

  Even if Saga doesn’t think the murder was committed by a terrorist, she caught the first flight to Chicago.

  Now that Joona has convinced her that they’re trying to find a spree killer, there’s no time to lose. The killer’s clearly entered a very active phase, where there are no quiet periods, no rest. And the tempo is only going to get faster and faster.

  He’s murdered three people, and is planning to murder another seven.

  Ten little rabbits.

  Saga thinks about the rhyme, the cut-off rabbits’ ears, and the Rabbit Hole.

  Right now the Rabbit Hole is the only lead they have.

  Young William, who would go on to become Sweden’s Foreign Minister, was the club’s chair, and Rex lost his girlfriend to him when she became a member.

  Maybe Oscar von Creutz was in the club – unless he set fire to the pavilion because he wasn’t allowed to join?

  But Grace is the only living member they are certain about.

  She was there, and she met the others.

  Grace is the key to this, Saga thinks as the wheels touch down.

  She unbuckles her seat belt, stands up and walks past the passengers in business class. One of the stewards is about to tell her to sit down, but ends up letting her leave the plane ahead of everyone else.

  After passport control Saga jogs past baggage claim, through customs and emerges in the arrivals hall. She pretends not to see the FBI driver waiting for her.

  She doesn’t have time to make small talk with the FBI and pretend to be investigating an act of terrorism.

  Saga stops at duty-free to buy a small tin of Swedish Dream Cookies, then hurries to the exit.

  Grace attended Ludviksberg School when her father, Gus Lindstrom, was posted to the US Embassy in Stockholm as Defence Attaché.

  She later moved back to Chicago for her final year of high school, at the school her dad used to attend.

  Grace is now a little over fifty years old, has never married, has no registered phone and isn’t active on social media. For the past year she has been living in the exclusive Timberline Knolls Residential Treatment Centre. Saga called and spoke to a receptionist and one of the managers, and asked them to pass on a message to Grace, but she hasn’t heard anything back.

  Joona sent a photograph of Grace, a blonde girl with perfect teeth, holding a tiny prize trophy. She has a double string of pearls around her neck, and the clasp sparkles in the flash of the camera.

  Saga runs past the row of airport taxis. The warm air is full of the smell of fried food and exhaust fumes.

  Saga crosses the road to the car-hire centre. She enters an ice-cold office and rents a yellow Ford Mustang.

  Is Grace just a privileged girl who left Rex for the snobs in the exclusive club, the spoiled daughter of an American diplomat who was never happy in Sweden, and who just wanted to get back to her friends in Chicago?

  During
her last term at Ludviksberg School she was evidently deemed worthy to enter the Rabbit Hole, despite her lack of aristocratic connections.

  Saga drives through the Waterfall Glen Forest Preserve, then slows down and turns onto tree-lined Timberline Drive, where she parks in front of the main building.

  The air smells like damp forest and freshly mown grass.

  Less than half an hour has passed since she left the airport.

  In the reception area a woman smiles at her from behind a tall cherry-wood desk with a rack of glossy brochures on it.

  In English, Saga explains why she’s there, saying she’s an old friend of the Lindstrom family who’s come all the way from Sweden to visit Grace.

  ‘I’ll just check her schedule,’ the woman smiles. ‘She’s got art therapy in an hour … and after that there’s yoga.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Saga assures her as she signs herself in.

  ‘Take a seat, and someone will show you through,’ the woman nods.

  Saga sits down and leafs through the brochures, where she reads that Timberline Knolls is a holistic and spiritual rehabilitation centre for women and girls aged twelve and up.

  ‘Miss?’ a gruff voice says.

  A heavyset man in a tight guard’s uniform is staring at her. He’s breathing through his nose and has beads of sweat on his forehead. A club, Taser and a large-calibre revolver hang from the belt beneath his bulging stomach.

  ‘My name is Mark, and I have the honour of escorting you to the school ball,’ he says.

  ‘Great,’ she says, without smiling back.

  Relatives are walking with residents or sitting on benches in the lush grass.

  ‘Are any of your patients violent?’ she asks.

  ‘You can feel perfectly safe with me, miss,’ he says.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing your revolver.’

  ‘Some of our guests are famous, and extremely rich … so I’d ask you not to stare,’ he says, breathing hard.

  ‘I’m not staring.’

  ‘And if you run over and try to get a selfie with Kesha, I’ll put six million volts through your sweet ass.’

  The guard rocks as he walks, and wipes sweat from his face with an unbleached paper towel.

  ‘Tough talk,’ Saga mutters.

  ‘Yes, but if you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.’

  They pass a large structure with white pillars and a sign saying ‘Timberline Academy’, then a stone building being used as a painting studio.

  Mark is out of breath by the time he ushers her into a modern building. He leads her past a dayroom with leaded windows looking out on the park, into a hallway with pale blue walls.

  ‘Call reception when you want to be picked up,’ he says, then knocks gently on a door and nods at Saga to go inside.

  74

  Saga walks into the small room, which contains a bed, a chest of drawers and an armchair. A few beads of clay are lying on the floor next to a potted palm. A thin woman is sitting by the window looking out onto the path, picking at the grey rubber seal between the glass and the frame.

  ‘Grace?’ Saga says gently, and waits for her to turn around. ‘My name is Saga Bauer, and I’m from Sweden.’

  ‘I’m not well,’ the woman says in a weak voice.

  ‘Do you like cookies? I bought some at the airport.’

  Grace turns towards Saga and brushes one cheek nervously. The years have left their mark on Grace, rubbing away all trace of the young girl and leaving a prematurely aged woman.

  Her grey hair is gathered in a limp plait over her thin shoulder, her face is sunken and wrinkled, and she has a lifeless prosthetic eye in one eye-socket.

  ‘We have a coffee machine in the cafeteria,’ she says weakly.

  They set out small plates and cups on the little round table by the sofas and sit down across from each other. Saga offers her the plate of cookies, and she says thank you as she puts one on her plate.

  ‘There are lots of people of Swedish descent in Chicago,’ Grace says, plucking her grey cardigan. ‘Most of them ended up in Andersonville. I read that for a while there were more Swedes here than in Gothenburg. My dad’s grandmother Selma came from Halland … she arrived in May 1912, and became a housemaid.’

  ‘And you’ve managed to hold onto the language,’ Saga says, to keep her talking.

  ‘Dad travelled to Sweden a lot … eventually he ended up as Defence Attaché in Stockholm,’ Grace says with a hint of pride.

  ‘Defence Attaché,’ Saga repeats.

  ‘There’s a lot of history and tradition … Did you know that the first diplomatic relations between the US and Sweden were established by Benjamin Franklin?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Dad was very loyal to the ambassador,’ Grace says, putting her cup down.

  ‘You lived in Sweden?’

  ‘I loved those light nights …’

  The sleeve of her cardigan slips down as she gestures towards the ceiling, and Saga sees that her arm is lined with scars.

  ‘You attended school outside Stockholm.’

  ‘The best there was.’

  She falls silent and lets her thin hands drop to her lap. Saga remembers that Grace’s father stayed in Sweden, even after his daughter moved back to Chicago.

  ‘But you moved back here after just two years?’ she says curiously.

  Grace, startled, glances up at her.

  ‘Did I? Maybe I was homesick …’

  ‘Even though your parents stayed in Sweden?’

  ‘Dad had just started his post.’

  ‘But before you moved home again, you belonged to a club at Ludviksberg School,’ Saga says calmly. ‘You used to meet in a pavilion known at the Rabbit Hole.’

  Grace’s face trembles.

  ‘That was just a silly name,’ she mutters.

  ‘But it was a fancy club … for students from the very best families,’ Saga says tentatively.

  ‘Now I know what you’re getting at … I had a boyfriend who took me to the Order of the Crusebjörn Knights … that was its real name. I was only eighteen, a real idiot … a good girl from Chicago who used to go to the Swedish Lutheran Church every Sunday. I never dreamed I would ever date anyone before I got to Sweden …’

  Her breathing has become oddly shallow, and she fumbles in her pocket for her medication. She ends up scattering the pills on the floor.

  ‘So you know who the members were?’

  ‘They were like film stars … Just being there and having them notice me made me feel like Cinderella.’

  Grace takes the pills that Saga has picked up, thanks her and swallows one of them dry.

  ‘What was your boyfriend’s name?’

  ‘Boyfriend isn’t really the right word … but it was all so long ago,’ she concludes.

  ‘You don’t look happy.’

  ‘No,’ Grace whispers, then sits silently again.

  ‘Not all boyfriends are nice,’ Saga says, trying to catch her eye.

  ‘By the time I realised he’d put something in my drink, it was already too late, I felt sick, tried to get to the door … I remember them staring at me … the room was spinning … I tried to say I wanted to go home …’

  Grace puts her hand over her mouth.

  ‘They hurt you,’ Saga says quietly, trying to sound calm.

  Grace lowers her shaking hand.

  ‘I don’t know, I was lying on the floor,’ she says in a monotone. ‘I couldn’t move. They held my arms and legs while Wille raped me … I kept thinking about Mum and Dad, and what on earth I was going to say to them.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Saga says, and squeezes her hand.

  ‘But I never said anything, I couldn’t tell anyone that they did that to me … The whole club was lined up, pushing and shoving. I couldn’t understand why they were so angry at me, they kept shouting and slapping my face.’

  She picks at the biscuit crumbs on the table.

  ‘Tell me what you remember,�
� Saga says.

  ‘I remember … I remember it started to hurt really badly. It was wrong. I was seriously hurt … but they just kept going, grunting and groaning, kissing me on the neck, groping me …’

  Her voice fades away, and she’s breathing hard.

  ‘They changed places and I saw blood on their hands … I begged and pleaded with them to call an ambulance … When I wouldn’t stop crying they hit me in the face with an ashtray, then they broke a bottle …’

  She hunches over, panting for breath.

  ‘The last thing I remember is Wille pushing his thumb into my eye … I thought I was going to die. I should have died, but I only passed out …’

  She’s sobbing hard now, her shoulders shaking. Saga says nothing, just holds her tight and lets her finish her story.

  ‘I woke up on the manure pile behind the stables, that was where they dumped me. The man who looked after the horses found me. He was the one who took me to the hospital.’

  Saga holds her until she’s calmed down.

  ‘Do you remember their names?’

  Grace wipes the tears from her face and looks down at her hands.

  ‘Teddy Johnson, and … what was his name? Kent … and Lawrence. Hold on,’ she whispers, and shakes her head. ‘I know all their names.’

  ‘You said Wille before,’ Saga prompts. ‘He went on to become Sweden’s Foreign Minister.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘He was your boyfriend, wasn’t he?’ Saga asks.

  ‘What? No, my boyfriend’s name was Rex … I was so in love with him.’

  ‘Rex Müller?’ Saga asks. She feels sweat break out on her back.

  ‘He was the one who arranged it all,’ Grace says. ‘He was the worst one. It was all his fault … oh, God … he tricked me into going into the Rabbit Hole, and …’

  She stops speaking abruptly, as if she’s run out of voice. Saga looks at the fragile woman. She needs to call Joona as soon as possible.

  ‘Did Rex take part in the rape?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course,’ Grace says, closing her eyes.

  ‘Do you remember any other names?’

  ‘Soon,’ she whispers.

  ‘You mentioned Wille … so, William Fock, Teddy Johnson and Kent …’