Stalker Page 6

  Erixon folds the covers back. They’re stiff with dried blood; skin and fabric have stuck together. There’s a faint crunching sound as the dried blood comes loose, and little crumbs rain down.

  Adam raises one hand to his mouth.

  The inhuman brutality was concentrated around her face, neck and chest. The dead woman is naked and smeared in blood, with more stab-wounds and further bleeding beneath her skin.

  Erixon photographs the body, and Margot points at a mottled green patch to the right of her stomach.

  ‘That’s normal,’ Erixon says.

  Her pubic hair has started to regrow around the reddish blonde tuft on her pudenda. There are no visible marks or injuries to the insides of the thighs.

  Erixon takes several hundred pictures of the body, from the head resting on the pillow all the way down to the tips of her toes.

  ‘I’m going to have to touch you now, Susanna,’ he whispers, and lifts her left arm.

  He turns it over and looks at the defensive wounds, cuts which indicate that she tried to fend off the attack.

  With practised gestures he scrapes under her fingernails, the most common place to find a perpetrator’s DNA. He uses a new tube for each nail, attaches a label and makes a note on the computer on the bedside table.

  Her fingers are limp, because rigor mortis has loosened its grip now.

  When he’s done with her nails he carefully pulls a plastic bag over her hand and fastens it with tape, ahead of the post-mortem.

  ‘I pay house visits to ordinary people every week,’ Erixon says quietly. ‘They’ve all got broken glass, overturned furniture and blood on the floor.’

  He walks round the bed and carries on with the nails of the other hand. Just as he’s about to pick it up he stops.

  ‘There’s something in her hand,’ he says, and reaches for his camera. ‘Do you see?’

  Margot leans forward and looks. She can make out a dark object between the dead woman’s fingers. She must have been clutching it tightly because of rigor mortis, but now it’s visible as her hand relaxes.

  Erixon picks up the woman’s hand and carefully lifts the object. It’s as if she still wants to hold on to it, but is too tired to struggle.

  His bulky frame blocks Margot’s view, but then she sees what the victim was clutching in her hand.

  A tiny, broken-off porcelain deer’s head.

  The head is shiny, chestnut-brown, the broken surface at the bottom white as sugar.

  Did the perpetrator or her husband put it in her hand?

  Margot thinks of the glass-fronted cabinet, she’s almost certain that all the porcelain figures were intact, even if they had fallen over.

  She steps back to get an overview of the bedroom. Beside the dead woman Erixon stands, hunch-backed, photographing the little brown head. Adam is sitting slumped on a pouffe in front of the wardrobe. It looks like he’s still trying not to throw up.

  Margot walks back out to the glass-fronted cabinet again, and stands for a while in front of the toppled figurines. They’re all lying as if they were dead, but none of them is broken, none is missing its head.

  Why is the victim holding a small deer’s head in her hand?

  She looks over towards the bright light of the bedroom and thinks that she ought to go and take one last look at the body before it’s moved to the pathology department in Solna.

  13

  It’s morning, and Erik Maria Bark is standing at the till in the cafeteria of the Psychology Clinic, buying a cup of coffee. As he takes his wallet out to pay, he feels the ache in his shoulders from his piano lesson.

  ‘It’s already been paid for,’ the cashier says.

  ‘Already paid for?’

  ‘Your friend has paid for your coffee all the way up to Christmas.’

  ‘Did he say what his name was?’

  ‘Nestor,’ she replies.

  Erik smiles and nods, thinking that he really must talk to Nestor about his over-effusive gratitude. It’s Erik’s job to help people, Nestor doesn’t owe him anything.

  He’s still thinking of his former patient’s friendly, cautious manner when he hears muted footsteps behind him and turns round. The pregnant superintendent is rolling towards him, waving a shrink-wrapped sandwich in his direction.

  ‘Björn’s fallen asleep, and seems to be feeling a bit better,’ she says breathlessly. ‘He wants to help us, and is willing to try hypnosis.’

  ‘I’ve got an hour, if we can start now,’ Erik says, quickly drinking his coffee.

  ‘Do you think it’s going to work on him?’ she asks as they head in the direction of the treatment room.

  ‘Hypnosis is just a way of getting his brain to relax, so that he can begin to sort his memories in a less chaotic way.’

  ‘But the prosecutor’s unlikely to be able to use statements made under hypnosis,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ Erik smiles. ‘But it might mean that Björn will be in a fit state to testify later on … and it could definitely help move the investigation forward.’

  When they enter the room Björn is standing behind one of the armchairs, clutching its back with his hands. His eyes are dull, as if they were made from worn plastic.

  ‘I’ve only seen hypnosis on television,’ he says in a fragile voice. ‘I mean, I’m not sure I really believe in it …’

  ‘Just think of hypnosis as a way to help you feel better.’

  ‘But I want her to leave,’ he says, looking at Margot.

  ‘Of course,’ Erik says.

  ‘Can you talk to her?’

  Margot remains seated on the sofa, there’s no change in her expression.

  ‘You’ll have to go and wait outside,’ Erik says quietly.

  ‘I’ve got symphysis, I need to sit down.’

  ‘You know where the cafeteria is,’ he replies.

  She sighs and stands up, takes her mobile out and heads towards the door, opens it, then turns back towards Erik.

  ‘Would you mind coming outside for a moment?’ she says amiably.

  ‘OK,’ he says, and follows her into the corridor.

  ‘We haven’t got time to nursemaid him,’ she whispers.

  ‘I understand how you feel, but I’m a doctor and it’s my job to help him.’

  ‘I’ve got a job as well,’ Margot says in a voice thin with irritation. ‘And it involves stopping a murderer. This is serious, Björn knows things that—’

  ‘This isn’t an interrogation,’ he interrupts. ‘You know that, we’ve already talked about it.’

  He watches the superintendent fighting her own impatience, then she nods as if she understands and accepts his words.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t harm him,’ she says, ‘from where I’m standing … well, every tiny detail could be of vital importance to the investigation.’

  14

  Erik shuts the door behind him, unfolds the stand and attaches the camera to it. Björn watches him, rubbing his forehead hard with one hand.

  ‘Do you have to film it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s just a case of documenting what I do,’ Erik replies. ‘And I’d rather not have to be taking notes the whole time.’

  ‘OK,’ Björn says, as though he hadn’t really listened to Erik’s reply.

  ‘You can start by lying down on the sofa,’ Erik says as he goes over to the window and draws the curtains.

  The room fills with a pleasant semi-darkness, and Björn lies back and shuffles down a little, then closes his eyes. Erik sits down on a chair, moves closer to him, and sees how tense he is. Thoughts are still racing through his head, as different impulses tug at his body.

  ‘Breathe slowly through your nose,’ Erik says. ‘Relax your mouth, your chin and cheeks … feel the back of your head lying with all its weight on the pillow, feel your neck relax … you don’t need to hold your head up now, because your head is resting on the pillow … Your jaw muscles are relaxing, your forehead is smooth and untroubled, your eyelids are feeling heavier …’

&
nbsp; Erik takes his time, and moves through the whole body, from Björn’s head to his toes, then back up to his weary eyelids and the weight of his head again.

  With soporific monotony, Erik slips into the induction, speaking in a falling tone of voice as he tries to gather his strength in advance of what is coming.

  Björn’s body gradually begins to exhibit an almost cataleptic relaxation. A mental trauma can lead to increased receptivity to hypnosis, as if the brain were longing for a fresh command, a way out of an unsustainable state.

  ‘The only thing you’re listening to is my voice … if you hear anything else, it only makes you feel more relaxed, and more focused on my words … I’m about to start counting backwards, and for each number you hear, you’ll relax a bit more.’

  Erik thinks about what’s coming, what’s waiting inside the house, what Björn saw when he walked in through the door: the illuminated moment when the shock hit with full force.

  ‘Nine hundred and twelve,’ he says quietly. ‘Nine hundred and eleven …’

  With each exhalation Erik says a number, slowly and monotonously. After a while he breaks the logical sequence, but still carries on the countdown. Björn is now down at a perfect depth. The sharp frown on his brow has relaxed and his mouth looks softer. Erik counts, and sinks into hypnotic resonance with a curious shiver in his stomach.

  ‘Now you’re deeply relaxed … you’re resting nice and calmly,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Soon you’re going to revisit your memories of Friday night … When I finish counting down to zero, you will be standing outside your house, but you’re completely calm, because there’s no danger … Four, three, two, one … Now you’re standing in the street outside your house, the taxi is driving away, the tyres are crunching on the grit covering the tarmac …’

  Björn opens his eyes, his eyes gleaming, but his gaze is focused inward, into his memories, and his heavy eyelids close once more.

  ‘Are you looking at the house now?’

  Björn is standing in the cool night air in front of his house. A strange glow is lighting up the sky in time with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. It looks like the house is leaning forward as the light expands and the shadows withdraw.

  ‘It’s moving,’ he says almost inaudibly.

  ‘Now you’re walking up to the door,’ Erik says. ‘The night air is mild, there’s nothing unpleasant …’

  Björn starts as some jackdaws fly up from a tree. They’re visible against the sky, their shadows move across the grass, and then they’re gone.

  ‘You’re perfectly safe,’ Erik says as he sees Björn’s hand move anxiously over the seat of the sofa.

  15

  Deep in his trance, Björn slowly approaches the door. He keeps to the stone path, but something about the black shimmer of the window catches his attention.

  ‘You’ve reached the door, you take your key out and put it in the lock,’ Erik says.

  Björn carefully pushes the handle, but the door is stuck. He tries harder, and there’s a sticky sound when it eventually opens.

  Erik sees that Björn’s brow is sweating, and repeats in a soothing voice that there’s nothing to be scared of.

  Björn tries to open his eyes and whisper something. Erik leans forward, and feels his breath against his ear.

  ‘The doorstep … something odd about it …’

  ‘Yes, this doorstep has always been odd,’ Erik replies calmly. ‘But once you’ve crossed it, everything will be just as it was on Friday.’

  Erik notes that the whole of Björn’s face is covered with a sheen of sweat as his chin begins to tremble.

  ‘No, no,’ he whispers, shaking his head.

  Erik realises that he needs to put him in deeper hypnosis if he’s to be able to enter the house.

  ‘All you have to do now is listen to my voice,’ Erik says. ‘Because soon you’ll be in an even more relaxed state, and there’s nothing to be worried about there … You’re sinking deeper as I count: four … you’re sinking, three … getting calmer, two … one, and now you’re completely relaxed, and can see that the doorstep isn’t any sort of barrier …’

  Björn’s face is slack, his mouth is hanging open, one corner wet with saliva: he’s in a deeper state of hypnosis than Erik had intended.

  ‘If you feel ready, you can … cross the threshold now.’

  Björn doesn’t want to, he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to, but he still takes a step into the hall. His looks along the corridor towards the kitchen. Everything is the same as usual, there’s an advertisement from Bauhaus on the doormat, too many shoes piled up on the shoe-rack, the umbrella that always falls over does so again, and his keys jangle as he puts them on the chest of drawers.

  ‘Everything is the same as usual,’ he whispers. ‘The same as …’

  He falls silent when he notices a strange, rolling movement from the corner of his eye. He daren’t turn to look in that direction, and stares straight ahead while something moves at the edge of his field of vision.

  ‘There’s something strange … off to the side … I …’

  ‘What did you say?’ Erik asks.

  ‘It’s moving, off to the side …’

  ‘OK, just let it go,’ Erik replies. ‘Look straight ahead and keep going.’

  Björn walks through the hall, but his eyes keep getting drawn to the side, towards the clothes hanging in the porch. They’re moving slowly in the gloom, as if a wind were blowing through the house. The sleeves of Susanna’s trenchcoat lift in a gust, then fall back.

  ‘Look ahead of you,’ Erik says.

  Someone suffering mental trauma experiences a chaotic jumble of memories that press in on them from all sides: they lose all coherence, fade away and lurch into view, all mixed up.

  All Erik can do is try to lead Björn through the rooms, towards the fundamental insight that he couldn’t have prevented his wife’s death.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen now,’ he whispers.

  ‘Keep going,’ Erik says.

  There’s a bag of newspapers for recycling in the passageway leading to the door of the cellar. Björn takes a cautious step forward, looking straight ahead, but he still sees a kitchen drawer slide open, and it rattles when it comes to a halt.

  ‘One drawer is open,’ he mutters.

  ‘Which one?’

  Björn knows it’s the drawer containing the knives, and he knows that he’s the one opening it, seeing as he washed a large knife several hours earlier.

  ‘Oh, God … I can’t … I …’

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re safe, and I’ll be with you as you go further in.’

  ‘I’m walking past the door to the cellar, towards the living room … Susanna must have gone to bed already …’

  It’s quiet, the television is switched off, but something’s different, the furniture seems to be in the wrong places, as if a giant had picked the house up and given it a gentle shake.

  ‘Sanna?’ Björn whispers.

  He reaches out his hand towards the light switch. The room doesn’t light up, but the glow fills the windows that look out onto the garden. He can’t help thinking he’s being watched, and feels an urge to close the curtains.

  ‘God, oh God, oh God,’ he suddenly whimpers, his face trembling.

  Erik realises that Björn is there now, in the midst of his memory of the traumatic event, but he’s barely describing anything, he’s keeping it to himself.

  Björn is getting closer, sees himself in the black window, sees the bushes outside move in the wind, far beyond the reflections.

  He’s gasping even though he’s under deep hypnosis, his body tenses and his back arches.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Erik asks.

  Björn stops when he sees someone with a dark grey face looking back at him in the window. Right next to the glass. He takes a step back and feels his heart pounding hard in his chest. A branch of the rosebush sways and scrapes the window ledge. He realises that the grey face isn’t outside. Ther
e’s someone sitting on the floor in front of the window. He can see their reflection.

  A calm voice repeats that there’s nothing to be scared of.

  He moves to the side and realises that it’s Susanna. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the window.

  ‘Sanna?’ he says quietly, so as not to startle her.

  He can see her shoulder, some of her hair. She’s leaning back against an armchair, looking out. He approaches cautiously and feels that the floor is wet beneath his feet.

  ‘She’s sitting down,’ he mutters.

  ‘She’s sitting?’

  Björn goes closer to the armchair by the window, and then the light in the ceiling comes on and the room is bathed in light. He knows he switched it on, but is still frightened when the bright light fills the room.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  He’s trodden in blood, it’s splashed across the television and sofa, and up the walls, there are smears of blood on the floor, trickling into the gaps between the wood.

  She’s sitting on the floor in a dark-red pool. A dead woman wearing Sanna’s kimono. Dust has settled on the pool of blood around her.

  Erik sees Björn’s face tense, and his lips and the tip of his nose turn white. As soon as Björn has realised that the dead woman is his wife, Erik is planning to bring him out of the hypnosis.

  ‘Who can you see?’ he asks.

  ‘No … no,’ he whispers.

  ‘You know who it is,’ Erik says.

  ‘Susanna,’ he says slowly, and opens his eyes.

  ‘You can move back now,’ Erik says. ‘I’m going to wake you up in a moment, and—’

  ‘There’s so much blood, God, I don’t want to … Her face, it’s been destroyed, and she’s sitting perfectly still, with—’

  ‘Björn, listen to my voice, I’m going to count from—’

  ‘She’s sitting with her hand over her ear, and there’s blood dripping from her elbow,’ he says, panting for breath.

  Erik feels an icy chill as adrenalin fills his veins for a few seconds, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. With his heart pounding he glances towards the closed door of the treatment room and hears a trolley rattle as it moves away.