Lars Kepler - The Hypnotist

He can’t help smiling as he meets Joona’s questioning gaze.

“The haunted house isn’t a specific place, it’s a term my hypnosis group adopted,” he explains. “One member called the place where he had been traumatized the haunted house, and it became what we called anywhere that their abuse had taken place.”

“I think I understand,” says Joona. “Where was Eva Blau’s haunted house?”

“That’s the problem. She was the only one who didn’t find her way there. Unlike the rest of the group, she never described a central place.”

“Well, maybe this is it,” says Joona.

They stride up the path. Erik fumbles in his pocket for the box with the parrot and the native on it. He feels sick, as if his emotional responses to the events he’s recalled have been suspended in his nerve centre, as powerful and confusing as ever. He wants to take one of his pills, yearns for a pill, but he knows he must remain absolutely clear-headed. He has to find Benjamin, he has to stop taking the pills, he can’t go on like this, he can’t keep hiding.

He pushes the doorbell, hearing the deep chime through thick wood. He waits, although he wants to pull the door open, rush inside, and shout Benjamin’s name. Joona’s hand is tucked inside his jacket. After a little while the door is opened by a young woman with glasses, red hair, and a patch of tiny scars on each cheek. Erik studies her carefully.

“We’re looking for Liselott Blau,” says Joona.

“That’s me,” she replies warily.

Joona looks at Erik, who shakes his head slightly. This is not Eva.

“We’re actually looking for Eva,” Joona says. “Eva? I don’t know any Eva. What’s this about?” asks the woman. Joona shows her his police ID and asks if they can come in for a while. She hesitates, looking back nervously into the house. “Or talk to us out here, if you prefer. You should put on a jacket, though, it’s chilly,” he says.

A few minutes later they are standing on the lawn, crunchy underfoot with frost, their breath forming white condensation in the air as they speak.

“I live alone,” she says, hugging herself.

“Big house,” Joona says, nodding at the large structure.

The woman smiles thinly. “I’m in a fortunate position.”

“Is Eva Blau a relative?”

“I told you, I don’t know anyone called Eva Blau.”

Joona shows her three pictures of Eva that he has taken from the video recording, but the red-haired woman simply shakes her head.

“Look closely,” says Joona firmly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps.

“I’m asking, for now.”

“I pay your salary,” she says. “My taxes pay your salary.”

“Please look at the pictures.”

“I’ve never seen her.”

“This is important,” Erik says. “To you, maybe, but not to me.”

“She calls herself Eva Blau,” Joona goes on. “Blau is quite an unusual name in Sweden.”

Erik sees a curtain suddenly sway in an upstairs window. He bolts for the house as the others call after him.

Erik dashes through the door, spots the wide staircase and takes it two steps at a time.

“Benjamin!” he calls out, then freezes.

The hallway, lined with closed doors, stretches in both directions. Somewhere, a floorboard creaks. He tries to work out which window he was looking at when he saw the curtain move, and hurries to his right, to the last door of the corridor. He tries the handle, but it’s locked.

“Benjamin?” Erik calls softly.

He bends down and peers through the keyhole. The key’s in the lock, but Erik thinks he can sense movement within.

“Open the door,” he barks.

He hears someone rush into the house, and then the red-haired woman is on her way up the stairs.

“I don’t want you in here!” she shouts.

Ignoring her, Erik takes a step backwards, kicks the door open, and walks in. The room is empty: a large unmade bed with pink sheets, a pale pink carpet, a wardrobe with tinted mirrors on its doors. A camera on a tripod is pointing at the bed. He opens the wardrobe, but there is no one there; he turns around, studying the room. A narrow pair of men’s jeans is folded neatly and draped over the back of a chair. Erik bends down and sees someone curled up in the darkness under the bed: shy, terrified eyes, narrow thighs, and bare feet.

“Come out here,” he says sharply.

He reaches out, grabs hold of an ankle, and drags out a naked boy, who cowers as he speaks rapidly to Erik in a language that sounds like Arabic. He grabs the jeans and pulls them on. Then another boy peeps out and says something in a harsh tone of voice to his friend, who immediately falls silent. The red-haired woman is standing in the doorway, insisting in a trembling voice that he is to leave her friends alone.

“Are they minors?” Erik asks.

“Get out of my house,” she says furiously.

The second boy has wrapped the duvet around him. He takes a cigarette from a pack on the bedside table and stares at Erik, smiling.

“Out!” screams Liselott Blau.

As Erik slowly descends the stairs, the woman follows, yelling, “Go to hell!” Erik leaves the house and walks down the slate path. Joona is waiting with his gun drawn and hidden close to his body. The woman stops in the doorway.

“You’re not allowed to do this kind of thing,” she shouts. “It’s not legal. The cops need a warrant to enter somebody’s house like that.”

“I’m not a cop,” Erik yells back. “I’ll be making an official complaint about this!”

“Feel free,” says Joona. “You can make the complaint to me. As I said, I am a police officer.”

Back at the wheel, Joona pulls to the side of the road and takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. A flatbed truck carrying a load of dusty crushed stone passes by.

“There are five more people named Blau in the Stockholm area, three in Västerås, two in Eskilstuna, and one in Umeå.” He folds up the paper and smiles encouragingly at Erik.

“Charlotte,” Erik says quietly.

“There was no Charlotte on the list,” replies Joona, wiping a mark off the rearview mirror.

“Charlotte Ceder. She was kind to Eva. I think Eva had a room at her place in those days.”

“Where do you think we might find Charlotte?”

“She lived in Stocksund ten years ago.”

Joona dials Anja.

“I need a phone number and address for one Charlotte Ceder. I mean like right now. She lives in Stocksund, or at least she used to.” He abruptly pulls the phone from his ear and stares at it, a wry expression on his face. Erik can hear a woman’s agitated voice on the other end. “Same to you. Yes. Yes, please. ” There’s a pause. “Sure, hang on,” he says, taking out a pen and making a note. “Thanks a lot.”

He flicks on the left-turn signal and pulls out into the traffic.

“Is she still living there?” asks Erik.

“No, but we’re in luck. She lives near Rimbo.”

Erik feels a stab of anxiety in his stomach. He doesn’t know why he finds it frightening that Charlotte has moved from Stocksund; perhaps he ought to interpret it as a positive development.

“The Husby estate,” says Joona, inserting a disk into the CD player. Turning up the volume, he turns to Erik and says apologetically, “This is my mother’s music. Saija Varjus.” He shakes his head sadly and joins in. “ Dam dam da da di dum. ”

The mournful music fills the whole car.

When the song is over they sit in silence for a short while. Then Joona says in a voice that sounds almost surprised, “I don’t like Finnish music any more.” He clears his throat a couple of times.