Lars Kepler - The Hypnotist

“How did you find him?” the mother whispers, between bouts of weeping. “Where was he?”

“We were looking for another child at the home of a person suspected of kidnapping,” says Joona. “Our dog picked up the scent and led us to a spot in the garden.”

“In the garden?”

Joona swallows. “Johan has been buried there for ten years, according to the forensic pathologist.”

Joakim Samuelsson looks up. “Ten years?” He shakes his head. “It’s thirteen years since Johan disappeared,” he whispers.

Joona nods, feeling utterly drained as he explains. “We have reason to believe that the person who took your child held him captive- ” He looks down, making an enormous effort to sound calm when he looks up again. “Johan was held captive for three years,” he goes on. “Before the perpetrator killed him. He was five when he died.”

At this point the father’s face breaks. His iron-hard façade is shattered into countless fragments, like a thin pane of glass. It is very painful to watch. His face crumples and tears begin to pour down his cheeks. Rough, dreadful sobs rend the air.

Joona looks around the room at the framed photographs on the walls. Recognizes the picture from the folder of little two-year-old Johan in his police uniform. Sees a confirmation photo of the girl. A picture of the parents, laughing and holding up a newborn baby. He swallows and waits. It isn’t over yet.

“There’s one more thing I have to ask you,” he says, after giving them a moment to compose themselves. “I have to ask if you’ve ever heard of a woman named Lydia Everson.”

The mother shakes her head in confusion. The father blinks a couple of times, then says quickly, “No, never.”

Amanda whispers, “Is she… is she the one who took my brother?”

Joona looks at her, his expression serious. “We believe so.”

When he gets up, his palms are wet with perspiration and he can feel the sweat trickling down the sides of his body.

“My condolences,” he says. “I really am very, very sorry.” He places his card on the table in front of them, along with the telephone numbers of a counsellor and a support group. “Call me if you think of anything, or if you just want to talk.”

He is on his way out when the father suddenly gets to his feet. “Wait… I have to know. Have you caught her? Have you caught her yet?”

Joona clamps his jaws together. “No, we haven’t caught her yet. But we’re on her trail. We’ll have her soon, I promise.”

He calls Anja as soon as he gets in the car. She answers immediately. “Did it go well?”

“It never goes well,” Joona replies steadily.

There is a brief silence at the other end of the phone.

“Did you want anything in particular?” Anja asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” says Joona.

“You do know it’s Saturday.”

“The father is lying,” Joona goes on. “He knows Lydia. He said he’d never heard of her, but he was lying.”

“How do you know he was lying?”

“Something about his eyes when I asked. I’m right about this.”

“I believe you. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And if we doubt you, we have to put up with you saying, ‘What did I tell you?’ ”

Joona smiles to himself. “You’ve come to know me well, Anja.”

“Did you want to tell me anything else, apart from the fact that you were right?”

“Yes, I’m going over to Ulleråker.”

“Now? You know it’s our Christmas dinner tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Joona,” Anja says chidingly. “It’s our staff Christmas party, dinner at Skansen. You can’t have forgotten?”

“Do I have to come?” asks Joona.

“Yes, you do,” Anja replies firmly. “And you’re sitting next to me.”

“As long as you don’t get carried away after a few drinks.”

“You can cope.”

“If you will be an angel and ring Ulleråker, make sure there’ll be someone there I can talk to about Lydia, you can do more or less whatever you like with me,” says Joona.

“Oh my God, in that case I’m already on it,” says Anja cheerfully, hanging up.

The psychiatric clinic at Ulleråker is one of a very few still in operation in Sweden, the result of huge cuts in allocations for psychiatric care that took place in the 1990s. A complex of pale buildings set amid dark groves of trees, fields, and gardens once tended by patients, and with its own cemetery, the hospital is a world unto itself. Joona passes through an old-fashioned porte-cochère at the entrance and pulls up before the main building, an elegant old structure topped by a clock tower set directly in the centre of the complex.

Anja has done a good job as usual. When Joona walks in through the main entrance, he can see from the expression of the girl on reception that he is expected.

“Joona Linna?”

He nods and shows his ID.

“Dr. Langfeldt is waiting for you. Up the stairs, first room on the right along the hall.”

Joona thanks her and begins to climb the wide stone staircase. He can hear thuds, shouts, the sound of a television coming from somewhere in the distance. There is a smell of cigarette smoke. Outside, the clinic is surrounded by an ornamental garden that resembles a churchyard, the bushes blackened and bowed down by the rain, trellises damaged by dampness with spindly climbers clinging to them. It looks gloomy, Joona thinks. A place like this isn’t really aimed at recovery, it’s a place for containment. He reaches the landing and looks around. To the left, through a glass door, is a long, narrow corridor. He wonders briefly where he has seen it before, then realizes it’s an almost identical copy of the holding cells at Kronoberg: rows of locked doors with metal handles. An elderly woman in a long dress emerges from one of the doors. She stares at him through the glass. Joona nods to her, then opens the door leading to the other corridor. It smells strongly of bleach and antiseptic.

Dr. Langfeldt is already waiting.

“Police?” he asks rhetorically, holding out a broad, meaty hand. His handshake is surprisingly soft, perhaps the softest Joona has ever felt, and his expression gives nothing away as he says with a minimal gesture, “Please come in.”

The office is large but almost entirely functional. Heavy bookshelves filled with identical files cover the walls. There are no paintings or photographs; the room is entirely free of ornamentation. The only picture is what appears to be a child’s drawing in green and white chalk pinned to the door; a round face with eyes, nose, and mouth, legs and arms attached directly to it. Children of about three tend to draw adults in this way. This can be seen either as an indication that the figure has no body or that the head itself is the body.

Dr. Langfeldt goes over to his desk, which is almost entirely covered in piles of paper. He moves an old rotary telephone off the visitor’s chair and makes another small gesture in Joona’s direction; Joona interprets this as an invitation to sit down.

The doctor regards him thoughtfully; his face is heavy and furrowed, and there is something lifeless about his features, almost as if he is suffering from some kind of facial paralysis.

“Thank you for taking the time- ” Joona begins.

“I know what you want to see me about,” the doctor says. “You want information about Lydia Everson. My patient.”

Joona opens his mouth, but the doctor holds up a hand to stop him.

“I presume you’ve heard of professional security and the confidentiality of information relating to patient records,” Langfeldt continues. “In addition- ”