Lars Kepler - The Sandman

‘The tap,’ Joona repeats.

‘And the door... it’s made of iron, or steel. It’s never open. I’ve never seen it open, there’s no lock on the inside, no handle... and next to the door there’s a hole in the wall, that’s where the bucket of food appears. It’s only a little hole, but if you stick your arm in and reach up, you can feel a metal hatch with your fingertips...’

Reidar is sobbing gently as he listens to Mikael telling them what he remembers of the room.

‘We try to save the food,’ he says. ‘But sometimes it runs out... sometimes it would take so long that we’d just lie there listening for the hatch, and when we did get something we ended up being sick... and sometimes there was no water in the tap, we got thirsty and the drain started to smell...’

‘What sort of food was it?’ Joona asks calmly.

‘Leftovers, mainly... bits of sausage, potato, carrot, onions... macaroni.’

‘The person who gave you the food... he never said anything?’

‘At the start we shouted out the moment the hatch opened, but then it just slammed shut and we went without food... after that we tried talking to whoever opened it, but we never got any answer... We always listened hard... we could hear breathing, shoes on a concrete floor... the same shoes every time...’

Joona checks that the recording is still working. He can’t help thinking about the extreme isolation that the siblings have endured. Most serial killers avoid contact with their victims, not speaking to them so they can continue to regard them as objects. But at some point they always have to visit their victims, they have to see the horror and helplessness in their faces.

‘You heard him moving about,’ Joona says. ‘Did you ever hear anything else from outside?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Think about it,’ Joona says seriously. ‘Birds, dogs barking, cars, trains, voices, aeroplanes, television, laughter, shouting, sirens... anything at all.’

‘Just the smell of sand...’

The sky outside the hospital window is dark now, and hailstones are falling against the glass.

‘What did you do when you were awake?’

‘Nothing... To start with, when we were still fairly little, I managed to pull a loose screw out of the bottom of the sofa... We used it to scratch a hole in the wall. The screw got so hot it almost burned our fingers. We kept going for ages... there was nothing but cement, then, after five centimetres or so, we hit some metal mesh. We kept going through one of the gaps, but a short distance further on we hit more mesh, it was impossible... It’s impossible to escape from the capsule.’

‘Why do you call the room “the capsule”?’

Mikael smiles wearily, in a way that makes him look incredibly lonely.

‘It was Felicia who started that... she imagined we were out in space, that we were on a mission... That was back at the start, before we stopped talking, but I went on thinking of the room as the capsule.’

‘Why did you stop talking?’

‘I don’t know, we just did, there was nothing left to say...’

Reidar raises a trembling hand to his mouth. It looks as though he’s struggling not to cry.

‘You say it’s impossible to escape... yet that’s precisely what you did,’ Joona says.

Carlos Eliasson, chief of the National Police, is walking through a light shower of snow from a meeting in Rådhuset, and talking to his wife on the phone. Right now police headquarters looks like a summer palace in a wintery park. The hand holding the phone is so cold that his fingers are aching.

‘I’m going to be deploying a lot of resources.’

‘Are you sure Mikael’s going to get well?’

‘Yes.’

Carlos stamps the snow from his shoes when he reaches the pavement.

‘That’s fantastic,’ she mutters.

He hears her sigh as she sits down on a chair.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he says after a brief pause. ‘I just can’t, can I?’

‘No,’ she replies.

‘What if it turned out to be crucial to the investigation?’ he asks.

‘You can’t tell me,’ she says gravely.

Carlos carries on up Kungsholmsgatan and glances at his watch; he hears his wife whisper that she’s got to go.

‘See you tonight,’ she says quietly.

Over the years, police headquarters has been extended, one piece at a time. The various sections reflect changes in fashion. The most recent part is up by Kronoberg Park. That’s where the National Criminal Investigation Department is based.

Carlos goes through two different security doors, carries on past the covered inner courtyard and takes the lift up to the eighth floor. There’s a worried expression on his face as he removes his outdoor coat and walks past the row of closed doors. A newspaper cutting on a noticeboard flutters in his wake. It’s been there since the painful evening when the police choir was voted off Sweden’s Got Talent .

There are already five other officers in the meeting room. On the pine table are glasses and bottles of water. The yellow curtains have been drawn back and snow-covered treetops are visible through the row of low windows. Everyone is doing their best to appear calm, but beneath the surface they are all thinking dark thoughts. The meeting that Joona has called is due to start in two minutes. Benny Rubin has already taken off his shoes and is telling Magdalena Ronander what he thinks of the new security evaluation forms.

Carlos shakes hands with Nathan Pollock and Tommy Kofoed from the National Murder Squad. As usual, Nathan is wearing a dark-grey jacket and his grey ponytail is hanging down his back. Beside the two men sits Anja Larsson in a silver-coloured blouse and pale-blue skirt.

‘Anja’s been trying to modernise us... we’re supposed to learn how to use the Analyst’s Notebook.’ Nathan smiles. ‘But we’re too old for that.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Tommy mutters sullenly.

‘I reckon you’ve all been round the block a few times,’ Anja says.

Carlos stands at the end of the table and the sombre look on his face makes even Benny shut up.

‘Welcome, all of you,’ Carlos says, without a hint of his usual smile. ‘As you may have heard, some new information has come to light concerning Jurek Walter and... well, the preliminary investigation can no longer be regarded as concluded...’

‘What did I tell you?’ a quiet voice with a Finnish accent says.

Carlos turns round quickly and sees Joona Linna standing in the doorway. The tall detective’s black coat is sparkling with snow.

‘Joona isn’t always right, of course,’ Carlos says. ‘But I have to admit... this time...’

‘So Joona was the only person who thought Jurek Walter had an accomplice?’ Nathan Pollock asks.

‘Well, yes...’

‘And a lot of people got very upset when he said Samuel Mendel’s family were among the victims,’ Anja says quietly.

‘True.’ Carlos nods. ‘Joona did some excellent work, no question... I’d only recently been appointed back then, and perhaps I didn’t listen to the right people, but now we know... and now we can go on to...’

He falls silent and looks at Joona, who steps into the room.

‘I’ve just come from Södermalm Hospital,’ he says curtly.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ Carlos asks.

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you think I should say something else?’ Carlos asks, looking embarrassed as he glances at the others. ‘Joona, it was thirteen years ago, a lot of water’s passed under the bridge since then...’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were absolutely right back then, as I just said.’

‘What was I right about?’ Joona asks in a quiet voice, looking at his boss.