Lars Kepler - The Sandman

‘Mind you, even if al-Shabaab have made extensive use of the al-Qimmah network,’ Saga is saying, brushing her long hair back over her shoulders, ‘I don’t think it will give us much. Obviously we need to carry on, but I still say we should be trying to infiltrate the group of women on their periphery... as I mentioned before, and—’

The door opens and the head of the Security Police, Verner Zandén, comes in, raising his hand apologetically.

‘I really don’t want to interrupt,’ he says in his rumbling voice as he catches Saga’s eye. ‘But I was just thinking of going for a little stroll, and would very much appreciate your company.’

She nods and logs out, but leaves her laptop on the table as she exits the meeting room with Verner.

Shimmering snow is falling from the sky as they emerge onto Polhemsgatan. It’s extremely cold and the tiny crystals in the air are lit up by the hazy sunlight. Verner walks with long strides and Saga hurries along beside him like a child.

They pass Fleminggatan in silence, walk through the gate to the health centre, across the circular park surrounding the chapel and down the steps towards the ice of Barnhusviken.

The situation is feeling more and more peculiar, but Saga refrains from asking any questions.

Verner makes a little gesture with his hands and turns left onto a cycle path.

Some small rabbits scamper for cover under the bushes as they approach. The snow-covered park benches are soft shapes in the white landscape.

After walking a bit further they turn in between two of the tall buildings lining Kungsholms Strand and go up to a door. Verner taps in a code, opens the door and leads her into the lift.

In the scratched mirror Saga can see snowflakes covering her hair. They’re melting, forming glistening drops of water.

When the creaking lift stops, Verner takes out a key with a plastic card attached, unlocks a door that bears the telltale signs of attempted burglaries, then nods to her to follow him inside.

They walk into an entirely empty flat. Someone has recently moved out. The walls are full of holes where pictures and shelves have been removed. There are large dustballs on the floor and a forgotten Ikea Allen key.

The toilet flushes and Carlos Eliasson, chief of the National Criminal Investigation Department, comes out. He wipes his hands on his trousers and then shakes hands with Saga and Verner.

‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ Carlos says. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’

He gets out a pack of plastic cups and fills them with tap-water, then offers them to Saga and Verner.

‘Perhaps you were expecting lunch?’ Carlos says as he sees the mystified look on her face.

‘No, but...’

‘I’ve got some throat sweets,’ he says quickly, pulling out a little box of Läkerol.

Saga shakes her head, but Verner takes the box from Carlos, taps out a couple of pastilles and pops them in his mouth.

‘Quite a party.’

‘Saga, as you’ve no doubt realised, this is an extremely unofficial meeting,’ Carlos says, then clears his throat.

‘What’s happened?’ Saga asks.

‘Have you heard of Jurek Walter?’

‘No.’

‘Not many people have... and that’s just as well,’ Verner says.

A ray of sunlight is twinkling on the dirty kitchen window as Carlos Eliasson hands Saga Bauer a dossier. She opens the folder and finds herself staring directly into Jurek Walter’s pale eyes. She moves the photograph and starts to read the thirteen-year-old report. Her face turns white and she sits down on the floor with her back against the radiator, still reading, looking at the pictures, glancing through post-mortem reports and reading about his sentence and where it was being served.

When she closes the file Carlos tells her how Mikael Kohler-Frost was found wandering across the Igelsta Bridge after being missing for thirteen years.

Verner gets out his mobile and plays the recording of the young man describing his captivity and escape. Saga listens to his anguished voice, and when she hears him talk about his sister her face goes red and her heart starts beating hard. She looks at the photograph in the folder. The little girl is standing with her loose plait and riding hat, smiling as if she were planning something naughty.

When Mikael’s voice falls silent she stands up and paces the empty kitchen before stopping in front of the window.

‘National Crime have got nothing more to go on than they had thirteen years ago,’ Verner says.

‘We don’t know anything... but Jurek Walter knows, he knows where Felicia is, and he knows who his accomplice is...’

Verner explains that it’s impossible to get the truth out of Jurek Walter in a conventional interrogation, or by using psychologists or priests.

‘Not even torture would work,’ Carlos says, trying to sit down on the windowsill.

‘What the hell, why don’t we do what we usually do, then?’ Saga asks. ‘Surely all we have to do is recruit just one damn informant, that’s pretty much the only thing our organisation does these days apart from—’

‘Joona says... sorry to interrupt,’ Verner cuts in. ‘But Joona says that Jurek would break down any informer who tried—’

‘So what the hell do we do, then?’

‘Our only option is to install a trained agent as a patient in the same institution,’ he replies.

‘Why would he talk to a patient?’ Saga asks sceptically.

‘Joona reckons we need to find an agent who’s so exceptional that Jurek Walter ends up curious enough to want to know more.’

‘Curious how?’

‘Curious about them as a person... not just in the possibility of getting out,’ Carlos replies.

‘Did Joona mention me?’ she asks in a serious voice.

‘No, but you’re our first choice,’ Verner says firmly.

‘Who’s your second choice?’

‘There isn’t one,’ Carlos replies.

‘So how would this be arranged, in purely practical terms?’ she asks in a neutral tone of voice.

‘The bureaucratic machinery is already hard at work,’ Verner says. ‘One decision leads to another, and if you accept the mission you just have to climb on board...’

‘Tempting,’ she mutters.

‘We’ll arrange for you to be sentenced to secure psychiatric care in the Court of Appeal, and transferred at once to Karsudden Hospital.’

Verner goes over to the tap and refills his plastic cup.

‘We spotted something that might work to our advantage, a formulation in the original county council permit... the one that was granted when the psychiatric unit at Löwenströmska Hospital was first set up.’

‘It states very clearly that the ward is designed to offer treatment to three patients,’ Carlos adds. ‘But for the past thirteen years they’ve had just one patient, Jurek Walter.’

Verner drinks noisily, then crumples up his cup and tosses it in the sink.

‘The hospital managers have always tried to fend off other patients,’ Carlos goes on. ‘But they’re perfectly aware that they have to accept more if they receive a direct request.’

‘Which is precisely what’s happening now... The Prison Service Committee has called an extraordinary meeting, where the decision will be taken to transfer one patient from the secure psychiatric unit at Säter to Löwenströmska, and another from Karsudden Hospital.’

‘In other words, you would be the patient from Karsudden,’ Carlos says.

‘So if I agree to this, I’d be admitted as a dangerous patient?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you going to give me a criminal record?’

‘A decision from the National Judiciary Administration will probably be sufficient,’ Verner replies. ‘But we need to create an entire identity, with guilty court verdicts and psychiatric evaluations.’