Lars Kepler - The Sandman

Petra’s called a women’s helpline and talked.

Brolin has fabricated some sort of complaint against him.

They’ve worked out that he isn’t really qualified to work in the secure unit.

The tall detective says his name is Joona Linna, and politely declines the offer of coffee. He goes into the living room and sits down on an armchair. He gives Anders a friendly, appraising look that makes him feel like a guest in his own home.

‘You’re standing in for Susanne Hjälm in the secure unit,’ the detective inspector says.

‘Yes,’ Anders replies, trying to work out what the man is after.

‘What’s your opinion of Jurek Walter?’

Jurek Walter, Anders thinks. Is this just about Jurek Walter? He relaxes, and manages to bring a dry tone to his voice:

‘I can’t discuss individual patients,’ he says sternly.

‘Do you speak to him?’ the man asks, with a sharp look in his grey eyes.

‘We have no conversational therapy in the secure unit,’ Anders says, running a hand through his short hair. ‘But obviously, the patients talk...’

Joona Linna leans forward:

‘You’re aware that the Supreme Court applied specific restrictions to Jurek Walter because he’s deemed to be extremely dangerous?’

‘Yes,’ Anders says. ‘But everything becomes a matter of interpretation, and as a responsible doctor I’m always having to weigh restrictions and treatment against each other.’

The detective nods a couple of times, then says:

‘He asked you to send a letter – didn’t he?’

Anders loses his grip for a moment, then reminds himself that he’s the one with the responsibility, the one who takes decisions regarding the patients.

‘Yes, I posted a letter for him,’ he replies. ‘I considered it an important way of building up trust between us.’

‘Did you read the letter before you sent it?’

‘Yes, of course... he knew I would, it was nothing remarkable.’

The detective’s grey eyes darken as his pupils expand.

‘What did it say?’

Anders doesn’t know if Petra’s come in, but it feels like she’s standing behind his back watching them.

‘I don’t remember exactly,’ he says, uncomfortably aware that he’s blushing. ‘It was a formal letter to a legal firm... something I consider to be a human right.’

‘Yes,’ the detective says, without taking his eyes off him.

‘Jurek Walter wanted a lawyer to come and see him in the unit, to help him understand the possibilities of getting a retrial in the Supreme Court... that was more or less what he wanted... and that he... if there was to be a retrial, wanted a private defence lawyer to represent him.’

The living room is silent.

‘What address?’ the detective inspector asks calmly.

‘Rosenhane Legal Services... a PO box in Tensta.’

‘Would you be able to reconstruct the exact wording of the letter?’

‘I actually only read it once, and like I said, it was very formal and polite... even if there were a number of spelling mistakes.’

‘Spelling mistakes?’

‘More like dyslexic errors,’ Anders explains.

‘Did you discuss the letter with Roland Brolin?’

‘No,’ Anders replies. ‘Why would I do that?’

Joona goes back to his car and sets off towards Stockholm. He calls Anja and asks her to check for Rosenhane Legal Services.

‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘The time,’ he repeats, suddenly thinking that it’s only been a few hours since Marie Franzén was shot and killed. ‘I... sorry, let’s do it tomorrow.’

He realises that she’s already ended the call. A couple of minutes pass before she calls him back.

‘There’s no Rosenhane,’ she says. ‘No law firm, and no solicitor either.’

‘There was a PO box address,’ Joona insists.

‘Yes, in Tensta, I found that,’ she replies gently. ‘But it’s been closed down and the lawyer who was renting it doesn’t exist.’

‘I see...’

‘Rosenhane is the name of an extinct aristocratic family,’ she says.

‘Sorry I called so late.’

‘I was joking, you can call me whenever you like. I mean, we’ll soon be married and everything...’

The address is a trail that doesn’t lead anywhere, Joona is thinking. No PO box, no law firm, no name.

It suddenly occurs to him how strange it was for Anders Rönn to call Jurek Walter dyslexic.

I’ve seen his writing, Joona thinks.

What Anders Rönn interpreted as dyslexia was probably just the result of long-term medication.

Once again his thoughts go to Marie Franzén, murdered by Susanne Hjälm. Now there’s a child waiting for a parent who’ll never be coming home.

She shouldn’t have rushed forward, but he knows he could easily have made the same mistake if his operational training wasn’t ingrained so deeply – and then he would have been killed, just like his own father.

Maybe Maria Franzén’s daughter has been told the news by now. The world will never be the same again. When he was eleven his father was shot and killed with a shotgun. His father, also a police officer, had only gone to a flat where there had been reports of a domestic disturbance. Some time that day Joona remembers sitting in his classroom when the headmaster came in and got him. The world was never the same again.

It’s morning, and Jurek is striding along on the running machine. Saga can hear his heavy, ponderous breathing. On the television a man is making his own rubber balls. Colourful spheres are floating in various glasses of water.

Saga is feeling a mixture of emotions. Her self-preservation instinct is telling her she ought to avoid all contact with Jurek, but every conversation she has with him increases her colleagues’ chances of finding Felicia.

The man on television is warning viewers against using too much glitter, because it can spoil the ball’s ability to bounce.

Slowly Saga walks over to Jurek. He steps off the running machine and gestures to her to take over.

She thanks him, gets up and starts walking. Jurek stands alongside watching her. Her legs are still tired and her joints sore. She tries to speed up, but is already breathing laboriously.

‘Have you had your injection of Haldol?’ Jurek asks.

‘Had it the first day,’ she replies.

‘From the doctor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he come in and pull your trousers down?’

‘I was given Stesolid first,’ she replies quietly.

‘Was he inappropriate?’

She shrugs her shoulders.

‘Has he been in your room more times?’

Bernie comes into the dayroom and walks straight over to the running machine. His broken nose has been fixed up with white fabric tape. One eye is closed by a dark grey swelling. He stops in front of Saga, looks at her and coughs quietly.

‘I’m your slave now... fucking hell... I’m here, and I shall follow you for all eternity, like the pope’s butler... until death do us part...’

He wipes the sweat from his top lip and seems unsteady.

‘I shall obey every—’

‘Sit down on the sofa,’ Saga interrupts without looking at him.

He burps and swallows several times.

‘I shall lie on the floor and warm your feet... I am your dog,’ he says, and sinks to his knees with a sigh. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Go and sit on the sofa,’ Saga repeats.

She’s walking slowly on the machine. The palm leaves are swaying. Bernie crawls over, tilts his head and looks up at her.

‘Anything, I’ll obey you,’ he says. ‘If your breasts are getting sweaty, I can wipe—’

‘Go and sit on the sofa,’ Jurek says in a detached voice.

Bernie crawls away instantly and lies down on the floor in front of the sofa. Saga has to lower the speed of the machine slightly. She forces herself not to look at the swaying palm leaf and tries not to think about the microphone and transmitter.