Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

She’s almost down now.

Erik pulls the stick back and hides it under the mattress, and notices a faint trail through the dirt on the floor.

Nelly reaches the floor of the cellar. She’s holding a broad-bladed kitchen knife in her hand. Her face is sweaty, and she brushes her blood-streaked hair back and looks at her bag on the table.

‘You were gone a long time,’ he says, leaning back against the mesh.

‘The kitchen’s a bit of a mess,’ she explains.

‘But you’ve got some morphine?’

‘To the hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet,’ she mutters, and puts the white pill on the end of the knife-blade.

She smiles blankly and reaches it towards the mesh.

‘Open wide,’ she says distantly.

With his heart pounding Erik leans his face towards the rusty mesh, opens his mouth and sees the point of the knife come closer.

It’s trembling, and he hears Nelly’s breathing quicken as she puts the tip of the knife in his open mouth.

He feels the underside of the cold blade against his tongue before carefully closing his lips around the knife.

She pulls it out again and the blade hits the side of the mesh with a clang.

Erik pretends to swallow the pill, but tucks it between his cheek and his back teeth. A bitter taste spreads through his mouth as his saliva dissolves the outer layer. He daren’t swallow the pill. It doesn’t matter how much pain he’s in, he can’t risk becoming drowsy and sleepy.

‘You’ve got new earrings,’ he says, sitting back on the mattress.

She smiles briefly with her eyes on the hand holding the knife.

‘But I haven’t been good enough,’ she says quietly.

‘Nelly, if only I’d known that you were waiting for me...’

‘I stood in the garden and saw you looking at Katryna,’ she whispers. ‘Men like beautiful fingernails, I know that, but my hands have always been strange, there’s nothing I can—’

‘You’ve got lovely hands, I think they’re lovely. They’re—’

‘Lovelier than she is now, anyway,’ Nelly interrupts. ‘That just leaves your little teacher... I’ve seen you together, I’ve seen her slippery mouth and—’

‘There’s no one but you,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

‘But I haven’t got any children, I haven’t got a little girl,’ she whispers.

‘What are you talking about?’ Erik asks, and feels his body go utterly cold.

‘Probably best not to take fire into your bosom, unless you want—’

‘Nelly, I don’t care about them,’ he says. ‘I’ve only got eyes for you.’

She lunges quickly with the knife. He jerks his head back and the knife hits the mesh where his face was a moment ago.

She’s panting and looking at him with disappointment, and he knows he’s gone too far, that she knows he wasn’t telling the truth.

‘What you’re saying,’ she gasps. ‘I don’t know, it’s a bit like seeking death by chasing the wind.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not seeking death, Nelly.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ she mutters, and scratches her neck with the knife-blade. ‘I don’t blame you.’

She takes a few steps back and the shadows close around her pale face, painting big, black holes where her eyes should be, and drawing dark shapes across her neck.

‘But you’ll see what mortality looks like, Erik,’ she says, and turns towards the stairs.

‘Don’t do anything silly now,’ Erik calls to her.

She stops and turns round. Sweat has run down her cheeks and her make-up has almost come off now.

‘I really can’t accept that you’re going to carry on thinking about her,’ Nelly says in a steady voice. ‘If you are going to think about her, then it should be a face without eyes and lips.’

‘No, Nelly!’ Erik shouts, watching her disappear up the narrow staircase.

He sinks down on to the floor, spits out the half-dissolved pill in his hand, and puts the loose remains in one pocket of his jeans.

Margot knows it’s pretty unlikely that Nelly Brandt is either at her home in Bromma or at work at the Karolinska. Even so, she can’t help feeling a deep anxiety in her body as she sits in her car further down the road and watches the National Task Force spreading out around the white modernist villa in Bromma.

If she disregards the black-clad and heavily armed police officers, the entire area is dreamily peaceful, like one of many childhood evenings.

Margot is following the operation on the radio, and the tension inside her is almost unbearable. She can’t help imagining the silence being shattered by screams and discharged weapons.

Her radio crackles as the head of the operation, Roger Storm, reports directly to her.

‘She’s not here,’ he says.

‘Have they looked everywhere?’ she asks. ‘Basement, attic, garden?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘And her husband?’

‘Sitting watching the diving on television.’

‘What does he say?’

‘I got straight to the point, but he says he’s sure Nelly isn’t involved... they’ve read all about Erik and he says Nelly is just as shocked as him.’

‘OK, I don’t give a shit about that right now, as long as he can tell us wherever the fuck she is,’ Margot says, looking over towards the house.

‘They haven’t got anywhere else — he’s got no idea,’ Roger replies.

‘Is the response team finished?’

‘They’re on their way out.’

‘Then I’m coming in,’ Margot says, and opens the car door.

The moment she stands up she feels a dull ache at the small of her back. She realises immediately what it means, but still carries on, and slowly makes her way up to the wide-open front door.

‘I’ll give birth when I’m done with this case,’ she tells the officer standing at the door.

The hall is large, but cosy and welcoming. A Carl Larsson painting hangs opposite the door. The response unit are on their way out, helmets in hand, their automatic rifles swinging from their straps.

In the gloom of the living room, a rather plump man is sitting in an armchair. He’s loosened his tie and undone his top button, and there’s a microwaved meal on a tray on the coffee table. He looks shocked, keeps rubbing his thighs and looking in bewilderment at the police officer who is talking to him.

‘It’s a big house,’ he’s explaining. ‘It’s enough for us... And in the winter we usually go to the Caribbean and—’

‘Your extended family — don’t they have houses?’ Margot interrupts.

‘I’m the only one who lives in Sweden,’ he replies.

‘But if your wife was to borrow a house to go to — where would that be?’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no idea, I...’

Margot leaves him and heads upstairs, looks round, then goes into a bedroom and takes out her phone.

‘Nelly Brandt isn’t at home, and she isn’t at the Karolinska,’ she says as soon as Joona answers.

‘Does she have any connection with any other properties?’ Joona Linna asks.

‘We’ve checked all the registries,’ Margot replies, gasping as the next contraction hits. ‘They don’t own any other houses, they’ve got no summer cottage, no land.’

‘Where did she live before?’

Margot takes out the printout of information she requested the moment she last spoke to Joona.

‘According to the population registry, she lived at Sköldinge rectory until ten years ago... then there’s a gap of four years before she shows up here.’

‘She lived with Rocky Kyrklund in his rectory,’ Joona says.

‘We’ve got people there, but these days it’s sheltered housing for—’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Obviously she could have rented a flat second- or third-hand.’