Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘In the diary there are references to a farm in Roslagen,’ Joona says.

‘There’s no farm, nothing she’s got any connection to. Her family has never owned any land, and she’s the last of her line.’

‘But Rocky escaped from her and stole a car in Finsta. We don’t know how far he walked on foot first—’

‘There must be a thousand farms around Norrtälje,’ Margot interrupts.

‘Check all her paperwork. I mean, if she’s renting a farm from someone else, she may have paid electricity bills that don’t have her name on them, things like that.’

‘We should be getting a decision about an official search warrant in a couple of hours.’

‘Start looking, and carry on until someone stops you,’ he says.

‘OK, where do I begin?’

‘If you think the husband’s telling the truth, you’ll need to look among her personal things.’

‘I’m upstairs... They’ve got separate bedrooms,’ she says, walking into an airy room with dove-blue wallpaper.

‘We can keep talking while you search... Tell me exactly what you’re looking at.’

‘The bed is made and she’s got a few books on the bedside table, looks like psychology books.’

‘Check the drawers.’

Margot opens the two drawers in the bedside table and tells him that there are no documents there.

‘They’re practically empty... a pack of Mogadon, throat sweets and hand cream,’ she says.

‘Ordinary hand cream?’

‘Clarins.’

She puts her hand in the drawer and finds a little plastic tub.

‘A tub of dietary supplements.’

‘What sort?’

‘Iron... iron hydroxide.’

‘Why do people take that? Do you?’ Joona asks.

‘I eat enough meat for five people instead,’ Margot says and closes the drawers.

‘Is there a wardrobe?’

‘I’m on my way into her walk-in wardrobe,’ she says, walking in between the rows of clothes.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Dresses, skirts, suits, blouses... don’t think I’m envious, but it’s all Burberry, Ralph Lauren, Prada...’

She falls silent as she stares at one wall.

‘What’s happening?’ Joona asks.

‘Her shoes... I might have to have a little cry after all.’

‘Carry on.’

‘Joona, I just want to say... I’ve done a lot of research, I’ve studied all the major cases of obsessive stalking, from John Hinckley to Mona Wallén-Hjerpe... and no one comes anywhere close to the level of Nelly’s fixation... she’s the worst stalker ever.’

‘I know.’

‘Where do I look now?’

‘Poke about at the back,’ Joona replies. ‘Look behind shelves, under boxes, you need to find something.’

They end the call and Margot looks everywhere, leaning against the wall and crawling right to the back, but she finds absolutely nothing. Just as she walks back into the bedroom she sees Roger Storm reach the top of the stairs. His face is sweaty and he looks at her with his eyes wide open as he comes towards her. Margot sighs and presses her clenched hand against the small of her back to suppress the next contraction.

‘What is it?’ she asks in a subdued voice.

‘We’ve received another film,’ he says.

The sun has gone down and Rocky has just woken up beside Joona, the streetlamps are coming on and they are approaching Södertälje when Margot calls back.

‘We’ve received a new video,’ she says in an anguished voice. ‘Presumably it’s someone Erik knows, or has at least—’

‘Describe the film.’

‘Nelly is already inside the victim’s home when she begins filming... The woman seems injured, she’s sitting curled up in a corner... and at the end, at the end of the film there’s a small foot... It’s dark, but it looks like there’s a child lying on the floor.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a perfectly ordinary bloody room, old walls and uneven wallpaper... there might be a big chimney outside the window, but Forensics aren’t done yet.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m watching the video on an iPad right now... the woman has short black hair, she’s thin, and I don’t know... she’s bleeding, she’s almost unconscious and she’s moving her hands as if she can’t see anything, or—’

‘Listen,’ Joona interrupts. ‘Her name is Jackie Federer and she lives at Lill-Jans plan.’

‘I’ll send the rapid response unit,’ she says, and ends the call.

Joona doesn’t have time to explain that she may well no longer be in her flat, because Nelly will want to kill Jackie in front of Erik’s eyes, just as she killed her mother in front of her father, and Natalia in front of Rocky.

They drive past a minibus parked at the side of the road with a puncture. A bearded man in shorts and with sunburned legs is putting out a warning triangle.

‘You talked about a cage, about being locked in a cage,’ Joona says to Rocky.

‘When was that?’

‘Nelly had you locked up somewhere.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he replies, staring out at the road.

‘Do you know where that might have been?’

‘No.’

‘You escaped and stole a car near Norrtälje.’

‘I thought you were the one who goes around stealing cars,’ he mutters.

‘Think... It was a farm, there may have been a chimney...’

Rocky sits there watching the landscape flash by, and as they pass the junction for Salem he lets out a deep sigh. He rubs his face and beard with his big hands, then looks back at the road again.

‘Nelly Brandt murdered Rebecka Hansson,’ he says slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘God came back to look for me after all,’ he says, crumpling an empty cigarette packet.

‘It looks like it,’ Joona replies gently.

‘Maybe I’ll be punished for escaping and for having heroin in my pockets... but after that I can go back to being a priest.’

‘You’ve already been wrongly convicted, you won’t be sentenced again,’ Joona says.

‘Can you stop here?’ Rocky says calmly. ‘I need to take a look at my church.’

Joona pulls over to the verge and lets him out. The big priest closes the car door, knocks on the roof, and then sets off in the direction of the turning for Salem.

When he was allocating work earlier that day, Ramon Sjölin, commanding officer of the Norrtälje Police, decided that Olle and George Broman could take one of the patrol cars.

They’re father and son, and don’t often partner each other. Their colleagues joked that at last Olle, the father, would get a lesson in proper police work.

Olle loves his colleagues’ banter, and is immensely proud of his son, who is a head taller than him.

As usual the day passed peacefully, and towards evening they drove out to Vallby industrial estate, seeing as there had been several reports of break-ins there in the past six months. But everything was calm and they didn’t call in, and carried on towards Rimbo after a wee-break.

Olle’s back is hurting, and he tilts the seat back a bit further, looks at the time, and is about to say they’ll give it half hour then head back to the station when a call from the regional communications centre comes in.

SOS 112 received a phone call thirty minutes ago.

A man called from a phone with very bad reception.

The operator could barely hear anything, but analysis of the recording of the short conversation suggested that the man needed help, and described a location involving a ruined factory somewhere in the vicinity of Rimbo.

They had been able to identify the place as the house that had been built after the big fire at Solbacken Glassworks.

‘We’re on our way back to the station,’ Olle mutters.

‘You haven’t got time to take this first?’ the operator asks.