Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘I’m on Kungsholmen, I’ve got to—’

‘You haven’t got time — you need to come home straight away,’ she cuts in.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Seriously, Margot... this is hopeless. For God’s sake, you were the one who picked Sunday, they’ll all be here any minute—’

‘Don’t be cross with me... I just can’t let go of this case before—’

‘You’re not coming?’ Jenny interrupts. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I thought it was next weekend,’ Margot replies.

‘How the hell could you think that?’

Margot had completely forgotten about dinner with her family. The idea was for her and Jenny to thank everyone for their support during the Pride festival. Everyone who had marched with banners saying ‘Proud Parents and Families’.

‘You’ll just have to explain that I’ll be a bit late,’ she says, stopping ten metres from the entrance to Police Headquarters.

‘Look... this isn’t on,’ Jenny says, then takes a deep breath. ‘I’m actually feeling pretty let down... You got a career opportunity, and I was happy to support you, and...’

‘Look after the children while I worked — and now I’m working, just like—’

‘But you’re working the whole bloody time, and—’

‘That was what we agreed,’ Margot interrupts.

She starts walking towards the entrance as a colleague comes out and unlocks the heavy chain around the rear wheel of a motorbike.

‘OK... that was what we agreed,’ Jenny says quietly.

‘I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be home as soon as—’

Margot stops when she realises that Jenny has hung up on her. She carries on into the lobby, passes the security doors and heads towards the lifts.

Maria Carlsson, the first victim, had her hand in her mouth, Margot thinks once more.

That wasn’t enough for her to discern a pattern. But when she saw Sandra Lundgren lying there with her hand over one breast, she had a fleeting sense of a connection.

It didn’t look natural, it was arranged.

She walks along the empty corridor to her office, closes the door behind her and sits down at the computer, and searches for arranged bodies.

She can hear sirens from emergency vehicles somewhere.

Margot kicks off her shoes as she clicks through the results. Nowhere does she find any similarity to her murders. Her stomach feels tight and she undoes her belt altogether.

She expands the search to cover the whole country, and when the list of results appears she knows she’s found what she was looking for.

A murder in Salem.

The victim was found with her hand round her own neck.

She had been arranged like that after she died.

The preliminary investigation had been conducted by the Södertälje Police District.

As she read, she remembered more details. Far too much had leaked to the press. The extreme level of brutality had been focused primarily on the victim’s face and upper body.

The dead woman had been found in her bathroom with her hand around her own throat.

The victim’s name was Rebecka Hansson. She had been wearing pyjama bottoms and a sweater, and according to the post-mortem she had not been subjected either to rape or attempted rape.

Margot’s heart is pounding in her chest as she finds the information about Rocky Kyrklund, a priest. She reads that an arrest warrant was issued for him in his absence, and he was subsequently apprehended in connection with a traffic accident. The forensic evidence against him was compelling. Rocky Kyrklund underwent a forensic psychiatric examination and was consigned to Karsudden District Hospital with specific restrictions placed on any parole application.

I’ve found the murderer, Margot thinks, and her hand is trembling as she reaches for the phone and calls Karsudden Hospital.

When she finds out that Rocky Kyrklund is locked up and that he has never been let out on licence, she demands an immediate meeting with the head of security.

Barely two hours later Margot is sitting in the office of the head of security, Neil Lindegren, in the gleaming white main building, discussing the security arrangements for Section D:4.

Neil is a thickset man with a fleshy forehead and neat, stubby hands. He leans back in his chair as he explains the secure perimeter fences, the alarm system, the airlock and passcards.

‘That all sounds very good,’ Margot says when Neil falls silent. ‘But the question is: could Rocky Kyrklund have managed to get out anyway?’

‘You’re welcome to meet him, if that would make you feel any better,’ he smiles.

‘You’re absolutely sure you’d have noticed if he escaped and came back the same day?’

‘No one’s escaped,’ Neil says.

‘But hypothetically,’ Margot goes on. ‘If he got out immediately after you did your round at eight o’clock — when would he have to be back today in order for his absence not to be noticed?’

Neil’s smile fades and his hands fall to his lap.

‘Today is Sunday,’ he says slowly. ‘He wouldn’t need to be back before five o’clock, but you know... the doors are locked and alarmed, and the whole area is covered by surveillance cameras.

On a large monitor, thirty squares show what’s being picked up by the facility’s security cameras.

A technician in his sixties shows Margot the system of CCTV cameras, motion-activated cameras, their locations, and the laser and infrared barriers.

Recordings from the surveillance cameras are stored for a maximum of thirty days.

‘This is Section D:4,’ he says, pointing. ‘The corridor, dayroom, exercise yard, fence, the outside of the fence, the outside of the building... and these show the park and the driveway.’

The monitor shows an image of the hospital as it was at five o’clock that morning. The static glow from the lamps make the park look strangely lifeless. The clock in the corner of the screen moves on, but everything remains perfectly still.

When the man speeds up the replay, a few trees appear to move in the wind. The night-time security guard walks along the corridor and disappears into the staffroom.

Suddenly the technician stops the film and points at an area of grass that spreads out like a patch of grey water. Margot leans forward and sees a number of dark shapes against the bushes and trees.

The technician enlarges the image and plays the footage. Three deer appear in the glow of a lamp. They walk across the grass, all stop at once, stand still with their necks craned, then carry on.

He shrinks the image and hits fast-forward again. Daylight arrives and the transparent shadows grow sharper as the sun rises.

Cars arrive and staff go inside and spread out through the corridors and tunnels.

The technician stops the recordings to show the night-staff leaving. Margot watches the morning round in the various sections in silence.

There’s very little activity, given that it’s Sunday. There’s no sign of Rocky Kyrklund among the patients who have opted to go out into the exercise yard.

They carry on fast-forwarding, stopping occasionally to look more closely at anyone in the corridors, but everything seems to be calm as the hours tick by.

‘And there you are,’ the technician says with a smile.

He enlarges one square to show her struggling to get out of her car, and her wrap dress slips open, revealing her pink underwear.

‘Whoops,’ she mumbles.

Margot sees herself walk across the car park with her big leather bag over her shoulder, her hands round her stomach. She goes round the corner of the building and disappears from view, but the next camera picks her up outside the entrance. At the same time she is visible from another angle on a camera above the reception desk in the lobby.