Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

Joona ends the call, wipes his mouth on a napkin, puts it on his plate and meets Erik’s tired gaze.

‘I was the one who recommended he be let out on supervised excursions,’ Erik says, running his hand through his hair. ‘But he’ll come back, they nearly always do.’

‘We haven’t got time to sit and wait,’ Joona says. ‘We need to find him and get him to talk before the preacher kills again.’

‘He doesn’t have any family, and he’s never mentioned any friends... And the rectory isn’t there any more...’

‘Couldn’t he hide in the church itself, or somewhere nearby?’

‘I’m pretty sure he’s going to try to make his way to somewhere called the Zone before too long... That was where he used to get hold of heroin, and it sounded like he thought someone owed him money there.’

‘I don’t know about this Zone,’ Joona says.

‘It sounds like somewhere for heavy drugs... a fairly large place, given that there’s a stage and a load of prostitutes.’

‘I’ll find out where it is,’ Joona says, and stands up.

‘Thanks for dinner.’

‘There’s ice cream for dessert,’ Joona says, heading towards the hall.

Erik starts to clear the table, but exhaustion hits with such ferocity that he leaves everything and staggers off to the library. His silver glasses case is no longer beside the stack of books on the smoking table. He shudders and turns to look out of the window, which is rattling on its catch. It’s still light out, but it will soon be dark, he thinks, as he sinks into the leather armchair and closes his eyes.

He needs to pull himself together and try to understand what’s happening to him.

Without opening his eyes he pops an Imovane from the pack on the table, holds it in his sweaty palm for a moment, then puts it in his mouth.

Milky stillness empties his thoughts and he feels sleep rising up like a heavy wave when the phone rings. He can’t manage to focus his eyes enough to see who’s calling, and almost drops the phone but somehow catches it.

‘Hello?’ he says hoarsely, putting the mobile to his ear.

‘You won’t forget Maddy, will you?’

‘What?’

‘Erik, what’s wrong?’ Jackie asks seriously.

‘Nothing, I was just sitting... and...’

He loses his train of thought and clears his throat instead.

‘You’re picking Maddy up — but you knew that?’

‘Of course, no problem... it’s on the calendar.’

‘Thanks,’ she says warmly.

‘I’ve been practising,’ he slurs, and shuts his eyes.

‘Call me if there’s a problem and I’ll come, they’ll have to manage without an organist. Promise you’ll call me.’

Joona is sitting in Erik’s car, driving towards the centre of Stockholm while he waits for Anja Larsson of the National Criminal Investigation Department to call him back. He’s passed the Globe and is on his way into the tunnels beneath Södermalm when his phone lights up.

Anja’s fingernails are still tapping at the keyboard of her computer as she tells him she hasn’t managed to find anything yet.

‘The Zone isn’t in our register, it never has been,’ she says in a resigned voice.

‘Maybe its real name is something different?’

‘I’ve tried the border control agency, the security section, IT, and Surveillance... I’ve started asking questions on a load of really nice online forums and sex websites.’

‘Can you get hold of Milan?’ he asks.

‘I’d rather not,’ Anja replies bluntly.

The car windows sigh as Joona heads into the narrow mouth of the tunnel. The lights in the roof and along the walls pulse towards him and Anja’s voice disappears.

‘We’ve got to find Rocky Kyrklund,’ he says, unsure if the connection has been lost altogether.

‘Wait outside the front door,’ she says distantly. ‘I’ll come down and...’

Then silence, and Joona drives deeper into the tunnel as he thinks about everything Erik has told him.

Ten minutes later he parks on the steep hill leading to the park, gets his stick and walks down to the glazed entrance of the National Police Headquarters.

Through the layers of glass he sees Margot pass the airlocks and head outside with heavy steps.

‘I happened to hear that Anja has arranged a meeting between you and Milan on the steps below Barnhusbron,’ Margot says.

‘You’ll have to stay at a distance.’

They walk down Bergsgatan together, past the solid façade of the Kronoberg swimming pool and the heavy metal gate to the prison.

‘When can I have my pistol back?’ Joona says, leaning on his stick with each step.

‘I’m not even allowed to talk to you,’ she points out.

As they pass the oldest parts of Police Headquarters, where the regional police chief has his offices, Margot tells him that Björn Kern has started to talk. Apparently his hypnosis had the effect that Erik was hoping for, providing him with a key to help him past the shock and find a way of structuring his memories.

‘Björn says his wife was sitting on the floor with her hand over her ear when he found her.’

‘The same pattern,’ Joona nods.

‘We’ve got nothing but the murders and the recurring modus operandi. We’ve gathered a hell of a lot of questions, but no answers at all so far.’

They cut across Rådhusparken. Joona is limping and Margot holds both hands around her big stomach.

‘The act of filming them through windows is central,’ Joona says after a while.

‘What are you thinking? I’m not getting anywhere,’ she admits, glancing sideways at him.

The trees are shimmering grey with damp, and there are yellow leaves in their crowns.

Joona is thinking that the murderer is a voyeur, a stalker who gets to know his victims, and chooses to capture a recurrent moment of life in his films.

‘And the hands,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, what the hell is going on with the hands?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replies, thinking that the hands are used to mark different places on the body.

It wasn’t Filip Cronstedt who took the Saturn tongue-stud from Maria, it was the murderer, the person Filip had caught a glimpse of in the garden, filming in the rain.

Maybe the tongue-stud was the reason why the preacher went in, the incitement that was needed for him to cross the boundary?

They walk past a 7-Eleven shop. The tabloids’ flysheets are offering a test to check if your boss is a psychopath.

Joona thinks that the preacher kills the woman, takes her jewellery, marks the place he took it from with the victim’s hand to let us know why, and maybe understand the nature of the accusation.

It’s a sort of announcement of the accusation, like the one hung on Jesus’s cross.

Rebecka Hansson was found sitting with her hand around her neck, Maria Carlsson with her hand in her mouth, Susanna Kern with her hand over her ear, and Sandra Lundgren with her hand over her breast.

‘He’s taken something from each and every one of them... It could be jewellery, it could be something else,’ he says.

‘But why?’ Margot asks.

‘Because they’ve broken the rules.’

‘Joona, I know you go your own way,’ Margot says. ‘But if you do track Rocky down at that place and find something out, it would be nice if you shared it.’

‘I’ll call you privately,’ he replies after a brief pause.

‘I don’t care how you go about it,’ she says. ‘But I’d really like to stop this fucking killer before we have any more victims... and preferably without losing my job.’

As they cross Fleminggatan and approach the location for his meeting with Milan, he tells her to wait.

‘Keep your distance now,’ he repeats.