Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

His stomach contracts as if he were about to be sick when he hears the voice say that an arrest warrant has been issued for a psychiatrist at the Karolinska Hospital on reasonable suspicion of having murdered four women in the Stockholm area.

The police are saying little otherwise, out of consideration for the ongoing investigation, but are hoping to receive further information from the public.

The man behind the counter, with the arm of his glasses held together by a piece of tape, asks how he can help, and Erik tries to smile as he explains that he’d like a pay-as-you-go mobile.

A senior police officer is explaining about the resources that have been deployed in the search, and how this has already given positive results.

Erik changes direction as soon as he leaves the shop. He switches streets a number of times, but is aiming to leave the centre of the city via Danvikstull.

He doesn’t dare stop and take out the phone before he’s passed the Tram Museum. He stands facing a yellow brick building and calls Joona Linna.

‘Joona, this is impossible,’ he says quickly. ‘Have you seen the papers? I can’t keep on hiding.’

‘You have to give me more time.’

‘No, I’ve made up my mind. I want you to arrest me and take me to the police.’

‘I can’t guarantee your safety.’

‘I don’t care,’ he says.

‘I’ve never seen the police so cut up, and not just Adam’s colleagues. It’s right across the board,’ Joona says. ‘It’s one thing to risk your own life, you’re aware of that when you enter operational service, but violence of this sort, directed at a police officer’s wife...’

‘You have to tell them I didn’t do this, you—’

‘I have, but they’ve linked you to each of the victims, and you were seen at the crime scene...’

‘What do I do?’ Erik whispers.

‘Stay hidden until I find the preacher,’ Joona replies. ‘I’m going to talk to Rocky, he’s in custody in Huddinge Prison.’

‘I could hand myself over to one of the evening tabloids,’ Erik says, aware of how desperate he sounds. ‘I could tell my own story, my version, and then I’d have journalists with me when I went to the police.’

‘Erik, even if that was possible, they’re already talking about your suicide in custody, about you hanging yourself or swallowing a piece of glass before the trial... It’s all a lot of talk, but I don’t want you to take the risk right now.’

‘I’ll call Nelly, she knows me, she knows I can’t have done this—’

‘You can’t do that. The police are watching her house... you need to find someone else you can stay hidden with, someone more distant, unexpected.’

Erik and Joona end the call. The cars are standing still, the bridge is being opened. Three sailing boats are on their way out to the Baltic.

Huddinge Prison is one of the largest secure facilities in the Swedish judicial system. Rocky Kyrklund is only suspected of basic narcotics offences and is therefore not subject to any particular restrictions, but he is regarded as a high escape risk.

The prison is a vast V-shaped, brown-brick building, with an entrance flanked by tall pillars. At the rear are two wings shaped like fans, each of whose top floors contain eight individual exercise areas.

Rocky is the only person who knows who the unclean preacher is. He’s met him, spoken to him, and has seen him kill.

Joona has to hand over his keys and phone at the security check. They X-ray his shoes and jacket, and he is searched after passing through the metal detector. A black-and-white cocker spaniel circles him, sniffing for explosives and drugs.

The prison officer waiting for him at the door introduces himself as Arne Melander. As they head towards the lifts he tells Joona that he’s a competitive angler, that he came third in the Swedish coarse fishing championships at the start of the summer, and that he’s heading to the Fyris River at the weekend.

‘I went for bottom fishing,’ Arne explains, pressing the lift button. ‘And used pink- and bronze-coloured maggots.’

‘Sounds good,’ Joona says seriously.

Arne smiles, his cheeks lift and grow rounder. He has a large grey beard and is wearing glasses and a dark-blue Nato sweater that’s stretched tight across his big stomach.

His baton and alarm swing from his belt as they leave the lift and pass through the security doors. Joona waits quietly as the prison officer pulls his card through the reader and taps in the code.

They say hello to the duty officer, a white-haired man with a lazy eye and thin lips.

‘We’re running a bit late today,’ the duty officer says. ‘Kyrklund has just gone out for some air. But we can check if he wants to come back in.’

‘Please do,’ Joona says.

After the murder of prison officer Karen Gebreab the rules have been tightened, and no member of staff is allowed to be alone with any of their clients. The inmates are often desperate, in a state of upheaval after their crimes, the humiliation of their arrest, and the recognition of their failure in life.

Joona watches Arne Melander as he stands a little way off talking into a communications radio. He stares at the bare walls, the doors, the shiny linoleum floor and the coded locks.

Huddinge prison is evidently high security, totally enclosed, with reinforced doors and walls, entrance checks and camera surveillance. But the staff are only armed with batons.

Maybe they’ve got teargas or pepper spray, but no guns, Joona thinks.

A few years before Police Academy Joona was picked to join the paratroopers’ newly formed special ops unit, where he was trained in military Krav Maga, with a particular focus on urban warfare and innovative weaponry.

He still finds himself automatically scanning for potential weapons each time he enters a room.

He’s already spotted the stainless steel skirting boards and door-lintels in the prison.

The grooves on the heads of the screws have been planed off so they can’t be removed with ordinary tools, but the boards have started to drop towards the floor with the passage of time. Maybe the food trolleys have caught on them, or perhaps the floor-cleaner.

Joona has noticed that some of the skirting boards could be nudged off with his foot. If you wrapped your hands in some cloth, you could pull the whole length of skirting board off, bend it twice, and in twenty seconds create a sort of noose that could be wrapped round an opponent’s neck and tightened using the protruding lengths of metal.

Joona remembers the Dutch lieutenant, Rinus Advocaat, a sinuous man with a scarred face and dead eyes, who demonstrated that sort of weapon, and showed how to control your enemy’s movements and basically decapitate him by tightening the noose.

‘He’s on his way,’ Arne says amiably to Joona.

Rocky is walking behind two prison officers. He’s wearing pale green prison overalls and sandals, and has a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

‘Thanks for cutting short your time outside,’ Joona says, walking towards him.

‘I don’t like cages much anyway,’ Rocky says, and clears his throat.

‘Why not?’

‘Good question,’ he replies, and shoots Joona an interested glance.

‘You’re booked into a monitored interview room, number eleven,’ Arne tells Joona. ‘So I’ll be sitting on the other side of the glass.’

‘I remember the crayfish pots when I was little, at night... It’s around this time of year,’ Rocky says.

They stop outside the door while Arne unlocks it.

‘I used to shine my torch at the crayfish, and using just the beam I could force them into the pots,’ Rocky goes on.

Interview room 11 is shabby, and contains a table, four chairs, and an internal phone to summon the prison staff.