‘Come in.’ Haraldsson replaced the receiver. The door opened and a woman of about forty-five came in: Annika Norling, his PA.
‘You have visitors.’
‘What?’ Haraldsson glanced quickly at the open diary on his desk. His first meeting was pencilled in for one o’clock. Had he missed something? Or, to put it more accurately, had Annika missed something?
‘Riksmord,’ Annika replied. ‘They don’t have an appointment,’ she went on, as if she could read Haraldsson’s mind.
Haraldsson swore silently to himself. He had hoped that Riksmord’s interest in Lövhaga would be restricted to telephone calls. They hadn’t treated him well during their time in Västerås. Not well at all. Quite the reverse. They had done everything in their power to exclude him from the investigation, in spite of the fact that over and over again he had proved himself to be an asset.
‘Who’s here?’
Annika looked down at the post-it note in her hand. ‘Vanja Lithner and Billy Rosén.’
At least it wasn’t Torkel Höglund. When they first met, Torkel had told Haraldsson he was to be an important part of their investigation, only to kick him out a day or so later without any kind of explanation whatsoever. Not a person to be trusted. Admittedly, Haraldsson had no desire to see Vanja or Billy either, but what could he do? He looked over at the door, where his PA was waiting. He could ask Annika to tell them he was busy, get them to come back at some other time. Later. In a few days perhaps, when he had had time to familiarise himself with the job a little more. When he would be better prepared. Could one ask one’s PA to lie? Haraldsson had never had a PA before, but assumed that it was somehow part of her job. After all, she was there to make things easier for him. Putting off a visit from Riksmord would definitely make his day easier to cope with.
‘Tell them I’m busy.’
‘With what?’
Haraldsson looked at her with a quizzical expression. Surely there weren’t that many things a person could be busy with in their office?
‘With work, of course. Ask them to come back.’
Annika gave him a look which could only be interpreted as disapproving, and closed the door. Haraldsson keyed his password into the computer, then spun his chair around and looked out of the window as he waited for his personal settings to be loaded. It was going to be another beautiful summer’s day.
There was another knock on the door. This time he didn’t even manage a ‘Come in’ before the door opened and Vanja marched in purposefully. She stopped so suddenly when she caught sight of Haraldsson that Billy almost bumped into her.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I work here now.’ Haraldsson straightened up a fraction in the comfortable office chair. ‘I’m the governor. I’ve been in the post for a few days now.’
‘Is it just a temporary thing?’ Vanja couldn’t get her head around it.
‘No, it’s my new job. It’s a permanent position.’
‘Right . . .’
Billy quickly jumped in with the reason for their visit. ‘We’re here because of Edward Hinde.’
‘I realise that.’
‘And you still weren’t prepared to see us?’ Vanja again. She sat down in one of the armchairs provided for visitors, a challenging look on her face.
‘There’s a lot to do when you’re new in a post.’ Haraldsson waved his hands over the desk, which he quickly realised was rather too empty to make much of an impact when it came to visualising his workload. ‘But I can spare you a few minutes,’ he went on. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Has anything happened with Hinde over the last month or so?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know . . . Unusual behaviour, any deviations from his normal routine, changes of mood. Anything outside the norm.’
‘Not that I’ve heard. There’s nothing in his notes. I haven’t met him personally. Yet.’
Vanja nodded, apparently satisfied with his response. Billy took over.
‘What opportunities does he have to communicate with the outside world?’
Haraldsson pulled the folder on the desk towards him and opened it, thanking his lucky stars that he had brought it back from home this morning. Having all the available information on Hinde to hand the day after Riksmord had made enquiries about him was a sign of initiative.
‘It says here that he has access to newspapers, magazines and books in the library, as well as limited access to the internet.’
‘How limited?’ Billy asked quickly.
Haraldsson didn’t know. However, he did know who to call: Victor Bäckman, security chief at Lövhaga. Victor answered immediately and said he would come straight up. The three of them waited in silence in the bare, impersonal office.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ Billy asked after a minute or so.
‘Chest,’ Haraldsson corrected him automatically. ‘It’s good. I’m not completely recovered, but it’s . . . good.’
‘Great.’
‘Yes.’
Silence once more. Haraldsson was just wondering whether he ought to offer them coffee when Victor arrived. He was a tall man in a checked shirt and chinos, with brown eyes, a crew cut, and a handlebar moustache that made Billy think of the Village People as they shook hands.
‘No porn, of course,’ Victor replied when Billy repeated his question about Hinde’s access to the net. ‘Very, very restricted when it comes to violence. It’s the strictest form of adult lock you can imagine. We programmed it ourselves.’
‘Social media?’
‘Nothing. Completely off limits to him. He has no way of communicating with the outside world via the computer.’
‘Can you check his history?’ Vanja asked.
Victor nodded. ‘We save all web traffic for three months. Would you like a copy?’
‘Yes please.’
‘He also has a computer in his cell, doesn’t he?’ Haraldsson chipped in, not wanting to feel totally excluded from the conversation.
Victor nodded again. ‘But it has no internet connection, of course.’
‘So what does he use it for?’ Billy turned to Haraldsson, who turned to Victor.
‘Crosswords, Sudoku, that kind of thing. He does some writing, too. Keeps his brain active, so to speak.’
‘And what about phone calls, letters and so on?’ Vanja asked.
‘He’s not allowed phone calls, and he hardly gets any letters these days. But the ones that do arrive are all the same.’ Victor gave Billy and Vanja a meaningful look. ‘From women who can “cure” him with their love.’
Vanja nodded. Yet another of life’s little mysteries: the way certain women were attracted to the most disturbed and brutal men in the country.
‘Do you still have them?’
‘Copies. Hinde gets the originals. I’ll pass them on to you.’
They thanked him for his help and Victor went off to gather up the material they were going to take with them. Haraldsson leaned forward over the desk when the door had closed behind the security chief.
‘May I ask why you’re so interested in Hinde?’
Vanja ignored the question. So far they had managed to keep the fact that they were hunting a copycat killer away from the press. No one had even linked the latest three murders to the same perpetrator. Temporary staff working on the newspapers over the summer, presumably. Riksmord would prefer press interest in the investigation to remain minimal, and the fewer people who knew what they were actually dealing with, the greater the chance of maintaining that state of affairs.
‘We’ll need to speak to him,’ she said instead, getting to her feet.
‘Hinde?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s not possible.’
For the second time since her arrival Vanja stopped dead. She turned to face Haraldsson. ‘Why not?’
‘He’s one of three prisoners on the secure wing who are not allowed visits unless they are pre-booked and approved. Unfortunately.’ Haraldsson spread his arms wide in a gesture intended to further underline how sorry he was that he was unable to help them.
‘But you know who we are.’
‘Those are the rules. There’s nothing I can do, but Annika can give you a form so that you can apply for a visiting order. She’s my PA . . .’
Vanja couldn’t help feeling that Haraldsson was enjoying his position of power. Perhaps that wasn’t so strange – he had been well down the pecking order the last time they met – but even if it was understandable and perhaps human, it was still extremely frustrating.
‘How long does it take for one of these applications to be processed?’ she asked, struggling to keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘Three to five working days, but I’m sure we can speed things up for you; you are from Riksmord after all. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Vanja marched out without saying goodbye. Billy nodded before he left the room.
Haraldsson gazed at the closed door. That had gone well. Now he was going to get himself a cup of coffee and call Jenny.
This was going to be a good day.
His third day.
‘So you’re still stalking her?’ Stefan was looking at Sebastian with an expression he recognised. The expression that said: ‘I know more about you than you know yourself, so don’t lie to me.’
The expression Sebastian hated.
‘That’s not the way I see it.’
‘You stand outside her apartment block every day. You follow her around town, you follow her to work and to her parents’ place. What else would you call it?’
‘I’m interested in her. That’s all.’
Stefan sighed and leaned back against the soft, pale upholstery of his armchair.
‘She’s my daughter,’ Sebastian ventured by way of an excuse. ‘I have to do it. I can’t let her go.’ He knew how lame that sounded. He was glad he hadn’t mentioned anything about Trolle.
Stefan shook his head and gazed out of the window for a moment. They always ended up at this point. Vanja. The daughter Sebastian had suddenly discovered. The daughter who knew nothing, and could never be allowed to find out. Or could she? Was there a way? That was the hope. That was the question Sebastian always came back to, sooner or later. The point he was unable to get past. The issue he was constantly fighting with.
Stefan could certainly understand the problem. It was like the meeting of two opposite poles. The desire, the longing and the need on one side cannoning into the reality on the other, apparently irreconcilable. This was where the most difficult questions arose. Stefan came across them all the time in his work. That was when his patients came to him – when they suddenly found themselves unable to come up with the answers. It was human. Nothing strange about it. The strange thing about this situation was that the person sitting in front of him was Sebastian Bergman. A man who had always had all the answers. A man Stefan had never expected to seek his help.
Sebastian had been Stefan’s tutor at university. Everyone in the group had felt a certain reluctance to attend his lectures. They were always memorable, but on the very first day Sebastian had immediately made it clear to everyone that he was the star, and that he had no intention of sharing the limelight. Any student who questioned Sebastian’s arguments or attempted a critical discussion of his theses and theories was humiliated and mocked. Not just for the remainder of that particular lecture, but for the rest of the academic year, the rest of his or her university career. This was why Sebastian’s ‘Any questions?’ was always followed by complete silence.
The exception was Stefan Larson. He came well equipped to meet Sebastian. As the youngest son in a family of academics, dinner at home in Lund had prepared Stefan for verbal sparring, and he had often sought discussions with the sharp, impossible man who was feared by so many others. Sebastian also reminded Stefan of his older brother Ernst, who had the same powerful need to make his point, and always went that bit too far in the battle to be proved right. That was the most important thing to both Ernst and Sebastian: to be proved right. It made them formidable intellectual opponents, which suited Stefan perfectly. He provided the opposition they required, but he never gave them the final victory. He came back with the next question, and the next, and the next. They were looking for the final killer blow, but instead they were faced with a long war of attrition. It was the only way to stand up to them.
To wear them down.
One morning almost two years ago, Sebastian had been waiting for Stefan outside the door of his practice. From the exhausted expression and the crumpled clothes, it looked as if Sebastian had been waiting all night. He was already a shadow of his former self by then. He had lost his wife and daughter in the tsunami in 2004, and since then he had been caught in an increasingly frightening downward spiral. Gone were the lectures and the book tours, replaced by tormented thoughts, apathy and a growing problem with sex. There was no one else he could turn to, he had said. No one. They had started to meet, always on Sebastian’s terms. Sometimes months would go by between meetings, sometimes just a few days. But they never lost touch.
‘How do you think Vanja would feel if she found out about this?’ Stefan went on.
‘She’d say I was crazy. She’d report me to the police and she would hate me.’ Sebastian paused for a moment before carrying on. ‘I know that, but . . . she’s the only thing I think about, all the time, going round and round . . .’ The end of the sentence was little more than a whisper. ‘This is something completely new. I’m used to being in control.’
‘Really? So you mean that until you found out she was your daughter, you were in control? It was your brilliant plan to fuck up your life one hundred per cent? In that case, congratulations; you certainly succeeded.’ Stefan leaned forward. That was the best thing about having Sebastian as a patient. You could take off the gloves. Hit him hard. ‘You don’t want me to pander to you. All your life people have let you have your own way. I’m not doing that. You lost your family in the tsunami, and now you’ve lost your grip. Completely.’
‘That’s why I need her.’
‘But does Vanja need you?’
‘No.’
‘She’s already got a father, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So who do you think would gain if you told her the truth, given the current situation?’
Sebastian sat there in silence. He knew the answer. He just didn’t want to say it out loud. But Stefan was still leaning forward, waiting. He said it instead.