The Man Who Watched Women (60 page)

‘What? Yes.'

‘Do we transfer him? Yes or no?'

‘
Just say yes.
'

Haraldsson tried to grasp the significance of what he had just heard, the connection he had just made. Hinde had known he was going to be ill. Had known that this conversation was going to take place. That this question would be asked. He must have done. But how? Was he just faking – or did it have something to do with the things Haraldsson had given him? Beetroot and a bottle from the chemist's. Some kind of South American name, that's what it sounded like. Icacaca … something. Why an illness, genuine or otherwise? Because he wanted to be moved. Get out. Escape. Should he warn Victor? Tell him about his suspicions?

‘
Just say yes.
'

There was no scope there for a warning, an attempt to prevent something from happening. It was a simple exhortation to say one word. Give his consent. Obey orders. He tried, but he just couldn't get his head around the consequences. Couldn't weigh up the pros and cons. Everything was chaos. The bedroom door was closed. He took the last few steps. He had to know.

‘Thomas? Are you there?'

Haraldsson placed his hand on the door handle. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in. With a brief exhalation he pushed open the door. Quickly, like ripping off a plaster. Prepared for the worst, but at the same time not prepared at all.

The room was empty.

Jenny was still only missing.

‘Yes,' he said. It sounded like a dry croak.

‘What did you say?' Victor asked.

Haraldsson cleared his throat. ‘Yes,' he repeated in a firmer tone of voice. ‘Transfer him.'

‘Okay. Where are you? Are you coming back later?'

Haraldsson ended the call. Put the phone back in his pocket. Stood in the doorway of his empty bedroom and began to weep.

Before Ursula finished for the day she felt she had to check with SKL, the national forensics lab in Linköping, that the two sterile packages containing DNA samples from the apartment had actually arrived. They had gone by special courier some hours ago, and the plan was that Torkel should be able to make use of a preliminary report when questioning Svensson the following day. She managed to get hold of the chief forensic pathologist, Walter Steen, who reassured her. Everything was looking good, SKL had started work already, and he would personally ensure that they delivered the necessary information the following day. That was enough for Ursula; she had known Steen for some time, and he was a man of his word. Satisfied, she left Ralph Svensson's stuffy apartment. The relief shift had just arrived, and she had a brief word with the two new officers in the stairwell, emphasising that no one but her was to be allowed access, at least not without her permission. She left them her home and mobile numbers to be on the safe side, and went down the stairs. It had been an incredibly intense day, and she felt weary in both body and soul. She stopped outside the main door and enjoyed the summery smell of warm grass for a while. In spite of the tiredness she was content. The apartment had turned out to be a veritable treasure chest, and she had found herself having to prioritise rather than engage in a thorough search. She still had many hours of work left, but she was convinced that they had already secured sufficient evidence to ensure that Ralph Svensson would be convicted of all four murders, with or without a confession. That was her real aim: to find evidence so strong that the suspect's own account no longer weighed so heavily. That was when she knew she had done a good job – when the truth became objective and measurable.

She set off towards her car, tentatively wondering whether to call Torkel. He and Vanja had called in after the press conference. They must have bumped into Sebastian outside, because the first thing Torkel had said was that Sebastian was off the case from now on. Vanja in particular seemed relieved. She was bubbling with energy, and spat out a few brief, brutal remarks about the impossible man she disliked so much. Ursula herself felt sad more than anything. Not because she thought Sebastian had brought anything to the table this time, but she remembered him from the old days, when he had possessed an amazing, innate power. The man who had left Ralph Svensson's apartment with his shoulders hunched was not the same man. Nobody should have to fall so far. So hard. Not even Sebastian Bergman. So she could never share Vanja's joy.

Before he left, Torkel had lingered in the hallway for a moment. She recognised the glow in his eyes from similar occasions when they were out on a job. It always appeared when they made a major breakthrough in an investigation; it was as if they could somehow hold on to the moment by being together.

But she wasn't going to let it happen this time. It didn't feel right, somehow. In some strange way, it was a completely different matter when they were in another town. It wasn't as serious. Admittedly it was more tempting now, but it was also slightly sordid. And then there was Mikael.

She got in the car and headed into the city without really knowing where she was going. Perhaps the compromise would be to go into work, but she didn't really want to do that. She decided to go home.

Mikael was there. He was sitting on the sofa when she walked in.

‘You look tired,' she commented.

He nodded in response and got up. ‘Coffee?'

‘Please.'

He went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine while Ursula sat down by the open window. It was blissfully quiet outside, and she enjoyed hearing him bustling about in the other room. She had made the right decision. Rules were rules, and just because you'd broken them once, that didn't mean you had to do it again. She had to admit that there was something about Mikael that calmed her. He might not be the most passionate person in the world, but he always had time for her. That was worth a great deal.

‘I heard on the radio that you'd arrested someone,' he called from the kitchen.

‘Yes, I've spent the whole afternoon in the suspect's apartment.'

‘Did you find anything?'

‘Loads. He's guilty.'

‘Good.'

Mikael came back into the living room.

‘Come and sit down,' she said, patting the seat next to her on the sofa, but he shook his head.

‘Not right now. We need to talk.'

She was taken aback. Sat up straight and looked at him. Mikael didn't often want to talk, or expect her to listen.

‘Has something happened to Bella?'

‘This has nothing to do with Bella. This is about us.'

She stiffened. His voice was different, somehow. As if he had practised what he was going to say. As if he had been preparing for this for a long time.

‘I've met someone, and I want to be honest with you.'

At first she didn't understand what he was saying. Eventually she had to ask, even though she suspected she knew the answer already. ‘I don't really understand; are you saying you've met someone else?'

‘Yes. But we're not seeing each other at the moment. I didn't think it was fair on her. Or you.'

She looked at him in shock. ‘You've been with someone else and now it's over?'

‘I haven't been with someone else. We've seen each other a few times, and now I've put things on hold. For the time being. I wanted to talk to you first.'

She sat there, lost for words. She had no idea what to do next. Anger would have been the simplest option. Clean and cutting. But she couldn't find it. She couldn't actually find anything.

‘Ursula, I really have tried lately, with the trip to Paris and everything. But I haven't got the strength anymore. I'm sorry. It's my fault.'

His fault.

If only it were that simple.

The ambulance from Uppsala turned into Lövhaga precisely eighteen minutes after the call to the emergency services. Fatima Olsson jumped out and went round the back to get the trolley. She was glad they had arrived. On the way to the hospital she would travel in the back with the patient, which meant she could avoid sitting next to Kenneth Hammarén. She didn't like him. For the simple reason that he didn't like her. She didn't know why. Maybe it was because she was born in Iraq, or because she was better qualified – she was an intensive care nurse, he was a paramedic – and therefore better paid, or because she was a woman. It could be a combination of all three, or there might be some other reason altogether. She hadn't asked. She had been with him for two weeks now, and she intended to speak to her boss as soon as she got the chance, and to ask if she could work with someone else in future. He was reasonably good at his job, but he was bad-tempered and always negative towards her. Took every opportunity to have a go, to correct her or to criticise what she was doing. It only happened with her. She had seen him with others, and his attitude had been completely different. It was definitely her. He just didn't like her.

Kenneth got out, always thirty seconds after her so that he wouldn't have to help. Fatima placed the emergency bag on the trolley, leaving the back doors of the ambulance open – they were inside the prison grounds, after all – and set off towards the secure unit where a guard was waiting for them at the door. As usual Kenneth led the way, five metres in front of her.

The dayroom was empty except for Hinde, who was still lying on the floor. One of the guards had placed a pillow under his head. The rest of the inmates were back in their cells. Fatima quickly assessed the situation. Middle-aged man. Violent vomiting, the consistency of coffee grounds. Pain in the stomach, judging by the position in which he was lying. Possibly a bleeding ulcer. Definitely internal bleeding. Fatima bent down.

‘Hello, can you hear me?'

The man on the floor opened his eyes and nodded feebly.

‘My name's Fatima; can you tell me what happened?'

‘I got a pain in my stomach and then …' His voice seemed to fail him. He made a vague, sweeping gesture in the direction of the vomit-covered floor.

Fatima nodded. ‘Are you in pain now?'

‘Yes, but it's a bit better.'

‘You're coming with us.'

She gave Kenneth a challenging look, and they worked together in silence to lift the man onto the trolley and secure him. He didn't weigh much. He seemed very weak. They would definitely need the siren on the way back.

The guard who had been sitting with the man walked with them down the corridor to the waiting ambulance. He and Fatima got the patient into the ambulance without any help from Kenneth, and as Fatima began to close the doors the guard moved to climb in.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm coming with you.'

Edward lay there listening with interest. This was the part of the plan over which he had the least control. He had no idea what the arrangements would be when it came to accompanying an inmate being transferred to hospital. How many guards? Would they be armed? Inside the unit they had only batons and Tasers. Was it different during a transfer? Would there be a car following them? Two? Would they wait for a police escort? He had no idea.

He could hear the guard explaining to Fatima who Edward Hinde was, and that there was absolutely no question of the ambulance being allowed to leave without supervision. The guard who was now standing by his feet would be travelling in the back with Hinde and Fatima, and a colleague was on his way to sit with the driver. Two, then. Separate and possibly armed. But that still shouldn't cause any problems. At least there was no talk of waiting for the police.

The other guard came running and got straight in the front. His colleague jumped in the back and Fatima showed him where to sit. They closed the doors. Fatima knocked twice on the pane of frosted glass separating them from the driver's compartment, and the ambulance moved off. After just a few metres the siren was switched on. Hinde could feel the tension building inside him. So far everything had gone exactly according to plan, but the most difficult and risky part of the operation lay ahead.

Fatima spoke to him. ‘Are you allergic to any form of medication?'

‘No.'

‘You've lost a lot of fluids and salts, so I'm going to put you on a saline drip.'

She turned around in the swaying ambulance, opened a drawer and with practised movements took out a drip which she hung on a hook above Edward. Then she got up, opened a cupboard higher up and took out a small cannula. She sat down beside him while at the same time applying a compress to a dispenser containing antiseptic. She quickly pressed the damp square to the crook of his arm.

‘You'll feel a sharp prick.' Adeptly she inserted the cannula, taped it in place, straightened out the tube leading from the bag and fastened it to the cannula. Then she leaned forward to turn on the drip. Her breasts were right in front of Hinde's eyes. He thought about Vanja. The solution began to run into his vein.

‘Okay, I really need to ask you a few questions. Do you think you could manage that?'