Stalker (49 page)

As soon as Nelly reaches the kitchen and closes the door behind her, and puts the heavy bar across it, Erik begins yanking at the mesh. He pulls as hard as he can, and manages to bend it a couple of millimetres, but realises that it will never give way.

He kicks at it with his bare soles, feels the metal burn into the arches of his feet, and hears nothing but a solid thud from the cage. He shifts round desperately and tugs at the corner, seeking a weak point in the construction, pushes up at the roof, but there are no gaps anywhere, no loose welding joints. Then he lies down on his stomach, stretches out with his left hand until he can reach one of the wooden sticks with his fingertips. He rolls it closer until he’s able to get a grip on it and pull it into the cage. He moves to the other side of the cage, holds the stick out and can just reach the strap of Nelly’s Gucci handbag. Carefully he raises the stick, making the bag slide closer to him. He pants with pain whenever he has to put any pressure on his injured arm. It feel likes an eternity before he drags the bag over to the mesh. With shaking hands he hunts around for the keys to the padlock among Nelly’s gold-plated lipstick holders, travel hairspray and powder. In a side pocket he finds her mobile phone. Because he can only use one arm he puts the phone on the floor, leans over it and dials the SOS Alarm number.

‘SOS 112, what’s the nature of the emergency?’ a calm voice says.

‘Please listen … you need to try to trace this phone,’ Erik says in as loud a voice as he dare use. ‘I’ve been locked up in a cellar by a serial killer, you’ve got to come and—’

‘The reception’s very bad,’ the voice interrupts. ‘Can you move somewhere—’

‘The murderer’s name is Nelly Brandt, and I’m in the cellar of a yellow house on the way to Rimbo.’

‘I can’t hear anything now … Did you say you were in danger?’

‘This is serious, you’ve got to come,’ Erik explains, glancing quickly towards the staircase. ‘I’m in a yellow house on the way to Rimbo, there are fields all around and I saw ruined buildings on the site, an old factory with a tall chimney, and—’

The door to the kitchen rattles and Erik ends the call with trembling fingers, drops the phone on the floor but manages to pick it up and slip it back inside the bag. He hears Nelly coming down the steep steps and pushes the handbag back towards the table with the stick. It almost topples over and he has to nudge its lower side with the end of the stick. He stretches out as far as he can to slide the bag back in place.

She’s almost down now.

Erik pulls the stick back and hides it under the mattress, and notices a faint trail through the dirt on the floor.

Nelly reaches the floor of the cellar. She’s holding a broad-bladed kitchen knife in her hand. Her face is sweaty, and she brushes her blood-streaked hair back and looks at her bag on the table.

‘You were gone a long time,’ he says, leaning back against the mesh.

‘The kitchen’s a bit of a mess,’ she explains.

‘But you’ve got some morphine?’

‘To the hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet,’ she mutters, and puts the white pill on the end of the knife-blade.

She smiles blankly and reaches it towards the mesh.

‘Open wide,’ she says distantly.

With his heart pounding Erik leans his face towards the rusty mesh, opens his mouth and sees the point of the knife come closer.

It’s trembling, and he hears Nelly’s breathing quicken as she puts the tip of the knife in his open mouth.

He feels the underside of the cold blade against his tongue before carefully closing his lips around the knife.

She pulls it out again and the blade hits the side of the mesh with a clang.

Erik pretends to swallow the pill, but tucks it between his cheek and his back teeth. A bitter taste spreads through his mouth as his saliva dissolves the outer layer. He daren’t swallow the pill. It doesn’t matter how much pain he’s in, he can’t risk becoming drowsy and sleepy.

‘You’ve got new earrings,’ he says, sitting back on the mattress.

She smiles briefly with her eyes on the hand holding the knife.

‘But I haven’t been good enough,’ she says quietly.

‘Nelly, if only I’d known that you were waiting for me …’

‘I stood in the garden and saw you looking at Katryna,’ she whispers. ‘Men like beautiful fingernails, I know that, but my hands have always been strange, there’s nothing I can—’

‘You’ve got lovely hands, I think they’re lovely. They’re—’

‘Lovelier than she is now, anyway,’ Nelly interrupts. ‘That just leaves your little teacher … I’ve seen you together, I’ve seen her slippery mouth and—’

‘There’s no one but you,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

‘But I haven’t got any children, I haven’t got a little girl,’ she whispers.

‘What are you talking about?’ Erik asks, and feels his body go utterly cold.

‘Probably best not to take fire into your bosom, unless you want—’

‘Nelly, I don’t care about them,’ he says. ‘I’ve only got eyes for you.’

She lunges quickly with the knife. He jerks his head back and the knife hits the mesh where his face was a moment ago.

She’s panting and looking at him with disappointment, and he knows he’s gone too far, that she knows he wasn’t telling the truth.

‘What you’re saying,’ she gasps. ‘I don’t know, it’s a bit like seeking death by chasing the wind.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not seeking death, Nelly.’

‘It isn’t your fault,’ she mutters, and scratches her neck with the knife-blade. ‘I don’t blame you.’

She takes a few steps back and the shadows close around her pale face, painting big, black holes where her eyes should be, and drawing dark shapes across her neck.

‘But you’ll see what mortality looks like, Erik,’ she says, and turns towards the stairs.

‘Don’t do anything silly now,’ Erik calls to her.

She stops and turns round. Sweat has run down her cheeks and her make-up has almost come off now.

‘I really can’t accept that you’re going to carry on thinking about her,’ Nelly says in a steady voice. ‘If you are going to think about her, then it should be a face without eyes and lips.’

‘No, Nelly!’ Erik shouts, watching her disappear up the narrow staircase.

He sinks down on to the floor, spits out the half-dissolved pill in his hand, and puts the loose remains in one pocket of his jeans.

Margot knows it’s pretty unlikely that Nelly Brandt is either at her home in Bromma or at work at the Karolinska. Even so, she can’t help feeling a deep anxiety in her body as she sits in her car further down the road and watches the National Task Force spreading out around the white modernist villa in Bromma.

If she disregards the black-clad and heavily armed police officers, the entire area is dreamily peaceful, like one of many childhood evenings.

Margot is following the operation on the radio, and the tension inside her is almost unbearable. She can’t help imagining the silence being shattered by screams and discharged weapons.

Her radio crackles as the head of the operation, Roger Storm, reports directly to her.

‘She’s not here,’ he says.

‘Have they looked everywhere?’ she asks. ‘Basement, attic, garden?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘And her husband?’

‘Sitting watching the diving on television.’

‘What does he say?’

‘I got straight to the point, but he says he’s sure Nelly isn’t involved … they’ve read all about Erik and he says Nelly is just as shocked as him.’

‘OK, I don’t give a shit about that right now, as long as he can tell us wherever the fuck she is,’ Margot says, looking over towards the house.

‘They haven’t got anywhere else – he’s got no idea,’ Roger replies.

‘Is the response team finished?’

‘They’re on their way out.’

‘Then I’m coming in,’ Margot says, and opens the car door.

The moment she stands up she feels a dull ache at the small of her back. She realises immediately what it means, but still carries on, and slowly makes her way up to the wide-open front door.

‘I’ll give birth when I’m done with this case,’ she tells the officer standing at the door.

The hall is large, but cosy and welcoming. A Carl Larsson painting hangs opposite the door. The response unit are on their way out, helmets in hand, their automatic rifles swinging from their straps.

In the gloom of the living room, a rather plump man is sitting in an armchair. He’s loosened his tie and undone his top button, and there’s a microwaved meal on a tray on the coffee table. He looks shocked, keeps rubbing his thighs and looking in bewilderment at the police officer who is talking to him.

‘It’s a big house,’ he’s explaining. ‘It’s enough for us … And in the winter we usually go to the Caribbean and—’

‘Your extended family – don’t they have houses?’ Margot interrupts.

‘I’m the only one who lives in Sweden,’ he replies.

‘But if your wife was to borrow a house to go to – where would that be?’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no idea, I …’

Margot leaves him and heads upstairs, looks round, then goes into a bedroom and takes out her phone.

‘Nelly Brandt isn’t at home, and she isn’t at the Karolinska,’ she says as soon as Joona answers.

‘Does she have any connection with any other properties?’ Joona Linna asks.

‘We’ve checked all the registries,’ Margot replies, gasping as the next contraction hits. ‘They don’t own any other houses, they’ve got no summer cottage, no land.’

‘Where did she live before?’

Margot takes out the printout of information she requested the moment she last spoke to Joona.

‘According to the population registry, she lived at Sköldinge rectory until ten years ago … then there’s a gap of four years before she shows up here.’

‘She lived with Rocky Kyrklund in his rectory,’ Joona says.

‘We’ve got people there, but these days it’s sheltered housing for—’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Obviously she could have rented a flat second- or third-hand.’

‘In the diary there are references to a farm in Roslagen,’ Joona says.

‘There’s no farm, nothing she’s got any connection to. Her family has never owned any land, and she’s the last of her line.’

‘But Rocky escaped from her and stole a car in Finsta. We don’t know how far he walked on foot first—’

‘There must be a thousand farms around Norrtälje,’ Margot interrupts.

‘Check all her paperwork. I mean, if she’s renting a farm from someone else, she may have paid electricity bills that don’t have her name on them, things like that.’

‘We should be getting a decision about an official search warrant in a couple of hours.’

‘Start looking, and carry on until someone stops you,’ he says.

‘OK, where do I begin?’

‘If you think the husband’s telling the truth, you’ll need to look among her personal things.’

‘I’m upstairs … They’ve got separate bedrooms,’ she says, walking into an airy room with dove-blue wallpaper.

‘We can keep talking while you search … Tell me exactly what you’re looking at.’

‘The bed is made and she’s got a few books on the bedside table, looks like psychology books.’

‘Check the drawers.’

Margot opens the two drawers in the bedside table and tells him that there are no documents there.

‘They’re practically empty … a pack of Mogadon, throat sweets and hand cream,’ she says.

‘Ordinary hand cream?’

‘Clarins.’

She puts her hand in the drawer and finds a little plastic tub.

‘A tub of dietary supplements.’

‘What sort?’

‘Iron … iron hydroxide.’

‘Why do people take that? Do you?’ Joona asks.

‘I eat enough meat for five people instead,’ Margot says and closes the drawers.

‘Is there a wardrobe?’

‘I’m on my way into her walk-in wardrobe,’ she says, walking in between the rows of clothes.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Dresses, skirts, suits, blouses … don’t think I’m envious, but it’s all Burberry, Ralph Lauren, Prada …’

She falls silent as she stares at one wall.

‘What’s happening?’ Joona asks.

‘Her shoes … I might have to have a little cry after all.’

‘Carry on.’

‘Joona, I just want to say … I’ve done a lot of research, I’ve studied all the major cases of obsessive stalking, from John Hinckley to Mona Wallén-Hjerpe … and no one comes anywhere close to the level of Nelly’s fixation … she’s the worst stalker ever.’

‘I know.’

‘Where do I look now?’

‘Poke about at the back,’ Joona replies. ‘Look behind shelves, under boxes, you need to find something.’

They end the call and Margot looks everywhere, leaning against the wall and crawling right to the back, but she finds absolutely nothing. Just as she walks back into the bedroom she sees Roger Storm reach the top of the stairs. His face is sweaty and he looks at her with his eyes wide open as he comes towards her. Margot sighs and presses her clenched hand against the small of her back to suppress the next contraction.

‘What is it?’ she asks in a subdued voice.

‘We’ve received another film,’ he says.

The sun has gone down and Rocky has just woken up beside Joona, the streetlamps are coming on and they are approaching Södertälje when Margot calls back.

‘We’ve received a new video,’ she says in an anguished voice. ‘Presumably it’s someone Erik knows, or has at least—’

‘Describe the film.’

‘Nelly is already inside the victim’s home when she begins filming … The woman seems injured, she’s sitting curled up in a corner … and at the end, at the end of the film there’s a small foot … It’s dark, but it looks like there’s a child lying on the floor.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a perfectly ordinary bloody room, old walls and uneven wallpaper … there might be a big chimney outside the window, but Forensics aren’t done yet.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m watching the video on an iPad right now … the woman has short black hair, she’s thin, and I don’t know … she’s bleeding, she’s almost unconscious and she’s moving her hands as if she can’t see anything, or—’

‘Listen,’ Joona interrupts. ‘Her name is Jackie Federer and she lives at Lill-Jans plan.’

‘I’ll send the rapid response unit,’ she says, and ends the call.

Joona doesn’t have time to explain that she may well no longer be in her flat, because Nelly will want to kill Jackie in front of Erik’s eyes, just as she killed her mother in front of her father, and Natalia in front of Rocky.

They drive past a minibus parked at the side of the road with a puncture. A bearded man in shorts and with sunburned legs is putting out a warning triangle.

‘You talked about a cage, about being locked in a cage,’ Joona says to Rocky.

‘When was that?’

‘Nelly had you locked up somewhere.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he replies, staring out at the road.

‘Do you know where that might have been?’

‘No.’

‘You escaped and stole a car near Norrtälje.’

‘I thought you were the one who goes around stealing cars,’ he mutters.

‘Think … It was a farm, there may have been a chimney …’

Rocky sits there watching the landscape flash by, and as they pass the junction for Salem he lets out a deep sigh. He rubs his face and beard with his big hands, then looks back at the road again.

‘Nelly Brandt murdered Rebecka Hansson,’ he says slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘God came back to look for me after all,’ he says, crumpling an empty cigarette packet.

‘It looks like it,’ Joona replies gently.

‘Maybe I’ll be punished for escaping and for having heroin in my pockets … but after that I can go back to being a priest.’

‘You’ve already been wrongly convicted, you won’t be sentenced again,’ Joona says.

‘Can you stop here?’ Rocky says calmly. ‘I need to take a look at my church.’

Joona pulls over to the verge and lets him out. The big priest closes the car door, knocks on the roof, and then sets off in the direction of the turning for Salem.