Stalker (50 page)

When he was allocating work earlier that day, Ramon Sjölin, commanding officer of the Norrtälje Police, decided that Olle and George Broman could take one of the patrol cars.

They’re father and son, and don’t often partner each other. Their colleagues joked that at last Olle, the father, would get a lesson in proper police work.

Olle loves his colleagues’ banter, and is immensely proud of his son, who is a head taller than him.

As usual the day passed peacefully, and towards evening they drove out to Vallby industrial estate, seeing as there had been several reports of break-ins there in the past six months. But everything was calm and they didn’t call in, and carried on towards Rimbo after a wee-break.

Olle’s back is hurting, and he tilts the seat back a bit further, looks at the time, and is about to say they’ll give it half hour then head back to the station when a call from the regional communications centre comes in.

SOS 112 received a phone call thirty minutes ago.

A man called from a phone with very bad reception.

The operator could barely hear anything, but analysis of the recording of the short conversation suggested that the man needed help, and described a location involving a ruined factory somewhere in the vicinity of Rimbo.

They had been able to identify the place as the house that had been built after the big fire at Solbacken Glassworks.

‘We’re on our way back to the station,’ Olle mutters.

‘You haven’t got time to take this first?’ the operator asks.

‘OK, we’ll take it,’ he replies.

Large drops of rain are falling on the roof of the car. Olle shivers and closes his window, managing to squash a brimstone butterfly.

‘Suspected domestic down in Gemlinge,’ he tells his son.

George turns the car round and heads south, past large farms that open up the landscape in the middle of the black forests.

‘Mum reckons you don’t eat enough vegetables, she was going to make carrot lasagne,’ Olle says. ‘But I forgot to buy the carrots, so we’re having beef patties instead.’

‘Sounds good,’ George grins.

The fields are completely dark now. One wing of the butterfly falls down the inside of the window and drifts on the warm air from the vent.

They stop talking when they turn off and start heading along the narrow track. The deep potholes make the suspension creak, and branches scrape the roof and sides of the car.

‘For God’s sake, this place is derelict,’ George says.

The car’s headlights open up a tunnel through the darkness and make the swirling moths and the tall grass at the side of the track shine like brass.

‘What’s the difference between a cheese?’ Olle asks, absurdly.

‘I don’t know, Dad,’ George says, without taking his eyes off the track.

‘There are holes in the cheese, but no cheese in the holes.’

‘Brilliant,’ his son sighs, and drums his hands on the wheel.

They turn into a large yard and see a huge chimney etched against the night sky. The tyres roll slowly over crunching gravel. Olle leans closer to the windscreen, breathing through his nose.

‘Dark,’ George mutters, turning the wheel.

The headlights sweep across bushes and rusting machine parts when they are suddenly reflected back at them.

‘A number plate,’ Olle says.

They drive closer and see a car with its boot open parked in the yard among the ruins of the glassworks.

The two men look towards the yellow house. It’s surrounded by tall stinging nettles, and the windows are black.

‘Do you want to wait and see if they carry out a television?’ Olle asks quietly.

George turns the wheel to the left and lines the car up so that the headlights are pointing straight at the veranda before putting the handbrake on.

‘But the call was about a suspected domestic,’ he says, and opens his door. ‘I’ll go and take a look.’

‘Not on your own,’ his dad says.

The two police officers are wearing light protective vests under the jackets of their uniforms, and on their belts they’re carrying their service pistols, extra magazines, batons, handcuffs, torches and radios.

Their thin shadows stretch out over the ground, reaching all the way to the house across the nettles.

George has pulled out his torch, and suddenly imagines he’s seen something move behind the broken glass of the ruins.

‘What is it?’ Olle asks.

‘Nothing,’ George replies with a dry mouth.

The leaves rustle in the darkness, and then they hear a strange noise, like someone crying out in anguish from within the forest.

‘Bloody deer, scaring people like that!’ Olle says.

George shines his torch at a deep shaft between some collapsed brick walls. There are fragments of glass scattered among the weeds.

‘What is this place?’ George whispers.

‘Just stick to the path.’

The flat disc of the torch moves over the dirty windows of the house. The glass is so filthy that it reflects no more than a grey shimmer.

They wade through the tall nettles and George makes a joke about the garden being greener than his dad’s.

One pane in the veranda has been nailed over with plywood, and there’s a rusty scythe leaning against the wall.

‘The row was probably about whose turn it was to do the cleaning,’ Olle says quietly.

Through the mesh of his cage, Erik watches as Jackie takes a cautious step backwards. She’s frightened and confused, trying to grasp the situation without succumbing to panic. Nelly must have had her locked up somewhere in the house before she forced her down the stairs.

Erik doesn’t know what Nelly is thinking of doing, but he can see her exultant fury as she stands and stares at Jackie with her chin jutting out.

He daren’t plead with her – anything he says will only make her jealous. Thoughts chase through his head in an attempt to find something that could break through her wounded rage.

Jackie makes a clicking sound with her tongue and takes a step forward. She walks straight into the beam from the torch and stops for a moment as she feels the slight warmth.

Now Erik can see how badly injured she is, dark blood shining on her temple, and there are bruises on her face and a tear in her bottom lip. Her shadow fills the whole wall. Off to one side, just in front of her, Nelly wipes the sweat from her right hand onto her dress and picks up the knife from the table.

Jackie hears the movement and backs up until she reaches the brick wall. Erik sees her run her hand across it, feeling for any deviations with her fingers, something to help her orientate herself.

‘What have I done?’ Jackie asks in a frightened voice.

Erik looks down, waits a few seconds, then looks at Nelly instead, but she has already noticed him looking at Jackie. Her mouth is so tense that the sinews in her neck are visible.

She wipes the tears from her cheeks and the knife twitches in her right hand as she approaches Jackie.

Erik sees that Jackie can sense Nelly’s presence. She doesn’t want to show how afraid she is, but the movement of her chest betrays the shallowness of her breathing. He can see that she instinctively wants to duck down, but is forcing herself to stand up straight.

Nelly moves slowly sideways and grit crunches beneath her shoes.

Jackie tilts her head slightly towards the sound. Blood has congealed across her ear, temple and cheek.

Nelly holds the knife out towards Jackie and looks at her through narrow eyes. The point of the blade moves in front of the blind face and a weak reflection trembles on the ceiling. Jackie raises a hand and the knife glides out of the way, but returns at once and slowly lifts the collar of her blouse.

‘Nelly, she’s blind,’ Erik says, struggling to remain calm. ‘I don’t see the point—’

Nelly jabs the point of the knife between her breasts. Jackie whimpers and touches the superficial injury with one hand. Her fingertips get covered with blood and an expression of unadorned fear and confusion fills her pale face.

‘Look at her now,’ Nelly says. ‘Look at her. Look!’

Jackie feels along the wall with her fingertips, walks straight into the table and almost falls, stumbling over a brick and taking a long stride to stop herself going down.

‘Very elegant,’ Nelly giggles, and brushes the bloody hair from her face.

Jackie backs away and Erik hears her breathing, like a wounded animal’s.

Nelly circles round her and she moves to face the sound, holding her hands up the whole time to protect herself, and trying to get her bearings in the room.

She walks into the table again and Nelly creeps behind her and jabs the knife into her back.

Erik forces himself not to scream.

Jackie groans with pain, takes a step forward, stumbles and hits one knee on the floor. She gets up quickly as blood runs down her clothes, down one leg, and takes a few fumbling steps with her hands in front of her.

‘Erik, why are you doing this?’ Jackie asks in a tremulous voice.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Nelly mocks.

‘Erik?’ she gasps, turning round.

‘It’s over between us,’ Erik says harshly. ‘Don’t imagine that—’

‘Don’t talk to her!’ Nelly shrieks at him. ‘I don’t give a shit about anything now, I’m not going to let the two of you—’

‘Nelly, I only want to be with you, no one else,’ Erik interrupts. ‘I only want to look at you, at your face, and—’

‘Do you hear that?’ Nelly screams at Jackie. ‘What’s wrong with you? He doesn’t want some fucking blind bitch. Got that? He doesn’t want you.’

Jackie says nothing, she just sinks to her knees, shielding her face and head with her arms and hands.

‘Nelly, that’s enough now,’ Erik says, no longer able to keep his voice steady. ‘She understands, she’s no threat to us, she—’

‘Get up, he says that’s enough, he wants to look at you … Show your face … your pretty little face.’

‘Nelly, please—’

‘Get up!’

Jackie slowly gets to her feet and Nelly lunges with full force, but the blade misses her neck. The knife slides over her shoulder, right next to her throat. Jackie screams and falls backwards. Nelly jabs again but hits nothing but thin air. She catches the blade on a shelf on the wall and some tins of food topple over and fall to the floor.

‘Nelly, stop it, you’ve got to stop!’ Erik cries, tearing at the mesh.

Jackie shoves her with both hands and Nelly staggers backwards, falls across the wooden sticks and drops the knife.

‘Bray a fool in a mortar among wheat with a pestle,’ Nelly whimpers in a high voice as she sweeps her hands across the floor.

She grabs hold of one of the tins, gets to her feet and hits Jackie with it, hard in her stomach, left breast and collarbone. Jackie screams and manages to knock the tin from Nelly’s hand, rolls over on to her side and tries to get to her feet.

Gasping, Nelly looks around at the dark shadows in the room, and finds her knife on the floor by the wall.

‘Now I’m going to take her face,’ Nelly mutters in a voice that sounds like she’s got a mouth full of saliva.

Jackie is on her knees with her face unprotected; blood pours down her back. She’s found a small screwdriver, and gets unsteadily to her feet, panting for air.

Nelly wipes the sweat from her eyes, her green dress is smeared with dark stains. Jackie turns away from her and finds the stairs.

Nelly smiles at Erik, then goes after Jackie. She raises the knife and stabs, but the blade misses and lands wrong, cutting a wound between Jackie’s neck and shoulder.

Jackie falls forward onto both knees, hits her forehead on the first step and collapses.

Nelly staggers back with the knife in her hand, and blows the hair from her eyes when a bell suddenly rings.

With the knife trembling in her hand, Nelly glares up at the stairs with a look of indecision on her face. The bell rings again and she says something to herself, goes quickly past Jackie and up the stairs, then closes and locks the door behind her.

The two police officers wait on the veranda, but they can’t hear anything. Just the wind in the trees and the chirruping of insects in the weeds.

‘What’s the difference between a ham sandwich with gherkins … and an old man with a cigarette in his arse?’ Olle asks, ringing the bell again.

‘I don’t know,’ George says.

‘OK, I’ll ask someone else to buy the sandwiches tomorrow.’

‘Dad … really …’

Olle laughs and shines his torch at the peeling door with its rusty handle. George knocks hard on the window next to them, then steps aside.

‘Let’s go in,’ Olle says, gesturing to his son to back away down the steps as he takes hold of the door handle.

He’s about to open it when a warm glow appears. The grey hall window suddenly looks welcoming. The door is opened by an elegant woman with a headscarf round her hair and a paraffin lamp in her hand. She’s in the process of buttoning a yellow raincoat over her chest, and looks at the two police officers with bemused surprise.

‘God, I thought it was the electrician – we’ve got a power cut,’ she says. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We received an emergency call from here,’ Olle replies.

‘What for?’ she says, looking at them.

‘Is everything OK?’ George asks.

‘Yes … I think so,’ she says anxiously. ‘What sort of emergency?’

The steps creak as George takes a step closer. The woman smells strongly of sweat and there’s a splash of something on her neck.

Without knowing why, he turns round and shines the torch out into the darkness along the front of the house.

‘It was a man who called – is there anyone else in the house?’

‘Only Erik … Did he call you? My husband has Alzheimer’s …’

‘We’d like to talk to him,’ Olle says.

‘Can’t you do that tomorrow? He’s just had his Donepezil.’

She raises her hand to brush the hair from her forehead. Her fingernails are black, as if she’s been digging in the earth.

‘It won’t take long,’ Olle says, taking a step inside.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says.

The two police officers look into the hall. The wallpaper is brown and a homemade rag-rug covers the worn linoleum floor. On the wall is a framed biblical quotation, and a few outdoor clothes are hanging neatly on hangers. George watches his father go into the hall, shivers and glances back at the car. Insects have been drawn to the strong headlights and are swirling like captives in their beam.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to speak to your husband,’ Olle says.

‘Do we have to?’ his son asks quietly.

‘We received an emergency call,’ Olle tells the woman. ‘I’m sorry … but this is how it works, we have to come in.’

‘It won’t take long,’ George says.

They wipe their shoes carefully on the doormat. A curl of flypaper hangs in the same corner of the hall as the ceiling light. There are hundreds of flies covering the sticky paper, like black fur.

‘Can you just hold this?’ the woman says, passing the paraffin lamp to Olle.

The light from the lamp flickers across the walls. George waits behind his dad as the woman pushes the door to the dark kitchen open with both hands. A creak of metal echoes through the hall. George hears her talking about her husband’s illness as she walks into the darkness of the kitchen. The stench emerging through the open door hits them. Olle coughs and follows the woman, holding the lamp in his hand.

The yellow light plays over the chaos in the kitchen. There’s broken glass, saucepans and old tools everywhere. The filthy floor is smeared with fresh blood and the drips are splattered high up the cupboard doors.

Olle turns back to his son, who’s right behind him, when the door suddenly shuts with immense force. It hits George square in the face and he’s thrown backwards, hitting his head on the hall floor.

Olle simply stares at the door, sees the huge spring, then looks at his son’s foot sticking out between the door and the post.

When he turns round the woman is holding a long-handled axe over her shoulder, and before he has time to move she strikes. The blade enters his neck, from above and off to the side. The blow sends him reeling sideways and he sees his own blood spatter the woman’s raincoat. He gets jerked off balance as she pulls the axe free and takes a step forward to stop himself falling.

She calmly takes the paraffin lamp from his hand and sets it on the worktop before lifting the heavy axe over her shoulder again.

Olle wants to shout to his son but he has no voice, he’s on the point of losing consciousness, black clouds are billowing up in his field of vision. He puts one hand to his neck and feels blood running down inside his shirt as he tries to draw his pistol, but there’s no strength left in his fingers.

The woman strikes again and everything goes black.

Out in the hall George opens his eyes and looks around. He’s lying on his back, and his forehead is bleeding.

‘What the hell just happened?’ he gasps.

He feels his nose and bleeding forehead with trembling hands.

‘Dad?’ he says, noticing that his foot is stuck in the door.

His ankle feels broken, but strangely enough it doesn’t hurt. He pulls, and realises he hasn’t got any feeling in his toes.

Confused, he looks up at the ceiling and sees the spiral of flypaper swaying above him. He hears thuds from inside the kitchen and pushes himself up on to his elbows, but can’t see anything through the crack in the door.

He fumbles and manages to pull his torch from his belt, and points it into the kitchen. His dad is lying on the floor with his mouth open, staring at him.

Suddenly his head rolls over a few times when the woman shoves it aside with her foot. It rolls and spins on the bloody linoleum floor.

George is seized by utter panic, lets out a loud scream, drops the torch and tries to move backwards, kicking at the door with his free foot, but it’s like he’s caught in a man-trap. He fumbles for his pistol but can’t manage to pull it out. He needs to take his glove off first, and puts his hand to his mouth to use his teeth, when the door suddenly opens and he’s free.

Panting, he shuffles backwards and hits his back against a small desk, and a bowl of coins falls to the floor, scattering money around him.

He manages to get his glove off and pulls his pistol from its holster as the woman in the yellow raincoat comes out into the hall. She raises the axe above her head, striking the lamp and bringing the coil of flypaper down. The heavy blade hits his chest with terrible force, cutting straight through the thin protective vest and his ribcage, down into his heart.