The Sandman (23 page)

‘Her mother vanished years ago, and her dad disappeared just after she was found.’

‘Didn’t they all disappear?’ Fredrik Weyler asks.

‘Not her husband,’ Magdalena says, glancing at the file.

‘This whole thing’s so sick,’ Fredrik whispers.

‘But her husband is still alive, and—’

‘Does yoga make you more flexible?’ Benny asks, slapping both hands down on the table with a bang.

‘Why did you do that?’ Magdalena asks gravely.

Magdalena Ronander says hello to the large woman who’s just opened the door. She has fine laughter lines at the corners of her eyes, and the name Sonja tattooed on her shoulder.

Everyone with any connection to Agneta Magnusson was questioned by the police thirteen years ago. All their houses and flats were searched by forensics officers, as well as summer houses, shacks, sheds, children’s dens, caravans, boats and cars.

‘I called earlier,’ Magdalena says, showing her police ID.

‘Oh, yes,’ the woman nods. ‘Bror’s waiting for you in the living room.’

Magdalena follows the woman through the little 1950s house. There’s a smell of fried steak and onions from the kitchen. A man in a wheelchair is sitting in a living room with dark curtains.

‘Is that the police?’ he asks in a dry voice.

‘Yes, it’s the police,’ Magdalena says, pulling the piano stool over and sitting down in front of the man.

‘Haven’t we talked enough?’

It’s been thirteen years since anyone questioned Bror Engström about what happened in Lill-Jan’s Forest, and in that time he’s got old, she thinks.

‘I need to know more,’ Magdalena says gently.

Bror Engström shakes his head.

‘There’s nothing left to say. Everyone vanished. In just a few years they were all gone. My Agneta and … her brother and nephew … and then Jeremy, my father-in-law … He stopped talking when … when they went missing, his children and grandson.’

‘Jeremy Magnusson,’ Magdalena says.

‘I liked him a lot … But he missed his children so terribly.’

‘Yes,’ Magdalena says quietly.

Bror Engström’s clouded eyes close at the memory.

‘One day he was just gone, him too. Then I got my Agneta back. But she was never herself again.’

‘No,’ Magdalena says.

‘No,’ he whispers.

She knows that Joona made countless visits to see the woman in the long-stay ward where she was being looked after. She never regained the power of speech, and died four years ago. The brain damage was too severe for anyone ever to reach her again.

‘I suppose I should sell off Jeremy’s forests,’ the man says. ‘But I can’t do it. They meant everything to him. He was always trying to get me to go up to the hunting cabin with him, but it never quite happened … and now it’s too late.’

‘Where’s the cabin?’ she asks, taking out her phone.

‘Way up in Dalarna, beyond Tranuberget, not far from the Norwegian border … I’ve got the maps from the Land Registry somewhere, if Sonja can find them.’

The hunting cabin isn’t on the list of locations searched by forensics. It’s probably nothing, but Joona has said that they mustn’t leave any stone unturned.

A police officer and a forensics expert are making their way across the deep snow between the dark trunks of the pine trees on snowmobiles. In some places they can go faster and cover longer distances by using cleared boundary lines and foresters’ tracks, leaving a cloud of smoke and snow behind them.

Stockholm wanted them to get out to a hunting cabin beyond Tranuberget. Apparently it had been owned by a Jeremy Magnusson, who disappeared thirteen years ago. The National Criminal Investigation Department have asked them to conduct a thorough forensic examination of the place, and to take video footage and photographs. Anything there is to be seized and packed up, and any potential evidence and biological matter is to be secured.

The two men on the snowmobiles know that the Stockholm Police are hoping to find something that might throw light on the disappearance of Magnusson and other members of his family. Obviously it should have been searched thirteen years ago, but at the time the police hadn’t been aware of the hunting cabin’s existence.

Roger Hysén and Gunnar Ehn are driving side by side down a slope at the edge of the forest in blinding light. They emerge onto a sunlit bog where everything is glistening white, completely untouched, and continue at speed across the ice before swinging north into denser forest once more.

The forest has grown so wild on the southern side of Tranuberget that they almost miss the building entirely. The low timber shack is completely covered in snow. It’s piled up higher than the windows, and is at least a metre thick on the roof.

All that’s visible are a few silver-grey timber planks.

They get off their snowmobiles and begin to dig the cabin out.

The small windows are covered by faded curtains inside.

The sun is going down, nudging the treetops as it sinks towards the great expanse of bog.

When the door is finally uncovered they’re sweating, and forensics expert Gunnar Ehn can feel his scalp itching under his hat.

A tree is rubbing against another in the wind, making a desolate creaking sound.

In silence the two men roll out a sheet of plastic in front of the door and get out their boxes, unpacking boards to walk on. They pull on protective outfits and gloves.

The door is locked and there’s no key on the hook under the eaves.

‘The daughter was found buried alive in Stockholm,’ Roger Hysén says, glancing briefly at his colleague.

‘I’ve heard the talk,’ Gunnar says. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

Roger inserts a crowbar into the crack next to the lock and pushes. The frame creaks. He pushes it further in and shoves harder. The frame splinters and Roger gives the door a tentative tug, then pulls as hard as he can. It swings open and bounces back.

‘Shit,’ Roger whispers behind his mask.

The draught from the unexpected movement has made all the dust that’s settled inside the house fly up into the air. Gunnar mutters that it doesn’t matter. He reaches into the dark cabin and puts two boards on the floor.

Roger unpacks the video camera and hands it over. Gunnar bends down beneath the low lintel, steps inside the cabin and stops on the first board.

It’s so dark inside that he can’t see anything at first. The air is dry from the swirling dust.

Gunnar sets the camera to record, but the light won’t switch on. He tries recording the room anyway, but all he manages to get are vague outlines.

The whole cabin resembles a murky aquarium.

There’s an odd-looking shadow in the middle of the room, like a large grandfather clock.

‘What’s happening?’ Roger calls from outside.

‘Give me the other camera.’

Gunnar passes the video camera out and is given the ordinary camera in its place. He checks the viewscreen. Unable to see anything but black, he snaps a picture at random. The flash fills the room with a white glow.

Gunnar screams when he sees the long, thin figure right in front of him. He takes a step back, loses his footing, drops the camera, puts out an arm to regain his balance and knocks over a coat stand.

‘What the fuck was that …?’

He backs out, hitting his head on the lintel and cutting himself on the loose splinters sticking out from the frame.

‘What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Roger asks.

‘Someone’s in there,’ Gunnar says, grinning nervously.

Roger switches on the light on the video camera, opens the door cautiously, bends down and slowly makes his way inside. The floor creaks beneath the boards. The light from the camera searches through the dust and over the furniture. A branch scratches against the window. It sounds like someone knocking anxiously.

‘OK,’ he gasps.

In the dim light from the camera he sees that a man has hanged himself from the beam in the roof. A very long time ago. The body is thin and the skin has dried out and is stretched across the face. The mouth is wide open and black. His leather boots are lying on the floor.

The door behind the police officer creaks as Gunnar comes back in.

The sun has gone down behind the treetops and the windows are black. Carefully they spread out a body bag beneath the corpse.

The branch hits the window again, and slides over the glass with a scrape.

Roger reaches over to hold the body while Gunnar cuts the rope, but just as he touches the swaying corpse its head comes lose from the neck. The body collapses at their feet. The skull thuds on the wooden floor, dust swirls up around the room once more, and the old noose swings noiselessly.

Saga is sitting quite still inside the van, gazing out of the window. The chains attached to her handcuffs rattle in time with the motion of the vehicle.

She hasn’t wanted to think about Jurek Walter. She’s actually managed to keep her distance from what she knows about his murders since she accepted the mission.

But that’s no longer possible. After three days of monotony at Karsudden Hospital, the Prison Service decision to transfer her is being put into practice. She’s on her way to the secure unit of Löwenströmska Hospital.

Her encounter with Jurek is drawing closer.

In her mind’s eye she can clearly see the photograph that was at the front of his file: his wrinkled face and those clear, pale eyes.

Jurek worked as a mechanic and lived a solitary and withdrawn life until his arrest. There was nothing in his flat that could be linked to his crimes, yet he was still caught red-handed.

Saga had been drenched with sweat by the time she finished reading the reports and looking at the photographs of the crime scenes. One large colour picture showed the forensics team’s numbered signs in the clearing, as well as a heap of damp soil, a grave and an open coffin.

Nils Åhlén had produced a thorough forensic record of the woman’s injuries, after she’d been buried alive for two years.

Saga feels travel-sick and looks out at the road and trees flitting past. She thinks about how malnourished the woman was, and about her pressure sores, frostbite and lost teeth. Joona had described how the weak, emaciated woman had tried to climb out of the coffin time after time, but how Jurek kept pushing her back down.

Saga knows she shouldn’t be thinking about this.

A shudder of anxiety slowly spreads out from her stomach.

She tells herself that under no circumstances must she let herself feel afraid. She’s in control of the situation.

The van brakes and the handcuffs rattle.

The plastic barrel and the coffin had both been equipped with air tubes leading up above ground.

Why couldn’t he have just killed them outright?

It’s incomprehensible.

Saga moves on to considering what Mikael Kohler-Frost had said about his captivity in the capsule, and her heart beats faster as she thinks of Felicia alone there, the little girl with the loose plait and riding hat.

It has stopped snowing, but there’s no sign of the sun. The sky remains overcast and blind. The van leaves the old main road and slowly turns right as it enters the hospital grounds.

A woman in her forties is sitting in the bus shelter with two shopping bags in her hands, taking deep drags on a cigarette.

Government approval is required to establish a secure unit, but Saga knows that the legislation allows plenty of leeway for the institutions to conduct their own evaluations.

Ordinary laws and rights cease to apply inside those locked doors. There’s no real scrutiny or supervision. The staff are lords of their own Hades, as long as none of their patients escape.

Saga’s hands and ankles are still cuffed as she is led down an empty corridor by two armed guards. They’re both walking fast and holding her upper arms tightly.

It’s too late to change her mind now – she’s on her way to meet Jurek Walter.

The textured wallpaper is scratched and the skirting boards scuffed. On the ivory-coloured floor is a box of old shoe-covers. The closed doors they pass on the way have small plastic signs with numbers on them.

Saga has a stomach ache and tries to stop, but is pushed onward.

‘Keep going,’ one of the guards says.

The isolation unit at Löwenströmska Hospital has a very high security level, way above the requirements for level one. That means that the building itself is basically impossible to break in or out of. The rooms have fireproof steel doors, fixed inner ceilings and walls that have been reinforced with thirty-five-millimetre-thick metal plate.

A heavy gate clangs shut behind them as they head down the stairs towards level zero.

The guard at the airlock leading to the secure unit takes the bag of Saga’s possessions, checks the documentation and signs Saga in on the computer. An older man with a baton hanging from his belt is visible on the other side of the airlock. He’s wearing big glasses and has wavy hair. Saga looks at him through the scratched reinforced glass.

The man with the baton takes Saga’s papers, leafs through them, peers at her for a moment, then carries on reading her notes.

Saga’s stomach is aching so much that she could do with lying down. She tries to breathe calmly, but she gets a sudden cramp and leans forward.

‘Stand still,’ the guard says in a neutral voice.

A younger man in a doctor’s coat appears beyond the airlock. He pulls a pass card through the reader, taps in a code and comes out.

‘OK, my name is Anders Rönn, I’m acting Senior Consultant here,’ he says drily.

After a superficial search, Saga follows the doctor and the guard with the wavy hair through the doors of the airlock. She can smell their body odour in the confined space before the second door opens.

Saga recognises every detail of the ward from the plans she memorised.

They walk round a corner in silence and over to the unit’s cramped security control room. A woman with pierced cheeks is sitting at the monitors of the alarm system. She blushes when she sees Saga, but says a friendly hello before looking down and writing something in her logbook.