Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1 and 2: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare. Lars Kepler

out in the corridor, rubber soles against the vinyl flooring. With the scalpel in his hand, Josef positions himself behind the door, peers through the pane of glass, and waits.

      The nurse stops to chat with the police officer on guard. Josef can hear them laughing about something.

      “But I’ve quit smoking,” she says.

      “If you’ve got a nicotine patch I wouldn’t say no,” the police officer goes on.

      “I quit those too,” she replies. “But go outside if you need to, I’ll be in here for a while.”

      “Five minutes,” says the cop eagerly.

      He goes away, there is the rattle of keys, and the nurse enters the room leafing through some papers. She looks up, startled. The laughter lines around the corners of her eyes become more prominent as the blade of the scalpel slices into her throat. He is weaker than he thought and has to stab at her several times. The sudden violence of his movements pulls at the scabs on his body, sending a fiery sensation shooting through him. The nurse does not fall down immediately but tries to hold on to him. They slide down to the floor together. Her body is all sweaty; steaming hot. He tries to stand up but slips on her hair, which has spread out in a wide, blonde sheaf. When he wrenches the scalpel out of her throat, she makes a whistling sound and her legs begin to jerk. Josef stands gazing at her for a while before making his way out into the corridor. Her dress has worked its way up, and he can clearly see her pink panties beneath her tights.

      He makes his way down the corridor. He heads to the right, finds some clean clothes on a cart, and changes. Some distance away, a short, stocky woman is moving a mop back and forth across the shining vinyl floor. She is listening to music through headphones. Coming closer, Josef stands behind her and takes out a disposable syringe, stabbing at the air behind her back several times, stopping short of touching her. She continues mopping, oblivious. Josef can hear a tinny beat coming from the headphones. He pushes the syringe back in his pocket, and shoves the woman aside as he walks past. She almost falls over and swears in Spanish. Josef stops dead and turns to face her.

      “What did you say?” he asks.

      She takes off the headphones and gapes at him.

      “Did you say something?” he asks.

      She shakes her head quickly and goes on cleaning. He stares at her for a while and then continues on his way towards the lift.

       38

       friday, december 11: evening

      Joona Linna drives along Valhallavägen at high speed, past the stadium where the summer Olympics were held in 1912, and changes lanes to overtake a big Mercedes. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the lighted red-brick façade of Sophiahemmet flickering through the trees. The tyres thunder over a large metal plate. Stomping on the gas, he passes a bus that is just about to pull out from the stop. The driver sounds his horn angrily and for a long time as Joona cuts in ahead of him. The water from a grey puddle splashes up over the parked cars and pavements just past the University of Technology.

      Joona runs a red light at Norrtull, passes Stallmästaregården, and hits almost 110 miles per hour on the short stretch along Uppsalavägen before slowing when he reaches the exit ramp that dips steeply beneath the motorway and up towards Karolinska Hospital.

      As he parks next to the main entrance, he sees several police cars with blue lights flashing, sweeping across the brown façade of the hospital like terrible wing beats. Reporters and camera crews surround a group of nurses who shiver outside the big doors, fear etched on their faces. A couple of them weep openly in front of the cameras.

      Joona tries to go inside but is immediately stopped by a young police officer who is stamping his feet up and down, either with shock or agitation.

      “Out,” says the cop, giving him a shove.

      Joona looks into a pair of dumb pale-blue eyes. He removes the hand from his chest and says calmly, “National CID.”

      There is a stab of suspicion in the pale blue eyes. “ID, please.”

      “Joona, get a move on, over here.”

      Carlos Eliasson, Head of the National CID, is waving to him in the pale yellow light by the reception desk. Through the window he can see Sunesson sitting on a bench weeping, his face crumpled. A younger colleague sits down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

      Joona shows his ID and the officer moves to one side, his expression surly. Large parts of the entrance have been cordoned off with police tape. The journalists’ cameras flash outside the glass walls, while inside the crime team is busy taking their photographs.

      Carlos is leading the investigation and is responsible for both the overall strategic approach and the immediate tactical detail. He issues rapid instructions to the scene-of-crime coordinator and then turns to Joona.

      “Have you got him?” asks Joona.

      “We have eyewitnesses who saw him making his way outside using a wheeled walker,” says Carlos. “It’s down at the bus stop.” He glances at his notes. “Two buses have left since then, plus seven taxis and patient transport vehicles … and probably a dozen or so private cars, and just one ambulance.”

      “Have you sealed off the exits?”

      “Too late for that.”

      A uniformed officer is waved through.

      “We’ve traced the buses—no luck,” he says.

      “What about the taxis?” asks Carlos.

      “We’ve finished with Taxi Stockholm and Taxi Kurir, but …” The officer waves a hand helplessly as if he can no longer remember what he was going to say.

      “Have you contacted Erik Maria Bark?” asks Joona.

      “We called him straight away. There was no answer, but we’re trying to get hold of him.”

      “He needs protection.”

      “Rolle!” yells Carlos. “Did you get hold of Bark?”

      “I just called,” replies Roland Svensson.

      “Try again,” says Joona.

      “I need to speak to Omar in Central Control,” says Carlos, looking around. “We need to put out a national alert.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Stay here, check if I’ve missed anything,” says Carlos. He calls over Mikael Verner, one of the technicians from the murder squad.

      “Tell Detective Linna what you’ve found so far,” Carlos orders.

      Verner looks at Joona, his face expressionless, and says in a nasal voice, “A dead nurse … Several witnesses saw the suspect making his way out with a wheeled walker.”

      “Show me,” says Joona.

      They go up the fire escape together, since the lifts are still being examined.

      Joona contemplates the red footprints left by the barefoot Josef Ek on his way down to the exit. There is a smell of electricity and death. A bloody handprint on the wall suggests that he stumbled or had to support himself. Joona sees blood on the metal lift door and something that looks like the greasy imprint of a forehead and the tip of a nose.

      They continue along the corridor and stop in the doorway of the room where he spoke to Josef only an hour or so ago. A pool of almost black blood surrounds a body on the floor.

      “She was a nurse,” says Verner tersely. “Ann-Katrin Eriksson.”

      Joona looks at the dead woman’s pale blonde hair and lifeless eyes. Her uniform is bunched up around her hips. It looks as if the murderer tried to pull up her dress, he thinks.

      “It seems likely the murder weapon