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

he needed help with something, who would he turn to?”

      “I don’t know … Sometimes he talks to the drunks behind the off licence.”

      “Do you know their names, who they are?”

      “One of them has a tattoo on his hand.”

      “What does it look like?”

      “I can’t remember … A fish, I think.” She stands up and goes over to the window again.

      Erik looks at her. The daylight strikes her young face; he can see a blue vein beating in her slender throat. “Could he be staying with one of them?”

      She shrugs her shoulders vaguely. “Maybe.”

      “Do you think he is?”

      “No.”

      “So what do you think, then?”

      “I think he’s going to find me before you find him.”

      Erik looks at her, as she stands with her forehead resting against the window-pane, and wonders if he should press her any further. There is something about her toneless voice, her lack of trust, that tells him she has long had a unique insight into her brother and has abandoned any hope of finding someone to share it with.

      “Evelyn? What does Josef want?”

      “I can’t talk about that.”

      “Does he want to kill me?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “But what do you think?”

      She takes a deep breath, and her voice is hoarse and tired when she answers. “If he thinks you’ve come between him and me, if he’s jealous, then yes.”

      “Yes what?”

      “Kill you.”

      “Try, you mean?”

      Evelyn licks her lips, turns to face him, then looks down. Erik wants to repeat his question, but nothing comes out. Suddenly there is a knock on the door. Evelyn looks at Joona and Erik, a terrified expression on her face, and backs into the kitchen.

      The knocking comes again. Joona walks over, looks through the peephole, and admits two police officers. One of them is carrying a cardboard box.

      “I think we found everything on the list,” he says. “Where do you want this?”

      “Anywhere,” says Evelyn faintly, emerging from the kitchen.

      “Would you sign here?”

      He holds out a delivery receipt, and Evelyn signs it. Joona locks the door behind them when they leave. Evelyn hurries over to the door, checks that he’s locked it properly, and turns to face them.

      “I asked if I could have some things from home.”

      “Yes, you told us.”

      Evelyn crouches down, pulls off the brown sticky tape, and opens the box. She takes out a silver money box in the shape of a rabbit and a framed picture of a guardian angel, but suddenly stops.

      “My photo album,” she says, and Erik sees that her mouth has begun to tremble.

      “Evelyn?”

      “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t say anything about it.”

      She opens the album to the first page, revealing a large school photo of herself at about fourteen. She is wearing braces on her teeth and smiling shyly. Her skin glows; her hair is cut very short.

      Evelyn turns the page, and a folded piece of paper falls out and lands on the floor. She picks it up, turns it over, and her face flushes deep red. “He’s at home,” she whispers, passing it to Erik.

      He smooths out the paper, and he and Joona read it together:

      I own you, you belong only to me, I’m going to kill the others, it’s your fault, I’m going to kill that fucking hypnotist and you will help me to do it, you will, you are going to show me where he lives, you are going to show me where you fuck and party, and then I will kill him and you will watch while I do it, then you will wash your cunt with plenty of soap and I will fuck you a hundred times, because then we will be even and we will start again just the two of us.

      Evelyn pulls down the blinds and stands with her arms tightly wrapped around her body. Erik places the letter on the table and gets to his feet.

      Josef is back home, he thinks quickly. He must be. If he could put the photo album and the letter in the box, he must be there.

      “Where else would he go?” she replies quietly.

      Joona is already on his mobile phone in the kitchen, speaking to the duty officer at Central Control.

      “Evelyn, the police have been conducting an exhaustive investigation at the house for almost a week now. Do you know how Josef could hide from them there?”

      “The cellar,” replies Evelyn, looking up.

      “What about the cellar?”

      “There’s a … special room down there.”

      “He’s down in the cellar,” Erik shouts in the direction of the kitchen.

      On the other end of the phone, Joona can hear the slow rattle of a keyboard.

      “The suspect is presumed to be in the cellar,” says Joona.

      “Just hang on,” says the duty officer. “I have to—”

      “This is extremely urgent.”

      After a pause, the duty officer says calmly, “We sent a car to the same address two minutes ago.”

      “What? To Gärdesvägen eight in Tumba?”

      “Yes. The neighbours called to say there was someone inside the house.”

       52

       sunday, december 13 (feast of st lucia): morning

      Kennet Sträng stops and listens before slowly moving over to the staircase. He points his pistol at the floor, holding it close to his body. Daylight comes into the passageway from the kitchen. Simone follows her father, thinking that the murdered family’s house reminds her of the house where she and Erik lived when Benjamin was little.

      There is a creaking sound from somewhere, the floor or deep inside the walls.

      “Is it Josef?” whispers Simone.

      The torch, house plans, and crowbar she balances are heavy and awkward. Her hands feel numb.

      The house is completely silent now. The creaking and the muted banging have stopped.

      Kennet jerks his head at her. He wants them to go down into the cellar. Every muscle in her body is telling her it’s a mistake, but she nods.

      According to the plans, the best area for a hiding place is definitely the cellar. Kennet marked the drawings with a pen, showing how the wall of the section that houses the old boiler could be extended, creating a virtually invisible room. The other space Kennet marked on the plans was the innermost attic.

      The cellar entrance is next to the staircase leading upstairs; it’s a narrow opening in the wall, with no door. There are still small hinges on the wall where a child safety gate had been attached. The iron steps leading down into the cellar look almost home-made; the welds are large and untidy, and the steps are covered in thick grey felt.

      When Kennet clicks the light switch, nothing happens; he tries again, but the bulb has blown.

      “Stay here,” he says, in a low voice.

      Simone feels a stab of pure terror. A heavy, dusty smell that makes her think of