The Hypnotist. Ларс Кеплер

along the corridor, taking off his cap and shaking it at his side, glancing in passing at the notices on the bulletin board about yoga classes, somebody who’s trying to sell a camper, information from the trade union, and scheduling changes for the shooting club. The floor, which was mopped before the snowstorm began, is already soiled with bootprints and dried, muddy slush.

      The door of Benny Rubin’s office is ajar. A sixty-year-old man with a grey moustache and wrinkled, sun-damaged skin, he is involved in the work around communication headquarters and the change-over to Rakel, the new radio system. He sits at his computer with a cigarette behind his ear, typing with agonising slowness.

      “I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,” he says, all of a sudden.

      “Maybe that explains why you’re such a lousy typist,” jokes Joona.

      Benny’s latest find is an advertising poster for the airline SAS: a fairly exotic young woman in a minute bikini suggestively sipping some kind of fruit-garnished cocktail from a straw. Benny was so incensed by the ban on calendars featuring pin-up girls that most people thought he was going to resign, but instead he has devoted himself to a silent and stubborn protest for many years. Technically, nothing forbids the display of advertisements for airlines, pictures of ice princesses with their legs spread wide apart, lithe and flexible yoga instructors, or ads for underwear from H&M. On the first day of each month, Benny changes what he has on the wall. The variety of ways that he avoids the ban is dazzling. Joona remembers a poster of the short-distance runner Gail Devers, in tight shorts, and a daring lithograph by the artist Egon Schiele that depicted a red-haired woman sitting with her legs apart in a pair of fluffy bloomers.

      Moving on, Joona stops to say hello to his assistant, Anja Larsson. She sits at the computer with her mouth half open, her round face wearing an expression of such concentration that he decides not to disturb her. Instead, he hangs up his wet coat just inside the door of his office, switches on the advent star in the window, and glances quickly through his in-box: a message about the working environment, a suggestion about low-energy lightbulbs, an inquiry from the prosecutor’s office, and an invitation from Human Resources to a Christmas meal at Skansen.

      Joona leaves his office, goes into the meeting room, and sits in his usual place to unwrap his sandwich and eat.

      Petter Näslund stops in the corridor, laughs smugly, and leans on the doorframe with his back to the meeting room. A muscular, balding man of about thirty-five, Petter is a detective with a position of special responsibility and Joona’s immediate boss. Everyone knows that Joona is eminently more qualified than Petter. But they know, too, that he is also singularly disinterested in administrative duties and the rat race involved in climbing the ranks.

      For several years Petter has been flirting with Magdalena Ronander without noticing her troubled expression and constant attempts to switch to a more businesslike tone. Magdalena has been a detective in the Reconnaissance Division for four years, and she intends to complete her legal training before she turns thirty.

      Lowering his voice suggestively, Petter questions Magdalena about her choice of service weapon, wondering aloud how often she changes the barrel because the grooves have become too worn. Ignoring his coarse innuendoes, she tells him she keeps a careful note of the number of shots fired.

      “But you like the big rough ones, don’t you?” says Petter.

      “No, not at all, I use the Glock Seventeen,” she replies, “because it can cope with a lot of the defence team’s nine-millimetre ammunition.”

      “Don’t you use the Czech?”

      “Yes, but I prefer the M39B,” she says firmly, moving around him to enter the meeting room. He follows, and they both sit and greet Joona. “And you can get the Glock with gunpowder gas ejectors next to the sight,” she continues. “It reduces the recoil a hell of a lot, and you can get the next shot in much more quickly.”

      “What does our Moomintroll think?” asks Petter, with a nod in Joona’s direction.

      Joona smiles sweetly and fixes his icily clear grey eyes on them. “I think it doesn’t make any difference. I think other elements decide the outcome,” he says.

      “So you don’t need to be able to shoot.” Petter grins.

      “Joona is a good shot,” says Magdalena.

      “Good at everything.” Petter sighs.

      Magdalena ignores Petter and turns to Joona instead. “The biggest advantage with the compensated Glock is that the gunpowder gas can’t be seen from the barrel when it’s dark.”

      “Quite right,” says Joona.

      Wearing a pleased expression, she opens her black leather case and begins leafing through her papers. Benny comes in, sits down, looks around at everyone, slams the palm of his hand down on the table, then smiles broadly when Magdalena glances at him in irritation.

      “I took the case out in Tumba,” Joona starts.

      “That’s got nothing to do with us,” says Petter.

      “I think we could be dealing with a serial killer here, or at least—”

      “Just leave it, for God’s sake!” Benny interrupts, looking Joona in the eye and slapping the table again.

      “It was somebody settling a score,” Petter goes on. “Loans, debts, gambling …”

      “A gambling addict,” Benny says.

      “Very well known at Solvalla. The local sharks were into him for a lot of money, and he ended up paying for it,” says Petter, bringing the matter to a close.

      In the silence that follows, Joona drinks some water and finishes the last of his sandwich. “I’ve got a feeling about this case,” he says quietly.

      “Then you need to ask for a transfer,” says Petter with a smile. “This has nothing to do with the National CID.”

      “I think it has.”

      “If you want the case, you’ll have to go and join the local force in Tumba,” says Petter.

      “I intend to investigate these murders,” says Joona calmly.

      “That’s for me to decide,” replies Petter.

      Yngve Svensson comes in and sits down. His hair is slicked back with gel, he has blue-grey rings under his eyes and reddish stubble, and, as always, he’s in a creased black suit.

      “Yngwie,” Benny says happily.

      Not only is Yngve Svensson in charge of the analytical section but he’s also one of the leading experts on organised crime in the country.

      “Yngve, what do you think about this business in Tumba?” asks Petter. “You’ve just been having a look at it, haven’t you?”

      “Strictly a local matter,” he says. “A loan enforcer goes to the house to collect. Normally, the father would have been home, but he’d stepped in to referee a football match at the last minute. The enforcer is presumably high, both speed and Rohypnol, I’d say; he’s unbalanced, he’s stressed, something sets him off, so he attacks the family with some kind of SWAT knife to try and find out where the father is. They tell him the truth, but he goes completely nuts anyway and kills them all before he goes off to the playing field.”

      Petter sneers. He gulps some water, belches into his hand, and turns to Joona. “What have you got to say about that?”

      “If it wasn’t completely wrong it might be quite impressive,” says Joona.

      “What’s wrong with it?” asks Yngve aggressively.

      “The murderer killed the father first,” Joona says calmly. “Then he went over to the house and killed the rest of the family.”

      “In which case it’s hardly likely to be a case of debt collection,” says Magdalena Ronander.

      “We’ll just have