Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (18 page)

John

John runs in the weak light of Miriam’s lantern. He expects the ground to vanish any moment, vaporized by the sadistic whims that govern this place. The trail flickers in and out of his vision; unless he concentrates, he will lose sight of it.

Surrounding him are trees, majestic and old, rising from the thick carpet of bracken and moss. Above, their branches tangle to form a ceiling of countless dark leaves. A slow wind rustles the woods, brushing against him and whispering near-words. The air is wet and cold, but warmer than it has ever been since he woke up on the ice. Even though he can see only a few steps ahead, he senses the vastness of the forest.

Thorns and twigs tear and swipe at him, leaving him with cuts and smarting bruises, but he has momentum, a sense of direction. He is a lodestone heading towards its pull. Miriam said the exit is close. Once he is out, all will make sense.

A strong breeze washes through the forest and makes the foliage flutter. This time, it carries more than a whisper; intertwined with the gust is a distant shriek rising and falling in a dissonant pattern.

“No, you don’t,” John says and runs faster.

The path continues uphill. The wind grows stronger but does not dissipate the fog that curls around the tree trunks. Keeping his eyes on Miriam’s lantern, he forces his way through bushes and crashes through the dense undergrowth with his arms raised to protect his face. The scents of the forest, deep and musky, make it hard to breathe.

As he leans against a tree to catch his breath, his legs finally give in, and he falls down on the ground next to the base of a massive oak. He tries to stand up but slumps back down again.

Miriam runs up to his side and kneels down. “What’s going on?”

“My legs,” John wheezes. “They’re killing me.”

“This is not the time.” She tries to lift him, but he is too heavy for her to shift.

A new sensation comes to John. “I smell something,” he says.

“I don’t.” Miriam sniffs and shrugs.

“It’s familiar.” John takes a deep breath and searches for a word. “Spices. No, that’s not right. It’s perfume. Her perfume.”

Miriam looks alarmed. “John, let’s go.”

“Wait.” He peers into the murky forest. “There’s someone out there.”

“Run.” Miriam’s tone is panicked. “Please, John. Just run.”

John shakes his head and breathes in. The scent is a portent, a ghost waiting for a physical shape. Features swirl in his mind, and he manages to mould them into a coherent picture. A picture of a person. A woman.

“She’s close,” John says.

“John, for the love of–” Miriam looks over John’s shoulder, flinches, and steps back. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” John asks. Sick of the incessant games, he lets go of the image in his head and turns around.

Standing behind him, wearing that lopsided, singular, holy smile, is Molly.

*

The furious roar rises from the hole in the ground like an anguished plea.

Her teeth gritted, Lena throws herself backwards and aims her gun at the air above the well, prepared to fire at whatever unthinkable nightmare she has unleashed.

The scream goes on unabated. She pushes herself farther away from the well, trying to hold her gun and cover her ears at the same time, but the snow holds her in place. Blackness creeps into view like curtains closing a performance; she is being constricted by terror and shock. As if sensing her helplessness, the relentless wail rises in pitch and wakes the ghouls that usually stalk her by night.

She blinks –

– and she is back in the house, in the chaos.

On the wall is the projected film, a tapestry of horror she has tried and failed to forget. Noises invade her: sirens and protests, screams and tortured whimpering, furniture breaking in the adjacent room where her colleague fights another man. In front of her stands the suspect, defiant and indignant, scorning and ranting. No hint of remorse.

She relives the fury that crashed through her that night: a quick tide of adrenaline and, underneath, the sensation of sudden company. Her thoughts run parallel with those of another entity evoked by revulsion and unrestrained hate. She was not alone in her head.

When she faltered for words to scream at the suspect, the alien, storming presence inside took over. It did not lack imagination, and it knew exactly what to say.

“Do you know what happens to paedophiles in prison?” she asked, lowering her voice. “I have first-hand sources.” In truth, she had not known. She had never heard any stories. The words she spoke had not been hers.

“Fuck you,” the man sneered, still screaming. “Get out.”

“They’ll come for you at night. First they’ll gag you; then they get the cable ties out. One is all it takes.”

“Shut up.”

Lena continued, glee creeping into her voice. “They pull it as tight as they can, right at the base of your ball sack. Then they knock you out.”

“Shut up.”

“The guards know what’s happening, but they don’t care. They know you deserve it.”

“Lying cunt,” the man roared. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“When you wake up, the surgery is already over. There’s nothing left but a plastic tube and a scar.”

The man hesitated. His eyes narrowed.

“And that’s just the start,” she said, grinning widely. “After that, it gets really bad.”

Silent, she stared at him, willing him to move, begging him to fight.

And the man moved.

Once again, she feels the convulsions of the gun, the metallic smacks of bullets parting from their casings to twist through the air. Her fingers have a will of their own; her thoughts are far behind, racing behind much stronger and faster impulses.

The first pull of the trigger had been reflexive: She had been so close to firing that a tremor was all it took.

The second had been in shock. Had she been in control of herself, she would have stopped, but when her bubble of astonishment popped, vengeance waited outside.

The third shot had been in determination: This subhuman creature would never return. She could and would banish him to permanent silence. The means were in her hands, and she used them with the casual concentration of a carpenter driving down a nail.

But the fourth shot had been different.

Without warning, the need to cause more damage took hold of her. Killing the man was not enough; he deserved to experience the same level of suffering displayed on the wall behind him. But her target was already damaged beyond repair, so she concentrated on the pleasure of destruction, the sweet pang of bringing pain and ruin to the man’s flesh and bone.

Laughing under her breath, she had felt a profound, sensual stab of joy as she pulled the trigger and with great precision sent a bullet through the man’s brain. And so, she had crossed the line and become what she loathed more than anything.

A bad cop.

It is the ghost of that particular shot that still wakes her at night. Gasping for breath, it jerks her upright, nods in recognition, and fades away. She remains behind, sweating and famished for the guilt that always fails to come.

Every time that happens, before she can sleep again, she touches her own face to make sure she is not smiling the way she had done in the house.

*

The moment passes, and Lena is back in the yard, staring down the barrel of her gun at the well. Apart from a faint hum, all is quiet again.

It must have been the wind: There had to be a passage down in the well, some form of a natural duct. When she removed the corrugated steel boards, the wind had torn unhindered through the channel and caused the piercing screech.

The crow looks down on her from its branch, its gaze speculative and condescending.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispers and lies back, resting her head on the snow. Noticing the gun in her hand, she tosses the weapon away. The sky above is a white ocean sprinkling its jagged drops over her face. It is snowing again.

She thinks of Agnes. Caring and trusting, she had listened to her amended story and believed her. She should have told her the truth. The constant lying and secrecy are erasing Lena’s sanity.

Her phone rings. She starts, makes her trembling hands find her phone, and looks at the display. It is Agnes. Lena takes the call and realises she hears cars nearby.

“We’re almost at the house,” Agnes says. “Where are you?”

Lena stands up and quickly picks up her gun. “Meet me at the front door.”

She returns to the house and waits. The flashback is a raw wound; she wants to sit down, bury her face in her hands and shut out the world, but she must look professional, or at least operational. Agnes is relying on her.

The slams of car doors echo through the forest. After a minute, Agnes appears, trudging through the snow along the road that leads up to the house. Six other officers follow in her wake, five men and one woman. Behind them walks a man in orange trousers and a green insulated jacket. The officers are tense; rumours about John and what he has done are flying wild.

Agnes looks around the yard and turns to Lena. The young officer could pull off the impressive feat of scowling without a shadow of a frown.

“I haven’t touched the house,” Lena says. “But I will, now that you’re here.” She bangs on the door with her fist. “Police. Open up.”

No answer. Lena points at the man in the green jacket and jerks her thumb at the door behind her. “Get going. It’s not getting any warmer.”

The man blows his cheeks and lowers his toolbox down on the step. “Yes, I’m the locksmith, thanks for asking.”

“You don’t look like an undercover officer to me, so who else would you be?” Lena shakes her tousled hair and pulls it back up in a tighter ponytail. Agnes looks pained; she too must be freezing. Hopefully the locksmith is not an amateur.

“Any news?” Lena asks Agnes.

“No sign of John or the other man,” Agnes answers, “and no incidents that point to either of them. They’re working on the recording at the station. Oh, and Gren is getting busy. Details about the case have leaked to the press, and the media is hounding him. He’s been ordered to brief the senior command later today.”

“So we’re on our own.” Lena turns to the locksmith. “Is the door open yet?”

The locksmith mutters something under his breath while he works on the lock.

“What was that?” Lena asks.

“I said,” he replies slowly, “I’ll be done in a few seconds.” A sharp clunk sounds from the lock. “There. It’s open. You’re welcome.”

As soon as the locksmith moves out of the way, Lena walks up to the door, pulls her gun, and switches her torch on. She closes her hand around the gun’s grip. “On three,” she says.

The other officers move in closer to Lena and draw their pistols. Lena counts down, swings the door open, and peers inside.

The door opens to a square room that takes up most of the space in the house. On her left is a cluttered working bench that runs almost the entire length of the room. Under the bench are small paint buckets, a toolbox and a pile of neatly stacked unused canvases still in their plastic wrappings.

On her right is a large and old orange sofa, and next to it a small table with a sound system. A stack of CDs balances precariously on a speaker. Under the table stands a hot air radiator. On the opposite wall is a narrow door, which, if she remembers correctly, leads to a miniature kitchen.

Next to the door, along the wall, are three deep rows of paintings. Bright colours hint under the sheet thrown over the canvases. The air smells heavily of oil paint and solvents. The cracks between the wooden shutters form vertical lines of light on the walls. A damp silence rests inside the house.

While the officers fan out across the room, Lena walks over to the bench and shines her torch on its contents. Glass jars brim with worn brushes, plastic bottles with acrylic paint, piled boxes with oil colour tubes. Scalpels, rulers and scourers. Mounds of old newspapers, most of them cut to pieces. Enough sticky tape, pencils and erasers to supply a small school.

No TV, no game consoles. A houseful of colours, creations and music. John’s little refuge from the world. By and large, it is an extension of John’s flat, only more peaceful. When she realises the tools on the workbench are centred around a wide canvas, she turns her light to the painting and looks closer.

The motif is of the back of a man walking away from a calm lake in the foreground and towards a tower-like silhouette that blocks out a setting sun. Between the lake and the tower, right in the man’s path, is a mass of trees with long interweaving branches. The sky is a wild blend of deep browns and stark yellows. A depiction of a dusk the like of which Lena has never seen.

Underneath the motif, almost concealed by the thick layer of colours, is a collage of newspaper clippings. She squints and tries to read some of them, but the oil paint has blurred the words.

“The guy’s a real fanatic,” an officer behind Lena says.

“He was,” Lena replies. “I’m pretty sure he won’t return to these.” Not if he continues down his current path of choice. Only John did not choose it, she reminds herself; someone else started John’s downward spiral.

She looks at Agnes and nods at the second door. “Kitchen.”

Lena and Agnes move to each side of the kitchen door. When Agnes nods, Lena opens the door and glances around the corner.

No one inside. The open cupboard holds a few tins of food, instant coffee, tomato sauce and three boxes of dry cat food. She pulls out the drawers and finds mismatched cutlery and tableware. A coffee cup rests in the sink. The bar fridge hides a bar of chocolate and a package of hot dogs.

One of the officers looks in and makes a disgusted face. “I can tell he’s more a painter than a chef.”

“The only thing we can tell,” Lena says and slams the fridge shut, “is that John’s still out there. We’ll go back to the office and – hold on.” Her phone buzzes.

“Lena.”

“Gren here. Have there been any developments?”

“If there’d been, I would’ve called. We’ve got nothing other than more proof that John really likes to paint.”

“Walls or paintings?”

“The latter. We’re going back now. What did you want?”

“The lab got a usable image from the footage of the second suspect. We put it out on the system and sent off priority alerts to greater Stockholm. The security manager at Vällingby called two minutes after we sent out the alert.”

“What did he say?” Lena clenches the phone hard in her hand. If they can find the murderer, sooner or later they will locate John too.

“One on the manager’s staff recognized the man straight away. The suspect has been seen around Hässelby Gård lately. That’s two stops away from Vällingby, towards the end of the line.”

“I know where it is. Have they started to search yet?”

“All patrols in the area have been alerted,” Gren says. “We’ll talk to the staff around the station as soon as we can get more people out there.”

“Call me if something happens. Before you remind me, I know I’m no longer leading that case, but he’s our key to John.”

“You still think so?”

“I know it. Make sure the suspect doesn’t board a train, or I will strangle someone.”

“If he’s out there, he won’t leave that way.”

“I’m going to Hässelby Gård.”

“Understood. I’ll call if I hear more. Please remember–”

“Gren,” Lena snaps.

“Just keep it in mind.”

Lena ends the call. The other officers look at her and wait. They think they are wasting time in John’s picturesque, freezing painting studio.

“Right,” Lena says. “John lives near Vällingby. The other man has been spotted in the same area. If John knows that man’s identity, there’s a chance John is near.”

“How would John know whom to look for?” an officer asks.

“He’s got a photo,” Lena says. “And just after the murder, witnesses said John was asking around for a man dressed in clothes that match those of the suspect. We knew that when we saw the footage from the station. My guess is John’s somewhere between Vällingby and the end of the line.”

The officer shakes his head. “That’s a weak lead.”

“It’s still a lead,” Lena says, “and we’re using it. I’ll do one last check here, and then we’re off. Agnes?”

“Yes?”

“Go to your car, check the reports from that area, and let me know if something out of the ordinary has happened. People might have noticed John. If nothing else, his clothes could be bloodied.”

“There’ll be hundreds of posts,” Agnes says. “It’s the weekend. What do you want me to look for more specifically?”

“Anything that catches your eye. I’ll go through the list myself once I get to your car.”

When Agnes has left, Lena bends down and peers underneath the sofa. A layer of dust and an old paintbrush. She stands back up and chews on her lips. If John has any secrets hidden here, she cannot find them. The house is a cold trail. All the paintings here were part of the John who existed before his girlfriend was murdered. The John they are searching for now is another creature entirely.

Lena’s phone rings. She looks at the screen and blinks when she sees Agnes’s name. Agnes’s car is ten seconds away; there was no reason to call. Outside the house, a car starts.

Lena takes the call. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“John’s been spotted in Hässelby.” Agnes’s voice is almost drowned out by the growl of her car’s engine.

Lena runs out of the house. Brushing past the other officers, she slams John’s door shut and sprints down the road, towards where the other officers have parked their cars. Behind her, her colleagues scramble to catch up.

She reaches Agnes’s car, throws the door open, and jumps into the passenger seat. Two officers get in the backseat a moment before Agnes accelerates. The other police cars start behind Agnes’s car.

Lena throws her gloves on the floor and fumbles for her phone. “Tell me.”

“An elderly woman called in to the local police station,” Agnes says. “She met a man at the front door of her block. She thought he acted strange, so she got worried.”

“When?”

“She just called. An officer realized the description matched the one from the train footage, down to the bag he carries. They got back to the old woman and told her to stay indoors. John apparently went into the block of flats where she lives.”

“Perfect.” Lena flicks on the heater; her hands are numb with cold. “Let’s hope he’s still there.”

“Yes.” Agnes turns onto a larger road and speeds up. She looks troubled.

“What’s wrong?” Lena asks.

Agnes grimaces. “The woman called five minutes ago, but it’s been over an hour since she saw John.”

“What?”

“She wasn’t sure it was necessary to trouble the police, so she waited until she got too worried. At least she called. The patrols are already there, and underground train security is keeping an eye out.”

“Fuck.” Lena slams the dashboard, closes her eyes, and opens them.

“Perhaps–”

“Just drive.”

Lena is silent while the cars rip down the white road. One whole hour. A wealth of precious seconds gone to waste. John could be anywhere. Agnes thinks John might be lingering, but he will have vanished, turned into smoke again.

The other officers are blindfolded by textbook neatness; they think John’s actions click to the grid of reason and predictability. She wishes she could tell them that she knows what is going through his head, although if she tried, she would flag herself for permanent desk duty. Or hospitalisation.

When her phone rings, Lena almost presses her thumb through the brittle thing. A number from the headquarters. “Franke,” she says.

“Is this Lena Franke?” A male voice. Loud voices in the background.

“Still here,” Lena says. “Who is this?”

“This is Patrick Rahm. Krister Gren put me through to you.”

Lena forces herself to stay calm. “How nice of him. How can I help? I’m busy.”

“Gren said you’re in charge of the investigation of John Andersson.”

“Correct.” Her pulse begins to drum in her ears.

The man clears his throat. “We responded to a tip-off from a woman who saw a man with matching clothes. We’re at the address right now.”

“Tell me you have him,” Lena says before she can stop herself. “Please, tell me you got John.”