Page 40 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

For the team at the NCU, Friday began before the sun had even risen with a festive Saint Lucy’s day procession.

It meant that Joona had glitter in his hair during the morning meeting, where he found out that it would be two weeks before the National Forensic Centre would have time to process their samples.

Three frustrating days followed, involving nothing but interviews with the victims’ friends and relatives, more fruitless rounds of door knocking and attempts to locate the Opel.

They trawled through vast amounts of material from the CCTV cameras around the campsite, tennis club and ?lvkarleby, but failed to find even a single sighting of the Kadett.

*?*?*

Joona’s apartment is dark when he gets home.

He turns on the light in the kitchen, puts a pot of potatoes on to boil, fries the meat patties he made that morning and whips up a quick cream and cognac sauce.

Earlier that day, he sent a message to Saga asking if she would like to join him for dinner, but she replied the way she always does: ‘Thanks, but I can’t make it tonight. ’

In silence, Joona sets the table for one, opens a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and sits down to eat, adding lingonberry jam and pickled cucumber to his plate.

He misses Valeria so much that he finds it nearly impossible to avoid thinking about Leila’s glowing needles and twisting columns of smoke.

His soul has sustained a number of deep wounds over the years, and in his darkest moments he has occasionally turned to opium. The drug enables him to sink to the very bottom, almost on the brink of death, before returning to the surface.

He doesn’t want to go back there now, to feel the opium’s cold embrace, largely because he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the disappointment in Valeria’s eyes once she realised what he has done.

I’m weaker than I am strong, he thinks. But my greatest weakness is that I have to keep pushing myself forward, that I’m incapable of giving up.

Joona does the dishes, wipes the table and is just putting the leftover food into the fridge when his phone rings. He moves back over to the table, sees that Agneta is calling, and immediately picks up.

‘Are you free to talk?’ she asks.

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve got the results already,’ she says. ‘Paid slightly more for the express service. As I understand it, we’ve got a good match considering it was mitochondrial DNA.’

‘How good?’

In the background, he catches Bernard saying something in an excitable voice.

‘There’s only one mutation separating them,’ Agneta continues. ‘Which means the match could only be the child, mother or sister of the killer.’

‘Could you—’

Joona stops talking when he hears his phone ping, and he sees that Agneta has shared a contact with him: Elisabeth Olsson 4416 18th St., San Francisco, CA 94114, USA Phone: +14 158311200

Joona thanks her and ends the call, then immediately dials the number she gave him. He hears it ring, the sound travelling through a fuzzy, pulsing abyss for a moment before there is a click and the connection becomes crystal clear and oddly intimate.

‘Elisabeth,’ a woman says, as though she were standing right in front of him.

‘Hello. My name is Joona Linna, and I’m a detective superintendent with—’

‘What’s happened?’ she asks, sounding panicked.

‘I’m in the process of investigating a serious crime here in Sweden, and I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘What sort of crime?’

He can hear shrieking, laughter and whistles in the background, and realises she must be in a playground or a school yard.

‘Our investigation has thrown up a close match for your DNA, and I was wondering if you have any children .?.?. or a mother or sister who might have been in Sweden over the past few weeks.’

‘I have a sister in Sweden,’ she replies, swallowing hard.

‘No children?’

‘Yes, but they’re five and eight.’

‘Can you corroborate their alibis?’ Joona jokes.

‘I’m not so sure about the little one,’ she replies, a smile in her voice.

‘Noted.’

‘I have almost no contact with my sister, but I’m guessing she still lives on the family farm,’ she continues.

‘Where is this farm?’

‘I call it a farm, but it’s really just a load of junk in a hole called Rickeby .?.?. I grew up there.’

‘Rickeby .?.?. in Vallentuna?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Could you tell me your sister’s name?’

‘Lotta .?.?. Ann-Charlotte Olsson.’

‘Have you spoken to her recently?’

‘What’s this about?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.’

‘But I’m guessing it must be worse than benefit fraud or moonshine?’

‘Yes.’

Joona thanks Elisabeth Olsson for her help and sits down at the dining table with his laptop in front of him.

He searches Ann-Charlotte Olsson’s name and looks up the address.

There are five small buildings visible in the satellite images, tucked away at the end of a gravel track between woodland and fields.

‘Stay right where you are,’ he tells them.

Joona gets up and moves over to the window, gazing northwards over the city. He then calls Noah, who brings his pool cue down on the edge of the table in frustration.

No one knows for sure how the killer came to be known as the Widow in the department, but everyone has warned Joona against using the name – or the term ‘serial killer’ – around the boss.

‘We’ve had a breakthrough .?.?. a DNA match for the hair. A woman in Vallentuna.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, but I had to go via the commercial genealogy route,’ Joona confesses.

‘Don’t tell me that,’ Noah groans. ‘I’ll have to fire you. You know that, don’t you? If I know about this, I have to take immediate action.’

‘You can just report me to the Special Prosecutor’s Office.’

‘Do you want to be reported?’

‘I know I went against the Authority for Privacy Protection ruling, but that’s because we’ll have a fourth and fifth murder on our hands otherwise.’

‘God, I’m going to have to put Petter in charge now, aren’t I?’ Noah sighs. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with him, but we’ll lose focus and—’

‘Start by asking the union for advice.’

‘Maybe I should, but the union .?.?. they could take weeks.’

‘That would be a shame,’ Joona replies with a smile.

For a few seconds, neither man speaks. A pool ball thuds softly against the cushion before knocking into another ball with a low crack.

‘OK, what the hell, I hear you,’ the boss says with another sigh. ‘Let’s do this: I’ll ask the union for advice, and you can keep investigating in the meantime.’

‘I need a tactical team and a drone unit within the hour,’ says Joona.

‘To bring in a woman for questioning?’

‘A suspected serial killer.’

‘Let’s not use that label.’

‘Serial killer?’

‘Christ .?.?.’

‘Just give me a tactical unit.’

‘It was your choice to go it alone,’ Noah replies.

‘Are you serious?’

‘You’ll have to do this without me .?.?. Ask the local station in T?by for help. Ask Norrt?lje.’

‘Can I take Saga Bauer?’

‘You already know the answer to that.’

Joona ends the call as he makes his way out into the hall, puts on his shoes and leaves his apartment. He locks the door behind him and runs over to the lifts.

*?*?*

Joona heads north, passing the university before joining the E18.

With Noah refusing his request for backup, he calls the regional command centre to ask about any patrol cars in the area. The duty officer contacts four vehicles, of which two immediately respond to his call.

Ann-Charlotte Olsson, the suspected killer, is registered as living with a man called ?ke Berg and their two children, one of junior school age and the other younger.

Both parents have criminal records, with convictions for fraud, tax evasion, threatening behaviour, assault and handling stolen goods.

They are long-term unemployed and, following a number of reports of concern for their children, have been under investigation by social services over the past five years.

The traffic on the six-lane motorway flows forward through the wide bends with a fluid elasticity.

To one side of the road, three enormous silos covered in blood-red graffiti loom like the remnants of an old border fortification, and then the countryside becomes increasingly rural: forests, fields and dark lakes filling the ancient fissures in the land.

Joona leaves the motorway at the exit for the 280 and makes his way to the meeting point on increasingly narrow roads.

On the far side of a three-way junction, he spots a police car blocking the road, preventing any traffic from driving past Rickeby.

Joona pulls up to it and comes to a halt.

Two plainclothes officers are waiting for him, shoulders hunched against the cold. Their breath forms hazy clouds in the air in front of them.

Joona gets out of the car and walks over to greet them.

‘Gregory,’ says the elder of the two.

‘Peck,’ says the other. ‘It’s Peter, really, but you get it?’

Gregory is a stocky man in his forties. His eyes look watery behind his steel-rimmed glasses, and he is wearing black jeans and a brown leather jacket.

Peck can’t be much older than thirty, with acne scars on his cheeks and prominent front teeth.

He is wearing a green hoodie beneath a blue windbreaker, plus a pair of navy outdoor trousers with pockets on the legs.

Joona explains the situation to them, neglecting to mention that he would have preferred backup from the National Tactical Unit and a drone team.

‘We’re here to bring Ann-Charlotte Olsson in for questioning, in other words,’ he continues. ‘She’s been linked to four murders so far, and there’s a real risk she won’t come willingly .?.?.’

‘We’ll have to ask nicely then,’ says Gregory.

‘Her husband, ?ke Berg, could also be there, and they have two young children who—’

‘We know the family,’ Gregory cuts him off.

‘Her lot have always lived round here. They bicker with the neighbours, get up to all sorts. Petty fraud, troll accounts, benefit fraud, renovating stolen cars .?.?. they’ve got a contact over at the industrial paint place.

They’re troublemakers, no question, but they’re not dangerous. ’

‘Any weapons?’ asks Joona.

‘Not registered, no. But I’m pretty sure there’ll be a shotgun or two knocking about.’

‘Will they recognise either of you?’

‘Doubt it,’ Gregory replies.

‘We’ll go over there and ask Ann-Charlotte to come with us to Norrt?lje for questioning, that’s all,’ says Joona. ‘Keep things low-key and try to avoid making an arrest, but if we have to take more of a hard line then so be it.’

‘OK,’ Peck mumbles.

‘And if it comes down to it, your safety takes priority,’ Joona continues. ‘Retreat and wait for backup .?.?. No guns unless absolutely necessary.’

‘We’re pretty far from the Stockholm slums here,’ Gregory says with a grin, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

‘What sort of service weapons do you have? Sig Sauer?’ asks Joona.

‘Yeah.’

‘P239s,’ says Peck.

The two men show Joona their pistols.

‘When did you last fire them?’

‘God .?.?.’ Gregory says with a sigh. ‘I was at the range .?.?. when was it? Might’ve been last year, or the one before that.’

‘But you carry out your function checks regularly .?.?.?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ he replies.

‘Peck?’

‘Not always,’ the younger man admits, eyes on the ground.

‘Do you carry backup weapons?’

Gregory shakes his head.

‘But I’ve always got one of these on me,’ says Peck, holding up a distress flare.

‘He got lost as a trainee,’ Gregory explains with a laugh.

‘It’s funny, I know,’ Peck tells Joona, ‘but seriously .?.?. it gets super dark out here in the country .?.?. Everything looks the same – all the fields, forests, barns. Mile after mile after mile.’