have to ask if you’ve ever heard of a woman named Lydia Everson.”
The mother shakes her head in confusion. The father blinks a couple of times, then says quickly, “No, never.”
Amanda whispers, “Is she… is she the one who took my brother?”
Joona looks at her, his expression serious. “We believe so.”
When he gets up, his palms are wet with perspiration and he can feel the sweat trickling down the sides of his body.
“My condolences,” he says. “I really am very, very sorry.” He places his card on the table in front of them, along with the telephone numbers of a counsellor and a support group. “Call me if you think of anything, or if you just want to talk.”
He is on his way out when the father suddenly gets to his feet. “Wait… I have to know. Have you caught her? Have you caught her yet?”
Joona clamps his jaws together. “No, we haven’t caught her yet. But we’re on her trail. We’ll have her soon, I promise.”
He calls Anja as soon as he gets in the car. She answers immediately. “Did it go well?”
“It never goes well,” Joona replies steadily.
There is a brief silence at the other end of the phone.
“Did you want anything in particular?” Anja asks hesitantly.
“Yes,” says Joona.
“You do know it’s Saturday.”
“The father is lying,” Joona goes on. “He knows Lydia. He said he’d never heard of her, but he was lying.”
“How do you know he was lying?”
“Something about his eyes when I asked. I’m right about this.”
“I believe you. You’re always right, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And if we doubt you, we have to put up with you saying, ‘What did I tell you?’ ”
Joona smiles to himself. “You’ve come to know me well, Anja.”
“Did you want to tell me anything else, apart from the fact that you were right?”
“Yes, I’m going over to Ulleraker.”
“Now? You know it’s our Christmas dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Joona,” Anja says chidingly. “It’s our staff Christmas party, dinner at Skansen. You can’t have forgotten?”
“Do I have to come?” asks Joona.
“Yes, you do,” Anja replies firmly. “And you’re sitting next to me.”
“As long as you don’t get carried away after a few drinks.”
“You can cope.”
“If you will be an angel and ring Ulleraker, make sure there’ll be someone there I can talk to about Lydia, you can do more or less whatever you like with me,” says Joona.
“Oh my God, in that case I’m already on it,” says Anja cheerfully, hanging up.
Chapter 95
The psychiatric clinic at Ulleraker is one of a very few still in operation in Sweden, the result of huge cuts in allocations for psychiatric care that took place in the 1990s. A complex of pale buildings set amid dark groves of trees, fields, and gardens once tended by patients, and with its own cemetery, the hospital is a world unto itself. Joona passes through an old-fashioned porte-cochere at the entrance and pulls up before the main building, an elegant old structure topped by a clock tower set directly in the centre of the complex.
Anja has done a good job as usual. When Joona walks in through the main entrance, he can see from the expression of the girl on reception that he is expected.
“Joona Linna?”
He nods and shows his ID.
“Dr. Langfeldt is waiting for you. Up the stairs, first room on the right along the hall.”
Joona thanks her and begins to climb the wide stone staircase. He can hear thuds, shouts, the sound of a television coming from somewhere in the distance. There is a smell of cigarette smoke. Outside, the clinic is surrounded by an ornamental garden that resembles a churchyard, the bushes blackened and bowed down by the rain, trellises damaged by dampness with spindly climbers clinging to them. It looks gloomy, Joona thinks. A place like this isn’t really aimed at recovery, it’s a place for containment. He reaches the landing and looks around. To the left, through a glass door, is a long, narrow corridor. He wonders briefly where he has seen it before, then realizes it’s an almost identical copy of the holding cells at Kronoberg: rows of locked doors with metal handles. An elderly woman in a long dress emerges from one of the doors. She stares at him through the glass. Joona nods to her, then opens the door leading to the other corridor. It smells strongly of bleach and antiseptic.
Dr. Langfeldt is already waiting.
“Police?” he asks rhetorically, holding out a broad, meaty hand. His handshake is surprisingly soft, perhaps the softest Joona has ever felt, and his expression gives nothing away as he says with a minimal gesture, “Please come in.”
The office is large but almost entirely functional. Heavy bookshelves filled with identical files cover the walls. There are no paintings or photographs; the room is entirely free of ornamentation. The only picture is what appears to be a child’s drawing in green and white chalk pinned to the door; a round face with eyes, nose, and mouth, legs and arms attached directly to it. Children of about three tend to draw adults in this way. This can be seen either as an indication that the figure has no body or that the head itself is the body.
Dr. Langfeldt goes over to his desk, which is almost entirely covered in piles of paper. He moves an old rotary telephone off the visitor’s chair and makes another small gesture in Joona’s direction; Joona interprets this as an invitation to sit down.
The doctor regards him thoughtfully; his face is heavy and furrowed, and there is something lifeless about his features, almost as if he is suffering from some kind of facial paralysis.
“Thank you for taking the time- ” Joona begins.
“I know what you want to see me about,” the doctor says. “You want information about Lydia Everson. My patient.”
Joona opens his mouth, but the doctor holds up a hand to stop him.
“I presume you’ve heard of professional security and the confidentiality of information relating to patient records,” Langfeldt continues. “In addition- ”
“I’m familiar with the law,” Joona interjects. “If the crime under investigation would lead to more than two years’ imprisonment on conviction, then- ”
“Yes, yes,” says Langfeldt. The doctor turns his peculiar dead gaze on him.
“I can of course bring you in for questioning,” Joona says softly. “The prosecutor is currently preparing a warrant for Lydia Everson’s arrest. We will then request her patient notes, obviously.”
Dr. Langfeldt taps his fingers against one another and licks his lips. “It’s just…” he says, “I just want…” He pauses. “I just want a guarantee.”
“A guarantee?”
Langfeldt nods. “I want my name kept out of this business.”
Joona meets Langfeldt’s eyes and suddenly realizes that the lifeless expression is in fact suppressed fear.
“I can’t make that promise,” he says harshly.
“If I plead with you?”
“I’m a stubborn man,” Joona explains.
The doctor leans back, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. It’s the only sign of nerves or any other kind
