Two days later he was asked to go down to the police station. The interview was conducted by the inspector who had spoken to him earlier. She was no more cheerful on this occasion.
‘You were the last person to see the boy in the forest, Jan. And you were the one who found him.’
‘That’s not true,’ Jan said patiently. ‘That pensioner found him... I can’t remember his name now.’
‘Sven Axel Olsson,’ said the inspector.
‘That’s it... anyway, he was the one who was looking after William. And I just happened to see them.’
‘And before that?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Where do you think William had been before you and herr Olsson found him?’
‘I don’t know... I haven’t really thought about it. I suppose he was wandering around in the forest.’
The inspector looked at him. ‘William says he was locked up.’
‘Oh? In what kind of room?’
‘I didn’t say it was a room.’
‘No, but I assume...’
‘Have you any idea who could have locked him up?’
Jan shook his head. ‘Do you believe him?’
The police officer didn’t reply.
There was an unbearable silence in the interview room. Jan had to make a real effort not to break it and start babbling and speculating about various theories, which would be interpreted as some kind of confession.
But his mind was wandering and he had to say something, so he asked, ‘How’s Torgny doing now?’
‘Who?’ said the inspector. ‘Who’s Torgny?’
Jan stared at her. He had said the wrong name. ‘William, I mean William. How’s he doing? Is he back with his parents?’
The inspector nodded. ‘He’s fine. All things considered.’
In the end he was allowed to leave, but the inspector didn’t apologize. The only thing Jan got was one last long stare from her.
He didn’t care. William was back with his parents, safe and sound, and he himself was free. He could leave the police station and go wherever he wanted, but he walked out into the fresh air with a feeling of disappointment.
It had all gone so quickly. He had intended it to last longer — for forty-six hours.
44
Legén is drinking yellowish wine out of a cracked coffee mug. He pours a generous mug for Jan too; they are sitting among the mess at Legén’s kitchen table. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks.’
Jan is thirsty, but not for lukewarm yellow wine. He takes the mug containing the liquid and wonders how he is going to empty it without his neighbour noticing.
Legén’s apartment is filthy and chaotic, but Jan actually enjoys these quiet sessions. He rang his neighbour’s doorbell after work because he wanted someone to talk to. But to what extent does he trust Legén? How much is he actually prepared to tell him?
‘I think there’s snow on the way,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ says Legén. ‘This is the time for chopping wood. We used to have a shed when I was little, but we kept all kinds of stuff in it, so there wasn’t any room for the wood. But you could sit inside the shed and have a bit of peace and quiet...’
The wine is making his neighbour quite talkative.
But eventually he runs out of steam, and Jan ventures, ‘I went down to the hospital cellar and had a look around on Sunday... I saw some of the patients.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Legén. ‘There’s always been a fair amount of activity down there.’ He takes a deep swig of his wine. ‘But I was never worried. We just got on with things in the laundry, for almost thirty years. The dirty laundry came down and we sent it back up... We found all kinds of things. Wallets, bottles of pills, all sorts.’
‘There’s a chapel in the basement,’ Jan says. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Yes, but we never went in there,’ Legén replies. ‘They kind of please themselves when the bosses have gone home.’
When Jan gets back to his apartment he tries to do some drawing; he wants to finish The Princess with a Hundred Hands. It is the last book without proper pictures, Rami’s fourth book.
He completes four drawings and colours three of them in, then he gives up. Instead he takes out his old diary.
He leafs through it slowly, reading his teenage thoughts and almost remembering how things used to be in those days — and when he reaches the middle of the book he finds an old item that he cut out of a local newspaper.
He remembers the cutting too. He came across it six years after the events at Lynx. It is a picture from the sports pages; there had been a junior football tournament, and the winning team was photographed after the final. A dozen boys are assembled for the camera, and in the middle stands the goalkeeper with the ball under his arm, smiling at Jan beneath his fringe.
William Halevi. His name is mentioned in the caption, but Jan recognized his face even before he read it.
He gazes at the picture for a long time. William looks happy, relaxed and unmarked by any bad memories from his time in the forest. He was eleven years old when the picture was taken, he played football, he seemed to have plenty of friends. His life would turn out well.
Jan can’t know that, but he hopes it’s true.
He gets up. The Angel is sitting on the shelf in the hallway. One of the Angels — the transmitter. He left the receiver inside St Psycho’s. The standby button glows brightly; he has put new batteries in. He has thought about switching it on from time to time, but he knows that the distance from the receiver is too great. He would need to get much closer.
Jan stares at the Angel and thinks things over for another minute or two. Then he fetches his rucksack and his outdoor clothes. Dark outdoor clothes.
He doesn’t cycle tonight, nor does he catch the bus. He goes on foot. He chooses the same route as he took last Sunday: a long detour through the forest and across the stream that flows past the hospital complex, then round to the slope at the back, a couple of metres from the fence.
Clouds are scudding by above the hospital grounds.
Jan is close. It is dark now, the darkness of November, and there is no need to hide among the fir trees. He can go right up to the top of the slope, above the stream. Slinking along like a lynx.
The fence around St Patricia’s is lit up like a stage by the floodlights, but deeper in the grounds he can see broad patches of shadow. Pale lights are showing in some of the narrow windows, but most have the blinds drawn. The patients are hiding themselves.
Jan feels as if he is being watched — but not by eyes. By the hospital itself.
St Psycho’s immutable stone façade is staring coldly at him, and he shudders. He would like to retreat back into the forest, but continues along the edge of the slope to a large rock left behind by glaciation. There is a well-trodden path here, which means that people have been walking past the hospital for many years, perhaps stopping to wonder what kind of monsters are locked up in there.
‘Haven’t you brought any bananas for the monkeys?’
Jan remembers Rami shouting at a group of middle-aged men in suits who had come to the Unit one evening on some kind of study visit. Perhaps they were politicians. Every single one had looked at her with fear in their eyes, and scuttled off down the corridor.
The Angel’s range is three hundred metres. Jan is less than three hundred metres from the hospital now, he hopes, but he is safe from the floodlights. The pre-school is to the left behind the hospital complex, but it is hidden by the fence and the conifers. Jan looks at his watch: quarter past nine. Time to get started. He puts down his rucksack and unzips it. He takes out the Angel and switches it from standby to transmit.