Gunnarsson is waiting for them on the ground floor.
“Oh, right, I got a text message while you were talking to Caroline. The autopsy is under way,” Susanne says to Joona.
“Good. When will we have the first report?” asks Joona.
“Go home,” says Gunnarsson angrily. “You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to read any reports, you are not to-”
“Calm down,” says Susanne, surprised.
“We’re so damned slow on the uptake that we’ve let a damned observer come and take over the entire investigation just because he’s from Stockholm!”
“I’m only trying to help,” says Joona. “Since there’s-”
“Shut up!”
“This is my preliminary investigation,” Susanne says, glaring at Gunnarsson.
“Then I have to inform you that Joona Linna has the Internal Review Board after his ass-”
“Is it true? Have you been reported to the Internal Review Board?” Susanne asks.
“Yes, but my case hasn’t gone to any prosecutor-”
“And I let you into the investigation?” She purses her lips. “This is about trust. You lied to me.”
“I’m still formally on duty, and I don’t have time for this,” says Joona. “I have to question Daniel Grim.”
“That’s my job,” Gunnarsson says.
“You have to understand how important it is,” Joona says. “Daniel Grim may be the only person who-”
“I am not going to work with you,” Susanne interrupts.
“We’re cutting you off from the investigation,” says Gunnarsson.
“I’ve lost all trust in you,” Susanne says, and turns on her heels and heads for the exit.
Gunnarsson takes off after her.
“If you talk to Daniel, you have to ask him about Dennis!” Joona calls after them. “Ask Daniel if he knows who Dennis is, and ask if he knows where Vicky would go. We need a name or a place. Daniel is the only person Vicky talked to and he-”
“Go home!” Gunnarsson waves without turning back.
41
Commissioner Gunnarsson has a fresh cigarette in his mouth as he leaves the elevator. He’s headed for Ward 52A in the psychiatric unit at Västernorrland provincial hospital.
A young man in a buttoned-up lab coat walks over to greet him. They shake hands and Gunnarsson follows him down a hall painted light gray.
“As I said on the phone, I don’t believe that questioning him will be useful at this time, so soon after-”
“You’re right, but I want to have a little chat with him anyway.”
The doctor stops and turns to look at Gunnarsson. “Daniel Grim is in a traumatic state of stress that we call arousal. It is activated by the hypothalamus and the limbic system-”
“I don’t give a shit,” said Gunnarsson. “Just tell me if he’s been stuffed with so many drugs he’s on Mars.”
“He’s able to talk, but I won’t let you near him if you-”
“We’re dealing with a double murder-”
“You know very well who has the last word in this building,” the doctor says calmly. “If I believe that the patient’s recovery will be hindered by a talk with the police, I will forbid it.”
“I understand.” Gunnarsson sighs.
“However, the patient himself has said that he would like to help the police, so I will allow you to ask a few questions in my presence.”
“Thank you.” They start along the hall again, turn a corner, and pass a row of dormer windows that overlook a courtyard. A few moments later, the doctor opens a door to a single-patient room. There’s a sheet and a blanket on the small sofa, but Daniel Grim is sitting on the floor with his back to the radiator. He looks serene and he doesn’t even glance at them when they come in.
Gunnarsson moves a chair near Daniel and sits down. Then he swears, gets off the chair, and squats in front of him.
“I have to talk to you,” Gunnarsson starts. “We are searching for Vicky Bennet. She’s a suspect in the murders at Birgittagården, and I-”
“But I…” Daniel murmurs.
Gunnarsson stops talking as Daniel keeps whispering. Finally he says, “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
The doctor stands by the door listening to them.
“I don’t believe she did it,” says Daniel. “She’s much too nice.”
He wipes the tears from his cheeks and from beneath his eyeglasses.
“I know that you are bound by patient confidentiality,” Gunnarsson says. “But is there any way you can help us find Vicky Bennet?”
“I’ll try,” Daniel says, but then presses his lips firmly together.
“Does she know anyone who lives near Birgittagården?”
“Maybe. I’m having trouble collecting my thoughts right now.”
Gunnarsson groans and decides to change tactics. “You were Vicky’s counselor,” he says. “Where do you think she went? We don’t give a shit whether she’s guilty. We don’t know anything yet. But there’s one thing we do know-she’s kidnapped a child.”
“No,” Daniel whispers.
“Who is she trying to find? Where is she going?”
“She’s afraid,” Daniel says. His voice is shaking. “She crawls beneath a bush and tries to hide… it… it… What did you ask, again?”
“Is there a hiding place you know about?”
Daniel starts mumbling about Elisabet’s heart and how he thought she’d died from her heart problems.
“Daniel,” the doctor says, “you don’t have to do this unless you want to. I can ask the police to come back later after you’ve had a chance to rest.”
Daniel shakes his head and tries to breathe calmly.
“Just give me a place,” Gunnarsson says.
“Stockholm.”
“Where in Stockholm?”
“I… I don’t know anything.”
“What the hell!” barks Gunnarsson.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Daniel’s chin is quivering. He turns his face away and starts sobbing.
“She killed your wife with a hammer and-”
Daniel throws his head back against the radiator so hard his glasses fall off into his lap.
“It’s time for you to go,” says the doctor. “Not another word. Bringing you here was a mistake, and I will not allow any further questioning.”
42
The parking lot outside the provincial hospital in Sundsvall is almost empty. The long, low building looks depressing, especially under these gray skies. Its brown brickwork is broken by windows that seem to have closed their eyes to the world. Joona strides up a path lined by bushes and through the front door.
There’s no one at the reception desk but in a moment a janitor comes by.
“Where’s your forensics department?” asks Joona.
“Two hundred and forty kilometers north of here,” the janitor says with a smile. “But if you want pathology, I can show you the way.”
He takes Joona down to the basement and through a pair of heavy metal doors. Down the hall Joona sees a sign over another door: DEPARTMENT OF CLINICAL PATHOLOGY AND CYTOLOGY.
“Good luck,” the janitor says as he points to the door.
Joona thanks him and walks down the empty hall. It’s cold and the tiled floor is cracked in places and scuffed with wheel marks from gurneys and carts. He passes a laboratory and opens the door to the autopsy room. No one is there and the stainless-steel autopsy table is empty. The overhead fluorescent fixtures bounce a cold, hard light off the white tiled walls. Joona waits and after a few minutes the door squeaks open, and two people wheel in a gurney from the morgue.
“Excuse me,” says Joona.
A thin man in a lab coat turns around and his aviator glasses glare in the light. He’s one of Joona’s old friends, Dr. Nils Åhlén, the head doctor at the National Forensic Laboratory, in Stockholm. His colleagues and friends call him “The Needle.” With him is his assistant, a young doctor Joona knows only as Frippe. Frippe’s dyed black hair hangs in wisps down to his shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” Joona asks.