Joona tried to find a way they could stay together. They could move, get new jobs and change identities, and live quietly somewhere.
Nothing mattered more than being with Summa and Lumi.
But as a police officer, he knew that protected identities aren’t secure. They just give a breathing space. The further away you got, the more breaths you would manage to take, but in the file of Jurek Walter’s suspected victims was a man who went missing in Bangkok, disappearing without trace from the lift in the Sukhothai Hotel.
There was no escape.
Eventually Joona was forced to accept that there was something that mattered more than him being together with Summa and Lumi.
Their lives mattered more.
If he ran away or disappeared with them, it would be a direct challenge to Jurek to try to track them down.
And Joona knew that once you start looking, sooner or later you are going to find your quarry, no matter how hard they might try to hide.
Jurek Walter mustn’t look, he thought. That’s the only way not to be found.
There was only one solution. Jurek and his shadow had to believe that Summa and Lumi were dead.
31
By the time Joona reaches the outskirts of Stockholm the traffic has built up. Snowflakes are swirling about before vanishing on the damp asphalt of the motorway.
He can’t bear to think about how he arranged Summa and Lumi’s deaths in order to give them a different life. Nils Åhlén helped him, but didn’t like it. He understood that they were doing the right thing, assuming the accomplice really did exist. But if Joona was wrong, this would be a mistake of incomprehensible proportions.
Over the years this doubt has settled over the pathologist’s slender figure as a great sorrow.
The railings of the Northern Cemetery flicker past the car and Joona remembers the day Summa and Lumi’s urns were lowered into the ground. The rain was falling on the silk ribbons on their wreaths, and pattering on the black umbrellas.
Both Joona and Samuel carried on looking, but not together; they were no longer in touch with each other. Their different fates had made them strangers to one another. Eleven months after his family disappeared, Samuel gave up searching and returned to duty. He lasted three weeks after abandoning hope. Early in the morning of a glorious March day, Samuel went to his summer house. He walked down to the beautiful beach where his boys used to swim, took out his service pistol, fed a bullet into the chamber and shot himself in the head.
When Joona got the call from his boss telling him that Samuel was dead, he felt a deep, unsettling numbness.
Two hours later he made his way, shivering, to the old clockmaker’s on Roslagsgatan. It was long past closing time, but the aged clockmaker with the magnifying glass over his left eye was still working amidst a sea of different clocks. Joona tapped on the glass window in the door and was let in.
When he left the clockmaker’s two weeks later he weighed seven kilos less. He was pale, and so weak he had to stop and rest every ten metres. He threw up in the park that would subsequently be renamed in honour of the singer Monica Zetterlund, then stumbled on to Odengatan.
Joona had never thought that he would be losing his family for ever. He had imagined being obliged to abstain from meeting them, seeing them, touching them for a while. He realised that it might take years, possibly several years, but he had always been convinced that he would find Jurek Walter’s accomplice and arrest him. He had assumed that one day he would uncover their crimes, let in the light on their deeds and calmly examine every detail, but after ten years he had progressed no further than he had done in the first ten days. There was nothing that led anywhere. The only concrete proof that the accomplice actually existed was the fact that Jurek’s prophecy for Samuel had been realised.
Officially there was no connection between the disappearance of Samuel’s family and Jurek Walter. It was regarded as an accident. Joona was the only person who still believed that Jurek Walter’s accomplice had taken them.
Joona was convinced that he was right, but had started to accept the impasse. He wasn’t going to find the accomplice, but his family was still alive.
He stopped talking about the case, but because it was impossible to ignore the likelihood that he was being watched, he was pretty much condemned to loneliness.
The years passed, and the fabricated deaths came to seem more and more real.
He truly had lost his wife and daughter.
Joona pulls up behind a taxi outside the main entrance of Södermalm Hospital, gets out and walks through the falling snow towards the revolving glass door.
32
Mikael Kohler-Frost has been moved from the emergency room of Södermalm Hospital to Ward 66, which specialises in acute and chronic cases of infection.
A doctor with tired eyes and a kind face introduces herself as Irma Goodwin, and is now walking across the shiny vinyl floor with Joona Linna. A light flickers above a framed print.
‘His general condition is very poor,’ she explains as they walk. ‘He’s malnourished, and he’s got pneumonia. The lab found the antigens for Legionnaires’ in his urine, and...’
‘Legionnaires’ disease?’
Joona stops in the corridor and runs his hand through his tousled hair. The doctor notices that his eyes have turned an intense grey, almost like burnished silver, and she hurriedly assures him that the disease isn’t contagious.
‘It’s linked to specific locations with—’
‘I know,’ Joona replies, and carries on walking.
He remembers that the man who was found dead in the plastic barrel had been suffering from Legionnaires’ disease. To contract the disease, you had to have been somewhere with infected water. Cases of infection in Sweden are extremely rare. The Legionella bacteria grow in pools, water tanks and pipes, but cannot survive if the temperature is too low.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Joona asks.
‘I think so, I gave him Macrolide at once,’ she replies, trying to keep up with the tall detective.
‘And that’s helping?’
‘It’ll take a few days – he’s still got a high fever and there’s a risk of septic embolisms,’ she says, opening a door and ushering him through before following him into the patient’s room.
Daylight is passing through the bag on the drip-stand, making it glow. A thin, very pale man is lying on the bed with his eyes closed, muttering manically:
‘No, no, no... no, no, no, no...’
His chin is trembling and the beads of sweat on his brow merge and trickle down his face. A nurse is sitting beside him, holding his left hand and carefully removing tiny splinters of glass from a wound.
‘Has he said anything?’ Joona asks.
‘He’s been delirious, and it isn’t easy to understand what he’s saying,’ the nurse replies, taping a compress over the wound on his hand.
She leaves the room and Joona carefully approaches the patient. He looks at his emaciated features, and has no difficulty discerning the child’s face he has studied in photographs so many times. The neat mouth with the pouting top lip, the long, dark eyelashes. Joona thinks back to the most recent picture of Mikael. He was ten years old, sitting in front of a computer with his fringe over his eyes, an amused smile on his lips.
The young man in the hospital bed coughs tiredly, takes a few irregular breaths with his eyes closed, then whispers to himself:
‘No, no, no...’
There’s no doubt that the man lying in the bed in front of him is Mikael Kohler-Frost.
‘You’re safe now, Mikael,’ Joona says.