Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness. Lars Kepler
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Название: Joona Linna Crime Series Books 1-3: The Hypnotist, The Nightmare, The Fire Witness
Автор: Lars Kepler
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
isbn: 9780007575459
isbn:
Kennet makes a note. “Think,” he encourages her.
“It was dark, Dad.”
“And Erik?” Kennet asks. “What was he doing?”
“He was asleep.”
“Asleep?”
She nods. “He’s been taking a lot of pills over the past few years,” she says. “He was in the spare room, and he didn’t hear a thing.”
Kennet’s expression is full of contempt, and Simone suddenly understands, at least in part, why Erik has left.
“Pills?” says Kennet thoughtfully. “What kind? Do you know the name? Or names?”
She takes her father’s hands. “Dad, it’s not Erik who’s the suspect here.”
He pulls his hands away. “Violence against children is almost exclusively perpetrated by someone within the family.”
“I know that, but—”
Kennet calmly interrupts her. “Let’s look at the facts. The perpetrator clearly has medical knowledge and access to drugs.”
She nods.
“You didn’t see Erik asleep in the spare room?”
“The door was closed.”
“But you didn’t see him, did you? And you aren’t certain that he took sleeping pills that night, are you?”
“No,” she has to admit.
“All we can do is look at the facts and try to ascertain a kind of truth from them. I’m just looking at what we know, Sixan,” he says. “We know that you didn’t see him asleep. He might have been, but we don’t know that.”
Kennet gets up, pulls out a loaf of bread, and takes butter and cheese from the fridge. He makes a sandwich and hands it to Simone. After a while he clears his throat. “Why would Erik open the door for Josef Ek?”
She stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“If he did it, what would his reasons be?”
“I think this is a stupid conversation.”
“Why?”
“Erik loves Benjamin.”
“Yes, but maybe something went wrong. Perhaps Erik just wanted to talk to Josef, get him to call the police or—”
“Stop it, Dad.”
“We have to ask these questions if we’re going to find Benjamin.”
She nods, feeling that her face is torn to shreds; then she says, almost inaudibly, “Perhaps Erik thought it was someone else at the door.”
“Who?”
“I think he’s seeing a woman called Daniella,” she says, without meeting her father’s gaze.
46
sunday, december 13 (feast of st lucia): morning
Simone wakes at five o’clock. Kennet must have carried her to bed and tucked her in. She goes straight to Benjamin’s room with a flicker of hope in her chest, but the feeling is swept away as she stands in the doorway, gazing at the empty bed.
She doesn’t cry, but she thinks that the taste of tears and fear has permeated everything, as a single drop of milk turns clear water cloudy. She tries to take control of her thoughts, to not think about Benjamin, not properly, to not let the fear in.
The light is on in the kitchen. Kennet has covered the table with bits of paper. On the counter, the police radio is making a murmuring, buzzing noise. Kennet stands completely still, staring into thin air; then he runs his hand over his chin a couple of times.
“I’m glad you managed to get some sleep,” he says.
She shakes her head.
“Sixan?”
“Yes,” she mumbles; she goes over to the sink and splashes her face with cold water. As she dries herself with the kitchen towel she sees her reflection in the window. It is still dark outside, but soon the dawn will come with its net of winter cold and December darkness.
Kennet scribbles on a scrap of paper, moves another sheet, and makes a note of something on a pad. She sits down opposite her father and tries to analyse how Josef Ek got into their apartment and where he might have taken Benjamin.
“Son of the Right Hand,” she whispers.
“What, dear?” asks Kennet, still writing.
“Nothing.”
She was thinking that Son of the Right Hand is the Hebrew meaning of Benjamin. In the Old Testament, Rachel was the wife of Jacob. He worked for fourteen years so he could marry her. She bore him two sons: Joseph, who interpreted the dreams of the pharaoh, and Benjamin, the Son of the Right Hand.
Simone’s face contracts with suppressed tears. Without a word, Kennet leans over and squeezes her shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he says.
She nods.
“I got this just before you woke up,” he says, tapping a folder that is lying on the table.
“What is it?”
“You know, the house in Tumba where Josef Ek … This is the crime-scene investigator’s report.”
“I thought you’d retired?”
“I have my ways.” He smiles and pushes the folder over to her; she opens it and reads the systematic analysis of fingerprints, handprints, marks showing where bodies have been dragged, strands of hair, traces of skin under fingernails, damage to the blade of a knife, marrow from a spinal cord on a pair of slippers, blood on the television, blood on the lamp, on the rag rug, on the curtains.
Photographs fall out of a plastic pocket. Simone tries not to look, but her brain still manages to capture the image of a horrific room: everyday objects, bookshelves, a music system, all black with blood.
On the floor there are mutilated bodies and body parts.
She stands up abruptly and leans over the sink, retching.
“Sorry,” says Kennet. “I wasn’t thinking … Sometimes I forget that not everyone is a policeman.”
She closes her eyes and thinks of Benjamin’s terrified face and a dark room with cold, cold blood on the floor. She leans forward and throws up. Slimy strings of mucus and bile land among the coffee cups and spoons. She clings to the counter and breathes steadily, СКАЧАТЬ