The Hypnotist

Chapter 94

Joona has turned onto the little street where Johan Samuelsson’s parents still live. He spots their place at once, an eighteenth-century house painted Falun red, with a saddle roof. A shabby playhouse stands in the garden. Beyond the Samuelssons’ hilly plot it is just possible to glimpse the black, heavy water of the Baltic Sea.

“I have to go, Anja.”

He pulls his car into a raked gravel drive neatly edged with cobblestones and runs his hands over his face before getting out. He walks up to the door and rings the bell, waits, rings again. Eventually he hears someone shouting inside.

“Coming!”

The lock rattles and a teenage girl pushes open the door. Her eyes are heavily made up with kohl, and she has dyed her hair purple.

“Hey,” she says.

“My name is Joona Linna,” he says. “I’m from the National CID. Are your parents at home?”

The girl nods and turns to shout to them. But a middle-aged woman is already standing in the hallway, staring at Joona. “Amanda,” she says in a frightened voice, “ask him… ask him what he wants.”

Joona shakes his head. “I’d prefer not to say on the doorstep what I came to say,” he says. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” whispers the mother.

Joona steps inside and closes the door. He looks at the girl, whose lower lip has begun to tremble. Then he looks at Isabella Samuelsson. Her hands are pressed to her breast, and her face is deathly pale.

Joona takes a deep breath and explains quietly. “I’m so very, very sorry. We’ve found Johan’s remains.”

The mother presses her clenched fist to her mouth, making a faint whimpering sound. She leans on the wall but slips and sinks to the floor.

“Dad!” yells Amanda. “Dad!”

A man comes running down the stairs. When he sees his wife weeping on the floor, he slows down. It’s as if every vestige of colour disappears from his face. He looks at his wife, his daughter, then Joona. “It’s Johan,” is all he says.

“We’ve found his remains,” says Joona, his voice subdued.

They sit in the living room. The girl puts her arm around her mother, who is weeping inconsolably. The father still seems strangely calm. Joona has seen it before, these men- and sometimes women, though this is less common- who show very little reaction, who continue to talk and ask questions, whose voices take on a peculiarly vacant tone as they ask about the details. Joona knows this is not indifference but a battle, a desperate attempt to put off the moment when the pain comes.

“How did you find him?” the mother whispers, between bouts of weeping. “Where was he?”

“We were looking for another child at the home of a person suspected of kidnapping,” says Joona. “Our dog picked up the scent and led us to a spot in the garden.”

“In the garden?”

Joona swallows. “Johan has been buried there for ten years, according to the forensic pathologist.”

Joakim Samuelsson looks up. “Ten years?” He shakes his head. “It’s thirteen years since Johan disappeared,” he whispers.

Joona nods, feeling utterly drained as he explains. “We have reason to believe that the person who took your child held him captive- ” He looks down, making an enormous effort to sound calm when he looks up again. “Johan was held captive for three years,” he goes on. “Before the perpetrator killed him. He was five when he died.”

At this point the father’s face breaks. His iron-hard façade is shattered into countless fragments, like a thin pane of glass. It is very painful to watch. His face crumples and tears begin to pour down his cheeks. Rough, dreadful sobs rend the air.

Joona looks around the room at the framed photographs on the walls. Recognizes the picture from the folder of little two-year-old Johan in his police uniform. Sees a confirmation photo of the girl. A picture of the parents, laughing and holding up a newborn baby. He swallows and waits. It isn’t over yet.

“There’s one more thing I have to ask you,” he says, after giving them a moment to compose themselves. “I 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 Ulleråker.”

“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 Ulleråker, 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.