Page 64 of The Sleepwalker
‘I’m just wondering .?.?. Sorry to interrupt,’ she says. ‘I’m wondering if the victim was robbed?’
‘The principle of secrecy is pretty strict when it comes to preliminary investigations.’
‘I know, but we’re not going to publish anything until the case is over.’
‘I’m trusting you not to leak any of this to the press,’ says Joona. ‘But both of the victims seem to have been robbed of their valuables.’
‘But that can’t be the motive, can it?’
‘Who knows?’
Joona returns to his desk, sits down and leans back in the creaky chair.
‘I have an idea I’d like to run by you,’ he continues. ‘You don’t have to give me an answer right now, but hear me out at the very least.’
‘OK .?.?.’
‘My department often works with a doctor specialising in PTSD and other psychological traumas, and he sometimes uses hypnosis to help victims and witnesses heal and remember.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what if Hugo admitted to something .?.?. I don’t know .?.?. something illegal while he was under hypnosis?’ Bernard asks in the background.
‘I understand your concerns, but we wouldn’t be able to use any of it against him in a court of law. It has no evidentiary value, but it could lead to a breakthrough in the case.’
‘We’ll think it over and talk to Hugo,’ says Bernard.
‘Thank you.’
23
The dark brick villa with the steeply sloping roof is in one of the oldest areas of Gamla Enskede, just south of the Avicii Arena.
The garden is bare and wintry, with a layer of frost on the patio furniture and a rusty hammock tugging on its supports.
Erik Maria Bark is standing in one of the large windows, looking out towards the gravel driveway and the open gates on to the road.
He can feel the heat of the radiator against his thighs and the chill of the cold glass on his face. In the living room, Miles Davis’ spellbinding 1960 concert in Stockholm is playing softly over the speakers.
Erik’s heart rate quickens as a car pulls up on the street, slowing again as it turns off onto his neighbour’s driveway.
He is conscious that he must look like some sort of lonely old grandfather in the window, so he turns around and makes his way through to the kitchen, the varnished oak floor creaking underfoot. Glancing over to the table, he worries that folding the napkins into Christmas trees might have been a step too far.
Erik tries to tell himself that he still looks pretty good for his age, despite the fact that his hair is greying, the bags beneath his eyes are bigger than ever and the laughter lines more prominent.
He is middle-aged now, and has started leaving a trail of reading glasses wherever he goes.
Today, he is wearing a blue shirt made from such thick denim that it is practically a jacket. That’s a good thing, he thinks, because it acts a bit like a girdle and helps to hold in his stomach. He has spent the afternoon cleaning, putting out fresh towels and changing the bedsheets.
He goes back through to the living room and has to fight the urge to text her as he checks his phone.
Without really paying any attention to what he is doing, he moves over to the window and peers out just as she walks through the gates. She spots him, and he gives her a silly little wave as the car on the road behind her pulls away.
Erik met Moa on a dating app, and they spent a long time messaging back and forth before eventually getting together for coffee at Stockholm Central. On their second date, they went to an exhibition of modern art at an auction house, and pretended to be interested in bidding on an erotic work before going for a drink at a bar nearby.
The last time they met, they ate Chinese food at Surfers and split the bill.
