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his cell phone.
    “Before you make any calls, I just want to stress one thing,” says Erik. “The patient always speaks the truth under hypnosis. But it’s only a matter of what he himself perceives as the truth. His memory is as subjective as ever, and—”
    “I understand that.”
    “I’ve hypnotised people suffering from schizophrenia,” Erik goes on, “and they were just as deeply detached from reality under hypnosis as they were in a conscious state.”
    “What is it you’re trying to say?”
    “Josef talked about his sister.”
    “Yes, she wanted him to bite like a dog and so on,” says Joona. He dials a number and puts the phone to his ear.
    “There’s no proof his sister told him to do that,” Erik explains.
    “But she might have,” says Joona, raising a hand to silence Erik. “Anja, my little treasure.”
    A soft voice can be heard at the other end of the phone.
    “Can you check on something for me? … Yes, exactly. Josef Ek has an aunt called Sonja, and she has a house or a cottage somewhere … Yes, that’s—you’re a star.” Joona looks up at Erik. “Sorry. You wanted to say something else?”
    “Just that it’s by no means certain it was Josef who murdered the family.”
    “But is it possible that his wounds are self-inflicted? Could he have cut himself like this in your opinion?”
    “Not likely.”
    “But is it possible?” Joona persists.
    “Theoretically, yes,” Erik replies.
    “Then I think our killer’s lying in there,” says Joona.
    “I think so too.”
    “Is he in any condition to run away from the hospital?”
    “No.” Erik smiles weakly in surprise.
    Joona heads for the door.
    “Are you going to the aunt’s cottage?” asks Erik.
    “Yes.”
    “I could come with you,” says Erik. “The sister could be injured, or she could be in a state of shock.”

18
tuesday, december 8: early morning
    Simone is already awake before the telephone on Erik’s bedside table starts to ring.
    Erik mumbles something about balloons and streamers, picks up the phone, and hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him.
    The voice she hears through the door sounds sympathetic, almost tender. After a while, Erik creeps back into the bedroom and she asks who called.
    “Police … a detective … I didn’t catch his name,” he says, and explains that he has to go to Karolinska University Hospital.
    She looks at the alarm clock and closes her eyes.
    “Sleep now, Sixan,” he whispers, and leaves the room.
    Her nightgown has twisted itself awkwardly around her. Unwinding and yanking it into place, she turns onto her side and lies still, listening to Erik’s movements.
    He dresses quickly, then goes rummaging for something in the wardrobe. Next, she hears a metallic
ping
when he tosses the shoehorn back into the drawer. After a little while she hears the faint sound of the street door closing.
    She tries for a long time to get back to sleep, but without success. She doesn’t think it sounded as if Erik was talking to a police officer. He sounded too relaxed. Maybe, she tells herself, he was just tired.
    She gets up to pee, has a yoghurt drink, and goes back to bed. Then she starts to think about what happened ten years ago, and all chance of sleep is gone. She lies there for half an hour, and then, unable to resist her suspicions, switches on the bedside light, picks up the phone, and thumbs through the display to find the last incoming call. She stares at the number for a moment, knowing she ought to turn off the light and go back to sleep, but finally she calls the number anyway. It rings three times, there is a click, and she hears a woman laughing a short distance away from the phone.
    “Stop it, Erik,” says the woman happily, and then the voice is very close. “Daniella Richards. Hello?”
    Simone says nothing. The woman waits a bit, then says
aloha
in a wearily sarcastic voice before ending the call. Simone remains sitting there, telephone in hand. She tries to