Killer's Island Read online

  Table of Contents

  ANNA JANSSON

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  TRANSLATIONS OF STREETS AND PLACES

  Killer's Island

  Anna Jansson Enar Henning Koch

  Stockholm Text Publishing AB (2012)

  * * *

  Rating: ****

  Tags: FIC030000, FIC022040, FIC050000

  In Anna Jansson’s haunting crime novel, Killer’s Island, a brutal and disturbing murder in the mythic town of Visby on the Swedish island Gotland has taken place. The myth of the White-Sea Lady has existed ever since Tjelvar, the first man on Gotland, lit a fire and the island rose out of the sea, said to be some 3,000 years ago. The story is told that a young woman, who drowned in the sea on her wedding night, since that time, tries to lure men down to the deadly underwater currents that tumble off the west coast. The myth comes to life one early summer morning when a well-respected nurse is found murdered and placed for public display on a pavilion in the local botanical gardens. She is mysteriously dressed as a bride holding flowers.

  Detective Inspector Maria Wern is put on the case to investigate, but it eventually becomes clear that it is the police that are under observation by the killer. With technical knowledge that far exceeds their own, the killer is able to taunt and provoke the police making him seem omnipresent and more of a threat as each day passes and still at large.

  Written in clean and chilling prose similar to Norway’s Karin Fossum, Anna Jansson’s novels have since her debut in 2000 sold in two million copies in more than ten countries. Several titles have been turned into movies.

  About the Author

  Anna Jansson grew up immersed in storytelling. Everything she writes, from suspenseful crime novels to mythical children’s books and academic non-fiction, is infused with intensity. Since her debut in 2000, her novels have sold in two million copies in more than ten countries. Several titles have been turned into movies. Jansson first worked as nurse for many years and, when she began to write fictional crime stories, her inspiration came from the people she met at the hospital. In a genre full of sudden, wicked death, Jansson managed to interweave issues related to current and critical ethical problems related to life and death, turning her stories into relatable and thought provoking works of art. Jansson’s stories roll with the natural ebb and flow of a person’s life – she is a master of tempo changes, from descriptive passages to thrilling action sequences and the development of relationships between characters, building momentum as each book plot intensifies. Jansson is uniquely skilled at defining each character in her books, evidenced by the sagaciously drawn Maria Wern, a complex and flawed woman that readers have come to know and love. Besides writing crime novels, Anna Jansson holds lectures on ethical issues related to medical care and has published a number of academic books on health care topics. She also enjoys and has experienced much success writing books for children. In tandem with her incredibly successful career as a writer, Jansson continues to work part-time as a nurse at Örebro Hospital’s lung clinic. She has three children and lives in Vintrosa outside of Örebro, Sweden.

  ANNA JANSSON

  KILLER’S ISLAND

  This book is part of Stockholm Text’s Scandinavian Crime series. To find more titles in the series, make sure to regularly visit http://stockholmtext.com.

  Stockholm Text

  www.stockholmtext.com

  [email protected]

  © 2012 Anna Jansson

  Translation: Enar Henning Koch

  Editing: Deborah Halverson

  Cover: Dorian Mabb

  ISBN e-book: 978-91-87173-13-4

  ISBN print book: 978-91-87173-22-6

  Swedish streets and places will appear with their Swedish names throughout the novel. For English translations, please see the last page of the book.

  Lost

  The moon comes, the sun goes,

  the dream made you lose yourself.

  The dream of lily years

  made us ever lose ourselves.

  Thistle paths and charred earth

  you trudge upon now, with broken shoe…

  –The dream of lily years made you lose yourself

  by Nils Ferlin

  By simply tapping the keyboard he was able to watch, via satellite, the day-to-day lives of ordinary people; how they opened their front doors and took their dogs for walks or bumped into friends on street corners, as if things were ruled by chance – for these superstitious, dim-witted beings still believed in chance. His constant observation of them made him feel powerful. He registered their habits, began to predict where they’d be and who they’d meet. It had been child’s play hacking into the Russian satellite that monitored the gas pipeline near Gotland. That its reception was so technically advanced came as a surprise. When weather conditions were favorable he could even watch their unsuspecting faces. This, perhaps, gave him more satisfaction than anything else.

  CHAPTER 1

  FRIDAY, JUNE 7, WAS AN unusually hot day. Long into evening, the heat still lingered in the narrow alleys of Visby. A pale dusk lay over the creased surface of the sea, lighting up the dark bastions of the city walls and the monastery ruins hailing back to another, more powerful time. The silhouettes of the stepped gable houses that had been warehouses in Hanseatic times stood out eerily in the red-glowing evening light. In the distance someone was playing a wooden flute. A sad, medieval melody.

  When Maria Wern started wandering home from Quay 5 at about nine o’clock, she immediately cursed her choice of shoes. Admittedly quite gorgeous, with sharp heels, pointy toes, and ankle-straps, they were nonetheless nearly impossible to walk in. The air was still clement. On the whole, she reflected, it had been a pleasant evening, apart from the last hour when Erika, as the situation warranted, had worked herself in a tizzy about a man. At such times she grew deaf and blind to anyone else. It was at that point that a fruity cocktail equipped with a straw and umbrella had landed on the table in front of Maria.

  “Something for the lady, from that gentleman by the door.” There was a scarcely hidden, teasing quality in the waiter’s smile.

  Someone had weighed up the situation and was now opportunely moving in for the kill while she sat there, left to her own devices. Maria glanced up toward the door. The gentleman in question winked at her and carefully rotated his open palm in the air – like in a comedy movie. Hey, it’s me! No, she wasn’t quite as desperate as that.

  “I think I
’ve reached saturation point. Tell him thanks.” Maria stood up and tried to make eye contact with Erika, now deep in conversation with her new acquisition. His name was Anders, he was a district medical officer in town and seemed unusually sympathetic. Was he married or a sociopath or a drug user or annoyingly perverse? There was usually something wrong with good-looking men who were apparently still available. When Erika invited him home, Maria couldn’t help but feel a little tingle of anxiety. As a police officer, Erika knew one could run into crazies in a bar.

  “Careful!” Her text message did not seem to get through. Although, when she thought about it, it occurred to her that he might be the one in need of a warning. Erika was usually more than capable of taking care of herself. “Erika, is your cell phone switched on?” Maria whispered as she stood up.

  “Mother hen! You know I won’t be calling you tonight.” Erika laughed affectionately and gave her arm a squeeze. “Everything’s totally cool, okay?”

  “Exactly.” Anders cut in. “Too cool if you ask me. I’ve got my daughter at home and my old mom babysitting. She’ll be wanting a lift home at a respectable hour, so it’ll just be a peck on the cheek at the door, I suppose. After that I’ll be making my own way back through the dangerous streets of Visby.”

  They all paid for themselves, then walked out into the lukewarm night. There was a gusting southeasterly wind pushing them away from the edge of the quay. The streetlights reflected in the black water. Music and humming voices could be heard from the boats in the marina, but the main seafront was almost deserted. They separated at Donner’s Place and Maria continued homewards down Hästgatan toward Klinten. Her feet were insanely sore. She tried walking barefoot, shoes in hand. Noticing the glimmer of glass and sharp bottle caps here and there, she was careful about where she put her feet. A taxi stopped and picked up a couple in party clothes. A taxi ride was not an option for Maria, whose finances were stressed. Anyway, she was almost home. She continued to Wallers Plats and then turned off down Södra Kyrkogatan toward the Cathedral, whose black steeple could already be glimpsed over the house roofs. She avoided the main square and headed for Ryska Gränd so she could take the long, steep Cathedral stairs up to Klinten as a workout – a punishment for being lazy and staying away from the gym all week.

  Further down Ryska Gränd, Maria heard a call for help. A pubescent voice, just at the cusp of breaking. At first it seemed unreal: three hooded men standing around someone on the ground, kicking him. The lane was dark, but she could see some of the kicks hitting his head. The figure on the ground was a boy, no more than perhaps thirteen or fourteen – just a few years older than Maria’s own son. Every kick catapulted his gaunt body off the ground. He was screaming.

  “Stop that! Stop! Police!” Maria got out her police badge and tried to make her voice as strong and authoritative as possible, although she was trembling inside.

  The three men looked up. They seemed to weigh her up, measure her with their eyes. If she could calm things down and make them respect her, she might just be able to resolve this without further violence. Purposefully she walked up to them. One against three. She dialed the emergency number on her cell phone. At best this would make them leave the scene, so she could save the boy. Answer the phone! She was placed on hold, an automated voice telling her the waiting time should not exceed three minutes. Three goddamn minutes! The tallest of the three men smiled scornfully at her as he unleashed another kick into the kid’s stomach. The boy went completely silent, likely unconscious. One of the other men hit Maria hard, knocking her cell phone out of her hand and then crushing it under his steel-toed shoe. Maria bent down to see how things were with the kid. His face was been beaten to a bleeding pulp, his body was limp, and he was no longer shielding himself with his arms.

  “Stop! You’ll kill him!” Only then did the fear really hit her.

  A tall man in his seventies wearing a cap and a light-colored overcoat appeared in the lane. Maria cried out for help but the man hurried by as if he were deaf and blind. His long overcoat flapped around his legs. He didn’t even turn around. She saw the gray hair down his neck, hanging over his collar.

  “Hello! Can you call the police! Help us! Call the police!” Her voice was still strong and authoritative.

  The man disappeared. He was out of the game. Coward! Next time you’ll be the one who needs help! You’ll have to live with this for the rest of your life, Maria wanted to shout after him. He must help them, he must pick up the phone. Couldn’t he see that? She filled up with impotent anger. The next few minutes would determine whether they came out of this situation alive.

  “Don’t come here poking your nose in this, fucking cop cunt!” The tall one aimed another kick at the boy. Maria didn’t know where she got her strength but somehow she managed to shove him so that he lost his balance and fell. His kick missed the victim’s head. One of them, shorter and fatter than the others, seemed to be drugged. His movements were floppy and his pupils tiny, like fly-specks. “Shit, Roy, maybe we should leave it and get out of here.” The others weren’t listening to him. The tall one resumed his attack on the defenseless boy on the ground. Maria screamed, called for help, clawed them, tugged at them, fought like a wild animal. They’d kill him if she didn’t manage to stop them. That boy was not much bigger than her son, Emil. In her mind, he might as well be Emil. Maria gave it all she had. She punched and kicked and roared for help, then managed a direct hit in the tall one’s groin, leaving him doubled up. At the same time she was kneed in the small of her back by one of the others. She fell to the ground, a hissing sound in her head. A hard fist slammed into her face. There was a taste of blood in her mouth. The pain had winded her. She crawled up again, took a kick in her back and lost her balance. Fell. Crawled to the boy on the ground and laid on top of him to protect his head, using her body as a shield. A powerful kick thundered into her side. Then another. She felt as if something inside her just exploded into smithereens. The pain was unbearable. She went into deep concentration, focusing on protecting the boy’s head and also her own.

  “Fucking cop cunt!” The tall one moved in close with a syringe in his hand. Maria saw him in the corner of her eye. The syringe was gleaming, filled with dark red blood.

  “Please, I.… Don’t. Don’t. Ouww, oh God!”

  He squatted down on her back. The others held on to her arms and legs. For a moment Maria thought that they were going to rape her, that they were only using the syringe as a threat. But it was far worse than that.

  “Welcome to hell.” The taunting voice cut into her. The needle pierced her trousers and skin, went in deep and grazed her femur. Maria tried to kick herself free. The needle glided out. Maybe it had snapped inside her flesh? She didn’t know. He continued stabbing her with it. She had to try and mark him. She bit, scratched, clawed at his masked face. He spit at her. Right in her face. His eyes were overflowing with hatred. He stood up to kick her one more time.

  Someone opened a window and a woman’s voice called out.

  “If you don’t stop that racket I’ll call the police!”

  “Do it! Call the police!” Maria’s voice did not carry. Another kick slammed into her, she convulsed and gasped for air. Her back was smashed. The pain was beyond endurance.

  Another window opened.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Help!” Maria’s voice made a hollow, croaking sound.

  One more kick swished into her. She tried to protect her head with her arm. Another kick. There was a cracking sound. The pain made her black out.

  “Call an ambulance! Please.…” Her voice was no more than a whisper, maybe just a thought. Everything went silent. The kicking stopped. Dark figures moved indistinctly round them, like a dance of witches. Steel-toed boots. The voices from the windows turned into echoes. A last kick cut clean through her whole body.

  When Maria regained consciousness she only saw the staring eyes at first. Black human bodies with long legs and eyes. A quiet murmuring of perturbed a
nd dismayed voices. Echoes, half-perceived words to cling onto in a sea of raging pain. She tried to make out the words but they remained indecipherable. The sound of an approaching ambulance accentuated everything. Someone touched her, tried to move her. The pain was indescribable.

  A new face came up close to her. A man with an anxious gaze, though his words were calm. Clear. A kind voice. She wanted to cry.

  “How are you? Where does it hurt?” The ambulance man was speaking to her.

  “Is the boy alive?” He couldn’t hear her. It was painful to breathe.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  She couldn’t make herself understood. Her lips were swollen and she couldn’t project her voice: each word felt like internal bleeding or a fractured neck. Her whole identity seemed to be in swaying motion, without any firm grip. The man’s voice took command. Passively she let herself be moved. They were placed on stretchers and transferred to the waiting ambulances. She caught a glimpse of the boy’s limp body. He simply had to pull through, had to survive, in spite of all the blows and kicks to his head. Where were his parents? Soon they’d find out. Maria felt a fit of weeping in her body, but without tears. Every time the car jolted, an excruciating pain coursed through her. The ambulance man was there, the one with the anxious eyes and calm voice. All the way on the bumpy road to the hospital he was there with her. He told her his name was Tobias. She held onto his name as if it were a mantra.

  The fluorescent lights in the white room cut into her eyes. White-dressed figures flitted past like bright butterflies. They were hands and voices in a sea of pain. A doctor introduced himself but Maria couldn’t fix his name in her mind. His face was round. He was sweating and his glasses had slipped down his nose; his lower jaw masticated as he spoke. He’d nicked himself on his chin with his razor. A tiny, bleeding cut. He seemed to be saying something about an X-ray. He asked a question, wanted an answer. But the pain engulfed her in darkness. The voices came and went in her wavering consciousness.