Part 59 (1/2)

'I'll think about it ...'

102.

Anna Palmer sees Joona in a small, book-lined room. There's a desk, and a narrow window overlooking the hospital grounds. She's a tall woman with short, lead-grey hair and visible veins beneath her eyes.

'I know someone who was in a car accident ten years ago,' Joona begins. 'He suffered fairly severe brain damage ... This isn't my area, obviously, but the way it's been explained to me, he suffers from ongoing epileptic activity in the temporal lobes of both sides of his brain.'

'That can certainly happen,' she says, jotting down what he says.

'His big problem is his memory,' Joona goes on. 'Short and long-term ... sometimes he remembers every detail of an event, sometimes he forgets that it ever took place ... I'm hoping that hypnosis might help him break through the barriers.'

Anna Palmer lowers her notepad and folds her hands on the desk. Joona notices tiny red eczema scabs on her knuckles.

'I don't want to disappoint you,' she says in a weary tone of voice. 'But a lot of people have unrealistic expectations about what hypnosis can be used for.'

'It's very important for this person to remember,' Joona replies.

'Clinical hypnosis ... is about making suggestions, as a sort of internal self-help ... and it's nothing to do with revealing truths,' she explains apologetically.

'But this sort of brain injury doesn't mean that his memory has been erased. It's all there, it's just that the path to it is blocked ... I mean, couldn't hypnosis help him to find a different path?'

'It would certainly be possible to get to that point, if you were very skilful,' she concedes, scratching the red marks on her hands. 'But what do you do when you get there? No one would be able to differentiate between his real memories and his imagination, seeing as his brain can't tell the difference.'

'Are you sure? I mean, we think we can tell the difference between memory and imagination, we're convinced that we can.'

'Because we store certain information together with an awareness that those are genuine memories like a sort of code, an introductory note, a prefix.'

'So shouldn't that code still be in his brain?' Joona persists.

'But extracting that at the same time as his memories ...' she says, shaking her head.

'Is there anyone who could do that?'

'No,' she replies, closing her notepad.

'Erik Maria Bark claims he can.'

'Erik is very good at ... he's probably the best person in the world at putting patients into a state of deep hypnosis, but his research isn't evidence-based,' she says slowly, and there's a glint of something in her eyes.

'Do you believe what the papers have been saying about him?'

'I have no way of judging that ... But he does have a leaning towards the perverse, the psychotic ...'

She stops herself.

'Is this conversation actually about him?' she asks bluntly.

'No.'

'But it's not about a friend of yours, is it?'

'It never is ... I'm a detective with the National Criminal Investigation Department, and I need to question a witness suffering from organic memory loss.'

The corners of Anna Palmer's mouth twitch.

'That would be unethical, seeing as anything said under hypnosis is the opposite of reliable, and has no place in a legal context,' she says curtly.

'This is about detective work, not-'

'I can promise you that no serious pract.i.tioner of clinical hypnosis would do this,' she says, raising her voice and looking him in the eye.

103.

Erik walks across the bridge at Sickla, with his cap pulled down and his head lowered, then makes his way around the heights of Hammarbybacken, where Benjamin learned to ski, and heads into the forest.

It's practically impossible to move in Stockholm without getting caught on camera. There are speed cameras along the roads, cameras monitoring the boundary of the congestion-charging zone, traffic surveillance cameras at junctions, tunnels and bridges. There are security cameras in shops, trains, buses, ferries and taxis. Twenty-four hours a day, petrol stations, car parks, harbours, terminals, railway stations and platforms are monitored. Banks, department stores, shopping centres, plazas, pedestrianised streets, emba.s.sies, police stations, prisons, hospitals, fire stations are all watched.

Erik is extremely tired, and the blisters on the soles of his feet burst as he makes his way through the forest towards Bjrkhagen.

The sky is growing dark, and Erik feels his legs shake when he stops in the little park behind the house where Nestor, his former patient, lives.

Erik follows the path to a wooden door with a tarnished bronze letterbox. The colour of the building reminds him of wet foam-rubber.

There's a light on in the kitchen on the ground floor.

From here he can see right into Nestor's living room. Erik switches windows and sees Nestor sitting in an armchair.

There's no sign of anyone else in the flat.

Erik's hands are shaking and he feels as though he can't take another step as he rings the front door.

'Can I come in?' he asks as soon as Nestor opens the door.

'This is unexpected,' Nestor mutters. 'I'll p-put some coffee on.'

Nestor lets Erik in, closes and locks the door, then disappears inside the flat. Erik takes his shoes off with a sigh, hangs up his crumpled jacket, and smells his own sweat. His socks have stuck to his bleeding heels and his cold fingertips are itching in the heat of the hallway.

He knows that Nestor lives in the same flat he grew up in. The ceilings are low and the oak parquet floor is so old that the varnish has worn off. There are dog-shaped ornaments everywhere.

Erik walks through the living room. The single cus.h.i.+on on the sofa is threadbare and on the low table are a pair of gla.s.ses and a crossword, beside a large figurine of hunting dogs and dead pheasants.

In the kitchen Nestor is setting out cups and a plate of biscuits. There's a frying pan containing sausage and potatoes on the stove.