Stalker. Ларс КеплерЧитать онлайн книгу.
and worked for the Red Cross in Uganda for five years.
He spent four years leading a ground-breaking research project into group therapy involving deep hypnosis at the Karolinska Institute. He is a member of the European Society of Hypnosis, and is regarded as a leading international authority on clinical hypnotherapy.
At the moment Erik is part of a small team specialising in acutely traumatised and post-traumatic patients. They are regularly called in to help the police and public prosecutors with complex interviews of crime victims.
He often uses hypnosis to help witnesses relax, so that they can get to grips with their memories of traumatic situations.
He’s got three hours before he needs to be at a meeting at the Karolinska Institute, and he’s hoping to spend most of that time asleep.
But he’s not allowed to.
He’s dragged straight into deep sleep, and starts dreaming that he’s carrying an old, bearded man through a very small house.
Simone is shouting at him from behind a closed door when the phone rings. Erik jumps, and fumbles for the smoking-table. His heart is beating hard from the sudden anxiety of being yanked out of a state of deep relaxation.
‘Simone,’ he answers groggily.
‘Hello, Simone … I’m not sure, but maybe you should try to give up those French cigarettes?’ Nelly jokes in her laconic way. ‘Sorry to have to say this, but you almost sound like a man.’
‘Almost.’ Erik smiles, feeling the heaviness of the sleeping pill in his head.
Nelly laughs, a fresh, tinkling laugh.
Nelly Brandt is a psychologist, Erik’s closest colleague in the specialist team at the Karolinska Hospital. She’s extremely competent, works very hard, but is also very funny, often in a rather earthy way.
‘The police are here, they’re really agitated,’ she says, and only now does he hear how stressed she sounds.
He rubs his eyes to get them to focus, and tries to listen to what Nelly is telling him about the police rushing in with an acutely shocked patient.
Erik squints towards the window facing the street, as water streams down the glass.
‘We’re checking his somatic status and running the routine tests,’ she says. ‘Blood and urine … liver status, kidney and thyroid function …’
‘Good.’
‘Erik, the superintendent has asked for you specifically … It’s my fault, I happened to let slip that you were the best.’
‘Flattery doesn’t work on me,’ he says, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily. He rubs his face with his hand, then grabs hold of the furniture as he makes his way towards the desk.
‘You’re standing up,’ she says cheerily.
‘Yes, but I …’
‘Then I’ll tell the police that you’re on your way.’
Beneath the desk are a pair of black socks with dusty soles, a long, thin taxi receipt and a mobile phone charger. As he bends over to grab the socks the floor comes rushing up to meet him, and he would have fallen if he hadn’t put his hand out to stop himself.
The objects on the desk merge and spread out in double vision. The silver pens in their holder radiate harsh reflections.
He reaches for a half-empty glass of water, takes a small sip and tells himself to get his act together.
The Karolinska University Hospital is one of the largest in Europe, with more than fifteen thousand members of staff. The Psychology Clinic is located slightly apart from the vast hospital precinct. From above, the building looks like a Viking ship from an ancient burial site, but when approached through the park it doesn’t look out of place among the other buildings. The nicotine-yellow stucco of the façade is still damp from the rain, with rust-coloured water running down the drainpipes. The front wheel of a bicycle is dangling from a chain in the bike-rack.
The car tyres crunch softly as Erik turns into the car park.
Nelly is standing on the steps waiting for him with two mugs of coffee. Erik can’t help smiling when he sees her happy grin and the consciously disinterested look in her eyes.
Nelly is fairly tall, thin, and her bleached hair is always perfect, her make-up tasteful.
Erik often sees her and her husband Martin socially. There’s no real need for Nelly to work, seeing as her husband is the main shareholder of Datametrix Nordic.
As she watches Erik’s BMW pull into the car park she walks over to him, blowing on one of the mugs and taking a cautious sip before putting it on the roof of the car and opening the back door.
‘I don’t know what this is about, but we’ve got a superintendent who seems pretty wound up,’ she says, passing him one of the mugs between the seats.
‘Thanks.’
‘I explained that we always have the best interest of our patients at heart,’ Nelly says as she gets in and closes the car door behind her. ‘Shit! God, sorry … have you got any tissues? I’ve spilled some coffee on the seat.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Are you cross? You’re cross,’ she says.
The smell of coffee spreads through the car and Erik closes his eyes for a moment.
‘Nelly, just tell me what they said.’
‘I don’t seem to be getting on very well with that fucking … I mean, that lovely policewoman.’
‘Is there anything I ought to know before I go inside?’ he asks, opening the door.
‘I told her she could wait in your office and go through your drawers.’
‘Thanks for the coffee … both mugs,’ he says, as they get out of the car.
Erik locks up, puts the keys in his pocket, runs a hand through his hair and starts to walk towards the clinic.
‘I didn’t actually say that bit about the drawers,’ she calls after him.
Erik walks up the steps, turns right and runs his passcard through the reader, taps in his code, then carries on along the next corridor to his room. He still feels groggy, and it occurs to him that he really must get the tablets under control soon. They make him sleep too deeply. It’s almost like drowning. His drugged dreams have started to feel claustrophobic. Yesterday he had a nightmare about two dogs that had grown into each other, and last week he fell asleep here at the clinic and had a sexual dream about Nelly. He can’t really remember it, but she was on her knees in front of him handing him a cold, glass ball.
His thoughts dissipate when he sees the superintendent sitting on his office chair with her feet resting on the edge of the waste-paper bin. She’s holding her huge stomach with one hand and a can of Coke in the other. Her brow is furrowed, her chin has fallen open and she’s breathing through her half-open mouth.
Her ID badge is lying on his desk, and she gestures wearily towards it as she introduces herself.
‘Margot Silverman … National Crime.’
‘Erik Maria Bark,’ he says, shaking her hand.
‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice,’ she says, moistening her lips. ‘We’ve got a traumatised witness … Everyone tells me I should have you in the room with me. We’ve already tried to question him four times …’
‘I have to point out that there are five of us here in our specialist unit, and that I never usually sit in on interviews of perpetrators or suspected perpetrators myself.’