The Sanatorium(75)

Berndt.

His tone is urgent. “Elin, I don’t know if you got my message, but we have an update on Laure Strehl. The prosecutor has agreed I can give you the information.”

“Go on.” Elin’s voice is thick, tears pricking the back of her eyes as she realizes her mistake.

He’s talking about Laure in the present tense, as if she were still alive, and Elin hasn’t corrected him.

“I don’t think Laure is a risk to anyone, or at risk herself. The information we found on her file relates to charges filed after some kind of altercation with her . . . how do you say in English? Apartment mate—”

“Yes, that’s right.” Her voice is small.

“Laure pushed her apartment mate up against a glass door. The glass shattered, the woman ended up with cuts, some bruises.” Berndt hesitates. “Laure was lucky. Despite needing hospital treatment, the friend withdrew the charges.”

“I—”

But before she can say anything else, he continues. “I’ve also managed to find some answers to our outstanding questions. It’s probably not the news you’d like. Regarding the phone records, the first phone, as you’d expect, shows nothing out of the ordinary—calls to friends, family, and your brother. The second phone shows only calls to what seems to be a prepaid phone. We weren’t able to trace the caller.”

“Okay,” Elin replies. “If it’s possible, I’d like to see the records.”

There’s a hesitation before he murmurs his assent.

She needs to tell him now about Laure. Has to say the words out loud. Tell him. Tell him.

“Thank you for the information, but you should know”—she clears her throat, rearranges the words in her head—“Laure . . . she’s dead. I’ve just found her body.”

There’s a sudden intake of breath. “I, I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .” Berndt’s voice trails off.

“Laure’s been murdered,” Elin repeats, turning away from Laure’s slumped frame. She wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. “It looks like it’s the same killer. A similar signature, and the killer . . . they tried to attack me.”

“Okay. Elin.” Berndt’s voice is low, urgent. “Before we go through anything else, please, tell me, are you safe?”

“I’m fine. They were disturbed by someone coming into the room and ran off.”

“You’re sure?” The detective’s breathing quickens.

“I’m sure.” Elin looks over at Will, slips her hand inside his. “I’ve got someone with me.”

“You don’t have any injuries?”

“No.”

Berndt exhales heavily. “Good.” There’s a pause. “Elin, are you able to explain what you found? Exactly what happened before you found the body and what happened when you were attacked?”

He listens quietly as Elin takes him through the details.

“And there’s nothing at all you recall about the attacker?”

“No.” She briefly closes her eyes. “They were wearing the mask. All I know is that whoever it was is strong. Strong enough to easily hold me down . . .” Her voice is wobbly. “I’m sorry, it was so quick.”

“It’s fine. If you do remember something, please let me know.” She hears the rustle of paper, murmured voices in the background. “Elin, the priority now is keeping you, the staff, and the remaining guests safe. Once you’ve taken the photographs, please stay in a safe and secure location.”

“I will, and do you have an update on when you’ll be able to get someone to us?” She sounds flustered, panicky. “There’s obviously a limit to what I can do on my own. My concern now, seeing the premeditation involved in the two killings, is that this isn’t over. If these are serial murders—”

“I understand,” Berndt interjects, a strange note to his voice, one she hasn’t heard before. “Look, Elin, because of the weather, I can’t yet confirm. Let me speak with the team. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”

“Fine.” Tightening her grip around the phone, she’s unable to keep the frustration from her voice.

Surely there’s something they can do? Some other way of getting here?

As they say good-bye, once again she hears the curious tone to Benrdt’s voice. It’s more obvious this time and she’s able to work out what it is: fear. Suppressed fear.

It’s disturbing. Does he knows something she doesn’t? Perhaps there’s truly no way of getting to her, his reassuring words only that: a way of keeping her calm.

She flicks back to the camera on her phone, forces the thought from her mind.

Concentrate. This is about Laure. Nothing else.

This time, she focuses on photographing the blood saturating Laure’s clothes. Starting with the shirt, she moves down to Laure’s jeans. Here, the staining is less concentrated—mostly runoff from the shirt, especially around the pocket area.

It’s then she stops: she can see a small bulge in Laure’s pocket, pushed down low against her thigh.

A lighter?

Elin pulls a pair of gloves from her bag, slips them on. Moving to the right of Laure, she carefully pushes her fingers into the pocket, fishes it out.