TOWARDS THE END of the blood-soaked eighteenth century, King Adolf Fredrik lent his name to the square now known as Mariatorget, on the condition that it never be used for executions. Since then no fewer than one hundred and forty-eight people have lost their lives there in circumstances more or less comparable to an execution. In that respect it hasn’t really made much difference whether the square was known as Adolf Fredriks torg or Mariatorget.
Numerous of these one hundred and forty-eight murders occurred less than twenty metres from the building in which Sofia Zetterlund had her private psychotherapy practice, on the top floor of an old building on Sankt Paulsgatan, next to Tv?lpalatset. The three residential apartments on that floor had been rebuilt as offices, and were rented out to two dentists, a plastic surgeon, a lawyer and another psychotherapist.
The decor of the shared waiting room was cool and modern, and the interior designer had chosen to buy a couple of large paintings by Adam Diesel-Frank, in the same shade of grey as the sofa and two armchairs.
In one corner stood a bronze sculpture by the German-born artist Nadya Ushakova, of a large vase of roses that were on the point of wilting. Around one of the stems was a small engraved plaque bearing the inscription DIE MYTHEN SIND GREIFBAR.
At the opening ceremony people had discussed the meaning of the quote, but no one managed to come up with a plausible explanation.
Myths are tangible.
The pale walls, expensive carpet and exclusive works of art, taken as a whole, breathed discretion and money.
After a series of interviews a former medical secretary, Ann-Britt Eriksson, had been employed to serve as the shared receptionist. She organised appointments and took care of certain administrative duties.
‘Has anything happened that I should know about?’ Sofia Zetterlund asked when she arrived that morning, on the dot of eight o’clock as usual.
Ann-Britt looked up from the newspaper spread out in front of her.
‘Yes, Huddinge Hospital called, they want to bring forward your appointment with Tyra M?kel? to eleven o’clock. I told them you’d call back to confirm.’
‘OK, I’ll call them at once.’ Sofia headed towards her office. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Ann-Britt said. ‘Mikael just called to say he probably won’t make the afternoon flight, but should be at Arlanda first thing tomorrow morning. He asked me to say that he’d like it if you stayed at his apartment tonight. So you have time to see each other tomorrow.’
Sofia stopped with her hand on the door frame.
‘Hmm, when’s my first appointment today?’ She felt annoyed at having to change her plans. She had been thinking of surprising Mikael with dinner at the Gondolen restaurant, but as usual he had upset her plans.
‘Nine o’clock, then you’ve got two more this afternoon.’
‘Who’s first?’
‘Carolina Glanz. According to the papers she’s just got a job as a presenter, travelling around the world interviewing celebrities. Isn’t that funny?’
Ann-Britt shook her head and let out a deep sigh.
Carolina Glanz had crashed into the nation’s consciousness on one of the many talent shows that filled the television schedules. She may not have had much of a singing voice, but according to the jury she had the necessary star quality. She had spent the winter and spring appearing at small nightclubs, lip-syncing to a song that a less beautiful girl with a stronger voice had recorded. Carolina had got a lot of exposure in the evening tabloids, and the scandals had followed, one after another.
Now that the media’s interest was focused elsewhere she had started to question herself and her choice of career.
Sofia didn’t like coaching pseudo-celebrities, and had trouble motivating herself for the sessions, even if she needed the money. She felt she was wasting her time. Her talents were better employed seeing clients who were seriously in need of help.
She’d much rather deal with real people.
Sofia sat down at her desk and called Huddinge straight away. Bringing forward the appointment would mean that Sofia only had an hour or so to prepare, and when she put the phone down she pulled out her files on Tyra M?kel?.
All in all, almost five hundred pages, a bundle of paper that would at least double in size before the case was finished.
She had read everything twice from cover to cover, and now concentrated on the central aspects. Tyra M?kel?’s mental state.
Expert opinion was divided. The psychiatrist in charge of the investigation, along with the counsellors and one of the psychologists, was in favour of imprisonment. But two psychologists were opposed to this, and advocated secure psychiatric care.
Sofia’s task was to get them to unite around a final verdict, and she realised it wasn’t going to be easy.
Together with her husband, Tyra M?kel? had been found guilty of the murder of their eleven-year-old adopted son. The boy had been diagnosed with fragile X syndrome, a disability that led to both physical and mental problems. The family had lived an isolated existence in a house out in the country. The forensic evidence was conclusive, and documented the cruelty the boy had been subjected to. Traces of excrement were found in his lungs and stomach, he had cigarette burns, and he had been beaten with the hose of a vacuum cleaner.
The body had been found in a patch of woodland not far from the house.
The case had got a lot of media coverage, not least because the boy’s mother was involved. An almost unanimous general public, led by several vociferous and influential politicians and journalists, was demanding the harshest punishment available under the law. Tyra M?kel? should be sent to Hinseberg Prison for as long as was legally possible.
But Sofia knew that secure psychiatric care often meant that the prisoner ended up being locked away for longer than if they served a prison sentence.
Could Tyra M?kel? be regarded as mentally competent at the time of the abuse? The evidence suggested that the boy had suffered at least three years of torture.
Real people’s problems.
Sofia wrote a list of questions that she wanted to discuss with the convicted murderer, but then was interrupted when Carolina Glanz swept into the office in a pair of thigh-high red boots, a short, red, vinyl skirt, and a black leather jacket.
Huddinge Hospital
SOFIA ARRIVED AT Huddinge just after half past ten and parked in front of the vast complex.
The entire building was clad in grey and blue panelling, in sharp contrast to the surrounding houses, which were painted in a range of bright colours. She had heard that during the Second World War this was meant to confuse any potential bombing raid on the hospital. The intention had been to make it look from above as if the hospital were a lake, and the buildings around it were supposed to look like fields and meadows.
She stopped in the cafeteria and bought coffee, a sandwich and the evening papers, before heading towards the main entrance.