Angel Maker: An Unputdownable Scandinavian Crime Thriller With A Chilling Twist (DI Jamie Johansson Book 1)

DI Jamie Johansson knew that getting a call at 3 a.m. only meant one thing.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand, vibrating, dancing across the wood.

She may have been startled if she was asleep. But she didn’t do much of that these days.

Jamie stepped away from the window, the waves of Machir Bay breaking themselves against the rocks below, and crossed the room quickly.

She didn’t recognise the number, but knew the extension. Sweden.

‘Hello?’ she said quietly, not a hint of sleep in her voice. Jamie headed for the door, not wanting to disturb Graeme, and stepped into the corridor.

The air was colder here, outside the embrace of the bedroom.

‘Detective Inspector Jamie Johansson?’ a voice asked, the accent driving her back to her childhood. ‘Of the London Metropolitan Police?’

Not for six months, Jamie felt like saying. ‘Yes,’ she answered tentatively. ‘Who is this?’ She pulled the door behind her, hand lingering on the cool brass, waiting for the answer.

‘This is Kriminalinspektör Anders Wiik with the SPA, Stockholm.’

Swedish Police Authority.

‘Vick?’ Jamie confirmed, leaving the hallway and walking into Graeme’s kitchen. The frigid flagstones stung her bare feet.

‘Anders Wiik.’

Jamie swallowed, staring out of the window over the counter. A lighthouse twisted in the distance. ‘How can I help?’

‘I apologise for the lateness of the call,’ he said formally. ‘But I need your help.’

‘With what?’ Jamie asked, turning and leaning against the Rayburn cooker, warmth still clinging to its iron body. She ran her hand through her ash-blonde hair, pushing it off her face, and then folded her arms.

‘It’s your father,’ he said.

Jamie stiffened. ‘My father has been dead for nineteen years.’

A hand-carved cuckoo clock ticked loudly on the wall opposite.

‘Yes,’ Wiik said. ‘I know.’

Jamie detected a hint of frustration in his voice.

‘It appears, however,’ he said, ‘that the Angel Maker is not.’

The plane sidled down through the thick layer of cloud, and the snow-covered earth blurred into view.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

Sleep had come fitfully. Barely at all, really.

Jesus, what was she doing back here? She knew, but struggled to wrap her mind around it. The Angel Maker. It was one of her father’s biggest cases. She remembered it well. How could she not? It was the final case he worked before her mother had left him and taken her to England. It was the final nail in the coffin that was their marriage.

And now the SPA needed access to her father’s old case files. And she had to be there to grant it. She had to be. She couldn’t let someone else go rifling through his belongings. Or what was left of them, at least.

It wasn’t fear that kept her away all these years. She didn’t know what it was. Guilt? Dread? What would she find? She didn’t think she would have ever wanted to visit the long-cold wreckage of her father’s life.

And yet it had found her now, taking the choice from her.

Jamie was going back to the place she had once called home.

She hadn’t decided how she felt about that yet.

Or perhaps she just didn’t want to.

Jamie watched as the city swelled below her, the afternoon defeating the sun behind, the night approaching in front. It came quickly here.

The plane landed in a crosswind, the pilot wrestling it down, and Jamie unlocked her phone, turning off aeroplane mode. A message appeared on-screen. It was from Graeme. It said, be safe.

He was a man of few words, and Jamie appreciated that.

What they had was simple.

He fished, he came back, he went to fish again. Gone for days, weeks at a time.

They ate, often in silence.

They made love. Also in silence. Each trusted the other to say something if they needed to. It was rare that either did. It was good. As good as she’d ever known.

She didn’t know if that was the saddest thing of all.

Jamie had been on administrative leave since May. It was now January. She’d been living at his cottage since October. And yet, despite leaving her little oasis just hours before, it all seemed very distant. Like her life over the last eight months hadn’t happened. Like it was all some fever dream. A temporary escape. A breath between the relentless waves.

And as she stared out at the silhouette of Stockholm, England seemed like another world. Like another ‘her’ had lived it.

The Met. Her career. Would she ever have gone back to it? She didn’t have the answer.

What was it going to be like to be back again? Back among the dead. Back among the darkness. Hers, her father’s… She was only going to grant them access, but just being in proximity to it all again…

Jamie clenched her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking.

Her job had always been a way to keep him close. Following his footsteps. Doing what he did.

And yet it had taken everything from her. Inside and out.

Jamie felt her chest heavy and drew in a deep breath, forcing her ribs to expand. Her last case had earned her a promotion and a commendation. But she didn’t think that shooting a person was worth that. They had cleared her for active duty again, told her she could return whenever she was ready. She scoffed to herself a little, listening to the engines wind down, the plane rolling to a stop. Ready? There was no such thing in this job. Bad shit happened, and then the rest was down to you. Whether you were looking for it or not, the darkness would always find its way. Drawn to you, moth to flame.

And here she was again.

Jamie unfastened her belt and let the tension drain out of her.

She took one last look at the Stockholm skyline.

It was too late to turn back now.

Jamie always went carry-on, and breezed through security, her red passport helping the process along.

‘Välkommen hem,’ the customs officer said, smiling broadly as he handed it back. Welcome home.

Jamie nodded to him, failed to return his expression, pocketed her passport, and headed for the exit, her mind falling back into Swedish as though she’d never left.

Utgång.

Exit.

It was only the second time she’d set foot in Sweden in nineteen years. The first was for her father’s funeral. Nineteen years ago. She thought about it as she walked. She’d been with her mother. Neither had said a word to each other the whole journey.

This time, Jamie hadn’t even told her mother she was coming back. She hadn’t told anyone. There was no one to tell, really.

The silver doors slid open in front of her, the quiet din of the road outside echoing through the airport.

A clean-shaven man in his late-forties was standing at the kerb, a new Volvo saloon sitting behind him. He was leaning against the front fender, watching Jamie carefully as she exited.

He pushed off and crossed the damp concrete slabs, meeting her halfway. He nodded courteously, wasting no time. ‘Kriminalinspektör Anders Wiik,’ he said, hands firmly in the pocket of his black coat. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘My pleasure,’ Jamie said, hoping it didn’t sound too disingenuous. It wasn’t a pleasure, in fact. It wasn’t even close.

‘Would you prefer we spoke in English?’ he asked, measuring Jamie.

She detected a hint of patronisation in his voice, though she didn’t know why. ‘Svenska går bra,’ she answered flatly. Swedish is fine.

Wiik gave a quick, polite smile and then carried on in his native tongue. ‘I apologise that I could not share more information over the phone. The nature of this case, as you can imagine, is sensitive.’

Jamie stretched her back, her duffle bag hanging at her side, already keen to get this over with.

Her boots squeaked a little as she shifted her weight. Lightweight trail boots. Trusty, sturdy. Ready for anything.

Just like she used to be.

Jamie sighed, feeling much older than her thirty-seven years. Aeroplane seats always seemed to have a way of doing that. ‘I understand. You said that this case was to do with my father’s personal files. I don’t understand what would possibly be in them that wasn’t in the case files, though.’

Wiik inhaled, glancing left and right. He seemed uneasy. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the car. ‘We have a lot of ground to cover. I’ll explain on the way.’

He pulled away from the kerb and accelerated smoothly, the electric motor whining softly as they left the airport behind.

It was dark now, and the air was cold, the wind biting. Snow was piled up at the sides of the roads. Jamie watched the city swim into view out of the window, the lights burning on top of the tall, modern office buildings. This had been her home for fourteen years.

The first fourteen years of her life.

There was a part of her that always wished she stayed.

‘The Angel Maker,’ Jamie said quietly, remembering as much as thinking aloud. She turned her head and measured Anders Wiik. The skin on his face was smooth, completely clean. Shaved meticulously. His dark hair was pushed back over his head. Not a single strand was out of place. He had a strong, sharp jaw, a square nose. Intelligent eyes.

‘Yes,’ Wiik confirmed. ‘Do you remember the case?’

‘I was thirteen,’ Jamie said. ‘It was the last case my father worked before my mother and I moved to England. Seven teenage girls were murdered. Raped. Suffocated. Their bodies left in the forest.’

There was a time when Jamie would have found it difficult to say that, to confront those memories. But she didn’t seem to feel things like she used to. The words just seemed to come easily, not even catching in her throat anymore.

‘Yes,’ Wiik said. ‘Did he discuss the case with you in detail?’

‘Enough to anger my mother, but probably not enough to help you,’ Jamie answered. ‘What exactly is going on?’

Wiik sighed. ‘The man your father caught, Hans Sjöberg – the man who was convicted of killing those girls – died in prison four days ago.’

Jamie set her jaw and looked at the road ahead. The red haze of headlights swam in the distance.

‘Yesterday morning,’ Wiik went on, ‘a body was found, the circumstances of the kill striking a remarkable resemblance to those of the Angel Maker.’

‘A copycat?’ Jamie asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head. ‘The particulars of his kills were never released to the public, the details too…’

Gruesome. Shocking. Disturbing. Jamie had seen the photos. You could take your pick.

‘Someone could have read the case files,’ Jamie said. ‘Leaked the information?’

‘That’s one theory. But we suspect the reality of the situation is much worse.’

‘How so?’ Jamie asked, studying the side of Wiik’s face. He wasn’t an expressive man.

‘They’re missing.’

It clicked. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ she said. ‘You’re hoping my father has some copies stashed somewhere.’

‘It would certainly help,’ Wiik said reservedly.

Jamie noted the way his fists tightened around the wheel and flexed as he spoke. It didn’t seem like the case was off to a flying start. The fact that his best lead was flying Jamie in from another country confirmed that. ‘Who could have taken them?’

‘Someone with the knowledge of how our security systems worked. Someone who knew how to disable the security cameras and get through the security gates.’

‘A police officer.’

‘A detective.’ Wiik glanced at her now. ‘Robert Nyström. Your father’s partner.’

Jamie suppressed her surprise. ‘He must be in his sixties now.’ Jamie recalled the man. Tall, thin. The darkest, thickest eyebrows she’d ever seen. And a good friend to her father. A good man, too. She’d liked him. ‘Did you question him?’

‘We would, if we could find him.’

‘Do you suspect him of taking them?’

‘We cannot say for certain. But his key card was used to access the archives – we know that much. And it appears his apartment was broken into the night that the files were stolen. There’s no DNA or trace evidence to suggest anyone else had been there, but we’re not ruling anything out.’

‘Signs of a struggle?’

‘No, Nyström was not at home at the time, as far as we can tell. His car was clocked at a toll gate a hundred kilometres north of the city three days before that – the night before Sjöberg died. It never passed back through. We sent out a notice countrywide and alerted border crossings to the north. If the car moves, we should pick it up. But so far there’s been nothing.’

‘Was anything else taken?’

Wiik shook his head. ‘No. Nyström was retired, but was kept on as a consultant. Still retained his credentials. Whoever broke in, it seemed, knew that Nyström would have access, that he would not be home, and exactly what they were looking for.’

‘Why him? Why not any of the hundreds of other people who had access?’

Wiik clicked the indicator up, sailed across the lanes, and pulled off at an exit.

Jamie glanced up at the sign, felt her body tense a little as they dropped down onto a roundabout and headed for the suburb she used to call home.

‘Sjöberg maintained his innocence right up until they handed down the verdict,’ Wiik said. ‘Always claimed that your father and Nyström had it wrong.’

‘The evidence was overwhelming,’ Jamie said, remembering how the case had ended. ‘And he confessed, didn’t he?’

Wiik nodded. ‘Yes – but Sjöberg was not the only suspect.’

‘You think they convicted the wrong man?’ Jamie searched Wiik’s face for any hint of what he thought. The passing streetlights burned his skin orange in time with her heart.

The thought was terrifying. The Angel Maker had stalked the city for nearly a year. Parents had stopped their children from going out. People were afraid to walk alone at night. Not a day went by that Jamie’s father – and the entire city – didn’t dread finding the next victim.

And now, if he was back… the nightmare would begin all over again.

‘I cannot say,’ Wiik said. ‘But Sjöberg is dead, the case files stolen, the surviving detective who worked the case missing, and now a teenage girl has been found in the woods, her body posed. Just like the others.’

Jamie pictured it, clamping her jaw shut. They drove through a town Jamie had once known well, not slowing down. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, watching as the building that contained the solicitors who had handled the sale of Jamie’s childhood home passed them on the right.

‘Your house,’ Wiik said.

Jamie narrowed her eyes. ‘My father’s belongings are in storage, the key left with the executors. I assumed you needed me to open…’ Jamie trailed off as Wiik pulled left into Jamie’s old street.

‘In storage?’ Wiik asked. ‘No, your father’s things are still at the house.’

It came up on the right, tired and dirty. The once beautiful wood panelling had rotted and fallen in places, the tiles slipped from the roof. The front garden was wild and knotted with long grass, the tops curled down with snow. The windows were shuttered and dark.

He eased the car to a stop outside and Jamie looked up at it. ‘My mother sold the house after he died,’ Jamie said, not understanding, her voice distant in her ears.

‘No,’ Wiik said, killing the motor. ‘She didn’t.’