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

‘I told you not to tell him who you were,’ Wiik grunted, walking fast back through the corridors of the lab.

Jamie was practically jogging to keep up. Wiik’s long legs gave him a distinct mechanical advantage. ‘I think he took it pretty well,’ Jamie said, not seeing what the big deal was.

Wiik scoffed. ‘He was in shock.’

Jamie grabbed his arm now, halting him. He glanced down at it, apparently deeply offended to be touched. She uncurled her fingers from the fabric. ‘What’s the problem? What happened between the two of them?’

Wiik drew a breath, held it, and then exhaled hard, looking left and right. ‘Claesson has a way of getting under people’s skin.’

‘I noticed,’ Jamie said.

Wiik scowled at her for a second. ‘And your father was easy to get at.’

Jamie said nothing.

‘Claesson likes to push his luck…’

‘And one day he pushed it too far?’

Wiik looked at her for a moment, as if unsure whether he wanted to tell her. ‘About six weeks before he, um…’

‘Yeah,’ Jamie said, cycling her hand in the air for Wiik to carry on. Why people had such trouble with the words he killed himself, she didn’t know.

‘He was here to see Claesson over a case. Something happened – they argued – the details aren’t clear. But what was clear is that your father broke his nose, then put him on one of those lab counters and sent him through about twenty thousand kronas’ worth of beakers. Face first.’

Jamie’s jaw tightened, her heart beating in her ears as she searched for any hint in Wiik’s face of that being a cruel joke. She found none.

‘He was in the hospital for two weeks. Needed reconstructive surgery,’ Wiik said, pushing his hair back again. ‘He was going to have your father drawn and quartered. He was suspended for the incident, prior to…’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jamie said, hurrying him on.

‘Claesson was gathering evidence to press charges. And then…’

Jamie stepped back and slumped against the wall, closing her eyes. ‘Jesus. Six weeks before he died?’ she asked, opening them again.

Wiik nodded. ‘Yeah. A bad case. Guess your father wasn’t in the joking mood. He had a string of bad ones at the end. One after another. Grizzly shit. It took its toll. This one was maybe… the last straw.’ He looked at her, something like compassion in him, then. ‘I’m sorry, Johansson.’

Jamie felt a throb in her throat at the use of her second name. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, not wanting to expand on that. Add to the story that he’d killed himself on Jamie’s eighteenth birthday. That leading up to it he’d called dozens of times. That Jamie hadn’t even known. That her mother had told him that she didn’t want to speak to him. That he didn’t get to speak to her after what he’d done. To her. To them.

He’d called on the morning of her birthday.

She had been asleep.

Her mother hadn’t told her.

Three hours later, they received a phone call that police had responded to the sound of a gunshot at the house, and he had been found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Jamie’s eyes burned there in the corridor as she pictured him wilting away at the house, alone. Drowning himself in booze, in misery.

If only she could have spoken to him.

If only she had known.

‘Hey,’ Wiik said, his voice soft. ‘Come on, let’s get some fresh air.’ He tilted his head down the corridor and Jamie nodded wordlessly.

As they walked, his left hand quivered a little, as though he was going to reach out, comfort her.

A hand on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm. Something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He left it at his side as they reached the front door and stepped through.

The cold air of the city hit Jamie liked a wall, punching the air out of her lungs.

Threatening to freeze the tears on her cheeks.