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

Jamie stepped out into the cold afternoon air, the weight of darkness pressing down on her shoulders.

She looked right and left down the streets, saw nothing but a quiet road, and then headed down onto the steps, shrouded in a mist of her own warm breath.

Annika followed her out onto the porch, the deathly silence of Swedish winter hanging in the air. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ she said as Jamie paused on the path and turned back.

‘No – you were very helpful,’ Jamie said, telling the truth. ‘I don’t know if Hans Sjöberg was guilty, but at least I know why my father thought he was. And that helps – a lot.’

Annika smiled sadly. ‘I can’t tell you whether Hans murdered those girls or not. But the boy I knew was sweet and gentle.’

‘People change,’ Jamie said cynically.

‘Sometimes,’ Annika answered optimistically. ‘But not always.’

Jamie bit her lip, wondering which way to turn now. She had her hands in her pockets, rolling her phone over and over in her hand. She should call Wiik. Debrief. Hear what Leif Lundgren had to say. Tell him what Annika had told her. Then go from there. Jesus, she was struggling to keep it all straight in her head.

Annika lingered on the porch. ‘Was there something else?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Jamie replied, nodding a goodbye. ‘I’ll be in touch if anything comes to mind. But I don’t think it will. Sorry to bring all this up again.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Annika answered, waving as Jamie stepped backwards. ‘Drive safe.’ She shuddered in the cold and then went back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Jamie squinted into the frigid wind that seemed to have picked up while she was inside. It whipped down the deserted street and threw the hem of her peacoat behind her. ‘Jesus,’ she muttered as it sank its teeth through all four layers she was wearing.

Jamie froze then, right in the middle of the street, no more the five paces from her car.

It was slouched low on its tyres, the alloys pressed flat against the surface of the road.

Something white flapped against the windscreen, pinned under the wiper.

She narrowed her eyes, pricking her ears, her right hand instinctively going to her belt. It grabbed at nothing and then her brain kicked into gear. Shit, she hadn’t carried a gun for nearly a year now.

Jamie scanned the night-drenched street – nothing moved – and started forward.

The wind whistled in her ears, the trees rustling all around.

As she got closer, she saw her tyres had been slashed.

The clouds moved quickly overhead, thinning in bursts, creating waves of moonlight that illuminated the sharp edges of sliced wet rubber.

Jamie crouched and ran her fingers over it – a sharp blade. Small. Smooth. Not serrated. She thought about what Claesson had said of the cuts in the girl’s back. A retractable knife or small hunting knife.

Jamie swallowed.

The wound was tight, the edges of the exit widened like puckered lips. Someone had stabbed in and then dragged the knife out. With force. Four times. Once on each wheel.

She stood now and looked around again – but there was no sign of anyone.

Jamie still felt eyes on her, though, her hackles firmly up, heart beating quickly against her ribs.

She wasn’t cold anymore, her skin prickling with hyperawareness.

Her fingers touched the windscreen and felt their way down as she kept inspecting every shadow and crevasse on the street.

They stopped as the paper hit her knuckles, and stole a glance, pulling the rectangular page free.

It had three smooth edges, one jagged, as though it had been ripped from a book. Jamie’s eyes widened as she recognised the shape. It was unmistakable – the same as her father’s notebook.

She dragged the one she was carrying from her pocket to confirm and held the paper against it to make sure.

A perfect match.

But that would mean… Jamie felt her body stiffen, her stomach knot. Jesus, they’d been in her house? The thought made her feel sick.

But perhaps the only thing more unsettling than that were the words scrawled across the back.