NINA GAPES AT Daniel Luoma. Her nostrils are picking up a pungent smell. Whatever it is, it’s getting stronger. Either that or her senses are on high alert.
“Roger Koponen?” she asks, tilting her head.
“When I received the request for information from the police earlier today, I knew right away it had something to do with the murders of Koponen and his wife. I just had this inkling. And then when I saw Koponen out on the street . . . Could it be possible?”
“Tell me: why was Koponen being treated here?” Nina says, dodging the question that is, considering all that has happened, infinitely relevant.
“Roger Koponen fell into a difficult, long-term psychosis in the late nineteen nineties. At the time, he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. In other words, he experienced paranoid fantasies that were incredibly strong on some days, on others mild or nonexistent.”
“Wait a minute.” Nina pulls out her phone. “Can I record this? Purely for investigative reasons.”
Luoma shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
Nina clicks on the recorder.
“I was Roger’s doctor from the start. Generally these sorts of cases are treated with antipsychotics, with the aim of suppressing activity in the central nervous system. But antipsychotics have numerous harmful side effects that can have a limiting effect on living a normal life. Ever since Bättre Morgondag was established, our treatment path here has been slightly different: in addition to a light-handed approach to medication, we focus on a model of open dialogue based on constant interaction with the patient.”
“Dialogue? Does that really help if someone is suffering from severe delusions?”
“It has proven extremely effective.”
“OK.” Nina pricks up her ears; she thinks she catches sounds coming from the hallway. Almost as if someone is wiping their feet in the entryway.
“Roger Koponen has been a very unusual case in many regards. In terms of open dialogue, the treatment results have been excellent. According to my own reports, the illness has been more or less managed, with the exception of the occasional brief psychotic episode after months or even years of absolutely no symptoms at all.”
“But why—”
“Koponen has succeeded in living a relatively normal life and keeping his illness a secret, at first from those close to him and later from the public. But his psychotic episodes have always been incredibly strong. As if the illness would claim its due when it remanifested. With interest.”
“And how is this evident?”
“In addition to schizophrenia, Roger suffered from dissociative identity disorder. The lay term for that is split personality, and it’s an accurate term to describe Roger’s state. When he slides into psychosis, Roger turns into a different person. A totally different personality.”
Nina looks at the man sitting across from her, who seems somehow relieved. As if a huge burden has suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.
Goddamn it. Suddenly it all makes sense. “Do you think Roger took the drugs?”
“I hope you believe me. I mean, I know it sounds totally crazy, if he’s been murdered.”
Nina stands. “I need to make a couple of phone calls. Is there somewhere private I could talk?”
“The entire floor is empty. There’s a conference room at the end of the hall.”
Nina taps in Erne’s number and walks toward the door at the end of the hall. There’s no one to be seen, but the lights are blazing in almost every room.
Erne answers in a dry voice. “Nina?”
“I have something big, Erne. I’m talking big big,” Nina says, shutting the door behind her.
“Well?”
“I’m with the CEO of Bättre Morgondag. It’s the clinic where the drugs used to subdue and anesthetize the victims were stolen from—”
Nina turns and loses her train of thought when she sees the painting hung at the head of the long conference table. What she sees there makes her momentarily forget that Erne is on the line. She curses so softly that he can barely hear her: “What the hell . . . ?”
“Hello? Nina?”
Nina lowers the phone from her ear and tentatively walks along the table toward the painting. Erne’s demanding voice carries from the phone, and Nina whispers back something reassuring.
The large painting is about a meter wide and a meter and a half tall and hung in a gilded ornamental frame. It depicts a beautiful woman in a black dress sitting at a coffee table, her thick hair jet-black.
“I’ll be damned. . . .”
The work could just as easily be of Maria Koponen, Lea Blomqvist, Laura Helminen—or Jessica Niemi. But the face doesn’t belong to any of them. It’s the face of a beautiful thirty-year-old woman. Strong, pronounced features.
“Erne . . . there’s something really damn weird going on.” Nina registers that her voice is trembling. She looks at the brass plate screwed to the lower edge of the heavy frame.
CAMILLA ADLERKREUTZ, 1969, CHAIRMAN, BÄTTRE MORGONDAG FOUNDATION.