Читать книгу Thomas Quick - Hannes Råstam - Страница 10

SÄTER HOSPITAL, MONDAY, 2 JUNE 2008

THE SERIAL KILLER, sadist and cannibal Sture Bergwall had not been receiving visitors for the past seven years. I was filled with nervous anticipation as I was let into the main guarded entrance at the regional forensic psychiatric clinic in Säter.

‘Hannes Råstam, Swedish Television. I’m here to see Sture Bergwall . . .’

I dropped my press pass into the little stainless-steel drawer under the bulletproof glass between me and the guard. He confirmed that my visit had been logged and approved.

‘Go through the security gate. Don’t touch the door!’

I obeyed the scratchy voice from the speaker, passed through an automatic door, then a couple of metal detectors and finally through one more automatic door into a waiting room where a care assistant rummaged through my shoulder bag.

I followed my guide’s firm steps through an inexplicable system of corridors, stairs and elevators. Her heels tapped against the concrete floors; then silence, the rattling of keys at every new steel barrier, the bleep of electronic locks and slamming of armoured doors.

Thomas Quick had confessed to more than thirty murders. Six unanimous courts had found him guilty of the murders of eight people. After the last verdict in 2001 he withdrew, announced a ‘time out’, reassumed his old name – Sture Bergwall – and went quiet. In the seven years that followed, a heated debate about whether Quick was a serial killer or a pathological liar had bubbled up at regular intervals. The protagonist’s own thoughts on the matter were unknown to all. Now I was meeting him, face to face.

The care assistant led me into a large, deserted ward with plastic floors so polished that they shone. She took me to a small visiting room.

‘He’s on his way,’ she said.

I felt unexpectedly uneasy.

‘Will you wait outside the room during my visit?’

‘This ward is closed, there are no staff here,’ she answered curtly, then as if she had read my mind she fished out a little device. ‘Would you like an attack alarm?’

I looked at her and the little black device.

Sture Bergwall had been detained here since 1991. He was considered so dangerous that he was only allowed to leave the grounds every six weeks for a drive, on the condition that he was accompanied by six warders. A case of letting the madman see the horizon to keep him from getting even madder, I thought.

Now I had a few seconds to determine whether the situation called for an attack alarm. I couldn’t quite bring myself to reply.

‘There’s also a panic button next door,’ said the care assistant.

I almost had a sense that she was teasing me. She knew just as well as I did that none of Quick’s victims would have been saved by a panic button next door.

My train of thought was cut short by the appearance of Sture Bergwall in the doorway, all six foot two of him, flanked by two care assistants. He was wearing a faded sweatshirt that had once been purple, worn-out jeans and sandals. With a nervous smile he offered me his hand, leaning forward slightly as if not to force me to come too close to him.

I looked at the hand that, according to its owner, had slain at least thirty people.

His handshake was damp.

The care assistants had gone.

I was alone with the cannibal.