wouldnât be prepared to give away in a standard interview with Riksmord. After all, Haraldsson wouldnât be there as a police officer, but more as a fellow human being. After one more glance at the clock he decided to make a quick unscheduled visit to the secure wing.
Edward Hinde had been surprised when the guards came to fetch him from his cell just before half past six. As a general rule nothing happened after six, when dinner was served. He had twenty minutes to eat, then the tray was collected, and after that he was alone until the wake-up call at six thirty the following morning. Twelve hours with his books and his thoughts. Every day. Weekdays and weekends. Uneventful hours which over the years had become half his life.
To be fair, not much happened during the other half of the day either. After breakfast he was allowed twenty minutes in the washroom, then an hour in the exercise yard. Alone. Back to his cell for lunch, followed by an hour in the library, then another hour in the yard. This second hour was optional, and if he preferred to do so, he could stay in the library. He usually chose to stay. The washroom again, then back to his cell to wait for dinner.
Every other week he had an appointment with a psychologist. An hour each time. Edward had met many over the years, and the one thing they all had in common was that they bored him. At the beginning of his stay in Lövhaga he had said what they wanted to hear, but now he didnât even bother doing that. None of them really seemed to care anyway. Fourteen years without any discernible progress dampened the enthusiasm of the most persistent soul. The latest incarnation didnât even appear to have read his predecessorâs notes. And yet the visits continued. He must not only be punished. He must be rehabilitated.
Become a better person.
Routines and pointless activities. These made up his days. His life. With few deviations. But this evening something had happened. He was collected from his cell by two guards and taken to one of the visiting rooms. It was a long time since he had been there. How many years? Three? Four? More? He couldnât remember. At any rate, the room looked exactly the same as it had done then. Bare walls. A fine-meshed grille covering windows made of shatter-proof glass. Two chairs on either side of a table that was fixed to the floor. Two metal loops screwed to the surface of the table. The guards sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs, then attached his hands to the metal loops with handcuffs. Then they left the room, leaving Edward sitting there. He would soon find out who wanted to talk to him, so there was no point in speculating. Instead he tried to think of who he had met the last time he was shackled to this particular table.
He hadnât come up with the answer by the time he heard the door open and someone walk in. Edward resisted the impulse to turn around. He sat there motionless, staring straight ahead. There was no reason to give the guest the impression that he was eagerly awaited. The footsteps behind him fell silent. The person who had come in had stopped and was looking at him, presumably. Edward knew what the visitor could see. A skinny little man, no more than a hundred and seventy centimetres tall. Thin hair to just below his collar, too thin to be as long as it was, at least if you had any interest in wanting to look good. He was wearing the same clothes as all the inmates on the secure wing: soft cotton trousers and a plain, long-sleeved cotton sweater. When the visitor moved around the table he would see watery blue eyes behind rimless spectacles. Pale, slightly sunken cheeks with a few daysâ stubble. A man who looked older than his fifty-five years.
The man who had come in was moving again. Edward was sure it was a man. The footsteps and the lack of any kind of perfume were strong indicators. He was proved right when a small, very ordinary man sat down opposite
Edward Hinde had been surprised when the guards came to fetch him from his cell just before half past six. As a general rule nothing happened after six, when dinner was served. He had twenty minutes to eat, then the tray was collected, and after that he was alone until the wake-up call at six thirty the following morning. Twelve hours with his books and his thoughts. Every day. Weekdays and weekends. Uneventful hours which over the years had become half his life.
To be fair, not much happened during the other half of the day either. After breakfast he was allowed twenty minutes in the washroom, then an hour in the exercise yard. Alone. Back to his cell for lunch, followed by an hour in the library, then another hour in the yard. This second hour was optional, and if he preferred to do so, he could stay in the library. He usually chose to stay. The washroom again, then back to his cell to wait for dinner.
Every other week he had an appointment with a psychologist. An hour each time. Edward had met many over the years, and the one thing they all had in common was that they bored him. At the beginning of his stay in Lövhaga he had said what they wanted to hear, but now he didnât even bother doing that. None of them really seemed to care anyway. Fourteen years without any discernible progress dampened the enthusiasm of the most persistent soul. The latest incarnation didnât even appear to have read his predecessorâs notes. And yet the visits continued. He must not only be punished. He must be rehabilitated.
Become a better person.
Routines and pointless activities. These made up his days. His life. With few deviations. But this evening something had happened. He was collected from his cell by two guards and taken to one of the visiting rooms. It was a long time since he had been there. How many years? Three? Four? More? He couldnât remember. At any rate, the room looked exactly the same as it had done then. Bare walls. A fine-meshed grille covering windows made of shatter-proof glass. Two chairs on either side of a table that was fixed to the floor. Two metal loops screwed to the surface of the table. The guards sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs, then attached his hands to the metal loops with handcuffs. Then they left the room, leaving Edward sitting there. He would soon find out who wanted to talk to him, so there was no point in speculating. Instead he tried to think of who he had met the last time he was shackled to this particular table.
He hadnât come up with the answer by the time he heard the door open and someone walk in. Edward resisted the impulse to turn around. He sat there motionless, staring straight ahead. There was no reason to give the guest the impression that he was eagerly awaited. The footsteps behind him fell silent. The person who had come in had stopped and was looking at him, presumably. Edward knew what the visitor could see. A skinny little man, no more than a hundred and seventy centimetres tall. Thin hair to just below his collar, too thin to be as long as it was, at least if you had any interest in wanting to look good. He was wearing the same clothes as all the inmates on the secure wing: soft cotton trousers and a plain, long-sleeved cotton sweater. When the visitor moved around the table he would see watery blue eyes behind rimless spectacles. Pale, slightly sunken cheeks with a few daysâ stubble. A man who looked older than his fifty-five years.
The man who had come in was moving again. Edward was sure it was a man. The footsteps and the lack of any kind of perfume were strong indicators. He was proved right when a small, very ordinary man sat down opposite
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