“What do you do with the bodies?”
“I have my boat at the dock right below here. I take them a long way out to sea.
Unlike my father, I don’t leave traces. But he was smart too. He spread his victims
out all over Sweden.”
The puzzle pieces were falling into place.
Gottfried Vanger. From 1949 until 1965. Then Martin Vanger, starting in 1966 in
Uppsala.
“You admire your father.”
“He was the one who taught me. He initiated me when I was fourteen.”
“Uddevalla. Lea Persson.”
“Aren’t you clever? Yes, I was there. I only watched, but I was there.”
“1964. Sara Witt in Ronneby.”
“I was sixteen. It was the first time I had a woman. My father taught me. I was the
one who strangled her.”
He’s bragging. Good Lord, what a revoltingly sick family.
“You can’t have any notion of how demented this is.”
“You are a very ordinary little person, Mikael. You would not be able to understand
the godlike feeling of having absolute control over someone’s life and death.”
“You enjoy torturing and killing women, Martin.”
“I don’t think so really. If I do an intellectual analysis of my condition, I’m more of a
serial rapist than a serial murderer. In fact, most of all I’m a serial kidnapper. The
killing is a natural consequence, so to speak, because I have to hide my crime.
“Of course my actions aren’t socially acceptable, but my crime is first and foremost
a crime against the conventions of society. Death doesn’t come until the end of my
guests’ visits here, after I’ve grown weary of them. It’s always so fascinating to see
their disappointment.”