by Lars Kepler
The Needle smiles thinly.
“Take it and use it as bedtime reading.”
“Fine,” Joona agrees.
“Still, I’m sure you can just let go of this one … it’s nothing more dramatic than a suicide.”
The Needle’s smile disappears and he drops his gaze. Joona’s eyes are still sharp and focused.
“You’re probably right.”
“Of course I’m right,” The Needle replies. “And I can speculate a little more if you want … Palmcrona was probably depressed. His fingernails were ragged and dirty. He hadn’t brushed his teeth for several days and he hadn’t shaved.”
“I see.”
“You can take a look at him if you’d like,” The Needle prompts.
“No, that’s not necessary,” Joona answers and slowly stands up.
The Needle leans forward, a note of expectancy in his voice as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Something more exciting came in this morning. Do you have a few minutes?”
The Needle stands up as well, and gestures Joona to follow him along the hall. A light blue butterfly has managed to get into the building and it flutters in front of them.
“Has the other guy quit?”
“Who?”
“The other guy who worked here, the one with the ponytail …”
“Frippe? No way in hell we’d let him quit. He has a few days off. Megadeth was playing the Globe yesterday. Entombed was the lead-in act.”
They walk through a dark room between autopsy tables of stainless steel, hardly noticing the strong smell of disinfectant. They continue walking to a much cooler room where bodies are being stored in chilled lockers, waiting to be examined by the department of forensic medicine.
The Needle opens the door and turns on the ceiling lamp. The fluorescent light flickers once or twice before it’s fully on and can illuminate the white-tiled room and the long autopsy table covered in plastic. The table has double sinks and gutters for drainage.
The Needle uncovers the body lying on the table.
It is a beautiful young woman.
Her skin is tanned and her long hair winds in a thick, shimmering mass across her forehead and shoulders. She seems to look into the room with an expression of both doubt and amazement. There’s an almost mischievous tilt to the corners of her mouth, as if she had been a person who easily smiles and laughs. However, any light in those large, dark eyes has long gone. Small brownish yellow specks are starting to appear.
Joona moves closer for a better perspective. She can’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old. Not that long ago, she’d been a child still sleeping in bed with her parents. Then she was an adolescent schoolgirl and now she’s dead.
A line, like a smile painted in grey, curves for about thirty centimetres across the woman’s collarbone.
“What’s this?” Joona points at it.
“No idea. Maybe from a necklace or the top of a blouse. I’ll take a closer look later.”
Joona peers more closely at the quiet body. He sighs at the familiar wave of melancholy he feels when he faces death, the colourless vacuum.
Her fingers and toes had been painted with a light, almost beige, rose.
“So what’s the story?” Joona finally asks after a minute of silence.
The Needle gives him a serious look and light reflects from his glasses as he turns back to the body.
“The Coast Guard brought her in,” he relates. “They found her sitting on the bunk down in the forward cabin of a large motorboat. It was abandoned and drifting in the archipelago.”
“She was already dead?”
The Needle looks at him and his voice becomes almost melodic.
“She drowned, Joona.”
“Drowned?”
The Needle nods, and his smile almost vibrates.
“She drowned on a boat that was still afloat,” he says.
“I assume someone found her in the water and brought her on board.”
“If that was the case, I wouldn’t waste your time.”
“So what’s going on?”
“There are no marks of water on the body itself—I’ve sent her clothes to be analysed, but I know the National Forensic Laboratory won’t find a thing.”
The Needle falls silent and flips through his preliminary report. He sneaks a look at Joona to see if he’s at all curious. Joona stands completely still and then his expression shifts. Now he looks at the corpse with an expression that is awake and alert. He takes up a pair of latex gloves and pulls them on. The Needle is happily content to see Joona leaning over the body to lift her arms, first one then the other, for closer examination.
“There’s no trace of violence on her,” The Needle almost whispers. “I don’t understand it at all.”
11
in the cabin
The glistening white motorboat is docked at the Coast Guard harbour on Dalarö Island, tied up between two police boats.
Joona Linna drives through the tall steel gates leading to the harbour area, then carefully along the gravel road, past a small dustbin lorry and a lifting frame with a rusty winch. He parks, gets out of the car, and walks closer, to get a good look at the boat.
A boat has been found adrift and abandoned, Joona thinks. On the bunk in the forecabin sits a girl who drowned. The boat is not filled with water, but the girl’s lungs are. Brackish salt water.
From a distance, Joona can see the bow is heavily damaged, with deep scratches running along the side from a major collision. The paint is scraped off, and fibreglass dangles in thin shreds.
He calls the Coast Guard.
“Lance,” a perky voice replies.
“Am I speaking with Lennart Johansson?” Joona asks.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Joona Linna from the National Criminal Investigation Department.”
There’s silence on the other end. Joona can hear the sounds of waves lapping.
“That pleasure boat you found,” Joona says. “I’m wondering if it was taking on water.”
“Why do you ask?”
“The bow is damaged.”
Joona begins to walk again, heading towards the boat as he listens to Lennart say, dismissively, “Dear Lord, I wish I had a crown for every drunk who’s trashed a—”
“I need a look at it,” Joona says.
“Let me brief you on what usually goes down,” Lennart Johansson says. “A group of drunken teenagers from … who knows, maybe Södertälje … steal a boat, pick up a few chicks, drive around listening to music and partying, and then they ram into something. There’s a big bang as they crash and the girl lands in the water. The guys turn the boat around to find her, pull her on board, and when they realise she’s dead, they panic and take off.” He falls silent and waits for a reaction.
“Not a bad theory.”
“Okay,” Johansson says happily. “If you agree, you don’t have to make the trip out here to Dalarö Island.”
“Too late,” Joona says, and heads straight to the Coast Guard boat.
A Combat Boat 90 E is one of the two boats next to the pleasure boat. A man, about twenty-five, with a bare, tanned chest stands on deck, a phone to his ear.
“Suit yourself,” he says in English. He switches back to Swedish. “You have to call ahead for any sightseeing.”
“I’m here now. And I believe I’m looking right at you, if you’re the one standing on one of the Coast Guard’s shallow-draught—”
“Do I look like a surfer?”
The grinning young man looks up and scratches his chest.
“Pretty much,” Joona answers.
They each put their phones away and walk towards the other. Lennart Johansson buttons up a short-sleeved uniform shirt as he walks down the gangplank.
Joona gestures “hang loose.” Johansson’s white teeth shine in a big smile.
“I go surfing any time there’s more than a ripple. That’s why they call me Lance.”
“I get it
,” Joona says drily.
The two walk over to the boat and stop on the dock by the gangway.
“It’s a Storebro 36 Royal Cruiser,” Lance says. “A good boat, but obviously it’s come down a bit. Registered to Björn Almskog.”
“Have you contacted him?”
“No time yet.”
They take a closer look at the damage to the boat’s bow. It looks recent, since there’s no algae mixed with the fibreglass shreds.
“I’ve called a technician—he’ll be here soon.”
“She’s gotten a proper kiss,” Lance says.
“Who’s been on board since it was found?”
“Nobody,” Lance answers quickly.
Joona smiles and waits patiently.
“Well, I have, of course. And Sonny, my colleague. And the ambulance guys who removed the body. Our own forensic technician, though he used protective mats and clothing.”
“Is that everyone?”
“Plus the guy who found the boat.”
Joona doesn’t answer but looks down into the shimmering water and thinks of the girl lying on the table in The Needle’s autopsy room.
“Is your technician completely finished?” he finally asks.
“He’s done with the floor and he’s filmed the scene where she was found.”
“I’m going on board.”
A narrow, well-used gangplank stretches between the dock and the boat. Joona climbs on board and then stands for a while on the rear deck. He slowly looks around, letting his eyes focus on each object one by one. This scene will never be the same again, fresh and new. Each detail he registers might be one that makes a crucial difference. Shoes, an overturned lounge chair, a bath towel, a paperback that has yellowed in the sun, a knife with a red plastic handle, a bucket with a rope, beer cans, a bag of charcoal for grilling, a tub with a wet suit, bottles of sunscreen and lotion.
He looks in through the large window and makes out the salon with the steering console and the decor of lacquered wood. From a certain angle, fingerprints shine on the glass doors when the sunlight passes over them: finger marks from hands that have pushed the door open and pushed the door shut or held on when the boat was in motion.
Joona steps into the little salon. The afternoon sun glistens on the varnish and chrome. There’s a cowboy hat and sunglasses on the sofa, which is covered with marine-blue pillows.
Outside, the water laps against the hull.
Joona lets his gaze wander from the dull floor in the salon and down the narrow stairs towards the bow. It’s as dark as a deep well down there. He sees nothing until he turns on his torch. The light shines down the glossy, steep passageway with an icy, dim light. The red wood shines as wet as the inside of a body. Joona continues down the creaking steps and thinks about the girl. He imagines her sitting alone on the boat, then deciding to take a dive from the bow. She hits her head on a stone, gets water in her lungs, but nevertheless manages to get back on board, takes off her wet bikini, and puts on dry clothes. Perhaps she feels tired and goes to her bed, not realising that her injury is serious, a damaged blood vessel that leaks into her brain.
But in that case, The Needle would have found traces of the brackish water somewhere on her body.
This scenario is wrong.
Joona keeps going down the stairs, passes the galley and the head, and goes towards the large berth.
There’s a lingering sense of her death in the boat even though her body has been moved to the pathology department in Solna. The impression is the same no matter where he looks. It’s as if everything here stares back at him, as if it has had its fill of screaming, fighting, and sudden silence.
The boat creaks and appears to tilt to one side. Joona waits for a second and listens before continuing into the forecabin.
June light streams through the small windows near the ceiling onto a double bed with a pointed head, formed along the bow. This is where she was sitting when she was found. A sports bag is open on the floor and a dotted nightgown has been unpacked. Just inside the door, there’s a pair of jeans and a thin cardigan. The owner’s shoulder bag hangs from a hook. The boat rocks again and a glass bottle rolls across the deck above Joona’s head.
Joona photographs the shoulder bag from various directions. The flash makes the room shrink as if the walls, ceiling, and floor were coming closer together for a moment.
Joona carefully lifts the bag from its hook and carries it with him up the stairs, which moan under his weight. He hears a metallic clink from the outside. When he reaches the salon, he sees an unexpected shadow in front of the glass doors and takes a step back into the stairwell, into the shadows and darkness.
12
an unusual death
Joona Linna stands stock-still, just two feet from the dark stairwell. From this angle, he can make out the lower edge of the glass doors and some of the rear deck. A shadow falls over the dusty glass; then a hand appears. Someone is moving very slowly. A split second later, Joona recognises Erixson’s face. Sweat is dripping from it as Erixson puts gelatin foil over the area beside the door.
Joona carries the shoulder bag into the salon. Carefully, he turns it upside down and empties it onto the hardwood table. He flips a red wallet open with his pen. There’s a driver’s licence in the scratched plastic pocket. He looks more closely and sees a beautiful yet serious face revealed in the flash of an automatic photo booth. She’s sitting slightly back as if she’s looking up at the observer. Her hair is black and curly. He recognises the girl on the autopsy table at the pathologist’s: the straight nose, the eyes, the South American features. “Penelope Fernandez,” he reads. Somehow it sounds familiar.
In his mind, he sees again the pathology lab and the naked body on the table in that tile-covered room, the girl’s relaxed expression, the face beyond sleep.
Outside, Erixson’s moving the bulk of his huge body one decimetre at a time as he takes up fingerprints along the railing: painting with magnetic powder, lifting the prints with tape. He dries off a wet area, carefully drops SPR solution on it, and then photographs the impressions that slowly are revealed. The entire time, he sighs as if every movement is torture and he’s just used up the last of his strength.
Joona peers along the deck and sees the bucket and its rope next to a gym shoe. From below, the earthy smell of potatoes reaches his nose.
He looks back down at the driver’s licence and the tiny photograph. He looks at the young woman’s mouth and her slightly parted lips. A niggling thought comes; something is not quite right.
He feels that he’s seen something important and was just about to put his finger on it when it slides away.
Joona starts as the phone in his pocket vibrates. He pulls it out and sees The Needle is calling.
“Joona,” he answers.
“This is Nils Åhlén, chief medical officer, in Stockholm.”
Joona can’t help smiling. They’ve known each other for twenty years and he’d recognise The Needle’s voice whether he introduced himself or not.
“Did she hit her head?” Joona asks.
“No,” The Needle answers, surprised.
“I thought that she might have hit her head on a stone.”
“No—nothing like that. She drowned. That’s the cause of death.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“I’ve observed froth inside her nostrils, mucosal tears in the throat, most likely due to strong gag reflexes, and there are bronchial secretions in both the trachea and the bronchi. The lungs have the typical appearance found in a drowning. They’re filled with water and have gained weight and, well …”
Silence falls between them. Joona hears a scraping sound as if someone is shifting a metal pedestal.
“There’s a reason you called,” Joona says.
“Yes, there is.”
“Can you tell me about it?” Joona asks patiently.
“She had a high concentration of tetrahydrocannabinol in her urine.”
“Cannabis?”<
br />
“Right.”
“But that’s not what caused her death.”
“Hardly,” The Needle says with suppressed excitement. “I expect you are on the boat right now reconstructing events … and there’s a piece of the puzzle you might not know.”
“Her name is Penelope Fernandez.”
“How nice to meet her,” mumbles The Needle.
“What was the piece of the puzzle?”
“Well …” The Needle’s breath is audible in the receiver.
“Tell me.”
“It’s still not a normal death.”
The Needle falls silent again.
“What did you notice?”
“Nothing in particular. It’s just a feeling …”
“Bravo,” says Joona. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”
“I know, but … It’s clear that this could be a case of mors subita naturalis, that is, a hasty but natural death … There’s nothing to contradict this, but if this is a natural death, it’s a very unusual natural death.”
They end the call but The Needle’s words echo in Joona’s head. Mors subita naturalis. There is something mysterious about Penelope Fernandez’s death. She was not found in the water and lifted on board; then she would have been lying on the deck. But perhaps the person who found her wanted to treat the body with respect. But why not just carry her to the sofa in the salon? Of course she might have been found by someone who loved her and wanted to put her in a setting where she would have been comfortable—in her own room and her own bed.
Perhaps The Needle was wrong. Maybe she had been rescued, helped on board, helped to her room. Perhaps her lungs had already been seriously injured and she was beyond saving. Perhaps she was feeling ill and wanted to lie down and be left alone.
But why no trace of seawater on her body or clothes?
There’s a freshwater shower on board, Joona thinks, and tells himself it’s time to search the rest of the boat and take a good look at the berth in the stern, the bathroom, and the galley. There is still quite a bit to examine before the entire picture can become clear.
When Erixson stands up and moves his enormous body, the boat rocks again.
