by Lars Kepler
Joona’s attention is again drawn to the bucket with the rope. It’s next to a tub where a wet suit had been flung. A pair of water skis is lying along the railing. Joona’s eyes wander back to the bucket. The rope tied to the handle. The round zinc edge of the washtub shines like a crescent moon in the sun.
A realisation washes over him and, with icy clarity, Joona is able to picture what took place. He waits, and lets his heart calm back down. He lets the entire scenario repeat in his mind once more and he is now completely sure it’s correct.
The woman named Penelope Fernandez was drowned in the bathtub.
In his mind, Joona sees again the mark he’d noticed in the pathology lab: the mark on the skin over her collarbone, the one that reminded him of a smile.
She was murdered and then she was put down on the bed.
Now his thoughts whirl as adrenaline rushes through his system. She was drowned in the brackish water and then carried onto her bed.
Not a common killing. Not a common killer. A voice wells up from deep inside him, becoming more and more clear. More and more demanding. It repeats four words, louder and faster each time. Leave the boat now! Leave the boat now! Joona peers at Erixson through the window. He’s putting a swab into a paper bag, sealing it with tape, and marking it with a ballpoint pen.
“Peek-a-boo.” Erixson smiles.
“Let’s go ashore,” Joona says calmly.
“I don’t like boats because they keep moving all the time, but I’ve just started with—”
“Take a break,” Joona says.
“What’s got into you?”
“Just come with me and don’t touch that mobile phone.”
They scramble ashore and Joona leads Erixson far away from the boat, as quickly as he can, before they stop. He feels a heat in his face while a kind of calmness spreads through his body—a weight in his legs and calves.
Quietly he says, “I believe there’s a bomb on board.”
Erixson plumps down on the edge of a cement piling. Sweat pours from his forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is not normal, this murder,” Joona says. “There’s a risk that—”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“Just wait and listen to me,” Joona says insistently. “Penelope Fernandez was drowned in that bathtub on deck.”
“Drowned? What the hell?”
“She was drowned in seawater in that bathtub and then she was put on the bed,” Joona says. “And I believe the next step was to sink the boat.”
“But—”
“Because then the seawater in her lungs would be natural if she was found in a sunken boat.”
“But the boat didn’t sink,” Erixson protests.
“That’s what made me think. Logically there is an explosive on board the boat, which for some reason or another did not go off.”
“It’s probably in the fuel tank then, or the gas cylinders for the galley,” Erixson says slowly. “Let’s clear the area and call in the bomb squad.”
13
the reconstruction
At seven that evening, five sour-faced men meet in Hall 13 at the department of forensic medicine at the Karolinska Institute. Detective Inspector Joona Linna intends to open a criminal investigation into the death of the woman found in a drifting pleasure craft in Stockholm’s archipelago. Although it’s a Saturday, he’s called his immediate superior Petter Näslund and Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm for a reconstruction. He plans to convince them that this is truly a murder investigation.
One of the lighting fixtures in the ceiling is blinking on and off and the cold light bounces off the walls of shining white tiles.
“I have to change the starter,” The Needle says softly.
“You sure do,” Frippe says.
Petter Näslund mutters something inaudible from where he’s standing, pressed against the wall. The strong angles of his wide face seem to move with the flickering light. Next to him, Jens Svanehjälm is waiting. His boyish face reveals his irritation. He appears to be weighing the risk of placing his leather briefcase on the floor or leaning against the wall in his well-tailored suit.
The strong stench of disinfectant permeates the room. Strong lamps with directable beams are mounted to the ceiling above a bench made from stainless steel, which has two taps and a deep sink. The floor is covered with a light grey plastic mat. A zinc tub just like the one on the boat sits in the middle of the bench and is already half filled with water, but again and again, Joona Linna carries more water to it from the tap on the wall.
“It’s not a criminal offence to be found drowned on a boat,” Svanehjälm says sarcastically.
“Exactly,” says Petter.
“This could just be an unreported drowning incident,” Svanehjälm continues.
“The seawater in her lungs is the same the boat was in,” says The Needle. “But there’s no water on her clothes or on the rest of her body.”
“That is odd,” Svanehjälm agrees.
“There must be a rational explanation,” Petter says with a wry smile.
Joona empties a last bucket of water into the tub, sets the bucket down, looks up at the other four men, and thanks them for taking the time to come.
“I know it’s the weekend and everyone wants to be at home,” he begins. “Yet, I believe I’ve noticed something important.”
“Of course, we always come when you tell us that,” Svanehjälm says as he finally decides to put his leather briefcase on the floor between his feet.
“The suspect gets on the boat,” Joona begins. “He goes down the stairs to the forecabin and sees Penelope sleeping. He returns to the afterdeck and begins to fill the tub using a bucket with a long rope attached.”
“Five or six buckets at least,” says Petter.
“And only when the tub is filled does he wake Penelope. He leads her up the stairs and across the deck and then he drowns her in the tub.”
“Why? And who would do something like that?” asks Svanehjälm.
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps it was to torture her with fake drowning, waterboarding—”
“Revenge? Jealousy?”
Joona cocks his head and says thoughtfully, “This person doesn’t feel like your average killer. Perhaps the suspect wanted information from her or to force her to tell or confess to something until he finally held her under enough that she could no longer resist the urge to draw a breath.”
“What does the chief pathologist say?” asks Svanehjälm.
The Needle shakes his head.
“If she’d been drowned,” he says, “I would have found signs of force on her body, bruises and the like—”
“Can we all wait with the objections for a moment?” Joona says. “First I would like to show you how it happened. As I see it. How the events play out in my head. And then, once I’m finished, I would like us all to go and look at the body to prove my theory.”
“Why can’t you do things like everyone else? Just tell us,” demands Petter.
The chief prosecutor warns, “I have to be home soon.”
Joona looks at him with an ice-cold glint in his eyes—and a trace of a smile.
“Penelope Fernandez,” he begins. “At first she was sitting on deck and smoking some pot. It was a warm day and she became tired and decided to take a nap. She goes to bed and falls asleep still wearing her denim jacket.”
He gestures to Frippe, The Needle’s young assistant who is waiting in the open door.
“Frippe here will help.”
Frippe steps into the room with a big smile. His dyed black hair hangs in locks down his back. His worn leather trousers are full of rivets, and he is carefully buttoning his jacket over his black T-shirt with its picture of the hard-rock group Europe.
“Watch me,” Joona says softly. Behind Frippe’s back he quickly grips both sleeves of Frippe’s jacket in one hand while with the other he grabs his long hair.
“Now I have complete contro
l,” Joona says grimly. “And I guarantee there won’t be a single bruise on him.”
Joona levers the young man’s arms higher behind his back. Frippe moans and leans forward.
“Take it easy!” he laughs.
“You’re much larger than the girl, of course,” says Joona. “Still, I believe I can dunk your head into the tub.”
“Don’t hurt him,” says The Needle.
“I’ll only ruin his hairstyle,” says Joona.
“Not a chance,” grunts Frippe.
It’s a silent struggle. The Needle looks nervous and Svanehjälm appears troubled. Without too much effort, Joona forces Frippe’s head underwater and holds him there for a slight moment, then lets him go and steps back. Frippe gets up, staggering, and The Needle hurries to him with a towel.
“You could have just told us how it went,” The Needle says with irritation.
As Frippe towels off his hair, they troop together into the next room, into the strong smell of decay. One of the walls is covered with three rows of stainless-steel refrigerated boxes. The Needle opens box 16 and pulls out a drawer. The body of the young woman is lying on the narrow gurney. She’s naked and has no colour. A brown network of arteries can be seen on the pale skin of her neck. Joona points at the thin, curved line over her breastbone.
“Take off your shirt,” Joona says to Frippe.
Frippe unbuttons his jacket and pulls off his T-shirt. On his chest they can see a light rose mark from the edge of the tub. It’s curved like a smiling face.
“I’ll be damned,” Petter says.
The Needle steps nearer to peer closely at the roots of the woman’s hair. He takes out a small pocket torch and aims it directly at the pale skin of her scalp.
“I don’t need a microscope to see how someone has held her head tight by using her hair.”
He turns off the torch and drops it back into his pocket.
“In other words …” Joona waits.
“In other words, you’re right, of course,” says The Needle, and claps his hands.
“Murder,” Svanehjälm pronounces, sighing.
“Impressive,” remarks Frippe as he catches some black hair dye that has run down his cheek.
“Thanks,” says Joona, but he sounds distracted.
The Needle looks at him.
“What now, Joona?” he asks. “What do you see?”
“It’s not her,” Joona says.
“What?”
Joona looks up at The Needle and then points to the body before them.
“This woman is not Penelope Fernandez. This is someone else.”
Joona meets the chief prosecutor’s eyes. “This dead woman is not Penelope. I’ve seen Penelope’s driver’s licence and it doesn’t match. I’m absolutely sure.”
“But what—”
“Perhaps Penelope Fernandez is also dead,” Joona says. “We just haven’t found her yet.”
14
a party in the night
Penelope tries to breathe slowly, but the air tears at her throat. She slides down the cliff, ripping off sheets of moss as she squeezes between the branches of the spruce trees. She shakes with fright and creeps closer to the tree trunks, where the darkness of night is already gathering. As she thinks of Viola, she begins to whimper. Björn is ahead of her, already sitting perfectly still underneath the spruce trees, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s mumbling something over and over.
They’ve been running in panic, not looking, stumbling over objects, falling, getting up again, clambering over fallen trees. They’ve ripped the skin on their legs, their knees, their hands, but they’ve let nothing stop them.
Penelope has no idea how close their pursuer might be, if he’s caught sight of them again or even decided to give up and go away. Perhaps he’s found a spot to wait them out. They’re fleeing for their lives, but Penelope has no idea why.
Perhaps it’s all a mistake, she thinks. A horrible mistake.
She feels nauseous, feels like she’s going to throw up, but swallows resolutely.
“Oh God, oh God,” she whispers to herself. “We can’t go on like this. We have to get help. They’ll find the boat soon and then they’ll come looking for us—”
“Shhh!” Björn shushes her, visibly, shockingly terrified.
Her hands tremble uncontrollably as images flash through her head. She blinks so that she won’t have to see them, but the visions keep flashing back: Viola dead; eyes wide-open, face wet, sitting on the bed, hair dripping in streams.
Penelope knows instinctively that the man on the beach, yelling out to Björn at sea, was the one who had killed her sister. She’d reacted the instant she’d understood. If she hadn’t, they’d both be dead.
When they fled the boat, they’d carried nothing with them, not even a mobile phone. Scrambling up the bank, Penelope had turned around only once to see the man in black tying the rubber boat to the pier.
Penelope and Björn had run, side by side, into the spruce forest, darting around trees and skirting outcroppings; Björn’s voice was a series of painful gasps as the soles of his naked feet tramped over sharp brush. And when he’d seemed to slow down, Penelope had pulled him with her, knowing their pursuer was not far behind. All the while she could hear herself crying as she ran, in a voice she’d never heard before.
A thick branch whacked her thigh and brought her to a stop. Her breath ripped at her. She moaned and with shaking hands pushed her way under low-hanging branches with Björn close beside her. Her legs throbbed. She kept going straight ahead. She heard Björn behind her and kept plunging deeper into the dark forest without turning around.
From far outside herself, Penelope contemplated the fact that thoughts change when panic sets in. Fear is not constant. Now and then there’s room for rational thought. It’s like silencing a racket to discover a quiet space in your head, which gives you a clear overview of your situation. Then the noise returns and your thoughts race in circles until the only impetus is to run.
Penelope kept expecting to find people. There had to have been hundreds of people out and about on Ornö Island that evening. The south end of the island is developed; there had to be people there. There had to be help.
For a moment, Penelope and Björn hid between tightly spaced spruce trees, but after only a few seconds, their fear overwhelmed them and they began to flee again. Even as she ran, Penelope could feel the presence of her pursuer. She thought she could hear his long, swift strides. He wouldn’t stop. If they couldn’t find help, he would catch up.
The ground was rising again. Stones loosened beneath their feet and tumbled down the slope.
There must be people nearby. There must be a house. Hysteria swept through Penelope and she felt the need to just stop and scream as loud as she could. Silently, she ran on.
Björn coughed behind her, strangled for breath; coughed again.
What if Viola wasn’t really dead? What if she just needed help? Somehow Penelope knew she was having these thoughts to ward off the terrible truth. Viola was dead, but thinking that was unbearable: an empty dark space she refused to comprehend and didn’t even want to make the attempt to understand.
They kept climbing up another steep slope between yet more spruce trees, around more huge branches, lingonberry bushes, and craggy rocks. She used her hands to steady herself until she finally reached the crest. Björn was right behind her. He tried to tell her something, but instead just gasped for breath. He took her hand to start down the other side, which now sloped towards the western shore. They could see the light of water between the dark trees. It wasn’t far.
Penelope slipped and slid over the edge of a small cliff. She fell freely and hit the ground hard. Struggling to get up, she wondered whether she’d broken something. Then she realised she was hearing music and laughter. She leaned against the damp cliff side for support so she could stand up. She wiped her lips and studied her bloody hand.
Björn reached her and pulled her along. He pointed. Ther
e was a party going on somewhere ahead of them. They took each other’s hands and stumbled shakily to a run. Coloured lights, strung on trellises around a wooden patio, twinkled between the dark trunks of trees.
They slowed to a cautious walk, looking carefully around.
People were sitting at a table outside a beautiful summerhouse painted Falun red. Penelope wondered if it was the middle of the night. The sky was still light, but dinner must have ended a while ago. Wineglasses and coffee cups were scattered about along with crumpled napkins and empty potato-chip bowls.
A few partygoers were singing together, while others refilled their glasses from boxes of red wine and chatted. Tendrils of wavy warm air still rose from the grill. Any children must have already been put to bed, snuggled in the house underneath cosy blankets. To Björn and Penelope, they seemed like denizens of another planet—a planet where calm, happy people lived safely together under a giant glass dome.
Only one person stood outside that charmed circle. He lurked at the side, facing the forest as if he expected visitors. Penelope stopped dead and silently gripped Björn’s hand. They dropped to the ground and crept behind a low spruce. Björn’s eyes were scared and uncomprehending, but Penelope was absolutely sure what she’d seen. Their pursuer had read their minds and got ahead of them. He knew they couldn’t resist the lights and the sounds of the party. Like moths to a flame, they’d be drawn here. So he’d waited. He’d want to catch them just inside the darkness of the trees. He hadn’t worried about any screams. He knew the people at the party wouldn’t think to investigate anything so strange until it would be too late.
When Penelope dared look up again, the man was gone. She shook from shock. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and believed he’d made a mistake. She searched around with her eyes. Maybe he’d gone somewhere else.
Hope had just started to creep into her mind. Then she saw him again, closer.
He was a dark form blending into a tree trunk not far from them.
He was calmly unpacking a set of black binoculars with green lenses.
Penelope pressed closer to Björn and fought her mindless instinct to leap up and start running again. Instead, she coolly watched the man as he lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He must have night-vision goggles or a heat sensor, she thought.
