by Lars Kepler
“I really haven’t had the time.”
“But you’re taking your medicine?”
“It tastes terrible,” Joona jokes.
“But seriously … he called me because he was worried about you,” she says.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“But not until you’ve solved this case, right?”
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Go ahead, ignore me,” she says.
“The woman found on the boat is not Penelope Fernandez.”
“It’s Viola, I know. Petter told me.”
“Good.”
“You were wrong, Joona.”
“Yes, I know—”
“Say it, Joona!” she laughs.
“I’m always wrong,” he says.
There’s a moment of silence between them.
“Don’t joke about it,” she says.
“Have you found out anything about the boat or Viola Fernandez?”
“Viola and Penelope are sisters,” Anja replies. “Penelope and Björn are in some kind of relationship, and that’s lasted four years so far.”
“Yes, that’s about what I’ve guessed.”
“So I see. Do you want me to bother to continue?”
Joona doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans his head back on the headrest and sees that the windscreen is covered with some kind of tree pollen.
“Viola wasn’t supposed to go on the boat with them,” Anja continues. “But she’d had a fight with her boyfriend, Sergei Yarushenko, that morning, and when she called to cry on her mother’s shoulder, it was the mother who suggested Viola go with her sister on the boat trip.”
“What do you know about Penelope?”
“I’ve actually focused on the victim, Viola, since—”
“The murderer believed he was killing Penelope.”
“What are you saying, Joona?”
“He made a mistake. He was going to hide the killing in a fake boating accident. He didn’t realise he’d put Viola on her sister’s bed.”
“Since he’d mixed up the sisters.”
“I need to know everything you have on Penelope Fernandez and her—”
Anja cuts Joona off. “She’s one of my idols. She’s a peace activist. She lives on Sankt Paulsgatan 3.”
“We’ve put out a search bulletin on her and Björn Almskog,” Joona says. “The Coast Guard is flying two helicopters in the area around Dalarö, but they should coordinate with the maritime police.”
“I’ll take a look at what’s going on,” Anja says.
“Someone should track down Viola’s boyfriend, and also the fisherman who found the boat. We’ve got to get everything together as fast as we can—the evidence from the boat, the results from the National Forensic Lab—”
“Do you want me to give Linköping a call?” Anja asks.
“I’ll talk to Erixson. He knows them and we’re going together to look at Penelope’s apartment.”
“It sounds like you’ve taken over the investigation. Right?”
17
an extremely dangerous man
The skies are still bright, but the air is heavy and damp, as if a thunderstorm is looming.
As Joona Linna and Erixson park outside the old fishermen’s supply shop, Joona’s mobile phone rings. It’s Claudia Fernandez. He ducks into a shady spot before answering.
“You told me I could call,” she says weakly.
“Of course.”
“I know you tell this to everyone, but I thought … my daughter Penelope. I mean … I have to know if you find something, even if she …”
Claudia’s voice fades away.
“Hello? Claudia?”
“I’m here. Sorry,” she whispers.
“I’m a detective,” Joona says. “I’m trying to find out whether there is criminal activity behind these events. The Coast Guard is searching for Penelope.”
“When will they find her?”
“Well, they’re flying over the area in helicopters right now. They’re searching by sea and land. Since that takes longer, they start with the helicopters.”
Joona hears that Claudia is muffling her crying.
“I don’t know what I should be doing … I … I need to know what I can do or whether I should keep talking with her friends.”
“The best thing you can do is stay home,” Joona says. “Penelope might try to contact you and then—”
“She won’t call me,” says Claudia.
“I think she—”
“I’ve always been too hard on Penny. I’m always angry at her. I don’t really know why. I … I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose Penelope, I …”
Claudia’s sobs are now loud in the receiver. She tries to control herself; fails. With a barely audible apology, she ends the call.
Right across from the fishermen’s supply shop is Sankt Paulsgatan 3, where Penelope Fernandez lives. Joona walks over to Erixson, who is staring into a shop window. The shop used to display photos of the fisherman who caught the largest salmon in the Stockholm River that week. Now the windows are crowded with hundreds of Hello Kitty items. The entire shop provides an amazingly stark contrast to the dirty brown walls of the building’s exterior.
“Little body, large head,” Erixson says as Joona comes up to him. Erixson points at the Hello Kittys.
“They’re rather cute,” Joona admits.
“Me—I’m totally backward. Small head on a large body,” Erixson jokes.
Joona gives him an amused glance as he opens the wide entrance door. They walk up the stairs and look at the nameplates, the illuminated buttons for turning on the ceiling lights, and the overflowing dustbins. In the stairwell, it smells like sunshine, dust, and green soap. Erixson takes hold of the shiny wooden handrail so hard that its screws and mounting brackets creak as he climbs, panting, while trying to keep up with Joona. They make it to the fourth floor at the same time and look at each other. Erixson’s face is quivering from the effort. He nods while wiping the sweat from his forehead and whispers to Joona, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s humid today.”
There are stickers near the doorbell. Anti-nuclear, fair trade, and the peace symbol. Joona gives Erixson a brief glance, then puts his ear to the door. His eyes narrow.
“What is it?”
Joona presses the doorbell while still listening. He waits another moment before he pulls his picklock from his inner pocket.
“Maybe it was nothing,” Joona says as he carefully jimmies the simple lock.
He eases open the door, then changes his mind and softly closes it again. He waves Erixson to the side. He’s not sure why. They hear the melody from an ice-cream truck outside. Erixson frowns and taps his cheek nervously. Joona’s arms feel cold, but then he calmly opens the door and steps inside. Newspapers, ads, and a letter from the Left Party litter the rug. The air is unmoving and smells stale. A velvet curtain hangs in front of a closet. There’s a hissing sound, perhaps from the pipes, and somewhere something’s ticking.
Joona has no idea why his hand is reaching for his holstered weapon. He touches it with his fingers where it’s resting underneath his jacket, but leaves it there. His eyes go to the bloodred curtain and then to the kitchen door. He holds his breath as he tries to look through the ribbed, glass-paned door to the living room.
Joona takes another step although his instinct is to turn around and leave. He feels he should have called for reinforcements. A dark shadow glides across the other side of the glass. A wind chime made with hanging rods sways soundlessly. Joona sees the dust specks in the air change direction in an unfelt breeze.
He is not alone in Penelope’s apartment.
There’s someone in the living room. He can feel it. He casts one look at the kitchen door and then everything happens at once. A floorboard creaks; a series of rapid clicks keeps a rhythm all its own. The door to the kitchen is half open and in the gap between the hinges Joona spots movement. He presses against the wall as if he w
ere in a train tunnel, his heart beating fast. Someone else is sneaking along in the dark hallway; Joona sees a back, a shoulder, an arm. The figure slides closer and then whirls around. The knife is like a white tongue. It’s leaping up, piercing in an angle so unusual Joona can’t parry the blade. Its sharp edge slices through his clothes, hitting the leather of his holstered weapon. Joona swings at the person but hits thin air. Swish. He hears the knife a second time and throws his body to the side. The blade has come from directly above this time. Joona hits his head on the bathroom door. A long sliver of wood curls down as the knife hits the door.
Joona slides down and simultaneously releases a wide kick. He connects, perhaps on the intruder’s ankle. He rolls away, pulling out his pistol and releasing the safety in the same movement. The outer door is open now. Footsteps sound running down the stairs. Joona scrambles to his feet and is ready to chase after the man, but he stops. There’s a humming sound behind him. He knows immediately what is going on and runs into the kitchen. The microwave is on. Behind its glass door, it’s giving off sparks. The control knobs of the four burners on the old gas stove are turned fully open and gas is blasting into the room. With a feeling that the flow of time has slowed down, Joona leaps to the microwave. The timer clicks menacingly, the sparking sounds keep increasing. A spray can of insect poison is rotating inside the microwave.
Joona grabs the electric plug and yanks it out. The ticking stops. The gas hisses loudly until Joona turns off the stove. The chemical smell is nauseating. He yanks open the kitchen window and then looks in on the spray can in the microwave. Its belly is grotesquely swollen. Joona thinks it could still explode at the slightest touch.
He leaves the kitchen and quickly surveys the rest of the apartment. The other rooms are empty. The air is still heavy with gas.
Erixson’s lying on the floor beside the stairwell, a cigarette in his mouth.
“Don’t light that!” Joona yells.
With a smile and a weak wave of his hand, Erixson replies, “It’s chocolate.”
He coughs weakly and Joona can see that there’s a pool of blood beneath him.
“You’re bleeding,” Joona says.
“No big deal,” Erixson replies. “I’m not sure how he did it, but he sliced my Achilles tendon.”
Joona calls for an ambulance and then crouches next to Erixson, whose face is pale and whose cheeks glisten from sweat. He looks nauseated.
“He cut me while he ran past. It was so quick … like being attacked by a fucking spider.”
They fall silent. Joona remembers the lightning-fast movements behind the kitchen door and how the blade of the knife moved effortlessly, with a life of its own. He’d never seen anything like it before.
“Is she in there?” Erixson pants.
“No.”
Erixson smiles, relieved. Then he’s serious again.
“Was he going to blow the place to hell anyway?”
“Looks like it. He’s good at getting rid of evidence,” Joona answers sarcastically.
Erixson fumbles at the paper on his chocolate cigarette but drops it. He closes his eyes for a minute. By now his cheeks are ash-white.
“I take it you didn’t see his face either,” Joona says quietly.
“No,” Erixson mumbles. “We saw something, though. There’s always something we notice in spite of ourselves.”
18
the fire
The medical crew from the ambulance reassures Erixson that they’re not going to drop him.
“I can walk,” Erixson protests and shuts his eyes.
His chin shakes each step down.
Joona goes back into Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. He opens all the windows to clear the air and then sits down on the apricot-colored sofa. It is very comfortable.
If the apartment had exploded, it would have looked like an unfortunate accident caused by a gas leak. The case would have been closed.
Joona lets his memory expand. No fragment of observation ever completely disappears. It simply must be retrieved just like the seas heave flotsam and jetsam up onto the beach.
But what was it?
He had seen nothing. Just a quick, blurred movement and a knife blade.
That’s what I saw! Joona realises. I saw nothing!
This lack is exactly what is nudging his intuition.
We’re dealing with a pro here, a contract killer, a hit man, a grob.
There aren’t many in the world.
This was not the first inkling he’s had, but now he’s thoroughly convinced. The killer in the hallway is the same man who murdered Viola. There was certainly time to do both. He’d planned to kill Penelope and sink the cruiser as if it were an accident; then he’d use the same method here. This is a killer who wants to remain invisible. He wants to kill under the radar of the police.
Joona looks around slowly. He tries again to assemble the parts of the puzzle into a whole.
He hears children playing in the apartment above his head. They’re rolling marbles over the floor. They’d have been in the middle of an inferno right now if Joona hadn’t been able to pull the plug in time.
This was a cold-blooded, driven attack, Joona thinks, and the man behind it was not some hate-filled right-wing activist. Penelope Fernandez might be involved in the peace movement, sure, and those groups did, ironically, resort to violence sometimes. But this man was different: a highly trained professional at a level well above any of the amateur groups.
So why were you here? Joona wonders. What does a hit man have to do with Penelope Fernandez? What is she mixed up in? What’s going on beneath the surface?
Joona reviews those unusual knife movements. The technique was obviously meant to circumvent the usual police and military defensive training. His skin prickles as he realises that the first cut would have sliced into his liver if he hadn’t carried his pistol under his right arm. The second cut would have gone straight into his brain if he hadn’t thrown himself backwards.
Joona gets up from the sofa and walks into the bedroom. He studies the well-made bed and the crucifix over the headboard.
A hit man believed he’d killed Penelope, and his intention was to make it seem like an accident … but the boat never sank.
Either the killer was interrupted or he left the scene of the crime intending to return and complete his assignment. He must never have intended that the Coast Guard would find the boat adrift with the drowned girl on board. Something had gone wrong or the plans had to be drastically changed. Maybe he was given new orders. At any event, a day and a half after killing Viola, he was here in Penelope’s apartment.
You must have had a strong reason to come here. What was your motive behind this major risk? Is there something here that connects you or your client to Penelope?
You did something here. You got rid of fingerprints or you erased a hard drive or destroyed an answering machine or you came to get something.
That’s what you wanted, but then I showed up and wrecked your plan.
Or maybe your plan was to destroy something in the fire? That’s a possibility, Joona thinks.
Joona wishes he had Erixson with him now. He needs a forensic technician; he doesn’t have the right tools and might even destroy evidence if he searches the apartment on his own. He could contaminate DNA or miss invisible evidence.
Joona walks to the window and looks down at the street. He sees empty tables by a sandwich café.
He really must head back to the police station and talk to his boss, Carlos Eliasson. He must ask to be assigned as the leader of the investigation and call in another forensic technician now that Erixson will be on sick leave.
Joona’s telephone rings just as he’s made the decision to play by the rules and go and talk to both Carlos and Jens Svanehjälm and put together an investigative group.
“Hi, Anja,” he says.
“I want to go to the sauna with you,” Anja says.
“Why the sauna?”
“Well, why not? Can�
�t we take a sauna together? You could show me how real Finns use the sauna.”
“Anja,” he replies slowly, “I’ve lived almost my entire life in Stockholm.”
Joona starts walking through the hallway to the outer door.
“I know, I know. You’re a Swede with Finnish heritage. How boring is that? Why couldn’t you be from El Salvador? Have you read any of Penelope Fernandez’s opinion essays in the newspaper? You should see her—the other day she scolded the entire Swedish weapons export industry on television!”
Joona can hear Anja’s light breaths in the receiver as he leaves Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. There are bloody marks on the stair from the ambulance crew’s shoes. A shiver runs down his back as he remembers his colleague sitting there, legs splayed, the colour draining from his face.
Joona believes the hit man is still under the impression he killed Penelope Fernandez, so he thinks that part of his contract is done. The other half was to get into the apartment for some reason. When the killer figures out Penelope’s still alive, he’ll be back on the hunt in a hurry.
“Björn and Penelope were not living together,” Anja is saying.
“I figured that out,” he replies.
“Even so, they could still be in love—just like you and me.”
Joona walks into strong sunshine. The air has grown heavier and even more humid.
“Can you give me Björn’s address?”
He hears Anja’s fingers fly over the keyboard. Small clicking sounds.
“Almskog, Pontonjärgatan 47, third floor.”
“I’ll go there before I—”
“Wait a second!” Anja said. “Not possible. Listen to this … I’ve just cross-checked this address … there was a fire in the building on Friday.”
“Björn’s apartment?”
Anja replies, “Everything on that floor is gone.”
19
a wavy landscape of ashes
Detective Inspector Joona Linna walks up the stairs, then stops and stands still, looking into a completely black room. The acrid stench is sharp. Not much of the inner, non-weight-bearing wall is left. Black stalactites hang from the ceiling. Charcoaled stumps of shelves stick up among a wavy landscape of ashes. In several places there are holes straight through the double floors to the room beneath. It’s no longer possible to determine which part of this apartment floor had been Björn Almskog’s.
