The Nightmare (7 page)

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 fiberglass 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 toward 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 realize 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 toward 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 fiberglass 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 toward the bow. It’s as dark as a deep well down there. He sees nothing until he turns on his flashlight. 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 realizing 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 toward 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 toward the 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 sport 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 recognizes 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 license 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 recognizes 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 decimeter 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 license 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 startles 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 recognize 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?”

“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.

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 realization 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 washtub.

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 gotten into you?”

“Just come with me and don’t touch that cell 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.