“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.
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 washtub on deck.”
“Drowned? What the hell?”
“She was drowned in seawater in that washtub 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 faucets and a deep sink. The floor is covered with a light gray 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 faucet on the wall.
“It’s not a criminal offense 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 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 pants 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 control,” 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.”