“Tell her that I want her to call me because—”
She stops suddenly. Her face turns pale. Then she looks up again.
“I just thought that she might not be answering me when I call because I … I was … I said some horrible things, but I didn’t mean anything, I didn’t mean anything—”
“We have already started a helicopter search for Penelope and Björn Almskog, but—”
“Please, tell me that she’s alive,” she whispers. “Tell me that, Joona Linna.”
Joona’s jaw muscles tense as he reassures her by the pressure of his hand and says, “I will do everything I can to—”
“She’s alive, tell me that,” Claudia whispers. “She must be alive.”
“I will find her,” Joona says. “I know that I will find her.”
“Tell me that Penelope is alive.”
Joona hesitates and then meets Claudia’s black eyes as a few lightning sensations sweep through his heart. A number of unseen connections click in his mind, and suddenly he hears his own voice answer, “She’s alive.”
“Yes,” Claudia whispers.
Joona looks down. He’s not able to recover the thought behind the certainty he’d felt that prompted him to ignore caution and tell Claudia that her eldest daughter was still among the living.
16
the mistake
Joona follows Claudia Fernandez to the waiting taxi and helps her in. Afterward he stands motionless until the taxi disappears around a curve in the driveway. Only then does he dig in his pocket for his cell phone. When he realizes he must have forgotten it, he strides back to the forensic department and quickly enters The Needle’s office, takes The Needle’s phone, and sits in The Needle’s chair. He dials Erixson’s number and waits while the call goes through.
“Let people sleep,” Erixson drowsily answers. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
“Confess that you’re at the boat,” Joona says.
“Yes, I am,” Erixson confesses.
“So there was no explosive,” Joona says.
“Not your average bomb, no. But you were still correct. This boat could have gone up at any second.”
“What do you mean?”
“The power cables’ insulation is seriously damaged in one spot because of crimping. Someone stuffed an old ripped seat cushion behind the cables, too. Very flammable. So it’s not that the leads are making contact—that would trip the circuit breaker. But they are exposed. If you kept running the engine, eventually you’d cause a discharge, with an electric arc running between the two power cables.”
“What happens then?”
“The arc would reach a temperature above three thousand degrees Celsius and it would ignite the seat cushion back there,” Erixson continues. “Then the fire would find its way to the hose from the fuel pump, and bang!”
“A quick process?”
“Well, the arc could take ten minutes to form, maybe longer, but after that, everything would happen fast—fire, more fire, explosion—and then the broken boat would fill with water and sink, fast.”
“So if the motor was started, there would soon be a fire and an explosion sooner or later?”
“Yes, but the fire wouldn’t necessarily be considered arson.”
“So the cables were damaged by accident and the sofa cushion just happened to be lying there?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“Not for a second.”
Joona pictures again the drifting boat. He clears his throat and says thoughtfully, “If the killer planned all this—”
“He’s not your normal killer,” Erixson finished.
Joona repeats the thought to himself once the conversation ends. Again he agrees. The average murderer is motivated by passion, by greed, by anger. Emotions are almost always involved even to the point of hysteria. Only later does he fumble to cover his tracks and fabricate an alibi. This time it appears the killer had followed a sophisticated strategy right from the start.
And still, something went wrong.
Joona stares into space, grabs a legal pad from The Needle’s desk, and writes Viola Fernandez on the first page. He circles her name and then writes Penelope Fernandez and Björn Almskog beneath it. The women are sisters. Penelope and Björn are in a relationship. Björn owns the boat. Viola asks if she can come with them at the last minute.
Joona feels the road to finding the motive behind this murder is long. He’s still internally convinced that Penelope Fernandez is alive. It’s not just a wild hope or an attempt to give comfort. It’s intuition. Based on what, he cannot say. He’d caught the thought in flight, but lost it again before he could capture it and pin it down.
If he followed the usual procedures put forth by the CID, suspicion would immediately fall on Viola’s boyfriend or perhaps on Penelope and Björn since they were on the boat. Speculation would include alcohol and drugs. Perhaps a fight. Perhaps a serious drama stemming from jealousy. Before too long, Leif G. W. Persson would be sitting on a couch in a television studio explaining that the suspect was a close acquaintance and probably a boyfriend or ex-boyfriend.
What is the point behind making the fuel tank explode? Where’s the logic behind this plan? Viola is already dead, drowned in the zinc tub on the afterdeck. The killer carries her downstairs and leaves her on the bed.
Joona realizes too many ideas are coming at once. He puts on mental brakes and begins to find structure in the evidence he’s gathered, tries to find questions that still need answers.
He circles Viola’s name again and starts over.
What he knows now is that she was drowned in a tub and placed on a bed in the forecabin and that Penelope Fernandez and Björn Almskog have still not been found.
But that’s not all, he tells himself, and flips to a new page.
He writes the word “Calm” on the paper.
There was no wind and the boat was found drifting near Dalarö Island.
The boat’s bow had been damaged in a serious collision. Joona expected the technicians had likely already found evidence, perhaps even making some plaster casts for possible matches.
Joona throws the legal pad against the wall and shuts his eyes.
“Perkele,” he swears in Finnish.
Something has slipped through his fingers again. He had been just about to grasp it. He’d instinctively realized something, almost understood something, but then—it was gone.
Viola, he thinks. You died on the afterdeck. Why were you moved after your death? Who moved you, the killer or someone else?
If someone were to find her lifeless on the deck, that person would still try to bring her back to life. They’d call in an SOS alarm—that’s what people do. And if they realized she was already dead and it was too late, that she wouldn’t be coming back to life, then they wouldn’t just leave her lying there. They’d want to carry her inside and put a blanket over her. However, a body is awkward to move, even with two people. Yet the distance was hardly more than five meters, just in through the glass doors and down the stairs.
Even one person could manage that. It’s possible.
But you don’t carry her down the stairs and through the narrow hallway and then set her on the bed in the cabin.
Someone would only do that to stage some sort of setup: that she’d be found drowned on her bed in a water-filled boat.
“Exactly,” Joona mumbles and stands up.
He looks out through the window and sees an almost blue beetle crawling along the white ledge. Raising his gaze, he sees a woman on a bicycle disappear behind the trees—and, suddenly, he recovers the missing element he’d dropped.
Joona sits back down and drums the table. It was not Penelope they’d found in the boat, but her sister, Viola. But Viola was not on her own bed. She was on Penelope’s. The murderer made the same mistake I did, Joona thinks as shivers travel down his spine.
He thought he’d killed Penelope Fernandez. That’s why he’d put her o
n the forecabin’s bed. This is the only explanation that makes sense.
Joona jumps as the office door bangs open. It’s The Needle, pushing it open with his shoulder and backing in with a long, flat box in his arms. On the front there’s the image of large flames and the text proclaims Guitar Hero.
“Frippe and I are going to—”
“Quiet!” Joona barks.
“What’s up?” The Needle asks.
“Nothing. I just have to think.”
Joona gets up from the chair and strides out without another word, through the foyer, not even hearing the words said by the woman with the dazzling eyes in reception. He comes into the heat of the sun and stands quietly on the lawn by the parking lot.
A fourth person, unknown to either Penelope or Viola, killed Viola, Joona thinks. He mistook one sister for the other. This must mean that Penelope was alive when Viola was killed, or he wouldn’t have made that mistake.
Perhaps Penelope really is still alive, Joona thinks. Or her body is somewhere in the archipelago, on an island or deep beneath the sea. But we can hope that she’s still alive and if she is, we will find her very soon.
Joona strides quickly to his car even though he has no idea where he will go. He spots his cell phone up on its roof; he must have put it there when he locked the car door. He picks up the sun-warmed phone and calls Anja Larsson. No answer. He climbs in, automatically fastens the seat belt, but makes no next move. He just sits and tries to find the flaws in his reasoning.
The air is suffocating, but the heady aroma of the lilac bushes next to the parking lot eases its way into his nostrils and chases away the smell of decaying corpses from the pathology lab.
The cell phone in his hand rings. He looks at the display and answers.
“I’ve just talked to your doctor,” Anja says.
“Why have you been talking to him?”
“Janush says that you’ve not come in to see him,” she says accusingly.
“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 windshield 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 realize 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 cell 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 garbage cans. 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 whisper
s to Joona, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s humid today.”
There are stickers near the doorbell. Antinuclear, 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 were 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.