“Here we have something,” says Johan Jönson.
Other fragments are appearing on his screen:
rec I contact ith
“Ads to connect with people.” Erixson grins. “I’ve tried those, and they never work …”
He falls silent at once. Johan has carefully scrolled past incomprehensible graphic garbage and stops. He pushes back from his machine with a big grin.
Joona takes his spot and peers at the monitor to read what’s at the center of the screen:
Carl Palmcr
Ck ph graf. Rec I contact withi
Joona feels hair rising on the back of his neck. Palmcrona, he thinks again and again as he writes down what he sees on the screen. He tries to think clearly and breathe calmly. The small stab of an oncoming migraine comes and then goes.
Erixson stares at the screen and swears to himself.
“Are you absolutely sure Björn Almskog wrote this?” Joona asks.
“No doubt about it,” replies Johan Jönson.
“Absolutely sure?”
“If he was at this computer at this point in time, he wrote this e-mail.”
“So it is definitely from him,” Joona tells himself, wanting to make sure, but his thoughts already zoom away. “What the fuck,” Erixson whispers.
Johan Jönson scans the address field fragments scattered over the screen: “
[email protected].” He drinks Fanta straight out of the thermos. Erixson leans back into his wheelchair and closes his eyes for a moment.
“Palmcrona,” murmurs Joona again, his voice tense in concentration.
“This is fucking crazy,” Erixson says. “What the hell does Carl Palmcrona have to do with all this?”
Joona silently walks out the door, concentrating on his thoughts and leaving his colleagues behind. He walks quickly down the stairs and out of the hospital into strong sunshine. He hurries across the parking lot to his black car.
37
collaborating units
Joona Linna heads straight to Carlos’s office, full of the news about Carl Palmcrona. To his surprise, the door to Carlos’s office is wide open. Carlos is looking out the window.
“She’s still standing there,” he says.
“Who?”
“The mother of those girls.”
“You mean Claudia Fernandez?” Joona asks as, in turn, he goes to look out the window.
“She’s been standing there for an entire hour.”
Joona can’t see her. A father in a dark blue suit is walking past. He’s wearing a king’s crown on his head and holding the hand of a little girl dressed in a pink princess dress. But then, almost directly across from the National Police Board, he sees a slumped woman next to a dirty Mazda pickup truck. It’s Claudia, staring intently at the foyer of the police building.
“I went outside and asked her if she wanted someone in particular. I thought maybe you’d forgotten a meeting with her.”
“No,” Joona says quietly.
“She said she was waiting for her daughter, Penelope.”
“Carlos, we have to talk.”
But before Joona can say anything, there’s a light knock at the door and Verner Zandén, the head of Säpo’s department of security, comes in.
“Nice to see you again,” the tall man says as he shakes Carlos’s hand. Verner greets Joona, then looks around the room and behind his back.
“Where the hell did Saga go?” he asks in a deep bass voice.
Saga Bauer slowly steps through the door. The tension in her thin body almost seems to reflect the silvery shimmer of Carlos Eliasson’s aquarium.
“I didn’t realize you hadn’t kept up.” Verner smiles benevolently.
Carlos turns to Saga but he looks uncertain, as if he can’t decide how to interact with a young woman who looks so much like … like an elf, he thinks. He decides to simply take a step back and open his arms in a welcoming gesture.
“Welcome,” he says, a strange shrill tone in his voice.
“Thanks,” she says.
“You’ve already met Joona Linna.”
Saga just stands still. Her hair is a shimmering mass down to her waist, but her eyes are hard and her jaw is clamped shut. The sharp scar through one of her eyebrows glimmers chalk-white on her face.
“Please feel right at home,” Carlos says, and he almost sounds pleasant.
Saga sits down stiffly next to Joona. Carlos sets a shiny paper folder on the conference table. It is titled “Strategies for Collaborating Units.” Verner lifts his hand jokingly as if he were a schoolboy asking permission to speak before his deep bass fills the room.
“Formally, the entire investigation is in Säpo’s hands. However, without the services of the National Criminal Investigation Department and Joona Linna, we wouldn’t have had this breakthrough.”
Verner points at the folder and Saga’s face turns bright red.
“Perhaps this is not such a ‘breakthrough,’ ” she mumbles.
“What?” Verner says loudly.
“All Joona found was a palm print and a piece of a photo.”
“And you … along with him, yes, you found out that Penelope Fernandez is still alive and someone is hunting her. Of course it’s not just Joona alone …” He tries to soothe her.
“This is sick,” Saga yells and shoves all the paperwork onto the floor. “How the hell can you guys sit here and heap praise on him! He wasn’t even supposed to be there! Someone even spilled the beans about Daniel Marklund—”
“But he did find out,” Verner says.
“But this is all highly classified! What the fuck!”
“Saga,” Verner says in rebuke. “You were also not supposed to be there!”
“True! But if I hadn’t, everything would have—”
She stops herself short.
“Can we continue more calmly now?” Verner asks.
Saga looks at her boss before she turns to Carlos and says, “Forgive me. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
She bends down and begins to pick up the papers from the floor, her forehead still covered with angry red dots. Carlos tells her to leave them, but Saga picks them all up, shuffles them into their proper order, and puts them back on the table.
“I’m really very sorry,” she says again.
Carlos clears his throat and says tentatively, “We hope that you might come to appreciate Joona’s contribution. Perhaps enough to allow him to join your investigation.”
“No! Seriously,” Saga turns to her boss. “I don’t want to seem so negative, but I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal about him. We would have found all the evidence he did. You talk about breakthroughs, but I don’t think that—”
“I agree with Saga,” Joona says slowly. “I’m sure that eventually you would have found it all without my help.”
“Maybe so,” Verner says.
“Is that it, then?” Saga asks, keeping her voice under control as she stands up.
“But then there’s one thing that you don’t yet know,” Joona continues calmly. “Björn Almskog secretly contacted Carl Palmcrona on the same day Viola was killed.”
The room falls completely silent. Saga slowly sinks back into her chair. Verner leans forward and visibly collects his thoughts before he clears his throat. “So, Carl Palmcrona’s suicide and the murder of Viola Fernandez might be connected?” he asks in his booming bass.
“Joona?” Carlos asks.
“Yes, I believe there’s a connection between these two deaths.”
“This is much bigger than we thought,” Verner says, almost in a whisper. “This is very big …”
“Good work, Joona!” Carlos exclaims with a forced smile.
Saga Bauer has crossed her arms tightly across her chest. She’s looking at the floor and the small red spots are reappearing on her forehead.
“Joona,” Carlos says carefully, “I can’t go over Petter’s head, so he’ll still be in charge of our own investigation, but I can let you work on loan to Säpo.”
&n
bsp; “What do you think, Saga?” Joona asks softly.
“Perfect,” Verner answers immediately.
“It’s up to me,” Saga answers defiantly. “I’m still the one in charge of this case.”
She gets up and leaves the room at once.
Verner excuses himself and hurries after her.
There’s an icy glitter in Joona’s gray eyes.
Carlos is still in his chair. He clears his throat yet again and says, “She’s young and you have to try … I mean … be nice, watch out for her.”
“I believe she is entirely capable of taking care of herself,” Joona replies.
38
saga bauer
Saga Bauer is distracted, thinking about Carl Palmcrona, and she barely manages to move her face, even slightly. She’s seen the hit coming from the side, but too late. A low hook that passes over her left shoulder and hits her ear and chin. She’s rocked. Her head protector has slipped to the side again and she can hardly see a thing. Still, she knows the next blow is on its way and sinks her chin and protects her face with both hands.
It’s a hard hit followed by one to her upper ribs. She stumbles backward onto the rope. The referee rushes over but Saga has already figured a way out of the trap. She moves to the side and toward the middle of the ring and at the same time she is weighing her opponent: Svetlana Krantz from Falköping, a wide woman around forty years old with sloped shoulders and a Guns N’ Roses tattoo. Svetlana is breathing with her mouth open and is hunting Saga with elephantine steps; she believes she’s on the way to a knockout.
Saga dances softly backward, whirling like an autumn leaf over the ground. Boxing is so easy, she thinks, and a wave of joy fills her chest. She stops and smiles so broadly that her mouth guard almost falls out. She knows Svetlana is her match, but she had planned to win on points and not a knockout. However, when Svetlana’s boyfriend howls that Svetlana should turn the blond cunt’s face into mush, Saga changes her mind.
Svetlana is moving too quickly around the ring. Her right hand is eager, almost too eager. She is so convinced that she’s going to beat Saga that she’s no longer concentrating. She’s already decided to end the match with one or more direct right-hand blows. She’s thinking that Saga is already so groggy she won’t be able to land a punch. But Saga Bauer is not weakened. Instead, she zeroes in on her concentration. Saga dances a bit in place as she waits for her opponent to rush forward. She holds her hands over her face as if in defense only. At the perfect moment, Saga executes a surprising shoulder-and-foot combination so that, stepping to the side, she glides away from her opponent’s line of attack. Saga is now beside her and uses all her momentum for one blow—right into Svetlana’s solar plexus.
She feels the edge of Svetlana’s breast shield through her glove as Svetlana’s body simply folds in half. Saga’s next blow glances off Svetlana’s head, but the third is a clean, hard uppercut right to the mouth.
Svetlana’s head snaps backward. Sweat and snot spray out. Svetlana’s dark blue mouth guard flies away and her knees give out. She falls straight to the mat and rolls over once, remaining still for a second before she starts to move again.
After the match, Saga Bauer pads around the women’s dressing room feeling the tension run out of her body. There’s a taste of blood and tape in her mouth. She’d had to use her teeth to undo the fabric tape around her glove’s lacing. She looks at herself in the mirror and wipes away a few tears. Her nose is throbbing. She’d been thinking of other things during the match: her conversation with her boss and the head of the National Criminal Investigation Department and the decision that she was supposed to work with Joona Linna.
Inside her locker door is a sticker with the name Södertälje Rockets and a picture of a rocket that looks like an angry shark.
Saga’s hands shake as she pulls off her shorts, pelvic protection and underwear, a black tank top, and the bra with the breast shield. Shivering, she steps into the showers and turns on the stream of water. Water pours over her neck and back. She forces her mind to think of things other than Joona Linna as she spits blood-tinged saliva into the floor drain.
There are about twenty women in the dressing room when she returns. A round of KI aerobics must have just let out. Saga doesn’t notice them stop and stare at her in disbelief.
Saga Bauer is astonishingly beautiful, beautiful in a way that makes people weak in the knees. Her face is perfectly symmetrical and free of makeup, her eyes remarkably large and sky blue. Even with her pumped-up muscles and recent bruises, at five feet seven she’s finely shaped; most of the women in the dressing room would take her to be a ballet dancer, not an elite boxer or an investigator with Säpo’s security department.
Or they’d see her as an elf or a fairy princess, like Tuvstarr the valiant princess, able to stand fearlessly before the huge, dark troll in the paintings of the legendary artist John Bauer. John Bauer had two brothers: Hjalmar and Ernst. Ernst was Saga’s great-grandfather. She never met him, but she still remembers well the tales her grandfather told about his own father’s grief when his brother John, wife Esther, and their baby son drowned one November night on Lake Vättern just a few hundred meters from the harbor of Hästholmen. Three generations later, John Bauer’s painting seems to have miraculously come to life in Saga.
Saga Bauer knows that she’s a good investigator, even though she’s never brought an investigation to its conclusion. She’s used to having her work pulled out from under her or being excluded after weeks of hard work. She’s used to being overprotected and overlooked for dangerous assignments. Used to it. But that doesn’t mean she likes it.
She did very well at the Police Training Academy; after that, she went to the Security Service to be trained in counterterrorism and there rose to the rank of investigator. She’s worked on both investigative and operational duties, and all the while, she’s never neglected continuing education and she’s always kept to a tough physical-training routine. She runs daily, boxes at least twice a week, and not a week goes by where she fails to make the shooting range with her Glock 21 and an M90 sharpshooter rifle.
Saga lives with a jazz musician, a pianist named Stefan Johansson, whose group won a Swedish Grammy for their sorrowful, improvisational album A Year Without Esbjörn. When Saga gets home from work or training, she’ll lie on the sofa, eating candy, watching a movie with the sound off, while Stefan plays the piano for hours at a time.
Leaving the gym, Saga spots her opponent waiting by the concrete plinths.
“I just wanted to congratulate you and say thanks for a good match,” Svetlana says.
Saga stops. “Thanks.”
Svetlana turns red. “You’re amazingly good.”
“So are you.”
Svetlana looks toward the ground and smiles.
Garbage is caught in the twigs of square-cut bushes meant to decorate the entrance of the parking lot.
“You taking the train?” Saga asks.
“Yeah, I guess I better start walking.”
Svetlana picks up her bag, but then stops. She wants to say something else but has trouble letting it out. “Saga … hey, I’m sorry about what my guy said,” she finally says. “I don’t know if you heard … but he’s not coming to any more of my matches.”
Svetlana clears her throat and then starts walking again.
“Wait a minute,” Saga says. “If you’d like, I can give you a ride to the station.”
39
farther away
Penelope cuts across the slope at an angle. She slips on the loose stones, slides; her hand shoots out to balance her and it gets cut. She cries out; pain shoots from her wrist. Her shoulders and back burn too. She can’t stop coughing. She forces herself to look behind, into the forest, between the tree trunks; she dreads catching sight of their pursuer again.
Björn helps her up, muttering something as he does. His eyes are bloodshot and haunted.
“We can’t stay still,” he’s whispering.
Where is the
pursuer? Is he close-by? Has he lost them? Not that many hours ago, they were lying on a kitchen floor while he was looking in the window. Now they’re running up through a spruce thicket. They can smell the warm scent of the pine needles and they keep going, hand in hand.
There’s a rustling and, crying out in fear, Björn takes a sudden step to the side and gets a branch in the face.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” he says, panting.
“Don’t think about it.”
They slow to a walk. It is hard to ignore the pain in their knees and feet. Through brushwood and rotting piles of leaves, they keep going, down into a ditch, up through weeds, and finally they find themselves on a dirt track. Björn looks around and whispers to her to follow. He starts running south, toward the more inhabited area of Skinnardal. It can’t be far. She limps a few steps and then begins to run after him. The track curves around a grove of birches and, once past the white trunks, they suddenly see two people. There’s a woman barely out of her teens, dressed in a short tennis dress, talking to a man standing by a red motorcycle.
Penelope zips up her hoodie and sucks in air through her nose to steady her breath.
“Hi,” she says.
They’re staring at her. It’s easy to see why: she and Björn are bloody and dirty.
“We’ve had an accident,” she says. “We need to borrow a phone.”
Tortoiseshell butterflies flutter over the goosefoot and horsetail growing in the ditch.
The man nods and hands his phone to Penelope.
“Thanks,” Björn says, although he keeps his eyes glued on the road and into the forest.
“What happened?” the man asks.
Penelope doesn’t know what to say. Tears begin to stream down her cheeks.
“An accident,” Björn says.
“Oh my God,” the woman in the tennis dress hisses to her boyfriend. “She’s that bitch.”