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  Joona makes a humming sound so they’ll think he’s following the discussion, but instead he concentrates on the meeting in the private box.

  The table was set for four people and there were four people in the picture. This means that the fifth person, the one holding the camera, was not part of the party and would not be invited to sit down at the table with a champagne glass in his hand.

  The fifth person probably has the answer to this riddle.

  We’ll have to get Penelope Fernandez to talk soon, Joona thinks. Even if she is not the photographer, she might have the key; she might know who it was.

  His mind turns back to the people in the photograph: Carl Palmcrona, Raphael Guidi, Agathe al-Haji, and Pontus Salman.

  Joona thinks back to their meeting with Pontus Salman. He had pointed himself out right away. According to him, the only strange thing about the picture was that Carl Palmcrona was drinking champagne although they had nothing to celebrate. It was just a preliminary meeting.

  But maybe there was something to celebrate.

  Joona’s pulse quickens.

  What if all four of them were about to toast an agreement with the champagne?

  Pontus Salman had pointed himself out and given them so many details along with the place and the time.

  The time, Joona thinks. The time could be different.

  We have only Pontus Salman’s word that the meeting happened in Frankfurt in 2008.

  We need Penelope Fernandez’s help.

  Joona fiddles with the briefcase. Would it be possible to identify the musicians in the background? Their faces are clear. Someone must recognise them.

  If we identify the musicians, we can pinpoint the time of the meeting. There are four people playing: a quartet.

  Maybe the four of them have only played together once. That would fix the date beyond all doubt.

  Of course, Joona thinks. We should have got onto this already.

  He intends to leave Saga and Axel Riessen to their discussion and return immediately to the police station. He wants to ask Petter Näslund if they’d considered the quartet of musicians as a way to find the exact date of the meeting.

  He looks at Saga and watches her smile at Axel Riessen and then ask him about the American defence industry and their large corporations, Raytheon and Lockheed Martin.

  Violin music can be heard again through the open window. It’s a quicker piece this time. It stops suddenly and then there’s the sound of two strings checked against each other.

  “Who’s playing?” Joona asks as he stands up.

  “That’s my brother, Robert,” Axel says, somewhat surprised.

  “I see—is he a professional violinist?”

  “He’s the pride and joy of the family … but these days he’s primarily a violin maker. He has his studio on the grounds, here in the back.”

  “Would you mind if I go over to ask him a question?”

  69

  the string quartet

  Joona walks with Axel out to the marble patio behind the house. The aroma from the lilac bushes is almost too heady. They continue to the studio, and Axel knocks. The violin stops. The door is opened by a middle-aged man whose thinning hair is belied by an extremely handsome, intelligent face. His body must once have been slim, but the passing years have left their mark.

  “The police want to talk to you,” Axel says in a no-nonsense tone. “You’re suspected of disturbing the peace.”

  “I confess to everything,” Robert says.

  “Makes it easy,” says Joona.

  “Anything else?”

  “We have a number of cold cases you could clear up, too.” Joona smiles.

  “I’m probably guilty of all of them,” Robert replies, and he shakes hands with Joona.

  “That’s a relief,” jokes Joona. “I’m Joona Linna from the National Criminal Investigation Department.”

  “What’s this all about?” Robert is smiling.

  “We’re looking into a case of unexpected death. The previous general director of ISP. That’s why I’m chatting with your brother.”

  “I know nothing more about Palmcrona than what’s in the papers.”

  “May I come in for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll go on back to your colleague,” Axel says, and closes the door behind Joona.

  The ceiling of the studio has a steep slope, like an attic roof. A beautifully wrought wooden staircase leads down into the workshop, and the pleasant smell of freshly sawn wood, rosin, and turpentine rises to meet them. Everywhere violins hang in various stages of completion. Other construction gear is neatly collected: carefully chosen woods, scrolls, specialised tools for woodworking, planes as small as wine corks, bent knives, and much more.

  “I heard your music through the window,” Joona says.

  Robert nods and gestures to a beautiful violin.

  “It needed a little adjustment.”

  “You made it yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s unbelievably beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  Robert picks up the violin and hands it to Joona. The gleaming instrument is almost weightless. Joona turns it over and takes a deep sniff.

  “The lacquer is a secret,” Robert comments. He takes the instrument back and fits it in a case with wine-red lining.

  Joona opens his briefcase and pulls out the plastic-encased photo and hands it to Robert.

  “That’s Palmcrona,” Robert says.

  “Yes, but do you happen to know the people in the background, the musicians?”

  Robert looks at the picture again and nods.

  “That’s Martin Beaver,” he says as he points. “Kikuei Ikeda … Kazuhide Isomura, and on cello that’s Clive Greensmith.”

  “Are these musicians well-known?”

  Robert can’t help smiling at the question.

  “They’re a legend. This is the Tokyo String Quartet.”

  “The Tokyo String Quartet. Does that mean the same four people are in every performance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every time?”

  “They’ve been together for a long time now. And doing very well.”

  “Anything particular or special about this photograph?”

  Robert looks at the photograph very carefully.

  “No,” he finally says.

  “They don’t just play in Tokyo?” Joona asks.

  “They play all over the world, but their instruments are owned by a Japanese endowment.”

  “Is that common?”

  “Yes, especially with certain instruments,” Robert answers. “These, the ones in this picture, are among the most precious instruments in the world.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s the Paganini Quartet,” Robert adds.

  “The Paganini Quartet,” Joona repeats as he stares at the photograph.

  The wood gleams and the musicians’ black clothes are reflected in the veneer.

  “Stradivarius made them,” Robert explains. “The oldest one is called Desaint, and it’s a violin made in 1680—that’s the one Kikuei is playing. Martin Beaver has the one that Count Cozio di Salabue presented to Paganini himself.”

  Robert hesitates, not wanting to bore Joona, but Joona nods for him to continue.

  “Eventually all four instruments came into Niccolò Paganini’s possession. I don’t know how much you know about Paganini, but he was a virtuoso violinist and composer—he composed pieces that were considered ridiculous then because people, even musicians, thought they were impossible to play. Until Paganini himself took up the violin. After his death, it took one hundred years before any other violinist could approach his technique and play his pieces … and some of his techniques are still considered impossible. Yes, there are many legends about Paganini and his violin duels.”

  The room is silent. Joona takes another look at the photograph and the four men onstage in the background. He thinks about their instruments.


  “So the Tokyo String Quartet often uses these particular instruments?”

  “Yes. They play them in eight to nine concerts a month.”

  “Any ideas about when this photo might have been taken?”

  “No more than ten years ago, at least, judging from Martin Beaver’s looks. I’ve met him a few times.”

  “Perhaps where they’re playing could give me the time?”

  “This is the Alte Oper in Frankfurt.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I know they play there once a year,” Robert says. “Sometimes twice or three times.”

  “Perkele,” Joona mumbles in Finnish.

  There must be some way to find out when this photograph was taken so if there’s a hole in Pontus Salman’s story we can find it.

  Joona goes to replace the photo in his folder. Penelope is probably the only person who can shed any light on this.

  Then he takes another look. He notes the principal violin, the placing of his bow, the elbow high … Joona’s grey eyes look up into Robert’s.

  “Do they always play the same pieces on tour?”

  “The same ones? No, I mean … they have been through all of Beethoven’s quartets and that alone is a great variety. But they’ve played a number of other pieces as well: Schubert, Bartók. And Brahms, I know that. It’s a long list … Debussy, Dvořák, Haydn, a great deal of Mozart and Ravel and on and on.”

  Joona is concentrating on his words and then he stands up to pace the studio before he stops and turns again towards Robert.

  “I just thought of something,” Joona says eagerly. “If you blew up this photograph and took a good look at the musicians’ finger placement, their arm placement … would it be possible to determine which piece they’re playing just from this photo?”

  Robert opens and shuts his mouth, but then he smiles and picks up the photo again. In the spotlight on the Alte Oper stage, the Tokyo String Quartet members are seen clearly. Clive Greensmith’s narrow face is unusually gentle, and his high forehead is glistening. And Kikuei Ikeda’s little finger is high on the fingerboard, reaching for a high note.

  “Sorry, I think that’d be impossible, it could be … any notes at all, but …”

  “Say you had a magnifying glass … you can see the fingers, the strings, the necks of the instruments …”

  “Sure, theoretically, but—” He sighs and shakes his head.

  “Do you know someone who could help me?” Joona asks stubbornly. “A musician or a professor at the Royal College of Music who might be able to analyse this photograph for us?”

  “I wish I—”

  “It’s not possible, is it?” Joona asks.

  “No, seriously, it isn’t,” Robert says, and shrugs. “If not even Axel could figure it out, no one can.”

  “Axel? Your brother?”

  “Of course. You mean you haven’t shown it to him?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that why you were talking to him?”

  “No, you’re the one who’s the musician,” Joona says, smiling.

  “Go and talk to him anyway,” Robert says.

  “Why should—”

  Joona stops short, interrupted by a knock at the door. Saga Bauer steps in. The sunlight shines on her blonde hair.

  “Is Axel here?” she asks.

  “No,” Joona says.

  “Another detective inspector?” asks Robert with a big grin.

  “Säpo,” Saga answers briskly.

  The quiet lasts a moment too long. Robert is taking in Saga with his eyes as if he’s fixated on her over-large blue eyes and her neat rose mouth.

  “I had no idea that Säpo had a division of elves,” he says. He grins wider. Then he tries to become serious. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, but you do look like an elf, or a Bauer fairy-tale princess.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Saga replies drily.

  “I’m Robert Riessen,” Robert says as he extends his hand.

  “Saga,” she says, and shakes his hand.

  70

  a feeling

  Joona and Saga leave the Riessens’ home and climb into the car. Saga’s telephone vibrates. She looks at the text message and smiles to herself.

  “I’m going to have lunch at home,” she says. She blushes.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eleven thirty,” she replies. “Are you going to keep working?”

  “No, I’m going to go to the lunch concert at Södra Theatre with a friend.”

  “Could you drop me off in Söder then? I live on Bastugatan.”

  “I’ll drive you all the way home if you’d like,” he says.

  While Joona had been interviewing Robert, Saga had stayed with Axel. He was just starting a description of his UN career when he was interrupted by a call. Axel had looked at the display, excused himself, and left the room. After waiting fifteen minutes, she’d gone to Robert Riessen’s studio. All three of them then looked for Axel before deciding he’d been called away from the house.

  “What did you need to talk to Axel’s brother about?”

  “I just got a feeling …” Joona begins.

  “Oh, great,” Saga mutters. “A feeling.”

  “You know … we showed the photograph to Pontus Salman,” Joona continued. “He pointed himself out right away and then talked blah, blah, blah about the International Criminal Court’s decision to indict—” He stops talking as his phone rings. He searches for his phone without taking his eyes off the road and answers, “That was fast.”

  “The date is confirmed,” Anja Larsson says. “The Tokyo String Quartet played at the Alte Oper in Frankfurt when Pontus Salman was there.”

  “I see,” says Joona.

  Saga watches as he listens to what Anja is saying, nods, thanks her, and hangs up.

  “So Pontus Salman was telling the truth?” asks Saga.

  “That we don’t know.”

  “But the date is correct?”

  “We only know that Pontus Salman went to Frankfurt and that the Tokyo String Quartet played at the Alte Oper … but Pontus Salman has been to Frankfurt often and the Tokyo String Quartet has also played at the Alte Oper at least once a year.”

  “Do you believe he lied about the date even though he knew we’d check it out?”

  “No, but … well, I don’t know. As I said, I just had a feeling,” Joona says. “There’s a good reason to lie if he and Carl Palmcrona were discussing business with Agathe al-Haji after the arrest warrant was issued.”

  “That would be a criminal offence, against international law. A weapons export directly to the militia in Darfur—”

  “We believed Pontus Salman because he seemed so willing to help us, even pointing himself out,” Joona says. “But because he told one truth, it doesn’t mean that everything he says is true.”

  “So that’s your feeling?”

  “No, it was something in Salman’s voice … when he said the only strange thing about the picture was that Carl Palmcrona didn’t decline champagne …”

  “… since there was nothing to celebrate.” Saga completes the thought.

  “That’s how he put it, but my feeling is that there was something to celebrate and they were toasting it with champagne. An agreement—”

  “No facts to support what you’ve just said.”

  “But think about the picture for a second,” Joona says stubbornly. “There’s an atmosphere in that private box and … look at their faces, they’re very happy about something.”

  “Even so, we can’t prove it. We need Penelope Fernandez’s help.”

  “What do her doctors have to say?”

  “We’ll be able to talk to her soon. But right now, she’s mentally too exhausted.”

  “We have no idea what she can tell us,” Joona says.

  “No we don’t, but what the hell do we have?”

  “We have the photograph,” Joona says. “We have the four musicians in it and perhaps we can tell the piece
they were playing by their hand positions.”

  “Oh, Joona.” Saga sighs.

  “What?” he says, smiling.

  “That’s just fucking crazy—I hope you realise that.”

  “Robert said that theoretically it might be possible.”

  “Let’s just wait until Penelope is a little better.”

  “I’ll call,” Joona says. He picks up his phone and calls the police station, requesting a connection to room U 12.

  Saga looks at his impassive face.

  “My name is Joona Linna and I—”

  He stops talking and a large smile spreads across his face.

  “Of course I remember you and your red cape,” he says, and listens some more. “Yes, but … I almost believed you were going to suggest hypnosis?”

  Saga can hear the doctor’s laughing voice through the phone.

  “No, but really—we absolutely, absolutely must talk to her.”

  His face takes a serious turn.

  “I can understand her feelings, but can’t you change her mind? All right, we’ll just have to figure something else out … Bye.”

  He hangs up at the same time he turns onto Bellmansgatan.

  “That was Dr Daniella Richards,” Joona tells Saga.

  “What does she say?”

  “She feels we can question Penelope in a few days. The big problem is we have to find a different place for her to live—she refuses to stay in that underground room. She says—”

  “There’s no more secure place.”

  “She refuses,” Joona says simply.

  “We’ve got to make it clear how dangerous the situation is.”

  “I believe she knows that better than we do.”

  71

  seven million alternatives

  In the Mosebacke Etablissement’s restaurant, Disa and Joona are sitting across from each other. Sunshine fills the room through the enormous windows looking out over Gamla Stan, Skeppsholmen, and the glittering water. They are just finishing a lunch of fried Baltic herring with mashed potatoes garnished with lingonberries. They pour the last of the light beer into their glasses. In the background, on a raised platform, Ronald Brautigam performs on a black grand piano. The violinist, Isabelle van Keulen, is finishing the last stroke of her bow, her right elbow lifted.