The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

they started to run. Between the dark trees they could see coloured garlands of lights wound through a wooden veranda overlooking the water.

      They walked on warily.

      There was a group of people sitting around a table in front of a beautiful rust-red summerhouse. Penelope realised it must be the middle of the night, but the sky was still bright. The meal was long since over, the table was strewn with glasses and coffee cups, napkins and empty bowls of crisps.

      Some of the people at the table were singing, others were talking and topping up glasses from wine-boxes. The barbecue was still radiating heat. There were probably children asleep inside the house. To Björn and Penelope, they all looked like they were from a completely different world. Their faces were bright and calm. The obvious friendship between them sealed them off like a glass dome.

      Only one person was outside the circle. He was standing off to one side with his face towards the forest, as if expecting visitors. Penelope stopped abruptly and clutched Björn’s hand. They sank to the ground and crept behind a low fir tree. Björn looked frightened, uncomprehending. But she was sure of what she had seen. Their pursuer had figured out which way they were heading and had got to the house ahead of them. He had realised how irresistible the lights and sounds of the party would be to them. So he waited, watching for them among the dark trees, keen to head them off at the edge of the forest. He wasn’t worried that the people at the party would hear their screams; he knew they wouldn’t dare to enter the forest until it was too late.

      When Penelope eventually risked a look up again he was gone. She was trembling from the adrenalin coursing through her blood. Maybe their pursuer thought he’d made a mistake, she wondered, looking around.

      Perhaps he’d run off in a different direction.

      She was just starting to think that their flight might finally be over, that she and Björn could go down to the party and alert the police, when she suddenly caught sight of him again.

      He was standing beside a tree-trunk, not far away at all.

      With measured movements their pursuer raised a pair of binoculars with pale green lenses.

      Penelope huddled down next to Björn, trying to fight the urge to flee, to just run and run. She could see the man through the trees, raising the binoculars to his eyes, and realised that they probably had night vision, or heat-seeking sights.

      Penelope took Björn by the hand and, crouching low, pulled him away from the house with her, away from the music, backwards into the forest. After a while she dared to straighten up. They started to run across a scree-slope formed by the kilometre-thick glaciers that once covered northern Europe. They carried on through thorny bushes, behind a large rock and across a sharp ridge. Björn grabbed hold of a thick branch and slowly started to slide down the other side. Penelope’s heart was thudding hard in her chest, her thigh muscles were aching, and she was trying to breathe quietly, even though she was far too breathless. She slipped down the rough rocks, pulling damp moss and loose stones down with her until she reached the ground under the dense canopy of fir branches. Björn was wearing nothing but his knee-length board-shorts, his face was pale and his lips almost white.

       15

       Identification

      It sounds like someone is repeatedly throwing a ball at the wall below senior pathologist Nils Åhlén’s window. He and Joona Linna are waiting for Claudia Fernandez in silence. She’s been asked to come to the Department of Forensic Medicine early this Sunday morning to help identify the dead woman.

      When Joona called her to say that they feared her daughter Viola had died, Claudia’s voice had sounded strangely calm.

      ‘No, Viola’s out in the archipelago with her sister,’ she had said.

      ‘On Björn Almskog’s boat?’ Joona asked.

      ‘Yes, I was the one who suggested she call Penelope and ask if she could go with them, I thought it would do her good to get away for a bit.’

      ‘Was anyone else going with them?’

      ‘Well, Björn, obviously.’

      Joona fell silent, and several seconds passed as he tried to shift the weight that had settled inside him. Then he cleared his throat and said very gently:

      ‘Claudia, I’d like you to come to the Department of Forensic Medicine in Solna.’

      ‘What for?’ she asked.

      Now Joona is sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the senior pathologist’s room. The Needle has slipped a small picture of Frippe into the bottom of his framed wedding photograph. They can hear the sound of the ball thudding against the wall, a hollow, lonely sound. Joona thinks back to how Claudia’s breathing changed when she finally realised that it might actually be her daughter that they’d found dead. Joona had carefully explained the circumstances to her: that a woman they feared was her younger daughter had been found dead on an abandoned motor cruiser in the Stockholm archipelago.

      He booked a taxi to collect Claudia Fernandez from her terraced house in Gustavsberg. She should be with them within the next few minutes.

      The Needle makes a half-hearted attempt at small-talk, but gives up after a while when he realises Joona isn’t going to respond.

      They both just want this to be over. A positive identification is always a traumatic moment: any lacerating relief afforded by the end of uncertainty is mixed with the absolute agony of all hope being lost.

      They can hear footsteps in the corridor. They both get to their feet at the same time.

      Seeing the dead body of a family member is a merciless confirmation of all our worst fears. But at the same time it’s an important, necessary part of the grieving process. Joona has read plenty of claims that identification also constitutes a form of liberation. There’s no longer any opportunity for wild fantasies that the loved one is actually still alive, fantasies which can only bring emptiness and frustration.

      Joona can’t help thinking that’s just hollow nonsense. Death is never anything but terrible, and never gives anything back.

      Claudia Fernandez is standing in the doorway, a frightened-looking woman in her sixties. Her face bears traces of tears and anxiety, and her body looks frozen and hunched.

      Joona gently introduces himself:

      ‘Hello, my name is Joona Linna. I’m a detective superintendent – it was me you spoke to on the phone.’

      The Needle introduces himself very quietly as he shakes hands with the woman, then immediately turns his back on her and pretends to sort through some files. He appears very brusque and dismissive, but Joona knows that he’s really very upset.

      ‘I’ve tried calling them, but I can’t get hold of either of my girls,’ Claudia whispers. ‘They ought …’

      ‘Shall we go?’ Nils interrupts, as if he hasn’t heard her.

      They move silently through the familiar corridors. With each step Joona can’t help thinking that the air is getting thinner. Claudia Fernandez is in no hurry to get to what lies ahead. She walks slowly, several metres behind Nils, whose tall, sharply defined figure hurries off ahead of them. Joona Linna turns and tries to smile at Claudia. But he has to steel himself against the look in her eyes: panic, pleading, prayer, desperate attempts to do a deal with God.

      It feels like they’re dragging her into the cold room where the bodies are kept.

      Nils mutters something, sounding almost angry, then he bends over, unlocks one of the stainless steel doors and pulls out the drawer.

      The young woman comes into view. Her body is covered with a white