The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

the side, from a violent collision, damaging the paint and the fibreglass beneath.

      He calls Lennart Johansson of the marine police.

      ‘Lennart,’ a voice answers brightly.

      ‘Lennart Johansson?’ Joona asks.

      ‘Yes, that’s me.’

      ‘My name is Joona Linna, National Crime.’

      The line goes quiet. Joona can hear what sounds like waves lapping.

      ‘The motor cruiser that you brought in,’ Joona says. ‘I was wondering if it had taken on any water?’

      ‘Water?’

      ‘The hull is damaged.’

      Joona takes a few steps closer to the boat as Lennart Johansson explains in a tone of heavy resignation:

      ‘Dear Lord, if I had a penny for every drunk who crashed …’

      ‘I need to look at the boat,’ Joona interrupts.

      ‘Look, here’s a broad outline of what happened,’ Lennart Johansson says. ‘Some kids from … I don’t know, let’s say Södertälje. They steal a boat, pick up some girls, cruise about, listen to music, party, drink a lot. In the middle of everything they hit something, quite a hard collision, and the girl falls overboard. The guys stop the boat, drive back and find her, get her up on deck. When they realise she’s dead they panic, so damn frightened that they just take off.’

      Lennart stops and waits for a response.

      ‘Not a bad theory,’ Joona says slowly.

      ‘It’s not, is it?’ Lennart says cheerfully. ‘It’s all yours. Might save you a trip to Dalarö.’

      ‘Too late,’ Joona says, as he starts to walk towards the marine police boat.

      It’s a Stridsbåt 90E, moored behind the motor cruiser. A tanned, bare-chested man in his mid-twenties is standing on deck holding a phone to his ear.

      ‘Suit yourself,’ he says. ‘Feel free to book a sightseeing trip.’

      ‘I’m here already – and I think I’m looking right at you, if you’re standing on one of your shallow …’

      ‘Do I look like a surfer?’

      The suntanned man looks up with a smile and scratches his chest.

      ‘Pretty much,’ Joona says.

      They end the call and walk towards each other. Lennart Johansson pulls on a short-sleeved uniform shirt and buttons it as he crosses the gangplank.

      Joona holds up his thumb and little finger in a surfers’ gesture. Lennart’s white teeth flash in his suntanned face.

      ‘I go surfing whenever there’s enough swell – that’s why I’m known as Lance.’

      ‘I can see why,’ Joona jokes drily.

      ‘Right?’ Lennart laughs.

      They walk over to the boat and stop on the jetty beside the gangplank.

      ‘A Storebro 36, Royal Cruiser,’ Lennart says. ‘Good boat, but it’s seen better days. Registered to a Björn Almskog.’

      ‘Have you contacted him?’

      ‘Haven’t had time.’

      They take a closer look at the damage to the boat’s hull. It looks recent, there’s no algae among the glass fibres.

      ‘I’ve asked a forensics specialist to come out – he should be here soon,’ Joona says.

      ‘She’s taken a serious knock,’ Lennart says.

      ‘Who’s been on board since the boat was found?’

      ‘No one,’ he replies quickly.

      Joona smiles and waits with a patient expression on his face.

      ‘Well, me, of course,’ Lennart says hesitantly. ‘And Sonny, my colleague. And the paramedics who removed the body. And our forensics guy, but he used floor mats and protective clothing.’

      ‘Is that all?’

      ‘Apart from the old boy who found the boat.’

      Joona doesn’t answer, just looks down at the sparkling water and thinks about the girl on the table in the Department of Forensic Medicine with The Needle.

      ‘Do you know if your forensics guy secured all the surface evidence?’ he asks after a while.

      ‘He’s done with the floor, and he’s filmed the scene.’

      ‘I’m going on board.’

      A narrow, worn gangplank leads from the jetty to the boat. Joona climbs aboard and then stands on the aft-deck for a while. He looks around slowly, scanning everything carefully. This is the first and only time he will see the crime scene like this, as a first impression. Every detail he registers now could be vital. Shoes, an overturned sun-lounger, large towel, a paperback that has turned yellow in the sun, a knife with a red plastic handle, a bucket on a rope, beer tins, a bag of charcoal, a tub containing a wetsuit, bottles of sun cream and lotion.

      He looks through the large window at the wooden furnishings of the saloon and helm. From a certain angle fingerprints on the glass door stand out in the sunlight, impressions of hands that have pushed the door open, closed it again, reached for it when the boat rocked.

      Joona enters the small saloon. The afternoon sun is glinting off the wood veneers and chrome. There’s a cowboy hat and a pair of sunglasses on the navy-blue cushions on one of the sofas.

      The water outside is lapping against the hull.

      Joona’s eyes roam across the worn floor of the saloon and down the narrow steps to the front of the boat. It’s as dark as a deep well down there. He can’t see anything until he turns his torch on. The cool, tightly focused beam illuminates the steep passageway. The red wood shimmers like the inside of a body. Joona goes down the creaking steps, thinking of the girl, toying with the idea that she was alone on the boat, dived from the foredeck, hit her head on a rock, breathed water into her lungs but somehow managed to get back on board, change out of her wet bikini into dry clothes. Perhaps she was already feeling tired and went down into the cabin, not realising that she was as badly hurt as she was, not realising that actually she had a serious concussion that was rapidly increasing the pressure on her brain.

      But Nils would have found traces of brackish water on her body.

      It doesn’t make sense.

      Joona goes down the steps, past the galley and bathroom, into the main cabin.

      There’s a lingering feeling from her death on the boat, even though her body has been moved to the Department of Forensic Medicine in Solna. It’s the same feeling every time. Somehow the objects stare silently back at him, full of screams, cramps, silence.

      Suddenly the boat creaks differently and seems to lean to one side. Joona waits and listens, then carries on into the cabin.

      Summer light is streaming through the narrow windows by the ceiling, onto a double bed with its top end shaped to fit the bow of the boat. This was where she was found, in a seated position. There’s an open sports bag on the floor, and a polka-dotted nightdress has been unpacked. On the back of the door are a pair of jeans and a thin cardigan. A shoulder bag is hanging from a hook.

      The boat sways again and a glass bottle rolls across the deck above his head.

      Joona photographs the bag from various angles with his mobile phone. The flash makes the little room shrink, as if the walls, floor and ceiling all took a step closer for an instant.

      He carefully takes the bag down off the hook and carries it up on deck. The steps creak under his weight. He can hear a metallic clicking sound from outside. When he reaches the saloon an unexpected shadow crosses the