The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

Joona says calmly.

      ‘I don’t like boats, they keep moving the whole time, but I’ve only just got …’

      ‘Take a break,’ Joona says sharply.

      ‘What’s got into you now?’

      ‘Just follow me and don’t touch your phone.’

      They go ashore and Joona leads Erixon a short way from the boat before he stops. He can feel his cheeks flush as calmness spreads through his body, settling as a weight in his thighs and calves.

      ‘There could be a bomb on board,’ he says quietly.

      Erixon sits down on the edge of a concrete plinth. Sweat is dripping from his forehead.

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘This is no ordinary murder,’ Joona says. ‘There’s a risk that …’

      ‘Murder? There’s nothing to suggest …’

      ‘Hold on,’ Joona interrupts. ‘I’m certain that Penelope Fernandez was drowned in the wash-tub that was out on deck.’

      ‘Drowned? What the hell are you saying?’

      ‘She drowned in seawater in the tub, then was moved to the bed,’ Joona goes on. ‘And I think the plan was that the boat should sink.’

      ‘But …’

      ‘Because then … then she’d be found in her water-filled cabin with water in her lungs.’

      ‘But the boat never sank,’ Erixon says.

      ‘That’s what made me start to wonder if there is some sort of explosive device on board, a device that didn’t go off, for whatever reason.’

      ‘It’s probably next to the fuel tank or the gas cylinders in the galley,’ Erixon says slowly. ‘We’ll have to get the area evacuated and call in the Bomb Squad.’

       13

       Reconstruction

      At seven o’clock that evening five very serious men meet in room 13 of the Department of Forensic Medicine at the Karolinska Institute. Detective Superintendent Joona Linna wants to take charge of the preliminary investigation into the case of the woman who was found dead on a boat in the Stockholm archipelago. Even though it’s Saturday, he has summoned his immediate boss, Petter Näslund, and Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm to a reconstruction in order to try to convince them that they’re actually dealing with a murder.

      One of the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling keeps flickering. The cool lighting glints off the dazzling white tiled walls.

      ‘Need to change the starter,’ The Needle murmurs.

      ‘Yes,’ Frippe agrees.

      Petter Näslund mutters something under his breath from where he’s standing over by the wall. His wide, strong face looks like it’s shaking in the flickering light. Beside him stands Chief Prosecutor Jens Svanehjälm with an irritable expression on his young face. He seems to be considering the risks of putting his leather briefcase down on the floor and leaning against the wall in his smart suit.

      There’s a strong smell of disinfectant in the room. Large, adjustable lamps hang from the ceiling above a free-standing stainless steel table, with a double tap and deep drainage channels. The floor is covered with pale grey linoleum. A zinc tub like the one on the boat is already half full of water. Joona Linna keeps fetching more water in a bucket from the tap on the wall above the drain, and then emptying it into the tub.

      ‘It isn’t actually against the law for someone to be found drowned on a boat,’ Svanehjälm says impatiently.

      ‘Quite,’ Petter says.

      ‘This could just be an accidental drowning that hasn’t been reported yet,’ Svanehjälm goes on.

      ‘The water in her lungs is the same water the boat was floating in, but there’s practically none of that water on her clothes or the rest of her body,’ The Needle says.

      ‘Strange,’ Svanehjälm says.

      ‘There’s bound to be a rational explanation,’ Petter says with a smile.

      Joona empties one last bucket into the tub, then puts the bucket on the floor, looks up at the others and thanks them for coming.

      ‘I know it’s the weekend and everyone would rather be at home,’ he says. ‘But I think I’ve noticed something important.’

      ‘Of course we’re going to come if you tell us it’s important,’ Svanehjälm says amiably, and finally puts his briefcase down between his feet.

      ‘The perpetrator made his way onto the leisure cruiser,’ Joona says seriously. ‘He went down the steps to the front cabin and saw Penelope Fernandez asleep, then went back up to the aft-deck, dropped the bucket on the rope into the water and started to fill the wash-tub that was standing on deck.’

      ‘Five, six buckets,’ Petter says.

      ‘Then, when the tub was full, he went down to the cabin and woke Penelope. He took her up the steps and out onto the deck, where he drowned her in the tub.’

      ‘Who would do something like that?’ Svanehjälm asks.

      ‘I don’t know yet, maybe it was some sort of torture, like waterboarding …’

      ‘Revenge? Jealousy?’

      Joona tilts his head and says thoughtfully:

      ‘This isn’t any ordinary murderer. Maybe the perpetrator wanted information from her, to get her to say or admit to something, before finally holding her underwater until she could no longer resist the urge to breathe in.’

      ‘What does our pathologist say?’ Svanehjälm asks.

      The Needle shakes his head.

      ‘If she was drowned,’ he says, ‘then I’d have found signs of violence on her body, bruises and …’

      ‘Can we wait with the objections?’ Joona interrupts. ‘Because I’d like to start by showing what I think happened, the way it looks in my head. And then, once I’m done, I’d like us all to go and look at the body, and see if there’s any basis for my theory.’

      ‘Why can’t you ever do anything the way it’s supposed to be done?’ Petter asks.

      ‘I do need to go home soon,’ the prosecutor warns.

      Joona looks at him with an ice-grey glint in his pale eyes. There’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his eyes, a smile that does nothing to detract from the seriousness of his look.

      ‘Penelope Fernandez,’ he begins. ‘She had been sitting on deck just before, smoking a joint. It was a warm day and she felt tired, so went down to rest on her bed for a while, and fell asleep wearing her denim jacket.’

      He gestures towards The Needle’s young assistant, who is waiting in the doorway.

      ‘Frippe has agreed to help with the reconstruction.’

      Frippe smiles and takes a step forward. His dyed black hair is hanging in clumps down his back, and his worn leather trousers are studded with rivets. He carefully fastens his leather jacket over his black T-shirt with a picture of the pop-group Europe on it.

      ‘Look,’ Joona says quietly, and demonstrates how with one hand he can take a firm grip of both sleeves of the jacket to lock Frippe’s arms behind his back, allowing him to grab hold of his long hair with the other hand.

      ‘I’ve