The Nightmare

12

Joona Linna stands stock-still, just two feet from the dark stairwell. From this angle, he can make out the lower edge of the glass doors and some of the rear deck. A shadow falls over the dusty glass; then a hand appears. Someone is moving very slowly. A split second later, Joona recognizes Erixson’s face. Sweat is dripping from it as Erixson puts gelatin foil over the area beside the door.

Joona carries the shoulder bag into the salon. Carefully, he turns it upside down and empties it onto the hardwood table. He flips a red wallet open with his pen. There’s a driver’s license in the scratched plastic pocket. He looks more closely and sees a beautiful yet serious face revealed in the flash of an automatic photo booth. She’s sitting slightly back as if she’s looking up at the observer. Her hair is black and curly. He recognizes the girl on the autopsy table at the pathologist’s: the straight nose, the eyes, the South American features. “Penelope Fernandez,” he reads. Somehow it sounds familiar.

In his mind, he sees again the pathology lab and the naked body on the table in that tile-covered room, the girl’s relaxed expression, the face beyond sleep.

Outside, Erixson’s moving the bulk of his huge body one decimeter at a time as he takes up fingerprints along the railing: painting with magnetic powder, lifting the prints with tape. He dries off a wet area, carefully drops SPR solution on it, and then photographs the impressions that slowly are revealed. The entire time, he sighs as if every movement is torture and he’s just used up the last of his strength.

Joona peers along the deck and sees the bucket and its rope next to a gym shoe. From below, the earthy smell of potatoes reaches his nose.

He looks back down at the driver’s license and the tiny photograph. He looks at the young woman’s mouth and her slightly parted lips. A niggling thought comes; something is not quite right.

He feels that he’s seen something important and was just about to put his finger on it when it slides away.

Joona startles as the phone in his pocket vibrates. He pulls it out and sees The Needle is calling.

“Joona,” he answers.

“This is Nils Åhlén, chief medical officer, in Stockholm.”

Joona can’t help smiling. They’ve known each other for twenty years and he’d recognize The Needle’s voice whether he introduced himself or not.

“Did she hit her head?” Joona asks.

“No,” The Needle answers, surprised.

“I thought that she might have hit her head on a stone.”

“No-nothing like that. She drowned. That’s the cause of death.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I’ve observed froth inside her nostrils, mucosal tears in the throat, most likely due to strong gag reflexes, and there are bronchial secretions in both the trachea and the bronchi. The lungs have the typical appearance found in a drowning. They’re filled with water and have gained weight and, well…”

Silence falls between them. Joona hears a scraping sound as if someone is shifting a metal pedestal.

“There’s a reason you called,” Joona says.

“Yes, there is.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Joona asks patiently.

“She had a high concentration of tetrahydrocannabinol in her urine.”

“Cannabis?”

“Right.”

“But that’s not what caused her death.”

“Hardly,” The Needle says with suppressed excitement. “I expect you are on the boat right now reconstructing events… and there’s a piece of the puzzle you might not know.”

“Her name is Penelope Fernandez.”

“How nice to meet her,” mumbles The Needle.

“What was the piece of the puzzle?”

“Well…” The Needle’s breath is audible in the receiver.

“Tell me.”

“It’s still not a normal death.”

The Needle falls silent again.

“What did you notice?”

“Nothing in particular. It’s just a feeling…”

“Bravo,” says Joona. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”

“I know, but… It’s clear that this could be a case of mors subita naturalis, that is, a hasty but natural death… There’s nothing to contradict this, but if this is a natural death, it’s a very unusual natural death.”

They end the call but The Needle’s words echo in Joona’s head. Mors subita naturalis. There is something mysterious about Penelope Fernandez’s death. She was not found in the water and lifted on board; then she would have been lying on the deck. But perhaps the person who found her wanted to treat the body with respect. But why not just carry her to the sofa in the salon? Of course she might have been found by someone who loved her and wanted to put her in a setting where she would have been comfortable-in her own room and her own bed.

Perhaps The Needle was wrong. Maybe she had been rescued, helped on board, helped to her room. Perhaps her lungs had already been seriously injured and she was beyond saving. Perhaps she was feeling ill and wanted to lie down and be left alone.

But why no trace of seawater on her body or clothes?

There’s a freshwater shower on board, Joona thinks, and tells himself it’s time to search the rest of the boat and take a good look at the berth in the stern, the bathroom, and the galley. There is still quite a bit to examine before the entire picture can become clear.

When Erixson stands up and moves his enormous body, the boat rocks again.

Joona’s attention is again drawn to the bucket with the rope. It’s next to a tub where a wet suit had been flung. A pair of water skis is lying along the railing. Joona’s eyes wander back to the bucket. The rope tied to the handle. The round zinc edge of the washtub shines like a crescent moon in the sun.

A realization washes over him and, with icy clarity, Joona is able to picture what took place. He waits, and lets his heart calm back down. He lets the entire scenario repeat in his mind once more and he is now completely sure it’s correct.

The woman named Penelope Fernandez was drowned in the washtub.

In his mind, Joona sees again the mark he’d noticed in the pathology lab: the mark on the skin over her collarbone, the one that reminded him of a smile.

She was murdered and then she was put down on the bed.

Now his thoughts whirl as adrenaline rushes through his system. She was drowned in the brackish water and then carried onto her bed.

Not a common killing. Not a common killer. A voice wells up from deep inside him, becoming more and more clear. More and more demanding. It repeats four words, louder and faster each time. Leave the boat now! Leave the boat now! Joona peers at Erixson through the window. He’s putting a swab into a paper bag, sealing it with tape, and marking it with a ballpoint pen.

“Peek-a-boo.” Erixson smiles.

“Let’s go ashore,” Joona says calmly.

“I don’t like boats because they keep moving all the time, but I’ve just started with-”

“Take a break,” Joona says.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Just come with me and don’t touch that cell phone.”

They scramble ashore and Joona leads Erixson far away from the boat, as quickly as he can, before they stop. He feels a heat in his face while a kind of calmness spreads through his body-a weight in his legs and calves.

Quietly he says, “I believe there’s a bomb on board.”

Erixson plumps down on the edge of a cement piling. Sweat pours from his forehead.

“What are you talking about?”

“This is not normal, this murder,” Joona says. “There’s a risk that-”

“Who said anything about murder?”

“Just wait and listen to me,” Joona says insistently. “Penelope Fernandez was drowned in that washtub on deck.”

“Drowned? What the hell?”

“She was drowned in seawater in that washtub and then she was put on the bed,” Joona says. “And I believe the next step was to sink the boat.”

“But-”

“Because then the seawater in her lungs would be natural if she was found in a sunken boat.”

“But the boat didn’t sink,” Erixson protests.

“That’s what made me think. Logically there is an explosive on board the boat, which for some reason or another did not go off.”

“It’s probably in the fuel tank then, or the gas cylinders for the galley,” Erixson says slowly. “Let’s clear the area and call in the bomb squad.”