The Nightmare

Life is so terrifyingly fragile.

Her finger- and toenails are painted a pinkish-beige colour.

‘What’s so special about her, then?’ he asks after a few moments.

The Needle looks at him seriously, and his glasses glint as he turns back towards the body again.

‘The marine police brought her in,’ he says. ‘She was found sitting on the bed in the front cabin of a large motor cruiser that was drifting in the archipelago.’

‘Dead?’

Nils meets his gaze and says, with a sudden lilt in his voice:

‘She drowned, Joona.’

‘Drowned?’

The Needle nods and smiles brightly.

‘She drowned on board a boat that was still afloat,’ he says.

‘So someone found her in the water and brought her on board.’

‘Well, if that had happened I wouldn’t be taking up your valuable time,’ Nils says.

‘So what’s this all about, then?’

‘There’s no trace of water on the rest of the body – I’ve sent her clothes for analysis, but the National Forensics Lab aren’t going to find anything either.’

The Needle falls silent, glances through the preliminary external report, then glances at Joona to see if he’s managed to pique his curiosity. Joona is standing completely still, and his face looks completely different now. He’s looking at the dead body with an expression of intense concentration. Suddenly he takes a pair of latex gloves from the box and pulls them on. The Needle smiles happily to himself as Joona leans over the girl, then carefully lifts her arms and studies them.

‘You won’t find any signs of violence,’ Nils says, almost inaudibly. ‘It’s incomprehensible.’

11 (#ulink_eeb5a2a8-c936-53a8-b0b0-e26205be5550)

In the front cabin (#ulink_eeb5a2a8-c936-53a8-b0b0-e26205be5550)

The large motor cruiser is moored at the marine police marina on Dalarö. It lies at anchor between two police boats, white and shiny.

The tall metal gates to the marina are open. Joona Linna drives slowly in along the gravel track, past a mauve van and a crane with a rusty winch. He parks, leaves the car and walks on.

A boat has been found abandoned, drifting in the archipelago, thinks Joona. On the bed in the front cabin sits a girl who has drowned. The boat is afloat, but the girl’s lungs are full of brackish seawater.

From a distance Joona stops and looks at the boat. The front of the hull has been seriously damaged; long scratches run along 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.