The Nightmare Read online

  “Don’t hurt him,” says The Needle.

  “I’ll only ruin his hairstyle,” says Joona.

  “Not a chance,” grunts Frippe.

  It’s a silent struggle. The Needle looks nervous and Svanehjälm appears troubled. Without too much effort, Joona forces Frippe’s head underwater and holds him there for a slight moment, then lets him go and steps back. Frippe gets up, staggering, and The Needle hurries to him with a towel.

  “You could have just told us how it went,” The Needle says with irritation.

  As Frippe towels off his hair, they troop together into the next room, into the strong smell of decay. One of the walls is covered with three rows of stainless-steel refrigerated boxes. The Needle opens box 16 and pulls out a drawer. The body of the young woman is lying on the narrow gurney. She’s naked and has no color. A brown network of arteries can be seen on the pale skin of her neck. Joona points at the thin, curved line over her breastbone.

  “Take off your shirt,” Joona says to Frippe.

  Frippe unbuttons his jacket and pulls off his T-shirt. On his chest they can see a light rose mark from the edge of the tub. It’s curved like a smiling face.

  “I’ll be damned,” Petter says.

  The Needle steps nearer to peer closely at the roots of the woman’s hair. He takes out a small pocket flashlight and aims it directly at the pale skin of her scalp.

  “I don’t need a microscope to see how someone has held her head tight by using her hair.”

  He turns off the flashlight and drops it back into his pocket.

  “In other words …” Joona waits.

  “In other words, you’re right, of course,” says The Needle, and claps his hands.

  “Murder,” Svanehjälm pronounces, sighing.

  “Impressive,” remarks Frippe as he catches some black hair dye that has run down his cheek.

  “Thanks,” says Joona, but he sounds distracted.

  The Needle looks at him.

  “What now, Joona?” he asks. “What do you see?”

  “It’s not her,” Joona says.

  “What?”

  Joona looks up at The Needle and then points to the body before them.

  “This woman is not Penelope Fernandez. This is someone else.”

  Joona meets the chief prosecutor’s eyes. “This dead woman is not Penelope. I’ve seen Penelope’s driver’s license and it doesn’t match. I’m absolutely sure.”

  “But what—”

  “Perhaps Penelope Fernandez is also dead,” Joona says. “We just haven’t found her yet.”

  14

  a party in the night

  Penelope tries to breathe slowly, but the air tears at her throat. She slides down the cliff, ripping off sheets of moss as she squeezes between the branches of the spruce trees. She shakes with fright and creeps closer to the tree trunks, where the darkness of night is already gathering. As she thinks of Viola, she begins to whimper. Björn is ahead of her, already sitting perfectly still underneath the spruce trees, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s mumbling something over and over.

  They’ve been running in panic, not looking, stumbling over objects, falling, getting up again, clambering over fallen trees. They’ve ripped open sores on their legs, their knees, their hands, but they’ve let nothing stop them.

  Penelope has no idea how close their pursuer might be, if he’s caught sight of them again or even decided to give up and go away. Perhaps he’s found a spot to wait them out. They’re fleeing for their lives, but Penelope has no idea why.

  Perhaps it’s all a mistake, she thinks. A horrible mistake.

  She feels nauseous, feels like she’s going to throw up, but swallows resolutely.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she whispers to herself. “We can’t go on like this. We have to get help. They’ll find the boat soon and then they’ll come looking for us—”

  “Shhh!” Björn shushes her, visibly, shockingly terrified.

  Her hands tremble uncontrollably as images flash through her head. She blinks so that she won’t have to see them, but the visions keep flashing back: Viola dead; eyes wide-open, face wet, sitting on the bed, hair dripping in streams.

  Penelope knows instinctively that the man on the beach, yelling out to Björn at sea, was the one who killed her sister. She’d reacted the instant she’d understood. If she hadn’t, they’d both be dead.

  When they fled the boat, they’d carried nothing with them, not even a cell phone. Scrambling up the bank, Penelope had turned around only once to see the man in black tying the rubber boat to the pier.

  Penelope and Björn had run, side by side, into the spruce forest, darting around trees and skirting outcroppings; Björn’s voice was a series of painful gasps as the soles of his naked feet tramped over sharp brush. And when he’d seemed to slow down, Penelope had pulled him with her, knowing their pursuer was not far behind. All the while she could hear herself crying as she ran, in a voice she’d never heard before.

  A thick branch whacked her thigh and brought her to a stop. Her breath ripped at her. She moaned and with shaking hands pushed her way under low-hanging branches with Björn close beside her. Her legs throbbed. She kept going straight ahead. She heard Björn behind her and kept plunging deeper into the dark forest without turning around.

  From far outside herself, Penelope contemplated the fact that thoughts change when panic sets in. Fear is not constant. Now and then there’s room for rational thought. It’s like silencing a racket to discover a quiet space in your head, which gives you a clear overview of your situation. Then the noise returns and your thoughts race in circles until the only impetus is to run.

  Penelope kept expecting to find people. There had to have been hundreds of people out and about on Ornö Island that evening. The south end of the island is developed; there had to be people there. There had to be help.

  For a moment, Penelope and Björn hid between tightly spaced spruce trees, but after only a few seconds, their fear overwhelmed them and they began to flee again. Even as she ran, Penelope could feel the presence of her pursuer. She thought she could hear his long, swift strides. He wouldn’t stop. If they couldn’t find help, he would catch up.

  The ground was rising again. Stones loosened underneath their feet and tumbled down the slope.

  There must be people nearby. There must be a house. Hysteria swept through Penelope and she felt the need to just stop and scream as loud as she could. Silently, she ran on.

  Björn coughed behind her, strangled for breath; coughed again.

  What if Viola wasn’t really dead? What if she just needed help? Somehow Penelope knew she was having these thoughts to ward off the terrible truth. Viola was dead, but thinking that was unbearable: an empty dark space she refused to comprehend and didn’t even want to make the attempt to understand.

  They kept climbing up another steep slope between yet more spruce trees, around more huge branches, lingonberry bushes, and craggy rocks. She used her hands to steady herself until she finally reached the crest. Björn was right behind her. He tried to tell her something, but instead just gasped for breath. He took her hand to start down the other side, which now sloped toward the western shore. They could see the light of water between the dark trees. It wasn’t far.

  Penelope slipped and slid over the edge of a small cliff. She fell freely and hit the ground hard. Struggling to get up, she wondered whether she’d broken something. Then she realized she was hearing music and laughter. She leaned against the damp cliff side for support so she could stand up. She wiped her lips and studied her bloody hand.

  Björn reached her and pulled her along. He pointed. There was a party going on somewhere ahead of them. They took each other’s hands and stumbled shakily to a run. Colored lights, strung on trellises around a wooden patio, twinkled between the dark trunks of trees.

  They slowed to a cautious walk, looking carefully around.

  People were sitting at a table outside a beautiful summerhouse painted Falu
n red. Penelope wondered if it was the middle of the night. The sky was still light, but dinner must have ended a while ago. Wineglasses and coffee cups were scattered about along with crumpled napkins and empty potato-chip bowls.

  A few partygoers were singing together, while others refilled their glasses from boxes of red wine and chatted. Tendrils of wavy warm air still rose from the grill. Any children must have already been put to bed, snuggled in the house underneath cozy blankets. To Björn and Penelope, they seemed like denizens of another planet—a planet where calm, happy people lived safely together under a giant glass dome.

  Only one person stood outside of that charmed circle. He lurked at the side, facing the forest as if he expected visitors. Penelope stopped dead and silently gripped Björn’s hand. They dropped to the ground and crept behind a low spruce. Björn’s eyes were scared and uncomprehending, but Penelope was absolutely sure what she’d seen. Their pursuer had read their minds and gotten ahead of them. He knew they couldn’t resist the lights and the sounds of the party. Like moths to a flame, they’d be drawn here. So he’d waited. He’d want to catch them just inside the darkness of the trees. He hadn’t worried about any screams. He knew the people at the party wouldn’t think to investigate anything so strange until it would be too late.

  When Penelope dared look up again, the man was gone. She shook from shock. Perhaps he’d changed his mind and believed he’d made a mistake. She searched around with her eyes. Maybe he’d gone somewhere else.

  Hope had just started to creep into her mind. Then she saw him again, closer.

  He was a dark form blending into a tree trunk not far from them.

  He was calmly unpacking a set of black binoculars with green lenses.

  Penelope pressed closer to Björn and fought her mindless instinct to leap up and start running again. Instead, she coolly watched the man as he lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He must have night-vision goggles or a heat sensor, she thought.

  When the man’s back was turned, Penelope pressed Björn’s hand and, bent double, she pulled him away from the house and the music and back deep into the forest. After a while, she felt safe enough to straighten up. They began to run diagonally across a slope, a gently rounded reminder of the ancient glaciers that once ground northern Europe under ice. They kept going—through tangled bushes, behind a huge boulder, over a rocky crest. Björn grabbed a thick branch and hurried as carefully as he could down the slope. Penelope’s heart thudded in her chest and her thigh muscles screamed. She tried to breathe quietly, but could not. She slid down a rocky cliff, pulling damp moss with her, and landed on the ground next to the deep shade of a spruce. She looked at Björn. All he had on were his knee-length swimming trunks. His body was a pale blur and his lips almost disappeared in his white face.

  15

  the identification

  It sounds as if someone is bouncing a ball against the wall beneath Chief Medical Officer Nils Åhlén’s window. The Needle is waiting with Joona Linna for Claudia Fernandez. They don’t have much to say, so they keep quiet. Claudia Fernandez had been asked to appear at the department of forensic medicine early that Sunday morning to identify the body of a dead woman.

  When Joona had to phone to tell her they feared her daughter, Viola, was dead, Claudia’s voice sounded unnaturally calm.

  “No, that can’t be. Viola is out in the archipelago with her sister,” she’d said.

  “On Björn Almskog’s boat?” Joona asked.

  “Yes. I called Penelope and asked her to take her sister with them. I thought Viola needed to get away for a while.”

  “Was there anyone else on the boat?”

  “Björn, of course.”

  Joona had fallen silent and waited a few seconds to force away the heaviness in his heart. Then he’d cleared his throat and said, very softly, “Mrs. Fernandez, I would like you to come to the department of forensic medicine’s pathology office in Solna.”

  “Why?” she’d asked.

  Now Joona is sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the office of the chief medical officer. Wedged in the corner of the frame of The Needle’s wedding picture is a tiny photo of Frippe. From a distance they keep hearing the ball thud against the wall. It is a lonely sound. Joona remembers how Claudia Fernandez had caught her breath when she finally understood that her daughter might indeed not be alive. They’d arranged for a taxi to pick her up from her town house in the Gustavsberg neighborhood. She should arrive here any minute.

  The Needle had tried for some small talk but gave up when Joona did not respond. Both of them wish this moment would soon be over.

  Hearing steps in the hallway, they rise from their chairs.

  To see the dead body of a loved one is merciless—everyone’s worst fear. The experts say it is a necessary step in the process of grief. Joona has read that once an identification is made, there’s a certain kind of liberation. One can no longer sustain wild fantasies that the person is still alive. These kinds of fantasies and hopes only lead to frustration and emptiness.

  Those are nothing but empty words, Joona thinks. Death is horrible and it never gives you anything back.

  Claudia Fernandez is now in the doorway. She’s a woman of about sixty, frightened. Traces of worry are etched on her face. She huddles as if chilled.

  Joona greets her gently.

  “Hello. My name is Joona Linna and I’m a detective inspector. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  The Needle introduces himself almost soundlessly as he briefly shakes the woman’s hand and then turns away to shuffle through some folders and files. It must seem he is a cold person, but Joona knows he’s deeply moved.

  “I’ve been calling and calling, but I can’t reach my girls,” Claudia says. “They should—”

  “Shall we go in?” The Needle interrupts, as if he hadn’t heard her words.

  Silently they walk through the familiar hallway. With each step Joona feels as if air is being squeezed from his body. Claudia is in no rush. She walks slowly a few paces behind The Needle, whose tall silhouette precedes them. Joona turns and tries to smile at Claudia, but then he has to turn away from the expression in her eyes. The panic, the pleading, the prayers—her attempts to make a bargain with God.

  It feels as if she is being dragged in their wake as they enter the morgue.

  The Needle mumbles something to himself in an angry tone. Then he bends down and unlocks the stainless-steel locker and pulls out the drawer.

  The young woman’s body is covered with a white cloth except for her head. Her eyes are dull and half closed, her cheeks a little sunken, but her hair is still a black crown about her beautiful face. A small, pale hand is half uncovered along her side.

  Claudia Fernandez reaches out her hand, carefully touches the hand of her daughter, and begins to whimper. It comes from deep within, as if in this moment part of her is breaking to pieces.

  She begins to shake. She falls to her knees. She holds her daughter’s lifeless hand to her lips.

  “No, no,” she’s crying. “Oh God, dear Lord, not Viola. Not Viola …”

  From a few feet behind, Joona watches her shoulders shake as she cries; he hears her despairing wail crescendo and then gradually fall away.

  She wipes at the tears streaming down her face, breathing shakily as she slowly gets back up on her feet.

  “Can you positively confirm that this is Viola Fernandez?” The Needle says gruffly.

  His voice stops and he quickly clears his throat, angry at himself.

  Claudia nods her head and gently moves her fingertips over her daughter’s cheek.

  “Viola, Violita …”

  She draws back her shaking hand and Joona slowly says, “I’m very, very sorry for your loss.”

  Claudia looks faint but reaches out a hand to the wall for support. She turns her face away and whispers to herself.

  “We were going to the circus on Saturday. I bought tickets as a surprise for Viola …”

  They all look at the dead w
oman: her pale lips and the arteries in her throat.

  “I’ve forgotten who you are,” Claudia says in confusion. She looks at Joona.

  “Joona Linna,” he says.

  “Joona Linna,” the woman says with a thick voice. “Let me tell you about my daughter Viola. She is my little girl, my youngest, my happy little …”

  Claudia looks at Viola’s white face and it seems as if she might fall to one side. The Needle pulls over a chair, but Claudia waves it away.

  “Please forgive me,” she says. “It’s just that … my eldest daughter, Penelope, had to endure so many terrible things in El Salvador. When I think about what they did to me in that jail, when I remember how frightened Penelope was, how she’d cry and scream for me … hour after hour … but I couldn’t answer her, I couldn’t protect her …”

  Claudia meets Joona’s eyes and takes a step toward him. Gently he puts an arm around her, and she leans heavily against his chest, trying to catch her breath. She moves away again, not looking at her daughter’s body, gropes for the chair back, and then sits down.

  “My greatest joy was that Viola was born here in Sweden. She had a nice room with a pink lamp in the ceiling, toys and dolls. She went to school. She watched Pippi Longstocking on television … I don’t know if you can understand, but I was proud that she never needed to be hungry or afraid. Not like us, not like Penelope and me. We wake up at night and are frightened that someone will come into our house and hurt us …”

  She falls silent and then whispers, “Viola was happy, just happy …”

  Claudia leans forward to hide her face in her hands as she weeps. Joona lays a hand gently on her back.

  “I’ll go now,” she says, even though she’s still crying.

  “There’s no hurry.”

  She manages to contain herself, but then her face twists again into tears.

  “Have you talked to Penelope?” she asks.

  “We haven’t been able to reach her,” Joona says in a low voice.