Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (80 page)

“I’m absolutely sure of that. The man who attacked Erixson and me was a professional hit man … a
grob
.”

“A
grob
?”

“Serbian for ‘grave.’ These guys are expensive. They usually work alone. They’re well paid to follow orders precisely.”

“It all seems a bit far-fetched.”

“But I’m right,” Joona says doggedly.

“You always say that, but how has Penelope got away from this kind of killer? It’s been two days,” Carlos says.

“If she’s still alive, it’s because his priorities have shifted.”

“You still think he’s searching for something?”

“Yes,” Joona replies.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know for sure, but maybe a photo …”

“Why do you think so?”

“That’s my best theory at the moment.” Joona quickly relates what he found at Penelope’s apartment: the books taken out of the shelf, the picture with the lines of poetry, Björn’s quick visit and how he held his hand over his stomach when he was leaving, the palm print on the glass door, the bits of tape, and the corner of a photograph.

“So you think the killer is after that photo?”

“I believe he started in Björn’s apartment. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he poured out petrol and turned the neighbour’s iron on high. The alarm went to the fire department at five past eleven that morning and before they could even get the fire under control, the entire floor had been destroyed.”

“That evening he kills Viola.”

“He probably assumed that Björn had taken the photograph on the boat so he followed them, went on board, drowned Viola, and then searched the entire boat with the intention of sinking it afterwards. Something made him change his mind. He left the archipelago, returned to Stockholm, and searched through Penelope’s apartment—”

“You don’t think he found the photograph, do you?” asks Carlos.

“Either Björn has it on his person or it is hidden at a friend’s place or in a safe-deposit box. Any place at all, really.”

Silence on the line. Joona can hear Carlos breathe deeply.

“But if we find it first,” Carlos says, thinking out loud, “and this killer finds out we have it, then all of this is over.”

“That’s right,” Joona says.

“Because … if we on the force, we the police, see it, then it’s not a secret anymore. It will cease being something to kill over.”

“I only hope it’s that easy.”

“Joona, I can’t … I can’t take this case away from Petter, but I presume—”

“—that I’ll be busy lecturing at the Police Training Academy,” Joona says.

“That’s all I need to know,” Carlos says with a laugh.

On the way to Kungsholm, Joona checks his voicemail and finds a number of messages from Erixson. In the first, Erixson says he can keep working from the hospital. Thirty minutes later, he asks if he can’t be part of the work on the ground, and twenty-seven minutes later he yells that he’s going crazy without anything to do. Joona calls him and after two rings, he hears Erixson’s tired voice go “
Quack
.”

“So I’m too late?” Joona asks. “You’re already crazy?”

Erixson hiccups as a reply.

“I don’t know what you know,” Joona says. “But we’re in a big rush. Yesterday morning Penelope Fernandez left a message on her mother’s answering machine.”

“Yesterday?” Erixson was immediately alert.

“She said someone was chasing her.”

“Are you on the way here?” Erixson asks.

There’s noise on the line and Erixson asks someone to leave him alone. Joona hears a woman’s strict voice telling him it’s time for physical therapy and Erixson hissing back that he’s on a private call.

Erixson pumps Joona for information, and Joona obliges. He explains that Penelope and Björn were not together in the apartment on Sankt Paulsgatan the night before Friday. She was picked up by taxi at exactly 6:40 a.m. and was driven to the television station to be part of a debate. A few minutes after the taxi left, Björn entered the apartment. Joona tells Erixson about the palm print on the glass door, the tape, and the corner ripped from a photograph. He says he’s convinced that Björn had waited for Penelope to leave the apartment so he could get the photo quickly without her knowledge.

“And I believe that the person who attacked us is a hit man and he was looking for that photograph when we surprised him.”

“Maybe so,” Erixson whispers.

“It wasn’t his priority to kill us. He just wanted to get out of the apartment,” Joona says.

“Otherwise we would be dead.”

“We can conclude that the hit man doesn’t yet have this photograph,” Joona continues. “If he’d found it on the boat, he wouldn’t have bothered with Penelope’s apartment.”

“And it’s not at her place because Björn had already taken it.”

“My theory is that his attempt to blow up the place means that the man behind all this doesn’t really need the photo in his hand, he just wants it destroyed.”

“But why would such a photograph hang on the door of Penelope’s living room? And why is it so damned important?” asks Erixson.

“I have a few theories,” Joona says. “Most likely Björn and Penelope took a photograph of something and left it in plain sight because they didn’t realise that it was documenting evidence and what that evidence really meant.”

“That’s right,” Erixson chortles.

“As far as they knew, the photo wasn’t something they needed to hide, let alone that someone would murder for it.”

“But then Björn changes his mind.”

“Maybe he figured something out. Maybe he realised that it’s dangerous and that’s why he went to get it,” Joona says. “There’s still a great deal we don’t know. Now we’ve just got to slog along through routine police work.”

“Exactly!” Erixson exclaims.

“Can you gather everything you can find—all the telephone calls made this past week? All text messages? All bank withdrawals? All that stuff: receipts, bus tickets, meetings, activities, working hours—”

“I sure as hell can!”

“On the other hand, maybe you should just forget about all that,” Joona says. “Isn’t it time for your physical therapy?”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Erixson says, hardly able to hold back his indignation. “What is physical therapy anyway but hidden unemployment?”

“But you really ought to rest,” Joona teases. “Maybe another tech guy—”

“I’m flipping out just sitting here!”

“You’ve only been on sick leave for six hours.”

“I’m climbing the walls!”

Joona is driving east towards Gustavsberg.
I ought to call Disa
, he thinks. Instead, he calls Anja.

“I need Claudia Fernandez’s address.”

“Mariagatan 5,” she replies immediately. “Not far from the old porcelain factory.”

“Thanks.”

Anja stays on the line.

“I’m waiting,” she says, her voice teasing.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks softly.

“For you to tell me that we have ferry tickets to Finland. We’ll rent a cottage with a wood-fired sauna next to the water.”

“Sounds good,” Joona says hesitantly.

The weather is now grey and hazy and extremely humid as Joona parks his car in front of Claudia Fernandez’s house. Joona steps out and smells the bitter scent of currant bushes and elf-cap moss. He stands still for a moment, lost in a memory. The face he’s conjured up fades as he rings the doorbell. The nameplate looks like it came from a woodshop class. ‘Fernandez’ is in letters childishly burned into the wood.

The doorbell’s melodic ring echoes inside the house. He waits. After a few moments, he hears approaching footsteps.

Claudia has a worried expression as she opens the door. Seeing Joona, she steps back into the hallway knocking a coat loose from its hanger.

“No,” she whispers. “Not Penny—”

“Claudia, please, I don’t have bad news,” Joona says quickly.

Claudia can’t stay upright and collapses to the floor among the shoes, underneath the coats. She breathes like a frightened animal.

“What’s happened?” she asks in a fearful voice. Joona bends forward, down to her.

“We don’t know much yet, but yesterday, Penelope tried to call you.”

“She’s alive,” Claudia whispers.

“So far,” Joona answers.

“Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you, thank you!” Claudia whispers again.

“We caught a message on your answering machine.”

“On my … no, that’s not possible,” she says as she gets up with his help.

“There was a lot of static. We needed an expert to recover her voice,” Joona explains.

“The only thing I heard, there was a man who told me to get a job!”

“That’s the one,” Joona says. “Penelope is speaking first, but it’s barely audible.”

“What does she say?”

“She says she needs help. The maritime police want to organise a search-group chain.”

“But to trace the phone—”

“Claudia,” Joona says soothingly. “I must ask you a few questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Why don’t we sit down?”

They walk through the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Joona Linna, may I ask you something?” she says timidly.

“You can ask, but I might not be able to answer.”

Claudia puts coffee cups on the table for them both. Her hand shakes slightly. She sits across from him and stares at him for a long time.

“You have a family, don’t you?” she asks.

It’s dead quiet in the light-filled, yellow-painted kitchen.

Joona finally fills the silence. “Do you remember the last time you were at Penelope’s apartment?”

“Last week. A Tuesday. She helped me hem a pair of trousers for Viola.”

Claudia’s mouth trembles.

“Think carefully, Claudia,” he says, leaning forward. “Did you see a photograph taped up on her glass door?”

“Yes.”

“What did the photo show?” Joona asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention.”

“But you’re sure you saw a photograph?”

“Yes.” Claudia nods.

“Perhaps there were people in the picture?”

“I don’t know. I thought it had something to do with her job.”

“Was the picture taken inside or outside?”

“No idea.”

“Try and picture it in your mind.”

Claudia shuts her eyes. She shakes her head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

She looks down, thinks, and shakes her head again. “The only thing I remember thinking is that it was odd that she’d hung that photo on her door because that’s not particularly attractive.”

“Why do you think it had something to do with her job?”

“I don’t know,” Claudia whispers.

Joona’s mobile phone rings inside his jacket. He picks it up, sees that it’s Carlos, and answers, “I’m here.”

“I just talked to Lance at the maritime police on Dalarö. He says they’ve arranged an organised search starting tomorrow. Three hundred people and almost fifty boats have agreed to join.”

“That’s good,” Joona says. He watches Claudia get up and walk into the hall.

“And then I called Erixson to see how he was doing,” Carlos says.

“He seems to be doing okay,” Joona says neutrally.

“Joona, I have no idea what you’re up to, but Erixson warned me that you’re about to be right again.”

Once the call is finished, Joona follows Claudia out into the hall.She’s put on her coat and is pulling on Wellington boots.

“I heard what that man said on the phone,” Claudia says. “I can help look. I can look all night if—”

She opens the door.

“Claudia, you must let the police handle this.”

“My daughter called me and needs my help.”

“I know it’s hard to sit and wait—”

“But, please, can’t I go with you? I won’t be in the way! I can make food and answer the phone so you won’t have to worry about that.”

“Is there anyone who can stay here with you? A relative or a friend?”

“I don’t want anyone else here! I just want my Penny!”

Erixson holds a map on his lap as well as a large folder he acquired by getting a messenger to deliver it to his hospital room. He’s cooling himself with a whirring face fan while Joona pushes him in his wheelchair through the hospital corridors.

His Achilles tendon has been sutured, and instead of a cast, his foot is fixed inside a special boot with toes pointing down. He mutters that all he needs is a ballet shoe on the other foot and he’ll be ready to perform
Swan Lake
.

Joona nods in a friendly way towards two elderly ladies sitting on a sofa and holding hands. They giggle, whisper to each other, and then wave at him as if they were schoolgirls.

“On the same morning they headed out on the boat,” Erixson was saying, “Björn bought an envelope and two stamps at Central Station. He had a receipt from Pressbyrån in his wallet, which we found on the boat. I forced the security company to send along the tape from the security camera. It really does look like he’s posting a photograph, just like you’ve said all this time.”

“So who is he sending the photograph to?” asks Joona.

“We can’t read the address on the envelope.”

“Maybe to himself.”

“But his apartment is so burned out he doesn’t even have a door,” Erixson says.

“Call the post office and ask them.”

As they enter the lift, Erixson starts some strange swimming movements with his arms. Joona looks at him calmly but doesn’t ask any questions.

“Jasmin tells me it’s good for me,” Erixson explains.

“Who’s Jasmin?”

“My physical therapist. She looks like a sweet little cupcake, but she’s hard as nails:
Keep quiet, stop complaining, sit up straight.
She even called me a little potbelly.” Erixson smiles shyly as they step into the hallway.

They turn into a room set aside for meditation. It has a simple altar with a smooth wooden cross hung on a metre-long stand above it. There is also a tapestry on the wall, a Christ figure surrounded by a series of light-coloured triangles.

Down the hall, Joona pulls from a store cupboard a large set of flip charts and markers that he’d stashed away earlier. Back in the meditation room, he sees Erixson has already pulled down the Christ tapestry and draped it over the cross that’s now propped up in a corner.