Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (67 page)

“We know, we understand,” Kofoed says quickly. “The way we work is a little rigid, but it’s shown …”

Kofoed falls silent.

“We just wanted to ask,” says Nathan Pollock.

“It’s just not the way I work,” Joona explains.

To a man, they look down at the table; someone nods. Joona’s mobile phone rings and he excuses himself to answer it. He stands up from the table and leaves the room. A minute later he returns and slides his jacket off the chair.

“Sorry. I would like to stay, but—”

“Something serious?” asks Carlos.

“That was John Bengtsson from Routine Patrol,” Joona says. “He’s just found Carl Palmcrona.”

“Found?” asks Carlos.

“Hanged,” Joona answers. His eyes gleam like grey glass.

“Who is Palmcrona?” asks Nathan Pollock. “I can’t place the name.”

“He’s the general director for ISP,” Tommy Kofoed says quickly. “He makes the final decisions on Swedish arms exports.”

“Isn’t everything at ISP classified?” asks Carlos.

“True,” Kofoed answers.

“So let the guys at Säpo take it.”

“I’ve just promised Bengtsson I’d come in person,” Joona answers. “There’s something not quite right about the scene.”

“What?” Carlos asks.

“He said … well, I really have to see it myself.”

“Sounds interesting,” Tommy Kofoed says. “Can I come?”

“If you want,” Joona answers.

“I’ll come, too, then,” Pollock says swiftly.

Carlos tries to remind them about the meeting in progress but sees it is pointless as the three men get up and walk out into the cool hallway.

Twenty minutes later, Detective Inspector Joona Linna parks his black Volvo on Strandvägen and gets out to wait for his colleagues from the National Criminal Investigation Department. They pull up moments later in a silver-grey Lincoln Town Car and together they walk round the corner and enter the building at Grevgatan 2.

While they ride the ancient, rattling lift to the top, Tommy Kofoed asks what information Joona’s already been given.

“The National Inspectorate of Strategic Products had put out a bulletin that Palmcrona was missing,” Joona says. “He has no family and none of his colleagues knew him socially, but when he didn’t show up for work, the police were asked to investigate. John Bengtsson went to Palmcrona’s apartment and found him hanging. But he’s not sure it’s a suicide.”

Nathan Pollock’s weather-beaten face frowns in concentration.

“Why does he suspect something’s wrong?”

The lift stops and Joona slides the gate open. Bengtsson is waiting at the door of the apartment.

“This is Tommy Kofoed and Nathan Pollock from the CID,” Joona says.

They shake hands quietly.

“So the door was unlocked when I arrived,” John tells them. “I heard music and found Palmcrona hanging in one of the large rooms. Over the years, I’ve cut down a number of people, but this time … I mean … perhaps it is suicide, but given Palmcrona’s position in society, I thought I’d better check it all out.”

“You did the right thing to call,” Joona agrees.

“Checked out the body?” Tommy asks in his sullen fashion.

“I didn’t even enter the room,” John replies.

“Good,” Kofoed mumbles, and he begins to lay protective mats on the floor.

Minutes later, Joona and Nathan Pollock are able to walk into the hallway. John Bengtsson is waiting for them next to a blue sofa. He points towards the double doors that are ajar and reveal a well-lit room. Joona continues walking across the protective mats and pushes the doors wide open.

Warm sunshine pours into the room through high windows. Carl Palmcrona is hanging in the centre of the spacious room. Flies creep over his white face and into his eye sockets and open mouth to lay their small, yellowish eggs. They buzz around the pool of urine as well as the sleek black briefcase on the floor. The narrow laundry line has cut into Palmcrona’s throat, forming a deep red furrow. Blood has flowed out and down the front of his shirt.

“Executed,” Tommy Kofoed declares as he pulls on protective gloves.

Every trace of sullenness has vanished, and he smiles as he goes down on his knees to begin photographing the hanging body.

“We’ll probably find injuries to the cervical vertebra,” Pollock says pointing.

Joona glances up at the ceiling and back to the floor.

“Obviously it’s a statement,” Kofoed says triumphantly and keeps the flashing camera focused on the corpse. “I mean, the killer didn’t bother to hide the body but wants to say something instead.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Bengtsson exclaims just as eagerly. “The room is empty and there are no chairs or ladders to climb on.”

“So the question is, what does the killer want to say?” Tommy Kofoed says as he lowers the camera to peer at the body. “Hanging is connected to treason and betrayal. Think of Judas Iscariot who—”

“Just a second,” Joona says mildly.

They see him point at the floor.

“What is it?” asks Pollock.

“We’re looking at a suicide,” Joona replies.

“What a typical suicide!” Tommy Kofoed laughs. “He flaps his wings and flies—”

“The briefcase,” Joona says. “If he set it upright, he’d reach the noose.”

“But he couldn’t have reached the ceiling,” Pollock points out.

“He could have fastened the noose beforehand.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

Joona shrugs and says, “Keep in mind the music and the knots …”

“Let’s take a look at the briefcase,” Pollock says.

“Let me just secure the area first,” says Kofoed.

They watch Kofoed, his bent, short body, as he creeps forwards and rolls out over the floor a sheet of black plastic film with a bottom layer of thin gelatin. Then he carefully presses on the film with a rubber roller.

“Can you get me a couple of bio-packs and a large container?” he requests as he points to his collection bag.

“Wellpapp?” asks Pollock.

“Yes, thanks,” Tommy says as he catches the packs that Pollock throws in a high arch to him.

He secures any biological traces on the floor and then waves Pollock into the room.

“You’ll find the marks of his shoes on the outer edge of the briefcase,” Joona says. “It has fallen over backwards and the body has swung diagonally.”

Pollock says nothing, just walks over to the leather briefcase and gets on his knees beside it. His silver ponytail falls forward as he leans down to put the briefcase on its edge. Obvious light grey marks are clearly visible on the black leather.

“So it’s so, then,” Joona remarks quietly.

“Fucking awesome,” Tommy Kofoed says, and his whole tired face smiles up at Joona.

“Suicide,” Pollock mutters.

“Technically speaking, yes,” Joona says.

They stand looking at the body for a while.

“What do we really have here?” asks Kofoed. He’s still smiling. “Someone high up, with a job deciding who can export military equipment, who decides now to take his own life.”

“Not our department,” sighs Pollock.

Tommy Kofoed rolls off his gloves and gestures at the hanging man.

“Joona? What’s the deal with the knots and the music?” he asks.

“It’s a double sheet bend,” Joona says and points to the knots around the lamp hook. “I connect it to Palmcrona’s long naval career.”

“And the music?”

Joona stops and looks at him meditatively.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Well, I know it’s a sonata for violin. Early nineteenth century or—”

He is interrupted by the doorbell. The four of them glance at one another. Joona starts to walk back to the hallway and the rest follow but stop before they can be seen from the landing.

At the front door, Joona considers a quick view through the peephole but decides against it. He can feel air stream through the keyhole as he presses down the door handle. The heavy door swings open. The landing is dark. Joona’s hand goes for his pistol as he checks behind the open door. A tall woman is caught in a faint gap of light by the handrail. She has huge hands. She’s probably about sixty-five years old. She’s completely still. Her grey hair is cut in a short, girlish pageboy style, and there’s a large, skin-coloured bandage on her chin. She looks Joona right in the eye without a hint of a smile.

“So have you cut him down yet?” she asks.

Joona had thought he’d have time to make the National Criminal Investigation Department meeting at one o’clock.

But he’d wanted to have lunch with Disa first. They were to meet at Rosendal’s Garden on Djurgården. Joona arrived early and had to wait for a while in the sunshine. He idly watched the mist hovering over the small vineyard. Then he saw Disa coming, her cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Her narrow, intelligent face was closely sprinkled with late-spring freckles and her hair flowed free over her shoulders, loosed from its customary tight plaits. She looked pretty in a dress patterned with small flowers; on her feet were sandals with wedge heels.

Carefully they hugged each other.

“Hi,” Joona said. “You look great.”

“You, too,” said Disa.

Together they went to the buffet to choose their food and then sat down at an outdoor table. Joona noticed that her nails wore a new coat of polish. Usually they were short and ragged, embedded with the dirt Disa picked up in her work as an archaeologist. Joona’s gaze wandered away from her hands and out over the orchard.

“Queen Kristina received a leopard as a present from the Count of Kurland. She kept it here at Djurgården.”

“I didn’t know that,” Joona said absentmindedly.

“I read in the palace accounts that the Royal Treasury paid forty daler in silver coins, the cost of a serving girl’s funeral. She was ripped apart by that leopard.”

Disa leaned back in her chair and picked up her glass.

“Stop talking so much, Joona Linna,” she said sarcastically.

“Sorry,” Joona said. “I just …”

He fell silent again, suddenly exhausted.

“What’s up?” She was suddenly concerned.

“Please, just tell me more about the leopard.”

“You look so sad.”

“I was thinking about my mother … It’s been one year today since she passed away. I went to lay a wreath at her grave.”

“I miss Ritva very much,” Disa said.

She put her fork down and sat quietly for a while.

Finally she said, “Do you know what she said the last time I saw her? She took my hand and told me that I should seduce you and make sure I got knocked up.”

Joona laughed. “I can believe that!”

The sun sparkled in Disa’s quiet, dark eyes. “I told her that I didn’t believe that would happen. Then she told me I should leave you and never look back.”

He nodded but was at a loss for words.

“And then you’d be all alone,” Disa continued. “A large, lonely Finn.”

He stroked her fingers.

“I don’t want that,” he said.

“Don’t want what?”

“Don’t want to be a large, lonely Finn.”

“And I now want to use my teeth on you. Bite you hard. Can you explain that? My teeth always start to itch when I look at you,” Disa said with a smile.

Joona reached out to touch her face. He knew he was already going to be late to the meeting with Carlos Eliasson and the CID, but he kept sitting there across from Disa, making small talk and thinking at the same time that he should go down to the Nordic Museum to look at the Sami bridal crown.

While he was waiting for Joona Linna, Carlos Eliasson had told the National Criminal Investigation Department about the young woman who’d been found dead on a motorboat in the Stockholm archipelago, and Benny Rubin noted for the record that there was no rush to begin an investigation and that they should wait for the Coast Guard’s findings.

Joona had come in a little later but had hardly taken part in the meeting when a call came from John Bengtsson of Routine Patrol.

Joona and John had a history together over the years. They’d played floorball more than a decade before. John Bengtsson was popular, but when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, a lot of his friends had fallen away. Although he was now fully recovered, like other people who’d had a brush with death, he had a slight air of fragility, of a depth of understanding, about him.

Joona had stood in the hallway outside the conference room listening on the phone to John’s slow recitation. His voice was filled with the tiredness that comes immediately after high stress. He described how he’d just found the general director for the National Inspectorate of Strategic Products hanging from the ceiling in his home.

“Suicide?” asked Joona.

“No.”

“Murder?”

“Can’t you just come over?” John asked. “I can’t decide what I’m seeing. The body is hanging much too high above the floor, Joona.”

He’d taken Nathan Pollock and Tommy Kofoed along. Joona had just explained that this was a suicide when the doorbell had rung at Palmcrona’s home. In the darkness of the landing, a woman was standing and holding two plastic shopping bags in her large hands.

“So have you cut him down yet?” she asked.

“Cut him down?”

“Director Palmcrona,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Excuse me, I’m just a housekeeper and I thought …”

Obviously she was troubled, and she turned away to start walking down the stairs. She was stopped in her tracks by the answer to her first question.

“He’s still hanging there.”

“I see.” She turned towards him with a blank face.

Joona asked, “Did you see him earlier today?”

“No.”

“Why did you ask whether we’d taken him down, then? Did you see anything unusual?”

“A noose from the ceiling in the small salon,” she answered.

“So you saw the noose?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“But you weren’t afraid that he might use it?”

“Dying’s not a nightmare.” She was holding back a smile.

“What did you just say?”

The woman just shook her head.