Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

The dog turns to rush at Joona but is choked back again. He barks dementedly but stops the second he hears a voice from inside the house.

“Nils!” a woman commands.

They hear the floor creak inside and a moment later the door opens. The dog scurries back behind the house and the whirring sound disappears with him.

“We need to talk to you,” Joona says.

“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she replies.

“May we come inside?”

“No.”

Joona glances past her into the dark interior of the house. The hall is littered with pots and pans, plates, a gray vacuum-cleaner hose, clothes, shoes, and a rusty crayfish pot.

“We can stay outside,” Saga says reassuringly.

Joona glances at his notes. It’s routine to go over details from an interrogation to catch any discrepancies or even catch someone out in a downright lie they no longer remember correctly. “What did Palmcrona have for dinner on Wednesday?”

“Ground-veal patties in cream sauce,” she says.

“With rice?” asks Joona.

“With potatoes,” she replies. “Always boiled potatoes.”

“At what time did Palmcrona return to his apartment on Thursday?”

“At six in the evening.”

“What were your duties when you left Palmcrona’s apartment on Thursday?”

“He gave me the evening off.”

Joona looks directly into her eyes and decides there’s no point in beating around the bush. He goes straight to the point.

“Did Palmcrona fix the noose already by Wednesday evening?”

“No,” says Edith.

“That’s what you told our colleague, John Bengtsson,” Saga said.

“That’s incorrect.”

“Your interview was recorded,” Saga wants to say, but she finds herself so irritated, she decides to keep quiet.

“Did you ask Palmcrona any questions about the noose?” Joona asks.

“We never discussed private matters.”

“But isn’t it odd to just leave a man with a noose hanging from his ceiling?” asks Saga.

“Well, what could I do? Stay around and watch him?” Edith replies with a small smile.

“That’s true,” Saga agrees calmly.

For the first time, Edith inspects Saga. Without embarrassment, she runs her eyes from Saga’s fairy-tale hair caught back in a colorful headband to her clear face and down to her jeans and running shoes.

“Well, I must say, I find this a bit confusing,” Saga says. “You told our colleague that you saw the noose on Wednesday, but just now, you said the opposite.”

Joona checks his notebook for Saga’s earlier question.

“Edith,” Joona says, “I believe I understand what you’ve said.”

“That’s good,” she replies.

“Concerning the question of whether Palmcrona hung up the noose on Wednesday, you said no-because Palmcrona wasn’t the one who put it up.”

The old woman gives Joona a hard look. Then she says firmly, “He tried, but he couldn’t do it. His back was too stiff from his operation last winter… so he asked me to.”

Silence falls again. The trees surrounding them are completely still in the heat of the day.

“So you were the one who tied a laundry line into a noose and hung it from the ceiling?” Joona asks.

“He tied the knot and held the ladder when I climbed up,” she says.

“Then you put the ladder away, went back to your normal duties, and went on home after washing up the dishes from Wednesday’s dinner,” Joona says.

“That’s right.”

“You came in the following morning,” he continues. “You began the day as usual by making his breakfast.”

“Did you know that he wasn’t already hanging from the noose yet?” Saga asks.

“Well, I took a peek into the small salon,” Edith answers.

The shade of a sarcastic smile appears for a split second on her closed face.

“You’ve already told us that he’d eaten breakfast as he usually did, but that he didn’t go to work Thursday morning either.”

“He was in the music room for at least an hour.”

“Was he listening to music?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Right before lunch, he placed a call,” Saga says.

“Well, that I don’t know. He went into his office and closed the door, but before he came to eat his lunch of boiled salmon, he asked me to order a taxi for two o’clock.”

“Was he planning to go to Arlanda Airport?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And at ten minutes to two, someone called him?”

“Yes, he’d already put on his coat and he answered the hall phone.”

“Did you hear what he said?” Saga asks.

“ ‘It’s not a nightmare to die,’ ” replies Edith.

“I’ve asked you what he said,” Saga repeats.

“Now you’ll have to excuse me,” Edith says shortly and begins to close the door.

“Just a second,” Joona says.

The movement of the door stops and Edith frowns at him through the gap without reopening it.

“Did you sort Palmcrona’s mail today? Do you have it here?” Joona asks.

“Of course.”

“Please bring us everything that’s not an advertisement,” Joona requests.

She nods, walking into the house, leaving the door ajar, and returns with a blue bowl filled with mail.

“Thank you,” Joona says as he takes the bowl.

Edith closes the door completely and they hear her locking it behind her. A few seconds later, they hear the whirring of the dog’s tether again. They hear his aggressive barking behind them as they walk to the car and climb in.

Saga starts the engine, then puts the car into gear and turns it around. Joona puts on protective gloves to sort through the letters in the bowl and then pulls out a manila envelope with a handwritten address. He opens it carefully and just as carefully slides out the photograph for which at least two people have died.

Saga Bauer pulls onto the shoulder of the road and parks. The grass in the ditch is so tall it brushes the passenger-side window. Joona Linna remains absolutely still as he contemplates the photograph.

There’s something fuzzy on the upper edge of the picture, but in general, it is perfectly sharp. Probably the camera was hidden and the photograph taken secretly.

There are four people sitting in the large box of a concert hall. Three men and one woman. Their faces are clearly visible. Only one person is turned away, but even that face is not hidden.

There’s champagne in a chiller and the table has been set so they can converse and eat and still listen to the music.

Joona recognizes Carl Palmcrona right away. He holds a champagne flute. Saga can identify two of the other people.

“That one is Raphael Guidi, the weapons dealer mentioned in the blackmail letter,” she says as she points to a man with thin hair. “And the one looking away is Pontus Salman, the head of Silencia Defense.”

“Weapons,” Joona says.

“Silencia Defense is a well-known company.”

Under the spotlight, onstage behind the men, a string quartet can be seen: two violins, a viola, and a cello. The musicians are all men. They sit in a half circle, their faces calm in concentration. It’s hard to tell if their eyes are closed or slightly open, whether they are looking at their music or simply following the different parts.

“Who is the fourth person, the woman?” Joona asks.

“Let me think and it’ll come to me,” Saga replies as the wheels turn in her mind. “I do recognize her, but… damn…”

Saga’s voice fades as she stares at the woman in the picture.

“We have to find out who she is,” Joona says quietly.

“Right.”

Saga starts the car and, at the same time she bumps back onto the road, she has the answer. “That’s Agathe al-Haji,” she says. “She’s the military adviser to President Omar al-Bashir.”