Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

Gentle music can be heard from one of the rooms so he continues in that direction, knocks at the door, and enters. It’s a large drawing room, sparsely furnished-three Carl Malmsten sofas, a low glass coffee table, and a tiny painting of a ship in a storm on the wall. An ice-blue sheen comes from a music system with a modern flat, transparent design. Meandering, melancholy music comes from the speakers.

Across the room is a set of double doors. Bengtsson swings them open to reveal a salon with tall Art Nouveau windows. The late-spring light is broken by the multiple small panes at the top.

A well-dressed man swings in the middle of the white room.

John Bengtsson stands quietly in the doorway and stares at the dead man for an eternity before he notices the laundry line fastened to the ceiling-lamp hook.

The body seems poised at the moment of a jump into the air. His ankles are stretched and his toes point to the ground. He’s hanged-but there’s something that does not fit. Something is not as it should be.

Bengtsson cannot step through the double doors; he must keep the crime scene intact. His heart pounds and he feels the heavy rhythm of his pulse. He finds he cannot look away from the swaying man in the empty room.

The whisper of a name begins to echo in Bengtsson’s brain: Joona. I have to talk to Joona Linna immediately.

There is no furniture in this room. Just the hanged man, who, in all probability, is none other than Carl Palmcrona, the general director of ISP.

The rope is fastened to the center of the lamp hook emerging from the rosette in the center of the ceiling.

There’s nothing for him to climb on, Bengtsson thinks.

The ceiling height must be at least three and a half meters.

Bengtsson calms himself, collects his thoughts, and registers everything he sees. The hanged man’s face is as blanched as damp sugar and John Bengtsson can see only a few blood spots in the wide-open eyes. The man is wearing a thin overcoat, a light gray business suit, and black leather-soled oxfords. A black briefcase and a cell phone lie on the parquet floor a short distance from the pool of urine that has collected directly underneath the body.

The hanged man suddenly shakes.

Bengtsson takes a sharp breath.

A heavy thud from the ceiling above. The sounds of a hammer in the attic. Someone walks across the attic floor. Another thud and Palmcrona’s body shakes again. The sound of a power drill. Silence. Someone calling for more cable: “Cable reel.”

Bengtsson notices how his pulse begins to slow as he turns to walk away from the salon. He sees the outer door is open and he stops, sure he’d closed it. He knows he could be wrong. He leaves the apartment, but before he reports to his department, he picks up his cell phone and calls Joona Linna at the National Criminal Investigation Department.

First week of June. For several weeks the people of Stockholm have been waking up much too early. The sun rises at three thirty a.m. and remains bright almost the entire night. The weather has been unusually warm. The exuberant bird cherries and lilacs bloomed at the same time. Dense sprays of buds spread their aroma from Kronoberg Park all the way to the entrance of the National Police Board headquarters.

The National Police Board, Sweden’s only centrally operating police organization, is responsible for combating serious crime at both the national and international level.

The head of the National Criminal Investigation Department, Carlos Eliasson, is standing by the low window on the fifth floor, scanning the view over Kronoberg Park while pressing the phone to his ear and dialing Joona Linna’s number. Once again, he hears his call connect to voice mail. He sets the phone down and glances at the clock.

Next door, a tired voice tries to deal with a European arrest warrant and the Schengen Information System.

Petter Naslund enters Carlos’s office and, clearing his throat carefully, leans against a streamer that declares: WE MONITOR, MARK THE SPOT, AND DISTURB.

“Pollock and his guys will be here soon,” Petter says.

“I can tell time,” says Carlos.

“The sandwiches are ready,” Petter says.

Carlos suppresses a smile and asks, “Have you heard they’re recruiting?”

Petter’s face turns red as he looks at the floor, collects his thoughts, and looks up again. “I would… Can you think of anyone better who would work well in the National Homicide Squad?”

There are five experts who make up the National Homicide Squad. The Commission, as they’re known, works systematically using a methodology known by its initials, PIGC, Police Investigation of Grave Criminality. The burden they carry is enormous. They are in such demand, they barely have time to get to the police station for a meeting.

The paradise fish in Carlos’s aquarium calmly make their turns. As he reaches for fish food, the phone rings.

“They’re on the way up,” says Magnus in reception.

Carlos tries one last time to reach Joona Linna by phone, then gets up, checks himself quickly in the mirror, and goes to welcome his guests. Just as he reaches the elevator, the doors soundlessly slide open. Seeing the entire Commission together makes an image flash in his mind: a Rolling Stones concert he attended a few years back with some of his colleagues. The band on the stage looked like relaxed businessmen, and just like the National Homicide Squad, they were all dressed in dark suits and ties.

Nathan Pollock steps out first, his distinctive silver hair in a ponytail. Following him is Erik Eriksson. He likes eyeglasses decorated with diamonds, hence the nickname “Elton.” Behind him saunters Niklas Dent, next to P. G. Bondesson, and walking behind all of them is Tommy Kofoed. Kofoed is the forensic technician. He’s hunchbacked, and stares sullenly at the ground.

Carlos shows them to the meeting room, where Operating Commander Benny Rubin is already sitting at the round table, waiting for them, a cup of coffee before him. Tommy Kofoed takes an apple from the fruit basket and bites in loudly. Nathan Pollock looks at him with a smile and shakes his head slightly. Kofoed stops right in the middle of a chew.

“Welcome,” Carlos begins. “It’s good we can get together. There are several serious issues on the agenda.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Joona Linna?” asks Tommy Kofoed.

“Well…” drawls Carlos.

“That man does just what he pleases,” Pollock says quietly.

“Hey, come on now,” Tommy Kofoed says defensively. “Give the man his due. The Tumba murders last year? He had them all figured out and I still don’t know how he did it.”

“Against all fucking logic,” Elton says with a smile.

“I’d say I’m fairly well versed in forensics,” Tommy Kofoed continues, “but Joona walked in, took a look at the blood spatters… He knew right away when each murder had occurred… Amazing…”

“It’s true, it’s true. He could see the whole picture,” Pollock says. “The degree of violence, the level of force, the stress level, how the footprints found in the apartment lagged more, which showed more exhaustion than those in the locker room.”

“Fucking awesome,” Tommy Kofoed mutters.

Carlos clears his throat, returns to his informal agenda.

“The Coast Guard called this morning,” he tells them. “An old fisherman found a dead woman.”

“In his nets?”

“No, he saw a large motorboat drifting with the current near Dalaro. He rowed out, boarded the vessel, and found her sitting on her berth in the fore.”

“That doesn’t sound like something for us,” Petter Naslund says, and smiles.

“Was she murdered?” asks Pollock.