The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер
She knew he hadn’t stopped running. He’d catch up with them if they didn’t get help soon, if they didn’t reach the inhabited part of the island.
The ground was rising again, stones came loose beneath their feet and rolled down the slope.
They had to find some people, there must be some houses somewhere near. A wave of hysteria ran through her, a desire to just stand still and scream, call for help, but she forced herself to keep going, to keep climbing.
Björn coughed behind her, gasped for breath and then coughed again.
What if Viola wasn’t dead, what if she just needed help? Fear chased through her head. On some level Penelope was aware that she was thinking things like that because the reality was so much worse. She knew Viola was dead, but it was incomprehensible, just a big, black void. She didn’t want to understand, couldn’t understand, didn’t even want to try.
They scrambled up another steep cliff, past pines with scratchy branches, rocks and lingonberry bushes. Using her hands to support her, she made it to the top. Björn was right behind her, he tried to say something but was too out of breath, he just pulled her on – and down again – with him. On the other side of the ridge the forest sloped down towards the western shore of the island. Between the dark trees they could see the pale surface of the water. It wasn’t far away. They carried on down the slope. Penelope slipped and slid part of the way, hitting the ground hard. She hit her mouth on her knees, got her breath back and started to cough.
She tried to get to her feet, wondering if she’d broken something, then suddenly she heard music, followed by loud voices and laughter. Leaning against the damp rock-face, she stood up, wiped her lips and looked at her bleeding hand.
Björn appeared beside her and pulled her along, pointing to where they should go: there was a party somewhere up ahead of them. Taking each other’s hands they started to run. Between the dark trees they could see coloured garlands of lights wound through a wooden veranda overlooking the water.
They walked on warily.
There was a group of people sitting around a table in front of a beautiful rust-red summerhouse. Penelope realised it must be the middle of the night, but the sky was still bright. The meal was long since over, the table was strewn with glasses and coffee cups, napkins and empty bowls of crisps.
Some of the people at the table were singing, others were talking and topping up glasses from wine-boxes. The barbecue was still radiating heat. There were probably children asleep inside the house. To Björn and Penelope, they all looked like they were from a completely different world. Their faces were bright and calm. The obvious friendship between them sealed them off like a glass dome.
Only one person was outside the circle. He was standing off to one side with his face towards the forest, as if expecting visitors. Penelope stopped abruptly and clutched Björn’s hand. They sank to the ground and crept behind a low fir tree. Björn looked frightened, uncomprehending. But she was sure of what she had seen. Their pursuer had figured out which way they were heading and had got to the house ahead of them. He had realised how irresistible the lights and sounds of the party would be to them. So he waited, watching for them among the dark trees, keen to head them off at the edge of the forest. He wasn’t worried that the people at the party would hear their screams; he knew they wouldn’t dare to enter the forest until it was too late.
When Penelope eventually risked a look up again he was gone. She was trembling from the adrenalin coursing through her blood. Maybe their pursuer thought he’d made a mistake, she wondered, looking around.
Perhaps he’d run off in a different direction.
She was just starting to think that their flight might finally be over, that she and Björn could go down to the party and alert the police, when she suddenly caught sight of him again.
He was standing beside a tree-trunk, not far away at all.
With measured movements their pursuer raised a pair of binoculars with pale green lenses.
Penelope huddled down next to Björn, trying to fight the urge to flee, to just run and run. She could see the man through the trees, raising the binoculars to his eyes, and realised that they probably had night vision, or heat-seeking sights.
Penelope took Björn by the hand and, crouching low, pulled him away from the house with her, away from the music, backwards into the forest. After a while she dared to straighten up. They started to run across a scree-slope formed by the kilometre-thick glaciers that once covered northern Europe. They carried on through thorny bushes, behind a large rock and across a sharp ridge. Björn grabbed hold of a thick branch and slowly started to slide down the other side. Penelope’s heart was thudding hard in her chest, her thigh muscles were aching, and she was trying to breathe quietly, even though she was far too breathless. She slipped down the rough rocks, pulling damp moss and loose stones down with her until she reached the ground under the dense canopy of fir branches. Björn was wearing nothing but his knee-length board-shorts, his face was pale and his lips almost white.
It sounds like someone is repeatedly throwing a ball at the wall below senior pathologist Nils Åhlén’s window. He and Joona Linna are waiting for Claudia Fernandez in silence. She’s been asked to come to the Department of Forensic Medicine early this Sunday morning to help identify the dead woman.
When Joona called her to say that they feared her daughter Viola had died, Claudia’s voice had sounded strangely calm.
‘No, Viola’s out in the archipelago with her sister,’ she had said.
‘On Björn Almskog’s boat?’ Joona asked.
‘Yes, I was the one who suggested she call Penelope and ask if she could go with them, I thought it would do her good to get away for a bit.’
‘Was anyone else going with them?’
‘Well, Björn, obviously.’
Joona fell silent, and several seconds passed as he tried to shift the weight that had settled inside him. Then he cleared his throat and said very gently:
‘Claudia, I’d like you to come to the Department of Forensic Medicine in Solna.’
‘What for?’ she asked.
Now Joona is sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the senior pathologist’s room. The Needle has slipped a small picture of Frippe into the bottom of his framed wedding photograph. They can hear the sound of the ball thudding against the wall, a hollow, lonely sound. Joona thinks back to how Claudia’s breathing changed when she finally realised that it might actually be her daughter that they’d found dead. Joona had carefully explained the circumstances to her: that a woman they feared was her younger daughter had been found dead on an abandoned motor cruiser in the Stockholm archipelago.
He booked a taxi to collect Claudia Fernandez from her terraced house in Gustavsberg. She should be with them within the next few minutes.
The Needle makes a half-hearted attempt at small-talk, but gives up after a while when he realises Joona isn’t going to respond.
They both just want this to be over. A positive identification is always a traumatic moment: any lacerating relief afforded by the end of uncertainty is mixed with the absolute agony of all hope being lost.
They can hear footsteps in the corridor. They both get to their feet at the same time.
Seeing the dead body of a family member is a merciless confirmation of all our worst fears. But at the same time it’s an important, necessary part of the grieving process. Joona has read plenty of claims that identification also constitutes a form of liberation. There’s no longer any opportunity