audible in the receiver.
“Tell me.”
“It’s still not a normal death.”
The Needle falls silent again.
“What did you notice?”
“Nothing in particular. It’s just a feeling…”
“Bravo,” says Joona. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”
“I know, but … It’s clear that this could be a case of mors subita naturalis , that is, a hasty but natural death … There’s nothing to contradict this, but if this is a natural death, it’s a very unusual natural death.”
They end the call but The Needle’s words echo in Joona’s head. Mors subita naturalis . There is something mysterious about Penelope Fernandez’s death. She was not found in the water and lifted on board; then she would have been lying on the deck. But perhaps the person who found her wanted to treat the body with respect. But why not just carry her to the sofa in the salon? Of course she might have been found by someone who loved her and wanted to put her in a setting where she would have been comfortable—in her own room and her own bed.
Perhaps The Needle was wrong. Maybe she had been rescued, helped on board, helped to her room. Perhaps her lungs had already been seriously injured and she was beyond saving. Perhaps she was feeling ill and wanted to lie down and be left alone.
But why no trace of seawater on her body or clothes?
There’s a freshwater shower on board, Joona thinks, and tells himself it’s time to search the rest of the boat and take a good look at the berth in the stern, the bathroom, and the galley. There is still quite a bit to examine before the entire picture can become clear.
When Erixson stands up and moves his enormous body, the boat rocks again.
Joona’s attention is again drawn to the bucket with the rope. It’s next to a tub where a wet suit had been flung. A pair of water skis is lying along the railing. Joona’s eyes wander back to the bucket. The rope tied to the handle. The round zinc edge of the washtub shines like a crescent moon in the sun.
A realization washes over him and, with icy clarity, Joona is able to picture what took place. He waits, and lets his heart calm back down. He lets the entire scenario repeat in his mind once more and he is now completely sure it’s correct.
The woman named Penelope Fernandez was drowned in the washtub.
In his mind, Joona sees again the mark he’d noticed in the pathology lab: the mark on the skin over her collarbone, the one that reminded him of a smile.
She was murdered and then she was put down on the bed.
Now his thoughts whirl as adrenaline rushes through his system. She was drowned in the brackish water and then carried onto her bed.
Not a common killing. Not a common killer. A voice wells up from deep inside him, becoming more and more clear. More and more demanding. It repeats four words, louder and faster each time. Leave the boat now! Leave the boat now! Joona peers at Erixson through the window. He’s putting a swab into a paper bag, sealing it with tape, and marking it with a ballpoint pen.
“Peek-a-boo.” Erixson smiles.
“Let’s go ashore,” Joona says calmly.
“I don’t like boats because they keep moving all the time, but I’ve just started with—”
“Take a break,” Joona says.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Just come with me and don’t touch that cell phone.”
They scramble ashore and Joona leads Erixson far away from the boat, as quickly as he can, before they stop. He feels a heat in his face while a kind of calmness spreads through his body—a weight in his legs and calves.
Quietly he says, “I believe there’s a bomb on board.”
Erixson plumps down on the edge of a cement piling. Sweat pours from his forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is not normal, this murder,” Joona says. “There’s a risk that—”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“Just wait and listen to me,” Joona says insistently. “Penelope Fernandez was drowned in that washtub on
“Tell me.”
“It’s still not a normal death.”
The Needle falls silent again.
“What did you notice?”
“Nothing in particular. It’s just a feeling…”
“Bravo,” says Joona. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”
“I know, but … It’s clear that this could be a case of mors subita naturalis , that is, a hasty but natural death … There’s nothing to contradict this, but if this is a natural death, it’s a very unusual natural death.”
They end the call but The Needle’s words echo in Joona’s head. Mors subita naturalis . There is something mysterious about Penelope Fernandez’s death. She was not found in the water and lifted on board; then she would have been lying on the deck. But perhaps the person who found her wanted to treat the body with respect. But why not just carry her to the sofa in the salon? Of course she might have been found by someone who loved her and wanted to put her in a setting where she would have been comfortable—in her own room and her own bed.
Perhaps The Needle was wrong. Maybe she had been rescued, helped on board, helped to her room. Perhaps her lungs had already been seriously injured and she was beyond saving. Perhaps she was feeling ill and wanted to lie down and be left alone.
But why no trace of seawater on her body or clothes?
There’s a freshwater shower on board, Joona thinks, and tells himself it’s time to search the rest of the boat and take a good look at the berth in the stern, the bathroom, and the galley. There is still quite a bit to examine before the entire picture can become clear.
When Erixson stands up and moves his enormous body, the boat rocks again.
Joona’s attention is again drawn to the bucket with the rope. It’s next to a tub where a wet suit had been flung. A pair of water skis is lying along the railing. Joona’s eyes wander back to the bucket. The rope tied to the handle. The round zinc edge of the washtub shines like a crescent moon in the sun.
A realization washes over him and, with icy clarity, Joona is able to picture what took place. He waits, and lets his heart calm back down. He lets the entire scenario repeat in his mind once more and he is now completely sure it’s correct.
The woman named Penelope Fernandez was drowned in the washtub.
In his mind, Joona sees again the mark he’d noticed in the pathology lab: the mark on the skin over her collarbone, the one that reminded him of a smile.
She was murdered and then she was put down on the bed.
Now his thoughts whirl as adrenaline rushes through his system. She was drowned in the brackish water and then carried onto her bed.
Not a common killing. Not a common killer. A voice wells up from deep inside him, becoming more and more clear. More and more demanding. It repeats four words, louder and faster each time. Leave the boat now! Leave the boat now! Joona peers at Erixson through the window. He’s putting a swab into a paper bag, sealing it with tape, and marking it with a ballpoint pen.
“Peek-a-boo.” Erixson smiles.
“Let’s go ashore,” Joona says calmly.
“I don’t like boats because they keep moving all the time, but I’ve just started with—”
“Take a break,” Joona says.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Just come with me and don’t touch that cell phone.”
They scramble ashore and Joona leads Erixson far away from the boat, as quickly as he can, before they stop. He feels a heat in his face while a kind of calmness spreads through his body—a weight in his legs and calves.
Quietly he says, “I believe there’s a bomb on board.”
Erixson plumps down on the edge of a cement piling. Sweat pours from his forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is not normal, this murder,” Joona says. “There’s a risk that—”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“Just wait and listen to me,” Joona says insistently. “Penelope Fernandez was drowned in that washtub on
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