Although it’s the weekend, the head of the National Criminal Investigation Department is in his office. He’s never been particularly welcoming to unexpected visitors. There’s a busy sign in red, lit up on his door, which is shut.
Joona knocks on it as he pushes it open.
“I have to know the minute the maritime police find anything,” Joona says.
Carlos Eliasson pushes a book across the desk. “Both you and Erixson have been attacked. That’s traumatic. You need a break. You need to take care of yourselves.”
“We do take care of ourselves.”
“They’ve finished the helicopter search,” Carlos says.
Joona stiffens.
“Finished! How much area did they cover?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s in charge of the operation?”
“We have nothing to do with it,” Carlos says. “It’s under the direction of the maritime police.”
Joona says sharply, “It would be awfully nice to know whether we’re dealing with one murder or three.”
“Joona, you’re not on this. I’ve handed it over to Jens Svanehjälm. We’re putting together a team with Säpo. Petter Näslund and Tommy Kofoed will be on it from our side and—”
“What’s my job?”
“To take the week off.”
“No.”
“Then you get to teach a week at the Police Training Academy.”
“No.”
“Don’t be so obstinate,” Carlos says.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me?” Carlos Eliasson exclaims. “I’m your boss.”
“Maybe Penelope Fernandez and Björn Almskog are still alive,” Joona argues roughly. “His apartment is burned out; hers would have been if I hadn’t got there on time. I believe the killer is looking for something they have and I believe he drowned Viola trying to get it out of her—”
“Thank you very much,” Carlos barks. “Thank you for your input. We have … no, give me a minute here. I know that you’re finding this hard to accept, but there are other police officers than you, Joona. And most of them are highly competent, I assure you.”
“I agree,” Joona says slowly, a sharp edge to his voice. “And you ought to look out for them, Carlos.”
Joona studies the brown spots on his shirtsleeves. Erixson’s blood.
“What are you implying?”
“I’ve met the killer. I think we’ll lose some men before this is done.”
“I know he surprised you,” Carlos says more softly. “And I know this has been tough.”
“All right, then,” Joona says gruffly.
“Tommy Kofoed will be in charge of the investigation and I’ll call Brittis at the Police Training Academy. She will welcome you as a guest teacher all next week,” Carlos concludes.
As Joona leaves the police station, the heat hits him hard. Pulling off his jacket, he senses someone coming up behind him. Someone has emerged from the shadows of the park. Joona turns and sees that it’s Claudia Fernandez.
“Joona Linna,” she calls in a tense voice.
“Claudia, how are you doing?” he asks gravely.
Claudia Fernandez’s eyes are bloodshot and her face looks tortured.
“Find her. You must find my girl,” she says, and thrusts a thick envelope at him.
Joona opens it. It’s stuffed with money. He pushes it back to Claudia, but she refuses.
“Please, take my money. It’s everything I have,” she says. “But I’ll find more. I’ll sell the house. Just find her.”
“Claudia, I can’t take your money,” he says quietly.
“Please.”
“We are already doing everything we can.”
Joona puts the envelope back in Claudia’s hands. She holds it away from her body. She murmurs that she will return home and wait next to the phone. Then she holds him back and tries to explain. “I told her that she was no longer welcome in my home … she won’t call me.”
“You had an argument. That’s not the end of the world, Claudia.”
“But how could I ever have said such a thing?” She hits her forehead with her fist. “What kind of a person says that to her own child?”
“Sometimes words just slip out …”
Joona’s voice dies away. He forces away fragments of memory that have been stirred up.
“I can’t stand it,” she says quietly.
Joona takes Claudia’s hand in his and repeats that he’s doing everything he can.
“Of course you must get your daughter back,” he whispers to her.
She nods, and they break apart to walk away in different directions. Joona hurries down Bergsgatan and squints at the sky as he heads to his car. It’s sunny, but also hazy and still extremely humid. Last summer he would have been sitting at the hospital, holding his mother’s hand. They spoke to each other in Finnish, as they usually did. He told her that they’d take a trip to Karelia as soon as she was feeling better. She had been born in a small Karelian village, one of the few not burned down by the Russians during the Second World War. His mother had replied that Joona ought to go to Karelia with someone special instead.
Joona buys a bottle of Pellegrino at Il Caffè and drinks it all before he climbs back into his overheated car. The steering wheel is hot to the touch and the seat almost burns his back. Instead of heading over to the Police Training Academy, he returns to Sankt Paulsgatan 3 and to Penelope Fernandez’s apartment. He recalls the remarkable speed and precision of movement, as if the knife his assailant had used had come alive.
The entrance is cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape marked DO NOT CROSS and CRIME SCENE in bold letters.
Joona flashes his badge to the uniformed officer on duty, then shakes his hand. They’ve met before but never worked together.
“Hot today.”
“You’re telling me,” the officer replies.
“How many technicians on the scene?” Joona asks, nodding towards the stairwell.
“One of our guys and three from Säpo,” the officer answers cheerfully. “They’ve trying to find DNA from the perp.”
“They’re not going to find any,” Joona says, almost to himself, as he starts up the stairs.
Standing in front of the apartment door on the fourth floor is Melker Janos, an older officer whom Joona remembers from his own training days as a stressed and unpleasant superior. At that time, Melker was rising in his career, but then came a bitter divorce and periodic alcohol abuse, which resulted in his step-by-step demotion until he landed back on patrol.
When he sees Joona, he greets him sourly and opens the door for him with an exaggeratedly servile gesture.
“Thanks,” Joona says. He doesn’t wait for a response.
Tommy Kofoed is just inside the door, moving around hunched and morose. He doesn’t even reach Joona’s chest any more, but when their eyes meet, Kofoed’s face breaks into a wide grin.
“Joona, great to see you. I thought they were sending you over to the Police Training Academy.”
“I took a wrong turn.”
“How wonderful!”
“Have you found anything?”
“We’ve secured all the shoe prints in the hallway,” Tommy replies.
“Yes, they’ll all match my shoes.” Joona grins as they shake hands.
“And the attacker’s,” Kofoed protests. “He was moving around in an awfully peculiar way, wasn’t he?”
“Right.”
There are mats everywhere, protecting the floor from evidence contamination. A camera has been set up on a tripod and the lens is focused on the floor. A strong lamp with an aluminum reflector lies in the corner, its cord wrapped around the base. The technicians are scanning for invisible shoe prints using raking light, a kind of light which shines parallel to the floor, then they lift the prints electrostatically. They’ve marked the intruder’s path from the kitchen through to the hall.
Joona doubts they will connect these prints with his assailant. The man would have certainly destroyed any shoes, gloves, and clothes he was wearing. He’s probably burned them.
“Tell me, how did he run, exactly?” asks Kofoed as he points to the markings. “There … there … across there … and then nothing before here … and here.”
“You’ve missed a shoe print,” Joona says with a small smile.
“What the hell?”
“There.” Joona points.
“Where?”
“On the wall.”
“What the fuck!”
A faint shoe print can be seen about seventy centimetres above the floor, outlined on the light grey wallpaper. Tommy Kofoed calls another technician over and asks him to take a gelatin print.
“Can I walk on the floor now?” Joona asks.
“Sure. Just keep off the walls,” a frustrated Kofoed replies.