Erixson holds a map on his lap as well as a large folder he acquired by getting a messenger to deliver it to his hospital room. He’s cooling himself with a whirring face fan while Joona pushes him in his wheelchair through the hospital corridors.
His Achilles tendon has been sutured, and instead of a cast, his foot is fixed inside a special boot with toes pointing down. He mutters that all he needs is a ballet shoe on the other foot and he’ll be ready to perform Swan Lake.
Joona nods in a friendly way towards two elderly ladies sitting on a sofa and holding hands. They giggle, whisper to each other, and then wave at him as if they were schoolgirls.
“On the same morning they headed out on the boat,” Erixson was saying, “Björn bought an envelope and two stamps at Central Station. He had a receipt from Pressbyrån in his wallet, which we found on the boat. I forced the security company to send along the tape from the security camera. It really does look like he’s posting a photograph, just like you’ve said all this time.”
“So who is he sending the photograph to?” asks Joona.
“We can’t read the address on the envelope.”
“Maybe to himself.”
“But his apartment is so burned out he doesn’t even have a door,” Erixson says.
“Call the post office and ask them.”
As they enter the lift, Erixson starts some strange swimming movements with his arms. Joona looks at him calmly but doesn’t ask any questions.
“Jasmin tells me it’s good for me,” Erixson explains.
“Who’s Jasmin?”
“My physical therapist. She looks like a sweet little cupcake, but she’s hard as nails: Keep quiet, stop complaining, sit up straight. She even called me a little potbelly.” Erixson smiles shyly as they step into the hallway.
They turn into a room set aside for meditation. It has a simple altar with a smooth wooden cross hung on a metre-long stand above it. There is also a tapestry on the wall, a Christ figure surrounded by a series of light-coloured triangles.
Down the hall, Joona pulls from a store cupboard a large set of flip charts and markers that he’d stashed away earlier. Back in the meditation room, he sees Erixson has already pulled down the Christ tapestry and draped it over the cross that’s now propped up in a corner.
“All that we know is that at least one person is willing to kill for this photograph,” Joona says.
“Yes, but why?”
Erixson pulls out a glue stick from his supplies and sticks Björn Almskog’s bank-account withdrawals to the wall. He also sets up lists from each phone call, copies of bus tickets, receipts from Björn’s wallet, and notes from the voicemails they’d collected.
“This photograph must reveal something so important that someone is desperate to keep it a secret,” Joona says, as he takes out a marker and begins to write a timeline on the largest flip chart.
“Right,” Erixson answers.
“Let’s just stop him by finding this photo,” Joona says.
06:40 Penelope takes a taxi from her apartment
06:45 Björn arrives at Penelope’s apartment
06:48 Björn leaves the apartment with the photograph
07:07 Björn posts the photograph from the Pressbyrån at Central Station
Erixson rolls up to look carefully at each point while he peels the wrapper and foil from a chocolate bar.
“Penelope Fernandez leaves the television studio and calls Björn ten minutes later,” he says, pointing to the list with the phone calls. Her strip of transportation coupons is stamped ten thirty. Her little sister, Viola, calls Penelope at ten forty-five. Penelope is probably already with Björn at the marina on Långholmen.”
“But what does Björn do in the meanwhile?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Erixson says contentedly and cleans his fingers with a white handkerchief.
Erixson rolls his wheelchair along the wall and points to another strip of transportation coupons.
“Björn leaves Penelope’s apartment with the photograph. He takes the underground and at seven minutes after seven he buys the envelope and two stamps.”
“And posts the letter,” says Joona.
Erixson clears his throat and continues. “The next piece of evidence is a transaction on his Visa card. He pays twenty crowns to Dreambow Internet Café on Vattugatan at seven thirty-five.”
“Five minutes after seven thirty,” Joona says as he writes this on the chronology.
“Where in the hell is Vattugatan?”
“It’s a fairly small street,” Joona says. “It’s in the old Klara Quarter.”
Erixson nods and continues. “I’m guessing that Björn continues on the same stamp to Fridhemsplan. After that we have a phone call from his landline in his apartment. It was an unanswered call to his father, Greger Almskog.”
“We’ll have to ask his father about it.”
“The next piece of evidence is a new stamp on the coupon strip for nine o’clock. Apparently, he took the number 4 bus from Fridhemsplan to Högalindsgatan on Södermalm. From there he went to the boat at Långholmen Harbour.”
Joona fills in the last notes on his paper and then steps back to take a good look at the timeline of that morning.
“So Björn is in a real hurry to get that photograph,” Erixson says. “But he doesn’t want to run into Penelope so he waits until she’s left, rushes inside, takes it off the glass pane, leaves the apartment, and heads to Central Station.”
“I want to look at all the security tapes,” says Joona.
“After that, Björn heads to a nearby internet café, stays there about half an hour at most, and then goes—”
“That’s it,” Joona says.
“What’s it?”
“Both Björn and Penelope already have internet access at home.”
“So why’d he go to an internet café?”
“I’ll head there now,” Joona says, already walking out of the room.