her clothes or the rest of her body,’ The Needle says.
‘Strange,’ Svanehjälm says.
‘There’s bound to be a rational explanation,’ Petter says with a smile.
Joona empties one last bucket into the tub, then puts the bucket on the floor, looks up at the others and thanks them for coming.
‘I know it’s the weekend and everyone would rather be at home,’ he says. ‘But I think I’ve noticed something important.’
‘Of course we’re going to come if you tell us it’s important,’ Svanehjälm says amiably, and finally puts his briefcase down between his feet.
‘The perpetrator made his way onto the leisure cruiser,’ Joona says seriously. ‘He went down the steps to the front cabin and saw Penelope Fernandez asleep, then went back up to the aft-deck, dropped the bucket on the rope into the water and started to fill the wash-tub that was standing on deck.’
‘Five, six buckets,’ Petter says.
‘Then, when the tub was full, he went down to the cabin and woke Penelope. He took her up the steps and out onto the deck, where he drowned her in the tub.’
‘Who would do something like that?’ Svanehjälm asks.
‘I don’t know yet, maybe it was some sort of torture, like waterboarding …’
‘Revenge? Jealousy?’
Joona tilts his head and says thoughtfully:
‘This isn’t any ordinary murderer. Maybe the perpetrator wanted information from her, to get her to say or admit to something, before finally holding her underwater until she could no longer resist the urge to breathe in.’
‘What does our pathologist say?’ Svanehjälm asks.
The Needle shakes his head.
‘If she was drowned,’ he says, ‘then I’d have found signs of violence on her body, bruises and …’
‘Can we wait with the objections?’ Joona interrupts. ‘Because I’d like to start by showing what I think happened, the way it looks in my head. And then, once I’m done, I’d like us all to go and look at the body, and see if there’s any basis for my theory.’
‘Why can’t you ever do anything the way it’s supposed to be done?’ Petter asks.
‘I do need to go home soon,’ the prosecutor warns.
Joona looks at him with an ice-grey glint in his pale eyes. There’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his eyes, a smile that does nothing to detract from the seriousness of his look.
‘Penelope Fernandez,’ he begins. ‘She had been sitting on deck just before, smoking a joint. It was a warm day and she felt tired, so went down to rest on her bed for a while, and fell asleep wearing her denim jacket.’
He gestures towards The Needle’s young assistant, who is waiting in the doorway.
‘Frippe has agreed to help with the reconstruction.’
Frippe smiles and takes a step forward. His dyed black hair is hanging in clumps down his back, and his worn leather trousers are studded with rivets. He carefully fastens his leather jacket over his black T-shirt with a picture of the pop-group Europe on it.
‘Look,’ Joona says quietly, and demonstrates how with one hand he can take a firm grip of both sleeves of the jacket to lock Frippe’s arms behind his back, allowing him to grab hold of his long hair with the other hand.
‘I’ve got complete control of Frippe now, and there won’t be a single bruise on him.’
Joona raises the young man’s arms behind his back. Frippe whimpers and leans forward.
‘Take it easy,’ he laughs.
‘Obviously, you’re much bigger than the victim, but I still think I could push your head down in the wash-tub.’
‘Be careful with him,’ The Needle says.
‘I’m only going to spoil his hair.’
‘Forget it,’ Frippe says with a smile.
It’s a silent tussle. The Needle looks worried, Svanehjälm uncomfortable. Petter swears. Without any great difficulty Joona manages to push Frippe’s head down into the water and hold him there for a few moments before letting go and backing away. Frippe wobbles as he straightens up and Nils hurries forward with a towel.
‘You could have just described it, surely?’ he says irritably.
Once Frippe has finished drying himself they go silently into the next room, where the cool air is heavy with the stench of decay. One wall is covered with three layers of stainless steel fridge doors. Nils opens compartment 16 and pulls out the tray. The young woman is lying on the narrow bunk, naked and drained of colour, with brown, spidery veins around her neck. Joona points at the thin, curved line over her chest.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he says to Frippe.
Frippe unbuttons his jacket and pulls off his black T-shirt. Across his chest is a faint pink mark made by the edge of the wash-tub, a curved line, like a smiling mouth.
‘Bloody hell,’ Petter says.
The Needle goes over and inspects the roots of the dead woman’s hair. He takes out a small torch and points it at the pale skin under her hair.
‘I don’t need a microscope for this. Someone’s held her very tightly by her hair.’
He turns the torch off and puts it back in the pocket of his white coat.
‘In other words …’ Joona says.
‘In other words, you’re right, of course,’ The Needle says, and claps his hands.
‘Murder,’ Svanehjälm sighs.
‘Impressive,’ Frippe says, wiping some eye-liner that has smeared across one cheek.
‘Thanks,’ Joona says distantly.
Nils looks at him quizzically:
‘What is it, Joona? What have you seen?’
‘It’s not her,’ he says.
‘What?’
Joona meets Nils’s gaze, then points at the body in front of them.
‘This isn’t Penelope Fernandez. It’s someone else,’ he says, and looks at the prosecutor. ‘The dead woman isn’t Penelope. I’ve seen her driver’s licence, and I’m certain this isn’t her.’
‘But what …’
‘Maybe Penelope Fernandez is dead too,’ he says. ‘But if she is, we haven’t found her yet.’
