‘He’s been put on show,’ Kofoed says eagerly as he photographs the dead man. ‘I mean, the murderer isn’t exactly trying to hide the crime. He wants to say something, wants to send a message.’
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking,’ John Bengtsson says keenly. ‘The room’s empty, there’s no chair, no stepladder to climb on.’
‘So what’s the message?’ Tommy Kofoed goes on, lowering the camera and squinting at the body. ‘Hanging is often associated with treachery, Judas Iscariot and …’
‘Just hold on a moment,’ Joona interrupts gently.
He gestures vaguely towards the floor.
‘What is it?’ Pollock asks.
‘I think it was suicide,’ Joona says.
‘Typical suicide,’ Tommy Kofoed says, and laughs a little too loudly. ‘He flapped his wings and flew up …’
‘The briefcase,’ Joona goes on. ‘If he stood the briefcase on its end he could have reached.’
‘But not the ceiling,’ Pollock points out.
‘He could have fastened the rope earlier.’
‘Yes, but I think you’re wrong.’
Joona shrugs his shoulders and mutters:
‘Together with the music and the knots, then …’
‘Can we take a look at the briefcase, then?’ Pollock asks tersely.
‘I just need to secure the evidence first,’ Kofoed says.
They look on in silence as Tommy Kofoed’s hunched, short frame crawls across the floor unrolling black plastic film covered with a thin layer of gelatine on the floor. Then he carefully presses it down using a rubber roller.
‘Can you take out a couple of bio-packs and a wrapper?’ he asks, pointing at his bag.
‘Cardboard?’ Pollock wonders.
‘Yes, please,’ Kofoed replies, catching the bio-packs that Pollock throws him.
He secures the biological evidence from the floor, then beckons Nathan Pollock into the room.
‘You’ll find shoeprints on the far edge of the briefcase,’ Joona says. ‘It fell backwards and the body swung diagonally.’
Nathan Pollock says nothing, just goes over to the leather briefcase and kneels down. His silver ponytail falls forward over his shoulder as he leans down to lift the case onto one end. Clear, pale grey shoeprints are visible on the black leather.
‘What did I tell you?’ Joona asks.
‘Damn,’ Tommy Kofoed says, impressed, the whole of his tired face smiling at Joona.
‘Suicide,’ Pollock mutters.
‘From a purely technical perspective, anyway,’ Joona says.
They stand and look at the hanged body.
‘So what have we actually got here?’ Kofoed asks, still smiling. ‘A man who makes the decisions about the supply of armaments has committed suicide.’
‘Nothing for us,’ Pollock sighs.
Tommy Kofoed takes his gloves off and gestures towards the hanging man.
‘Joona? What did you mean about the music and the knots?’ he asks.
‘It’s a double sheet bend,’ Joona says, pointing to the knot around the lamp-hook. ‘Which I assumed was linked to Palmcrona’s long career in the navy.’
‘And the music?’
Joona stops and looks thoughtfully at him.
‘What do you make of the music?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. It’s a sonata, for the violin,’ Kofoed says. ‘Early nineteenth-century or …’
He falls silent when the doorbell rings. The four men look at each other. Joona starts to walk towards the hall and the others follow him, but stop in the sitting room, out of sight of the front door.
Joona carries on across the hall, contemplates using the peep-hole and decides not to. He can feel the air blowing through the keyhole as he reaches out and pushes the handle down. The heavy door glides open. The landing is dark. The timed lamps have gone out and the light from the red-brown glass in the stairwell is weak. Joona suddenly hears slow breathing, very close to him. Laboured, almost heavy breathing from someone he can’t see. Joona’s hand goes to his pistol as he looks cautiously behind the open door. In the thin strip of light between the hinges he sees a tall woman with large hands. She looks like she’s in her mid-sixties. She’s standing perfectly still. There’s a large, skin-coloured plaster on her cheek. Her grey hair is cut short in a girlish bob. She looks Joona straight in the eye without a trace of a smile.
‘Have you taken him down?’ she asks.
Joona had thought he was going to be on time for the meeting with the National Homicide Commission at one o’clock.
He was only going to have lunch with Disa at Rosendal Garden on Djurgården. Joona got there early and stood in the sunshine for a while watching the mist that lay over the little vineyard. Then he saw Disa walking towards him, her bag swinging over her shoulder. Her thin face with its intelligent features was covered with early-summer freckles, and her hair, usually gathered in two uneven plaits, was for once hanging loose over her shoulders. She had dressed up, and was wearing a floral-patterned dress and a pair of summery sandals with a stacked heel.
They hugged tenderly.
‘Hello,’ Joona said. ‘You look lovely.’
‘So do you,’ Disa said.
They got food from the buffet and went and sat at one of the outdoor tables. Joona had noticed she was wearing nail varnish. As a senior archaeologist, Disa’s fingernails were usually short and rather dirty. He looked away from her hands, across the fruit garden.
Disa started to eat, and said with her mouth full:
‘Queen Christina was given a leopard by the Duke of Courland. She kept it out here on Djurgården.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Joona said calmly.
‘I read in the palace accounts that the Treasury paid forty silver riksdaler to help cover the funeral costs of a maid who was killed by the leopard.’
She leaned back and picked up her glass.
‘Joona Linna, stop talking so much,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Sorry,’ Joona said. ‘I …’
He tailed off and suddenly felt as if all the energy were draining from his body.
‘What?’
‘Please, keep talking about the leopard.’
‘You look sad …’
‘I was thinking about Mum … It was exactly a year ago yesterday that she died. I went and left a white iris on her grave.’
‘I miss Ritva a lot,’ Disa said.
She put her knife and fork down and sat quietly for a while.
‘Do you know what she said the last time I saw her? She took my hand,’