The Nightmare

Book 2: Killer Instinct

by Lars Kepler

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Lars Kepler returns with a piercing, bestselling sequel to The Hypnotist

After spellbinding audiences in The Hypnotist, Detective Inspector Joona Linna is back in The Nightmare, an internationally bestselling Swedish thriller published to critical acclaim in dozens of countries. As the Swedish newspaper Arbetarbladet put it, "The reader is ready to sell his own soul for the opportunity to read this book without interruption, in one sitting."

On a summer night, police recover the body of a young woman from an abandoned pleasure boat drifting around the Stockholm archipelago. Her lungs are filled with brackish water, and the forensics team is sure that she drowned. Why, then, is the pleasure boat still afloat, and why are there no traces of water on her clothes or body?

The next day, a man turns up dead in his state apartment in Stockholm, hanging from a lamp hook. All signs point to suicide, but the room has a high ceiling, and there's not a single piece of furniture around—nothing to climb on.

Joona Linna begins to piece together the two mysteries, but the logistics are a mere prelude to a dizzying and dangerous course of events. At its core, the most frightening aspect of The Nightmare isn't its gruesome crimes—it's the dark psychology of its characters, who show us how blind we are to our own motives.

Release date: September 25, 2018

Publisher: Vintage Crime/Black Lizard

Print pages: 528

Sample

The yacht is found drifting in the southern part of the Stockholm archipelago on a bright evening with no wind. The bluish-gray water is moving as gently as fog.
The old man calls out a couple of times from his rowboat, even though he has a feeling he’s not going to get an answer. He’s been watching the yacht from the shore for almost an hour as it drifts slowly backward on the offshore current.
The man angles his boat so that its side butts up against the yacht. He pulls the oars in, ties the rowboat to the swim platform, and climbs up the metal stairs and over the railing. In the middle of the aft deck is a pink deck chair. When he doesn’t hear anything, he opens the glass door and goes down a few stairs into the salon. The large windows cast a gray light across the polished teak interior and the sofa’s dark-blue upholstery. He walks down the steep wooden stairs, past the dark galley and head and into the large cabin. Pale light is filtering through the narrow windows up by the ceiling, illuminating the arrow-shaped double bed. Toward the top of the bed, a young woman in a denim jacket is sitting against the wall in a limp, slumped posture. Her legs are wide apart, and one hand is resting on a pink cushion. She’s looking the old man straight in the eye with a bemused expression on her face.
It takes a moment for the man to realize that the woman is dead.
There’s a clip in her long, dark hair that’s shaped like a dove, a peace dove.
When the old man goes over and touches her cheek, her head falls forward, and a thin stream of water trickles out of her mouth and down her chin.

 
The word “music” comes from the Greek myth of the nine Muses, the daughters of the god Zeus and the titan Mnemosyne, goddess of memory. The Muse of music is Euterpe, whose name means “bringer of joy.” She is usually depicted with a double flute between her lips.
“Musicality” has no generally accepted definition, but there are people who are born with an extensive musical memory and the sort of perfectly attuned hearing that enables them to identify any given note without a point of reference.
Through the ages, a number of exceptionally talented musical geniuses have emerged, some of whom became famous, such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who toured the courts of Europe from the age of six, and Ludwig van Beethoven, who composed many of his greatest works after going completely deaf.
The legendary Niccolò Paganini was born in 1782 in the Italian city of Genoa. He was a self-taught violinist and composer. To this day, very few violinists have been capable of playing Paganini’s fast, complicated compositions. Right up until his death, Paganini was pursued by rumors that he had only acquired his unique talent by signing a contract with the devil.

 
1
A shiver runs down Penelope Fernandez’s spine. Her heart starts to beat faster, and she glances quickly over her shoulder. It’s as though she has a premonition of what is going to happen to her later that day.
In spite of the heat in the studio, Penelope’s face feels cool. It’s a lingering aftereffect from the makeup room, where the cool sponge was pressed to her skin. Then they removed the dove clip from her hair, so they could rub mousse in and gather her hair into twining locks.
Penelope is chairperson of the Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society. She is now being ushered silently into the news studio, and sits down in the spotlight opposite Pontus Salman, the managing director of Silencia Defense Ltd., an arms manufacturer.
The news anchor, Stefanie von Sydow, looks into the camera and starts to talk about the layoffs following British defense manufacturer BAE Systems Ltd.’s purchase of the Swedish company Bofors. She turns to Penelope:
“Penelope Fernandez, in a number of debates now, you have been highly critical of Swedish arms exports. Recently, you drew a comparison with the Angolagate scandal in France, in which senior politicians and businessmen were accused of bribery and weapons smuggling, and given long prison sentences. We haven’t seen anything like that in Sweden, though, surely?”
“There are two ways of looking at that,” Penelope replies. “Either our politicians work differently, or our judicial system does.”
“As you’re well aware,” Salman says, “we have a long tradition of—”
“According to Swedish law,” Penelope interrupts, “all manufacture and export of military equipment is illegal.”
“You’re wrong,” Salman says.
“Paragraphs three and six in the Military Equipment Act, 1992,” Penelope specifies.
“But Silencia Defense has had all these contracts preapproved.” He smiles.
“Yes, because otherwise we’d be talking about large-scale weapons offenses, and—”
“Like I said, we have a permit,” he interrupts.
“Don’t forget what military equipment is—”
“Hold on a moment, Penelope,” Stefanie von Sydow says, nodding to Salman, who has raised his hand to indicate that he wasn’t finished.
“Naturally, every deal is vetted beforehand,” he explains. “Either directly by the government, or by the Inspectorate for Strategic Products, if you’re familiar?”
“France has an equivalent body,” Penelope replies. “Even so, military equipment worth eight billion kronor was approved for shipment to Angola in spite of the UN arms embargo, and in spite of an absolute ban on—”
“We’re talking about Sweden now.”
“I understand that people don’t want to lose their jobs, but I’d still be interested in hearing how you can justify the export of huge quantities of ammunition to Kenya. A country which—”
“You don’t have anything,” he interrupts. “Nothing, not a single instance of wrongdoing, do you?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to—”
“Do you have any concrete evidence?” Stefanie von Sydow interrupts.
“No,” Penelope Fernandez replies, and lowers her gaze. “But I . . .”
“In which case I think an apology is in order,” Salman says.
Penelope looks him in the eye. She feels anger and frustration bubbling up inside her, but forces herself to stay quiet. Salman gives her a disappointed smile and begins to talk about their factory in Trollhättan. Two hundred jobs were created when Silencia Defense was given permission to start manufacturing. He explains what preapproval entails, and how far they’ve gotten with production. He expands on his point so much that there’s no time left for his co-interviewee.
Penelope listens and tries to suppress her wounded pride. Instead, she thinks about the fact that she and Björn will soon be setting off on his boat. They’ll make up the arrow-shaped bed and fill the fridge and little freezer. In her mind’s eye, she sees the sparkle of frosted glasses full of vodka as they eat pickled herring, potatoes, boiled eggs, and crackers. They’ll set the table on the aft deck, drop anchor by a small island in the archipelago, and sit and eat in the evening sun.
Penelope leaves Swedish Television’s studios and starts to walk toward Valhalla Boulevard. She had spent almost two hours waiting for a follow-up interview on a different program before they dropped her to leave room for a segment on five easy tips for a flat stomach this summer.
Over on the grassy expanse of Gärdet, she can see the colorful tents of the Cirkus Maximum. Two of the performers are washing two elephants with a hose. One of them reaches into the air with its trunk to catch the water in its mouth.
Penelope is only twenty-four. She has curly dark hair that reaches just past her shoulders, and always wears a short silver chain around her neck with a small crucifix from when she was confirmed. Her skin is golden, like honey. Her eyes are large and serious. She has been told more than once that she bears a striking resemblance to Sophia Loren.
Penelope takes out her phone and calls Björn to say she’s on her way, and is about to catch the subway from Karla Plaza.
“Penny? Did something happen?” he asks, sounding stressed.
“No—why?”
“Everything’s ready. I left you a message. You’re the only thing missing.”
“There’s no rush, is there?”
As Penelope takes the escalator down to the subway platform, her heart starts to beat faster with vague unease, and she closes her eyes. The escalator grows steeper and narrower, the air colder and colder.
Penelope comes from La Libertad, one of El Salvador’s largest regions. Penelope’s mother, Claudia, was imprisoned during the civil war, and Penelope was born and raised in a cell where fifteen other interned women did their best to help. Claudia was a doctor, and had been active in a campaign to educate the population. She ended up in one of the regime’s notorious prisons because she continued to campaign for indigenous people’s right to form unions.
Penelope hates war and violence, a burning conviction that led her to study for a master’s degree in peace-and-conflict studies at Uppsala University. She has worked for the French aid organization Action Contre la Faim in Darfur, and she wrote an acclaimed article for Dagens Nyheter about the attempts of women in the refugee camps to re-create some semblance of normal life. Two years ago, she succeeded Frida Blom as chair of the Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society.
Penelope doesn’t open her eyes until she reaches the bottom of the escalator. The claustrophobic feeling vanishes, and she’s completely calm by the time she gets on the subway. She thinks about Björn again, waiting at the marina on Långholmen. She loves swimming naked from his boat, diving into the water and not being able to see anything but sea and sky.
The train shakes as it rushes through the tunnel; then sunlight streams through the windows when it reaches the Old Town station.
Penelope gets off at Hornstull and emerges into the sunshine. She feels inexplicably anxious, so she hurries across the bridge to Långholmen and follows the road around, toward the marina.
Björn’s boat is moored in the shadow of the Western Bridge; the movements of the water form a mesh of light that is reflected onto the gray steel beams high above.
She sees him at the stern of the boat, wearing a cowboy hat. He’s standing still, with his arms wrapped around himself, his shoulders hunched.
Penelope puts two fingers in her mouth and wolf-whistles. Björn startles, and he seems suddenly afraid. He looks over toward the road and catches sight of her, but he still has a worried look in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asks, walking down the steps to the pier.
“Nothing,” Björn replies, then adjusts his hat and tries to smile.
They hug. His hands are ice-cold, and his shirt is soaked through.
“You’re covered with sweat,” she says.
Björn looks away evasively. “I’m just eager to get going.”
“Did you bring my bag?”
He nods and gestures toward the cabin. The boat is rocking gently beneath her feet, and she can smell sun-warmed plastic and polished wood.
“Hello?” she says breezily. “Where are you right now?”
His straw-colored hair is sticking out in every direction in small, matted dreads. His bright-blue eyes are childlike, smiling.
“I’m here,” he replies, lowering his eyes.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I just want us to be together,” he says, putting his arms around her waist. “And have sex out in the open air.”
He nuzzles her hair with his lips.
“Is that what you’re hoping?” she whispers.
“Yes,” he replies.
She laughs at him for being so upfront.
“Most people—well, most women, anyway—probably find that overrated,” she says. “Lying on the ground with lots of ants and stones and . . .”
“It’s like swimming naked,” he maintains.
“You’re just going to have to convince me,” she says flirtatiously.
“I’ll do my best.”
“How?” she says, laughing, as her phone starts to ring in her canvas bag.
Björn’s smile seems to stiffen at the sound of the ringtone. The color drains from his cheeks. She looks at the screen.
“It’s Viola,” she says quickly to Björn before she answers: “Hola, little sister.”
A car honks its horn, and her sister shouts something away from the phone. “Fucking lunatic,” she mutters.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s over,” her sister says. “I’ve dumped Sergey.”
“Again,” Penelope adds.
“Yes,” Viola says quietly.
“Sorry,” Penelope says. “You must be upset.”
“I’ll be all right, but . . . Mom said you were going out on the boat, and I was wondering . . . I’d love to come along, if that’s okay?”
Neither of them speaks for a moment.
“Sure, come along,” Penelope repeats, hearing the lack of enthusiasm in her own voice.