The history is usually erased in batches, which can be difficult
Fragments of old graphics pass over the sun-bleached screen. Johan shoves a piece of snuff underneath his lip without paying any attention to it. He wipes his hands on his pants and waits with half his attention on the screen.
Theyve done a good job cleaning this one, he says. But you cant erase everything. There are no secrets anymore Hanger 18 finds places no one knows exist.
Johans computer begins to beep and he writes something down as he reads through a long table of numbers. He writes something else and the beeping stops at once.
Whats that? Joona asks.
Not much. Its just hard to get through all the modern firewalls, sandboxes, and faked virus protection. Its amazing that a computer can even work at all with all these preventive measures.
Johan shakes his head and licks a bit of snuff away from his upper lip.
Ive never even had one antivirus program and-hey, look out. He interrupts his own lecture.
Joona comes closer to look over Johans shoulder.
What do we have here? What do we have here? Johan says in a singsong voice.
He leans back and rubs his neck as he starts writing with his other hand. He presses ENTER and smiles to himself.
Here we are.
Joona and Erixson stare at the screen.
Just give me a second this is not easy. Its coming out in small bits and fragments.
Johan hides the screen with his hand and waits. Slowly letters and pieces of graphics appear.
Look here, the doors opening now well be able to see what Bjorn Almskog was up to.
Erixson puts the brakes on his wheelchair and leans far forward so he can see the screen.
Damn it all, this is just a few dashes.
Look in the corner.
Okay. Hes used Windows, Erixson says. Very original.
Hotmail, Joona says.
Logging in, says Johan Jonson.
Now things are getting interesting, says Erixson.
Can you see a name? Joona asks.
It doesnt work like that; you can only move through time, Johan says as he scrolls down.
Whats that? Joona points.
Now were in the folder for sent mail.
Did he send something?
On the screen there are graphic fragments of advertisements for cheap trips to Milano, New Y k, Lo dn, P ris. Farthest down in the corner, a light gray tiny number, a time: 07:44:42 a.m.
Here we have something, says Johan Jonson.
Other fragments are appearing on his screen: rec I contact ith
Ads to connect with people. Erixson grins. Ive tried those, and they never work
He falls silent at once. Johan has carefully scrolled past incomprehensible graphic garbage and stops. He pushes back from his machine with a big grin.
Joona takes his spot and peers at the monitor to read whats at the center of the screen:
Carl Palmcr
Ck ph graf. Rec I contact withi
Joona feels hair rising on the back of his neck. Palmcrona, he thinks again and again as he writes down what he sees on the screen. He tries to think clearly and breathe calmly. The small stab of an oncoming migraine comes and then goes.
Erixson stares at the screen and swears to himself.
Are you absolutely sure Bjorn Almskog wrote this? Joona asks.
No doubt about it, replies Johan Jonson.
Absolutely sure?
If he was at this computer at this point in time, he wrote this e-mail.
So it is definitely from him, Joona tells himself, wanting to make sure, but his thoughts already zoom away. What the fuck, Erixson whispers.
Johan Jonson scans the address field fragments scattered over the screen: crona@isp. se. He drinks Fanta straight out of the thermos. Erixson leans back into his wheelchair and closes his eyes for a moment.
Palmcrona, murmurs Joona again, his voice tense in concentration.
This is fucking crazy, Erixson says. What the hell does Carl Palmcrona have to do with all this?
Joona silently walks out the door, concentrating on his thoughts and leaving his colleagues behind. He walks quickly down the stairs and out of the hospital into strong sunshine. He hurries across the parking lot to his black car.
Lars Kepler
The Nightmare
37 collaborating units
Joona Linna heads straight to Carloss office, full of the news about Carl Palmcrona. To his surprise, the door to Carloss office is wide open. Carlos is looking out the window.
Shes still standing there, he says.
Who?
The mother of those girls.
You mean Claudia Fernandez? Joona asks as, in turn, he goes to look out the window.
Shes been standing there for an entire hour.
Joona cant see her. A father in a dark blue suit is walking past. Hes wearing a kings crown on his head and holding the hand of a little girl dressed in a pink princess dress. But then, almost directly across from the National Police Board, he sees a slumped woman next to a dirty Mazda pickup truck. Its Claudia, staring intently at the foyer of the police building.
I went outside and asked her if she wanted someone in particular. I thought maybe youd forgotten a meeting with her.
No, Joona says quietly.
She said she was waiting for her daughter, Penelope.
Carlos, we have to talk.
But before Joona can say anything, theres a light knock at the door and Verner Zanden, the head of Sapos department of security, comes in.