“Sorry. Hold on, I’ll...” She swept everything but the keys and the cigarettes onto the floor. Fabian got in and Tuvesson started the car and pulled away. “Is it okay if I smoke?” Before he could respond, she lit a cigarette and rolled down her window. “I’m actually going to quit. People always say that but don’t follow through. But I’m planning on it — just not right now,” she continued, taking a deep drag as she turned left onto Tågagatan.
“No problem,” said Fabian, his eyes glued to the class photo with Jörgen’s crossed-out face. Why hadn’t he been able to recall Jörgen Pålsson? If there was anyone he should remember, it was Jörgen. Of course, he had never liked him, so that might explain it. Maybe he had simply repressed the memory of him. “Where was his body found?”
“Fredriksdal School. From what I understand, he was a shop teacher there.”
“He was also a student there once.”
“Not everyone has the opportunity to go all the way to Stockholm, Mr. Risk. What do you know about Jörgen?”
“Pretty much nothing. We never hung out.” Fabian started thinking about his school days, how all the guys used to wear Lyle & Scott sweaters and how the TV would be rolled in to watch skiing sensation Ingemar Stenmark. “To be completely honest, I didn’t like him.”
“No? Why not?”
“He was the class bully and a general pain. He did whatever he wanted.”
“We had a guy like that at our school, too. He disrupted all the classes and took other people’s lunch trays. No one stood up to him, not even the teachers.” Tuvesson sucked the last bit of nicotine from her cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. “That was back in the day before all the letter-combo diagnoses like ADD and ADHD.”
“Jörgen also only listened to KISS and Sweet.”
“What’s wrong with KISS and Sweet?”
“Nothing. They’re good. But I only figured that out a few years ago.”
*
FABIAN STEPPED OUT OF the car and looked at Fredriksdal School, a two-storey red-brick building that loomed behind the deserted schoolyard. Two basketball hoops with ragged nets stuck up out of the asphalt — a reminder that this was normally a place for children. He let his eyes explore the long rows of narrow, prison-like windows and had a hard time understanding how he’d survived three years in this building.
“Who found him?”
“Before I get to that, his wife called to report him missing a week ago, last Wednesday, but there was nothing we could do at that point. He had gone down to Germany the day before to buy beer for Midsummer, and was supposed to have returned home that evening.”
“Buying beer in Germany? Is that still worth the trip?”
“It is if you buy enough. Forty kronor a case, and you get reimbursed for the ferry trip back if you don’t stay longer than three hours.”
Travelling all the way down to Germany just to fill your car to the brim with beer? The more Fabian thought about it, the better it seemed to fit with the Jörgen he was starting to remember. Jörgen, and possibly his partner-in-crime Glenn. “Did he never make it to Germany?”
“He was definitely there. We checked at Øresund Bridge and he returned on Tuesday night, as planned. But that’s where all traces of him end. Our next clue didn’t come until yesterday, when a glass company requested the removal of a vehicle that was blocking its cherry picker.”
“His vehicle?”
Tuvesson nodded and they continued around the corner to the back of the school building. About twenty metres away, a Chevy pickup truck was parked next to a cherry picker. Police tape was already up, forming a generous perimeter. Two uniformed officers were guarding the area.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair, who was wearing disposable blue coveralls, approached Fabian and Tuvesson. His glasses were perched low on his nose.
“I want to introduce the two of you,” Tuvesson said. “Ingvar Molander, our forensic investigator, please meet Fabian Risk, who doesn’t officially start until August.”
“Does it matter when you have an investigation like this to sink your teeth into?” Molander pulled his glasses down even further down his nose, and eyed Fabian as he extended his hand.
“It does make you wonder,” Fabian lied, shaking Molander’s hand.
“You’re right about that. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Ingvar, he’s just here to do a quick once-over.”
Molander gave her a look that sparked Fabian’s curiosity, albeit reluctantly. Then he showed them into the school building and gave them each a set of coveralls.
This was the first time in almost thirty years Fabian had been inside the school. It looked just as he remembered, with the red brick along the walls of the hallways and the sound-absorbing tiles that resembled compacted trash stuck to the ceiling. They made their way to the wood shop off the rearmost hallway. Woodworking had never interested Fabian in the least until he realized you could make your own skateboards. One semester later he had heated, bent, and cut so many sheets of plywood that he had been able to sell them and save up for a pair of real Tracker trucks.
“Allow me to welcome you to a murder scene that without a doubt qualifies as one of the top-ten worst murder scenes I have ever seen.” Molander showed Fabian and Tuvesson through the door. “As luck would have it, the perpetrator set the AC to its lowest setting. Otherwise this would have been in the top five, considering that the body has been lying here for over a week.”
Molander was right: the wood shop was very cold. It felt like stepping into a fridge, even though the thermometer indicated it was between twelve and thirteen degrees. Three other people in coveralls were taking pictures of the room, examining the scene, and gathering evidence. The familiar smell of wood and sawdust was all mixed up with a rotten, sweet stench. Fabian walked over to Jörgen Pålsson’s body, which was lying in a large pool of dried blood, right next to a door. The lock mechanism and the door handle were covered in more blood. The body was large and fit, dressed in a pair of loose, worn jeans and a bloody white undershirt.
Fabian didn’t remember Jörgen being so big — tough and cocky, yes, but not this thick. He must have been as strong as an ox. And yet the perpetrator had managed to cut his hands off at the wrist on both of his tattooed arms. The stumps were bloody and ragged, and Fabian couldn’t even imagine how much it must have hurt. Why the hands in particular?
“As you can see, the blood on the floor indicates that he made his way from the workbench over there to the door where we came in,” Molander said. “It doesn’t have a lock, but what he didn’t know was that it was blocked with benches, chairs, and tables on the other side. After he tried that escape route he made his way over here and attempted to get out through this door. But how easy is it to turn a door handle when you don’t have any hands?”
Fabian studied the bloody knob.
“Have you had time to inspect the lock?” Tuvesson asked.
“It’s filled with superglue, which explains the state of the victim’s mouth.” Molander took out his medical pincers and lifted Jörgen’s upper lip to reveal a row of broken top teeth.
“He tried to turn it with his mouth?” Tuvesson asked.
Molander nodded. “Talk about survival instincts. I definitely would have died with my teeth intact.”
“I don’t understand. Surely he must have put up some resistance?” Tuvesson said.
“That’s a good question. Maybe he did, but maybe he was drugged. We don’t know yet. We’ll see what Braids comes up with in the lab.”
“How long did he struggle for?”
“Three or four hours, I’d guess.” Molander showed them across the shop to one of the workbenches; it, too, was covered in dried blood. “The killer fastened his arms in this C-clamp, and performed the amputation with this handsaw.” He used the pincers to point at a bloody saw that had been tossed on the floor.
“Have you checked with the glass company who called to request removal of the truck?” Fabian s
aid.
“Why? Are you suggesting they’re involved?” asked Tuvesson.
“If you ask me, this doesn’t look like the work of a person who relies on chance.”
Tuvesson and Molander exchanged glances.
“I have the company’s number here.” Tuvesson took out her phone and called the number with speakerphone on. After an unusual ringtone, an automated voice told them that the number they’d dialled was not in service. “It looks like you may be right. We’ll have to find out who rented the cherry picker. Ingvar, make sure to examine the crane for any clues.”
Molander nodded.
“And the hands?” Tuvesson went on.
“We haven’t found them yet.”
Tuvesson turned to Fabian. “Well? What do you think? Is this ringing any bells?”
Fabian’s eyes swept over the workbench, the bloody handsaw, the tracks of blood on the floor, and the body without its amputated hands. He looked Tuvesson and Molander each in the eye, and shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”
“Nothing? Not even some inkling that it might be someone from your class, or an idea of why someone would do this to Jörgen Pålsson in particular?”
Fabian shook his head again.
“It was worth a shot. If you think of anything, promise me you’ll call or come by the station. Okay?”
Fabian nodded and followed Tuvesson out of the wood shop haunted by a question that wouldn’t allow him any peace until he had found the answer.
Why the hands?
August 18
This is the first time I’m writing in you even though I got you for Christmas two years ago from Mom. She said it’s always good to write down your thoughts so that you don’t forget anything. Yesterday I cleaned my whole room and filled a black garbage bag with trash. Mom was super happy, and I found my C-3PO figure that had been missing for over a year.
Everyone was back in school today, except Hampus. They were all happy about our new classroom and our new books, but not me. It’s my turn now and it started as soon as we had Math. Everyone looked at me even though I hadn’t done anything. I tried to act normal, like I didn’t notice but they just kept staring. I know what that means. Everyone knows. I knew this was going to happen. I knew as soon as Hampus said he was moving away. I kept hoping I was wrong, but I guess I wasn’t. It was all I thought about for the whole summer.
I sat at the very front in English so I wouldn’t see when they stared. They were passing notes but I pretended that wasn’t happening either. I didn’t turn around. Not once.
Jesper read one of the notes out loud and it said I was ugly and smelled bad. I don’t know how that’s possible. I always scrub really hard in the shower and I’ve even been using deodorant for the past year because my sweat smelled more. Mom said that happens to everyone. I’ve tried to smell my own BO. I don’t think I smell. But I know I’m ugly — ugly as shit.
P. S. Tomorrow is Laban’s birthday so I’m going to go buy one of those wheels, a water bottle, and sawdust.
3
WHEN FABIAN RETURNED HOME, the movers were in full swing. He looked into the truck and saw that they had emptied a bit more than half of it already. There was still a wall of boxes, old lamps, hockey sticks, their stained Klippan sofas from IKEA and the Ellipse table with its imitation Ant chairs, the big old TV they had let Theodor keep for his room but he never watched, cross-country skis, bikes, the display cabinet, which seemed to have one broken pane, and a mountain of black garbage bags to go.
Was this really all he had managed to collect in his forty-three years of life? A few shabby sofas and dusty lampshades? Fabian felt the urge to tell the men to stop carrying things in and just drive the whole load to the dump instead. This move was making him feel as if he’d just bought a fancy new computer and was transferring over all his old files, viruses and all. What he really wanted to do was start over again. Forget about money for once and buy all new things. He wanted to rip off the plastic and inhale the scent of unused objects.
He nodded at the movers, who were unloading the old avocado- green filing cabinet he’d been given when he turned twelve. It looked heavy, and it took two men to carry it. He tried to think of what was in the drawers and couldn’t remember the last time he’d opened them. The cabinet had spent the last twenty years relegated to the attic of their apartment. Why did it weigh so much?
An hour later, he was helping Sonja empty some of the boxes in the kitchen when he remembered what the filing cabinet contained and rushed to find it. Sonja had directed the movers down to the cellar. On his way there, Fabian realized he’d never even set foot in the basement, which should have been the first priority for any serious buyer. He had blindly trusted the realtor, who’d guaranteed that the house was superb. He wasn’t too worried. After all, this was an old house with thick brick walls and a natural draft, not like the new, externally insulated buildings in the Mariastaden neighbourhood — or “Moldstaden,” as people had started to call it.
He’d never had the chance to meet Otto Paldynski, the seller of the house. Apparently he was a true perfectionist, and had taken care of his home as if it were his own child during the thirty years he’d lived there with his family. Paldynski had wanted to make a quick sale due to private circumstances, and had been prepared to bring down the price quite a bit: something the realtor said was like winning the lottery for Fabian — a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Fabian was willing to admit that he hadn’t needed very much convincing. But he still couldn’t help wondering what those “private circumstances” really were. He’d gone so far as to ask the realtor, who said that he was not in the habit of involving himself in his clients’ personal business and elegantly changed the subject to the benefits Fabian could expect as a buyer. Fabian had accepted the answer with a smile and a nod and decided not to dig any further.
He walked up to the avocado-coloured filing cabinet, pulled out the top drawer, and immediately found what he was looking for — his yearbook from the ninth grade. He sat down on the cabinet and paged through to his own class. The yearbook photo was the same as the one the killer had left behind at the scene of the crime, except in Fabian’s picture no one was crossed out.
Their hairstyles were the most obvious indicator that it was 1982, since everyone had big, poufy, heavily styled hair. He started to remember bits and pieces about everyone: Seth Kårheden and his velvety moustache; Stefan Munthe and Nicklas Bäckström, who lived on the same courtyard as him, and were just as into skateboarding. He found Lina in the photo, with her blonde curls. Even Jörgen had a pronounced 1980s comb-over. They looked like a gang of true nerds, especially Fabian. He began to scrutinize his own image. He was wearing a tucked-in shirt, high-waisted pants, and the home-cut hairstyle that refused to lie neatly.
He was struck by the fact that he hadn’t been in contact with anyone in the class since he moved to Stockholm — not even Lina. It was as if he’d packed up his entire youth in a moving box and left it sitting behind in Helsingborg for all these years, full of spiderwebs and forgotten until now.
“So this is where you’re hiding...”
Fabian was visibly startled when he saw that Sonja was standing in front of him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He closed the yearbook as if he’d been caught red-handed. “I just didn’t hear you coming.”
“What would you say to taking a break and going out for pizza? The kids are starving.”
Fabian put the book down and stood up. “That’s a great idea. There is — or at least there was — a really good pizzeria just a few blocks from here.” He turned around to walk toward the stairs but Sonja took his arm.
“Darling, are you okay?”
Fabian looked back at her and nodded, but he could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe him.
*
EACH MEMBER OF THE Risk family carried their own personal pizza from Tågaborgs Pizzeria as they walked down to the boardwalk and sat on the s
un-warmed wall. There was a beautiful view of the Sound and they could see all the way to Denmark. It was much more beautiful than Fabian remembered. The boardwalk had been widened over the years and was full of people enjoying a stroll in the light evening breeze. The changing rooms down toward Fria Bad had been renovated as restaurants, and the entire area around the old train tracks had been replaced by a lawn for bocce courts and barbecuing. Even further in the distance they caught a glimpse the palm trees that were first put out during the architectural fair in 1999. From what Fabian understood, the palm trees had now become a perennial tradition, and what had once been a forgotten little patch of sand was now called “Tropical Beach,” one of Helsingborg’s most popular stretches of coastline. He felt like he had moved to a totally new city.
“This is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten in my life!” Matilda exclaimed. Fabian was inclined to agree. Never had a pizza tasted so good.
They sat there for a while, watching all the boats en route from Helsingborg to Helsingør, where they could go to Kronborg Castle. It was the very proof that they were now closer to the rest of Europe. Fabian promised himself never again to move a single metre further north. He turned to Theodor, who was gazing out across the Sound with a vacant expression. “How was your pizza? Was it the best you’ve ever eaten, too?”
“No, but it was pretty good.”
“A four or a five?”
“A three and a half.”
“Then you have to taste mine. It was at least a six,” Matilda said, handing him a slice.
Theodor took a huge bite. “Okay, I’ll give it a four. But that’s all.”
“God, you’re so picky. Mom, isn’t he picky?”
Sonja nodded and met Fabian’s eyes. He had done all he could to hide it, and thus far she hadn’t asked what Tuvesson had wanted. Yet there could be no doubt that she knew something wasn’t quite right. As usual, she had seen right through his pathetic attempts at appearing to be present, even if she had chosen, on this particular night, to play along with his charade and pretend that they were just sitting on the warm boardwalk wall, enjoying the red evening sun and the sound of the waves as they washed over the rocks.
Victim Without a Face Page 2
