That night they made love just as he had fantasized about earlier that day.
The floor.
Wine and candles.
For Emma, Forever Ago...
4
MATILDA WOKE UP FABIAN and Sonja by crawling around on top of them, wondering why they were sleeping on the living room floor. They helped each other improvise an explanation, telling her that the bed in their room had to be adjusted before they could sleep in it. Theodor came downstairs and helped set the table out on the deck while Sonja and Matilda rushed off to the grocery store to buy food for breakfast. Soon after, they enjoyed eating together in the morning sun. All that was missing was the newspaper, which Sonja claimed to have forgotten to purchase.
“What are we going to do today?” Matilda asked.
“I suppose we’ll keep unpacking and...”
“Adjust the beds! So you don’t have to sleep on the floor!”
“Yes, that too!” Sonja laughed. “And I was thinking that we could go for a swim this afternoon.”
“Yeah!”
“Can we go and buy a snorkel beforehand, Dad?” said Theodor.
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to swim without me today.”
“What?! Why?” Matilda cried. “Aren’t we on vacation?”
“Yes, but Dad has a few things he has to take care of,” Sonja said. “And he is just as disappointed as we are. All we can do is hope it doesn’t take very long.” She met Fabian’s gaze and he could tell that she had read the paper in the store.
*
FABIAN STEPPED INTO THE recently built, white police headquarters, which were right next to the E4 highway and just a stone’s throw away from the old, castle-like prison in Berga. He walked up to the reception desk. Four different newspapers were piled up: Helsingborgs Dagblad, Kvällsposten, Dagens Nyheter, and Svenska Dagbladet. He looked at the front page of the newspaper on the top of the stack: SHOP TEACHER TORTURED AND MURDERED IN HIS OWN CLASSROOM.
Was this the headline that Sonja had read? Two of the newspapers used pretty much the same photo. It had been taken at a distance and showed the cherry picker and Jörgen’s pickup truck parked behind the school. The truck’s licence plate had been blurred out, but the red building, with its long rows of cell windows, made it very obvious which school was in question. And how many shop teachers could possibly work there?
Fabian introduced himself to the man behind the reception desk and explained the situation: he wasn’t actually scheduled to start work until August but that Tuvesson had brought him in on the case of the murdered shop teacher and told him just to pop by if anything came up. The receptionist, who was in his thirties and wearing a police uniform, began to tap at the keyboard in front of him. Fabian thought the man’s hair evoked images of Germany in the 1930s and he couldn’t help being impressed by his upright posture.
“What was your name again?”
“Risk. Fabian Risk. But I don’t think you’ll find me in the directory. Like I said, my position doesn’t begin until August.”
The receptionist ignored him, fought with the mouse, typed in commands, and stared at the screen, appearing increasingly agitated. “I’m sorry, but I can’t find you.”
“I said you wouldn’t find me, but if you call Tuvesson —”
“Astrid Tuvesson is in an investigation meeting and does not like to be disturbed at such times.”
“I’m supposed to be at that meeting! She’s probably waiting for me right now,” Fabian lied, and then realized that he sounded overly angry. “Do you think it will help if I try to call her?”
“It’s not up to me who you call, but I can promise you that she won’t answer. She never picks up the phone when she’s in a meeting.”
Fabian knew that the man was probably right. He had already tried calling her without getting an answer.
“So how can I get in?”
“I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I can’t let just anyone in whenever they want. Just imagine how that would look.”
“You must be Fabian Risk,” he heard a female voice say behind him.
Fabian turned around and saw a woman whom he guessed was about thirty-five. She was in good shape and wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt and a pair of cut-off jean shorts. Her dark hair was cropped and she had at least twenty earrings in one ear.
“Two-fer said you would probably be standing here trying to get in. I didn’t think you were starting until August.”
“Me neither,” Fabian replied, wondering how much Astrid Tuvesson had actually found out about him.
They shook hands.
“Irene Lilja.”
“Maybe you can convince this man to let me in,” said Fabian, pointing to the receptionist.
“He’s not in the directory and I have explicit orders to never let anyone in, under any circumstances, who isn’t —”
“It’s fine. He can come with me, and I’ll make sure he signs in.” Lilja gestured for Fabian to follow her through the glass door to the elevators. “Lucky for you I was late. Florian can be pretty overzealous.”
They stepped into the elevator and Lilja turned to him.
“Have you thought of anything yet?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t.”
“Then what are you doing here? From what I understand you just moved back to the city and must be incredibly busy.”
Fabian fumbled for an answer but was interrupted by the elevator doors opening.
Lilja showed him into the meeting room. It was an amply sized space with an expansive view of Helsingborg, Øresund, and beyond. There was an oval table in the middle of the room and the walls were well lit and functioned both as whiteboards and as screens for the projectors mounted from the ceiling. Fabian had never seen such a fresh and modern conference room. He was used to holding meetings in windowless rooms with no ventilation.
“No, he hasn’t figured out who the perpetrator is, so you can start breathing again,” Lilja announced.
“I mostly wanted to sit in and hear what you’ve come up with, if that’s okay?” Fabian said.
“Of course it is. Come in and have a seat,” Tuvesson replied, and introduced him to the rest of the group.
There was only one person Risk hadn’t met yet: Sverker “Klippan” Holm, a powerful man a bit over fifty. “We’ll have to manage without Hugo Elvin. He just left for Kenya and won’t be back for a month.”
“Kenya,” Klippan muttered. “So that’s where you have to go to get some time off.” He turned to Fabian. “Risk. That’s your name, right?” Fabian nodded. “I’m warning you. If you so much as sit down on that chair you can kiss your vacation goodbye. If a vacation is what you want, head for Kenya — or somewhere even further away. I had to settle for my in-laws’ house on the Koster Islands this summer, and look at where I’m sitting now.” Klippan threw his arms in the air.
“It was your own choice to cancel your vacation and come in — which I am extremely grateful for, by the way,” Tuvesson said, putting up a photo of Jörgen Pålsson on the wall above the crime scene photos.
“Choice? You think I could lie on a dock navel-gazing while someone capable of this sort of sick crime is on the loose?”
“On a positive note, you’re always complaining about your in-laws’ place, saying that it’s more work than vacation to be there,” Lilja said.
“One thing I can say for certain: I would definitely rather be with my family than here in this conference room with all of you, and that’s why no one should be allowed to commit serious crimes during my vacation time, goddammit!”
“I guess you’ll have to submit a motion to change the law,” Tuvesson said in a tone that indicated the time for chit-chat was over. “And Fabian, you don’t have to worry. No matter how much I want to, I can’t cancel your vacation. You earned the time in Stockholm.”
Fabian sat down.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Risk,” said Klippan.
“May I just ask one question before we jump into t
hings — I don’t suppose you’ve found Jörgen’s hands yet?” inquired Fabian.
“We were just getting to that.” Tuvesson motioned to Molander, who stood up and pressed a remote control button. A projector on the ceiling lit up, showing an image of two sawed-off hands on a bloody, white-tiled floor.
“This picture was taken in the boys’ shower room that’s connected to the gym.”
“We’re talking about the same school, right?” Klippan asked. Molander nodded.
“Have you started compiling a criminal profile?” asked Fabian.
“What did I tell you?” Klippan said. “He’s already working! I can assure you, he’s not even aware of it himself.”
“We haven’t worked up a criminal profile just yet,” said Tuvesson. “The signs suggest we’re dealing with the worst sort of criminal — a lone madman who wants to make a point, has a plan of action, and is likely smart enough to make it a reality.”
“Why are you so sure that he or she is working alone?” Lilja said, pouring a cup of coffee.
“Because this is so extreme.” Tuvesson gestured toward the crime scene photos with one hand. “At the same time, it’s much too well planned and well executed for it to be more than one person. When a group commits this type of insane act, it’s almost always on impulse and under the influence of heavy drugs. Mistakes are made and they leave behind a wide swath of clues and technical evidence. But there were no mistakes here. We haven’t found any fingerprints or strands of hair. We have nothing. And Fabian was right about the glass company — it doesn’t exist. The cherry picker had been rented to PEAB Construction, who had no idea it was missing. In other words, the murder of Jörgen Pålsson was not a crime of passion, but a meticulously planned offence: the killer took his or her time to decide where it would take place, how it would be accomplished, and when it would be discovered.”
“But why?” asked Molander.
“That’s a good question,” said Lilja. “Why chop off his hands?”
“Maybe he stole something?” Klippan suggested. “According to Islamic law, that’s the punishment for theft.”
“You think the killer is Muslim?”
“Why not?” Klippan said, picking up a copy of the class photo and pointing to one of the boys. “This guy looks pretty Muslim. What do you think, Fabian? Do you remember him?”
“Jafaar Umar. We called him Jaffe. He was a pretty funny guy, a bit of a class clown. There was nothing he couldn’t make into a joke.”
“That description doesn’t exactly sound like our killer,” said Lilja.
“It so happens that cutting off people’s hands is common in a number of cultures,” said Molander. “Just take the war in Rwanda. Prisoners of war had their hands cut off so they couldn’t fight.”
“In some cases, they cut off the hands of everyone in entire villages,” Klippan broke in. “Men, women, and children, just so that they couldn’t identify themselves and vote.”
“What do you mean?” said Lilja. “Voting is something you do anonymously.”
“Yes, but in order to get a ballot in the first place you have to identify yourself, and that was done with handprints.”
Fabian didn’t think the murder was an Islamic punishment for theft. He didn’t remember Jörgen Pålsson as a thief. Rowdy yes; thief, no. The hands had been cut off and placed in a shower room. What could it possibly mean? There was no doubt that the murderer was sending a message.
“Risk. What are you thinking?”
He looked up and met Tuvesson’s curious eyes. “What is the killer trying to say here? Is it important that the murder took place at Jörgen’s work, or is it just a coincidence because he happened to work at the same place where he went to school?”
“Are you suggesting that it might be a student?”
“I’m not sure. It could be a teacher. Maybe someone he violated.”
“Violated? What do you mean? As in raped?” said Klippan.
“If avenging a rape were the motive, I doubt it would have been his hands that got cut off,” said Lilja.
“Just one more thing,” Fabian continued, wondering where he’d gotten the idea for the word violated. “If Jörgen Pålsson really did cross the Øresund Bridge, there should be pictures to prove it, right?”
“We know he went over,” Klippan said, passing him a printout from a logbook. “You can see the exact times from the toll booth at Lernacken of both his exit and return.”
“On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to get a visual confirmation. Risk, you’re more than welcome to follow up on this lead if you want,” said Tuvesson.
“Sure,” replied Fabian, realizing that Klippan had been absolutely right. Thoughts of his vacation seemed more and more distant.
“Klippan and Irene, I want you to identify everyone in the class and find out as much as you possibly can without getting in direct contact. Since the perpetrator might be one of them, I want us to keep as much as we can under wraps until we know more. Is that clear?”
Lilja and Klippan nodded.
“What about Fabian? What do we do with him?” Lilja asked. “He was in the class, too.”
The others turned to look at him.
“I’ll handle him,” said Tuvesson.
“And then we have the victim’s wife,” said Klippan. “Er... widow. Who will contact her?”
“You mean Lina Pålsson?” said Tuvesson.
“Lina? Is that her name?” Fabian asked. Tuvesson nodded. “Is this her?” he probed, pointing at the blonde girl with long curly hair next to the crossed-out Jörgen. “They were together even back then. Unbelievable. If you want, I’d be happy to contact her.”
“I bet you would be,” Klippan said, looking at the class picture. “She sure was a looker.” He grasped Fabian’s shoulder.
“The way they look in this photo presumably has very little to do with how they look now, unfortunately,” said Molander.
“Yeah, just look at Fabian,” Lilja said, and the rest of the team burst into laughter. They all gathered up their documents and left the room — everyone except Tuvesson.
“I’m not sure how you feel about this, but it goes without saying that if you do want to help with the investigation I would be very grateful, although I certainly understand if you would prefer to prioritize your family vacation. The choice is completely up to you.”
“I’m happy to help,” Fabian said cheerfully. But he couldn’t stop thinking that Tuvesson had it all wrong. What choice did he have, considering what had happened? It wasn’t his first time working on a case where the perpetrator had been meticulously prepared. But this time was totally different. Someone from his old class had been brutally murdered and was discovered several days later, on the very day he arrived back in his hometown with his family. Sure, it could be a coincidence. But something told him it was about as likely a coincidence as the sawed-off hands.
“There’s just one thing I want to make absolutely clear to you,” she said as she met his gaze. “I don’t know how you did things back in Stockholm. But we’re a team here and we work together — that goes for you as well.”
Fabian nodded.
“Good. I’ll make sure you start getting paid as of today.”
“It would be helpful if you added me to the directory, so that Florian guy will let me in going forward.”
“Of course. You’ll also be issued an access card. For obvious reasons we don’t have your desk ready, but you can borrow Hugo Elvin’s in the meantime. As we discussed, he’s away for several weeks anyway. I’ll show you to it now.”
Fabian followed Tuvesson through the department, but he wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. His thoughts were somewhere else completely. Ever since he’d found out that Jörgen Pålsson had been killed, something had been nagging at his subconscious, refusing to emerge. But this feeling had developed more firmly during the meeting. It hadn’t been by chance that he’d used the word violated when discussing the motives for Jörgen’s murder.
5
LINA PÅLSSON DIDN’T REMEMBER him at first, even though he introduced himself using his full name and reminded her that they had been in the same class all throughout their school years. To be fair, they were talking on the phone and not meeting in person, but she was totally confused, which left Fabian wondering whether she really was the Lina from his class. She couldn’t place him until he used the nickname “Fabbe,” but once he did she immediately invited him to come over for coffee at 1 p.m. that day, which gave him enough time to get settled at his new desk and contact the Øresund Bridge.
Hugo Elvin’s desk chair looked like a cool experimental piece from the future. It had lots of knobs and levers, but unfortunately was not very pleasant to sit on. Actually it was decidedly uncomfortable, and Fabian started to adjust the levers while he tried to explain to an administrator at the Øresund Bridge’s central office why he was calling. He was transferred to someone else. As the phone rang, he managed to find a perfect setting on the chair. He couldn’t help wondering what Hugo Elvin’s body type was.
“Are you like that Kurt Wallander guy?” a woman suddenly asked on the other end. Fabian, who hadn’t had time to realize that the phone had stopped ringing, explained that Wallander outranked him. Well, he would have outranked him if Wallander weren’t fictional.
“Are you all really that smart in real life?” she asked.
Five minutes later, Fabian had managed to redirect the conversation away from Kurt Wallander so that he was the one asking the questions and the woman was answering them. She told him that every vehicle that passed through the toll booth at Lernacken was photographed by two cameras: one at the front, to capture the licence plate number, and one above, to measure the length of the vehicle, which ensured that the correct toll was debited. The bridge’s central office also used the pictures as evidence when someone skipped out on paying.
Victim Without a Face Page 3
