Fabian told her that they were looking for a Chevy pickup with the licence plate number BJY 509. It should have passed through the toll on its way to Denmark on Tuesday, June 22, just after 6:00 a.m., and returned later that same day at 11:18 p.m. The woman promised to find the images and she asked for his email address so that she could send them to him. Fabian gave her Tuvesson’s email address, since he hadn’t been assigned one yet, and thanked the woman for her help. He then left police headquarters to go meet Lina Pålsson.
*
THE GPS TOLD FABIAN to turn off at Ödåkra; it guided him through the neighbourhood, which looked like any other suburb, until he came to Tögatan, where he stopped outside number nine. He got out of the car and walked up to the two-storey home, which was made of the same red brick as Fredriksdal School. Fabian couldn’t understand how Jörgen and Lina had stayed together for more than thirty years. Back then he had been convinced they wouldn’t even last a semester.
He rang the doorbell and thought of the first time he rang the doorbell at Lina’s family’s apartment. He’d been in fourth grade, and wasn’t brave enough to stick around — he ran off to hide on the next floor up before her father answered.
Fabian and Lina had agreed to walk to school together in the mornings and from then on he rang her doorbell every morning. The journey to school had been the high point of each day. He had her all to himself. They would talk and laugh, and he did everything he could to make the walk as slow as possible.
Klippan was right. Lina had definitely been the most beautiful girl in their class, and Fabian wondered if she was still just as pretty.
A large woman, bordering on fat, opened the door. She was wearing a baggy brown dress and her hair was black, except for the roots, which were grey. She looked tired and worn out. Above all, she looked considerably older than her forty-three years, I guess Molander was right about ageing, Fabian thought.
“You must be Fabian Risk,” she said. Fabian nodded, shaking her hand. “Agneta. Lina’s cousin. We’re taking shifts, so she doesn’t have to be alone. Come in.”
Fabian followed her inside. His eyes swept the living room, which was more charming than he’d expected after seeing the outside of the house. Lina, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“Wait here, I’ll bring the coffee out,” Agneta said, vanishing into the kitchen.
Fabian walked over to the bookcase. Even in the age of digital downloads, a bookcase was still one of the places in a home that held the most secrets.
This particular shelf contained the usual books, cultural items, and objects. A collection of colourful liquor bottles and crystal glasses of various sizes, as well as souvenirs from Greece and the Canary Islands, filled the illuminated glass portion. The CD collection consisted of a few compilations, and the DVD collection was half Disney and half Swedish detective films. Novels by Jan Guillou, Henning Mankell, and John Grisham made up at least three-quarters of the extremely selective book collection; the rest were the obligatory volumes by August Strindberg, William Shakespeare, and Charles Dickens. The only titles that spoiled the picture of normalcy, or improved it, depending on how you chose to look at it, were Paul Auster, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Franzen. Fabian decided those books must be Lina’s. He also discovered a few photo albums on the bottom shelf. He picked up the first one: it contained pictures of Jörgen and Lina’s wedding. Fabian couldn’t help thinking that she had married down. The next album was more varied, containing pictures of everything from Christmases and birthdays to crayfish parties and baptisms. In some of the pictures, Jörgen was posing bare-chested, showing off his tattooed and beefed-up muscles.
“Find anything interesting?”
Fabian quickly looked up from the album and saw Lina. “Well, there you are,” he said, putting down the album and wondering if he should give her a hug. He decided to put out his hand, even though his palm was already sweaty. “Hi.”
“Don’t I get a hug?”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want...” He gave her a cautious hug.
“I hardly recognize you. I heard you moved to Stockholm.”
“Yes, but I’m back now. And I definitely recognize you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Thank you.”
Fabian realized he had no idea where to go from here or how to avoid the awkward silence. He felt like the boy who had just rung the doorbell, but he didn’t have time to run and hide now. Agneta came back from the kitchen with a tray of coffee and placed it on the table.
“Lina, do you want me to stay here?”
“No, Agge, it’s fine. I’ll be okay.”
Agneta vanished again, and Lina and Fabian went over and sat down on the couch.
“You’re going to work on this investigation, as a policeman?” Lina said while pouring the coffee; her hand was unsteady, making it nearly impossible.
“Please, let me do that,” Fabian said, taking the coffee pot and pouring for her.
“I’m so sorry.” Lina burst into silent tears. “But I just don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone could do something like this to Jörgen. He was so well liked. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
He wanted to move closer and put a comforting hand on her shaking shoulder, but decided to stay where he was. He was here in his capacity as a police officer and nothing more. “Lina, I know this must be incredibly difficult, but can you think of anyone who might be behind this?”
Lina shook her head. “Absolutely no one. Like I said, everyone adored him. His students at school absolutely worshipped him. He knew how to deal with them, especially the problem kids.”
“Yes, I can certainly imagine. After all, he was a little... how should I put it... rowdy in his day.”
Lina looked up into Fabian’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
Either she’s repressed the memories or she can’t deal with them right now, Fabian thought, putting his mug down on the glass table. “Lina, if we’re to have any chance of catching whoever did this, I’m going to need to do some digging and turn over some rocks.”
Lina glanced away and Fabian didn’t do anything to break the silence; at last, she gave in and nodded.
“As I understand it, he had just been to Germany to buy beer. Do you know if he went with anyone?”
“He always went by himself.”
“And there couldn’t have been an exception this time?”
Lina shook her head. “If he had to share the space in the truck with someone else it wouldn’t be worth the trip.”
“Not even for the company?”
“Who would want to do that? Sit in a truck all the way to Germany and back, and not even be able to buy anything?”
She’s right, thought Fabian, who still didn’t get the point of going down there at all. “Maybe a friend wanted to go? Did he keep in contact with anyone from our class, besides you?”
“No, just Glenn. Glenn Granqvist.”
Fabian nodded. Glenn and Jörgen had been best friends for as far back as Fabian could recall — they were cut from the same cloth. A talk with Glenn would have to be the next item on his to-do list.
“Judging from what I saw in your photo albums, Jörgen looked like he was in pretty good shape.”
“Yes, he was always careful to keep fit. When the kids were little, it sometimes felt like he was at the gym more than he was at home.”
“So he worked out a lot?” Fabian asked, thinking that from here on out it was sink or swim. “Do you happen to know if he was taking anything to help increase his muscle growth?”
Lina met his gaze, as if she had been expecting any question but this one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anabolic steroids? Of course he wasn’t.”
Fabian was certain that Jörgen had used steroids, but that wasn’t the point of the question. The important thing was the way Lina had answered and that she was lying.
“Did he ever hit you?”
This time Lina was better prepared. She was cool and coll
ected. She snorted and shook her head. “I honestly don’t understand what you’re trying to get at. Jörgen was one of the nicest people you could imagine, and he would never have hurt me, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Lina, I’m not out to ruin Jörgen’s reputation. But you and I both know what he was like back in school, and all I want to find out is whether he —”
“I think you should leave now.” She stood up. “Please, just leave.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to —”
“Agge! You can come in now! We’re done in here!”
6
FABIAN GOT INTO HIS car and stuck the key in the ignition. There was no doubt that he’d gotten exactly what he’d been after, and confirmed the hunch he’d been walking around with since yesterday. He was sure Jörgen Pålsson had dug his own grave. But Fabian regretted that he had come on too strong, without any consideration for the fact that Lina had just lost her husband.
Was that what he couldn’t seem to come to terms with? That Lina had ended up with Jörgen, and out of everyone their relationship had endured? What right did he have to question her choices? As if he had any idea what was best for her.
He opened the glove box, pulled out the car’s most recent inspection report, and wrote a note on the back for Lina. He apologized profusely for hurting her feelings and assured her that she was more than welcome to contact him any time she felt the need. He ended by writing down his address and cell number, then signed the letter, folded it up, and put it in her mailbox.
Throughout the process he could sense her watching him from behind a thin curtain, and just before he got back in the car to drive off, he turned around and gave her a smile and a little wave.
It wasn’t long before his phone rang. But it turned out to be Tuvesson.
“The pictures from Lernacken arrived.”
“Can you see anything?”
“I think it’s best if you come in.”
*
THERE WERE A TOTAL of four pictures from the toll booth. Tuvesson had uploaded them to the police headquarters server so they could be projected on the wall of the conference room.
“Don’t tell me we’re out of milk again,” Lilja said, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand.
“There’s always cream,” Klippan noted, putting a splash into his own cup. “Just a few years ago, no one had any problem with —” but he was interrupted by his ringing phone. He took it out and looked at the number.
“Aren’t you going to pick up?” said Lilja.
Klippan sighed and answered. “Hi, darling. Listen, I’m in my meeting and... What? Not again!” Another sigh. “But Berit, I’ve told you over and over. You can’t use tons of toilet paper because it...” By now the whole room could hear Berit’s voice. “Okay. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call someone... No, not this very second. As soon as I have time... Darling, I have to go now. Bye-bye.” Klippan put down the phone and threw up his hands without comment.
“Shall we get started?” Tuvesson said, turning on the projector.
The first photo was taken from the front, and showed Jörgen Pålsson’s Chevy waiting to be allowed onto the bridge to Denmark. In the bottom corner was a time-stamp that read 10-06-22 6:23 a.m., and the man behind the wheel was clearly Jörgen Pålsson. The next picture was taken from above, and in it you could see Jörgen’s tattooed arm holding out a credit card.
“Well, he still had his hands attached then, at least,” said Klippan.
“This is where it gets really interesting.” Tuvesson brought up the third picture, stamped 10-06-22 11:18 p.m. It was considerably darker than the first two images, and Jörgen’s face was hidden in shadow. But there could be no doubt that he was the person at the wheel. His clean white undershirt was glowing like reflector tape in the darkness.
Jörgen wasn’t the only person in the photo to capture their interest. There was a man sitting in the passenger seat next to him, wearing dark clothes and a cap that was pulled down so low on his head that his entire face was in shadow. He was right there — the killer they were searching for, blending into the rest of the darkness like a shapeless phantom.
“I can try to manipulate the image and see if I can’t make the contrast a bit more noticeable,” said Molander.
“Do you think we can fix up the photo well enough to release it?” said Klippan.
Molander shrugged. “We’ll see, but I doubt it.”
“Are we even one hundred percent sure this really is our guy?” asked Lilja.
“No, but there’s a lot to recommend him,” said Tuvesson. “And of course, we won’t release anything until we’re sure we know all the facts.”
“That guy could be absolutely anyone,” said Lilja.
“What do you mean, anyone?”
“He could be a hitchhiker, for example.”
“Who picks up hitchhikers these days?” asked Klippan. “There’s hardly anywhere to stop your car.”
“I do. The world really isn’t as horrible as those of us inside these four walls might think,” replied Lilja.
“Even if it isn’t the perpetrator, he’s likely the last person who saw Jörgen alive. No matter who it is, we want to track him down,” said Tuvesson. “Let’s assume for a moment that the man in the picture really is our guy. The question then becomes: Why did Jörgen Pålsson pick him up?”
“And where?” said Lilja.
“Could they have arranged a meeting?” asked Tuvesson.
“No. According to Lina he always drove down by himself,” said Fabian.
“So she thinks. But who’s to say she’s right?” Klippan said. “My wife doesn’t know everything about me, anyway.”
“That’s awfully lucky for her,” Molander muttered.
“But considering how carefully planned the murder was, we ought to assume that the perpetrator would have been very sure that Jörgen would pick him up,” Fabian continued, while the others listened. “And, like Klippan said, the whole route is more or less highway where you can’t stop. So I wonder if we shouldn’t find out his credit card numbers and see what sorts of charges he incurred along the way.”
“Good idea.” said Tuvesson.
Klippan turned to Tuvesson. “He’s not a dummy, this new guy. Unfortunately, it’s going to be pretty damn slow finding all this out; the banks love to delay giving us this sort of information.”
Fabian knew Klippan was right. But he had a solution, and her name was Niva Ekenhielm with the FRA (National Defence Radio Establishment). She could hack her way through the thickest of firewalls like no one else. Niva had helped him quite a bit in his last investigation, but her help had come at a price, and Fabian had promised himself he would never contact her again.
*
FABIAN CALLED THE WOMAN from the central office at the Øresund Bridge again. She recognized his voice immediately and asked him how the case was going and whether they had found the murderer. Fabian answered evasively and told her that the investigation was moving forward and that they were doing everything in their power to solve the case as quickly as possible.
“I get it. You have to keep it confidential and you can’t reveal any technical details about the investigation,” the woman said in a generic southern Swedish accent. “But it’s the guy in the passenger seat, isn’t it?”
“As I’m sure you’ll understand, I can’t reveal everything we know,” he said, trusting that would be enough. He still needed her help and was hoping he wouldn’t have to get unpleasant with her.
“I’ll take that as a yes. But don’t worry, I won’t tell the papers — not yet, anyway.”
Fabian realized that he might as well make her feel like he was letting her in on some secrets.
“I don’t think you should do that, either. You’re smarter than that, and we certainly don’t want the perpetrator to find out how much we know, do we?”
“No, of course not.”
“And since you’re already so familiar with this case, I need your help with an
other thing.”
“Oh?”
“Do you think you can get hold of the number of the credit card he paid with?”
There was a long pause before she responded. “You know we can’t release that sort of information. Not without permission from a prosecutor.”
She’s not stupid, Fabian thought, but he knew there wasn’t enough time to wait for a prosecutor.
“But just because it’s you, Fabian Risk, my very own little Wallander, I’ll make an exception. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you come by and say hello next time you drive over.”
*
FABIAN WENT TO FIND the break room, where there was a large coffee machine with lots of buttons, so that he could make a call. He pressed the cappuccino button and heard the machine start up while the phone rang at the other end. She knew he was the caller; he was sure of that. She was probably staring at her ringing phone right now.
“How the hell do you have the balls to call me?”
Fabian was flummoxed and fumbled for something to say.
“Hello? Did you think I wouldn’t know it was you? So fucking —”
“Niva, I didn’t mean to —”
“We are finished. Have you forgotten that already?”
“No, I haven’t, and that’s not why I’m calling.”
“I suppose you’re calling to tell me how you’re such a happy nuclear family now that you’ve fled the scene and emigrated to Skåne?”
“I’m calling because I need your help with an investigation and it’s important that we move quickly,” said Fabian. He took her silence as a positive sign. “I’m investigating the murder of an old classmate that I’m sure you’ve read about in the papers — the shop teacher who got his hands sawed off.”
“Oh right, how very Skåne. Was he one of your old school friends?”
“Not exactly a friend. We were in the same class. I need to find out what credit card purchases he made on June twenty-second.”
“Text me his card number and I’ll get back to you.”
Victim Without a Face Page 4
