He didn’t like screaming, especially not from a man. It was a sign of weakness and lack of self-control. By this point, he should have realized that it all was over anyway and that screaming wouldn’t help. He was going to die, so why not do it with dignity?
It was three thirty on Friday morning. Åstorp Construction Supply, which was closed for vacation, wouldn’t open again until Monday. He had found a relatively isolated spot, squeezed in between two shelves, where he could lay a blanket down and sit with his McDonald’s.
He hadn’t slept or eaten in the past twenty-four hours — not for lack of appetite or because of an inability to sleep, he just didn’t have the time. But he was still a whole day behind schedule. A minor incident had delayed him and risked the whole plan. After a thorough review of the situation, he realized that the plan wasn’t in any great danger of being derailed. Luck was on his side, and by tomorrow order would be restored.
The following day, he would go retrieve the car from Lellinge and park it at the harbour at Ishøj, where it wouldn’t be found for many days, likely long after he was finished. But he wanted to be cautious and saw this as an extra safeguard. It was all part of his plan.
In a little more than a week he would be finished. Then he could lean back and let everyone else clean up the mess. He would watch them gather up the pieces while trying to understand everything. They would be amazed by his aptitude — it would keep them busy for years. Everyone would be talking about him.
He tore at the damp, paper McDonald’s bag and shovelled down the cold, spongy hamburger and the barely salted fries. He saved the apple pie for later; it would be his breakfast. He licked the oil from his fingers and set the timer for four hours. If anyone showed up unexpectedly before it went off, the noise would wake him up and he would have at least a minute to gather up his blanket and escape through the window. It opened upward, which was definitely a drawback, but he’d already loosened the hasps and propped it ajar with a stick that he could easily remove from the outside.
He was very organized. He had gone through every scenario imaginable, time and again, and he felt as focused as Björn Borg going into a big match. He was totally convinced that the key to success lay in his meticulous planning and absolute focus, which is why he had spent the past three years devoting himself solely to his preparations.
He had officially decided to follow through with his plan in spring 2007, though the idea had been percolating for considerably longer. He had been walking around full of rage for as long as he could remember, with a wound that refused to heal and became more infected with each passing day. He felt like a walking pressure cooker, holding his feelings inside, ready to explode at any time. He had tried to be friendly and do all he could to make people like him. Nowadays he was sickened by his old, fawning, treacly behaviour and couldn’t understand how he had managed to keep up a happy face for so long.
But it would all be over soon. His wound would finally be opened, drained of its pus, and everyone who was to blame would be held accountable. Every single one of those bastards who thought they had nothing to be ashamed of and slept peacefully at night would pay.
It was time for them to pay the piper.
His thoughts turned to Fabian Risk, who had stepped into the plan unexpectedly. Risk was always a wimpy little bastard, at once decent but underhanded, always with his own agenda and constantly preoccupied with trying to please everyone. Risk had never dared to say what he truly stood for, so it was no surprise that he became a cop. It was surprising that Risk had moved back home again. He could have never foreseen that, and it meant he’d had to make a number of adjustments to the first part of his plan, even though it hadn’t changed anything crucial. In fact, he saw it as an unexpected bonus.
After studying Risk’s resumé from Stockholm, the last little bit of worry left him. He had worked on a few murder cases, some armed-truck robberies, and a network of pedophiles, all of whom had gone free due to lack of evidence. Most recently, he had more or less been fired after trespassing at the Israeli embassy last winter that was as incomprehensible as it was illegal. Fabian Risk was no great threat, either to him or to what he was about to set in motion. As an added bonus, Risk’s move to Helsingborg would save him the two days he had allocated for travelling to Stockholm.
Jörgen Pålsson, on the other hand, had been very predictable. For each of the past three years he had driven down to Germany to buy beer the week of Midsummer’s Eve, and this year was no exception. The plan couldn’t have worked any better. All he’d had to do was follow Jörgen’s flashy pickup truck down to Malmö, across the bridge to Rødby, and then pretend to run into him when he stopped for gas on the way home.
The only thing that had worried him beforehand was whether Jörgen’s size would pose a problem. Once they were standing eye-to-eye, Jörgen’s body looked so pumped up that it might explode at the slightest touch, but by then it was too late for him to abort the plan. Besides, bodybuilders were seldom as strong as they looked.
Jörgen hadn’t recognized him, and he didn’t do a thing to jog the man’s memory. Instead, he said that his own car had quit on him and that he had to get back home to Helsingborg. Jörgen took the bait immediately and offered him a ride.
The biggest problem then became Jörgen’s insufferable, amoebalevel babbling, which he’d had to listen to all the way home. It had been an unparalleled ordeal, and at several junctures he’d felt the urge to take out the bag with the drenched rag early and shove it into his face just to get the damn guy to shut up. But he’d restrained himself and waited for the right moment: Larmvägen in Fredriksdal, where he had claimed to live.
Jörgen insisted on driving him all the way there. Once they arrived he was finally able to take out the rag, and the rest went like clockwork. Jörgen slept through the entire operation. If the newspapers were to be believed, he woke up at the planned time and failed to escape. The superglue in the lock had been his favourite touch — he still got excited every time he thought about it.
Glenn Granqvist hadn’t been quite so easy. He had certainly expected the news of Jörgen’s fate to make Glenn more vigilant — how else could he interpret those chopped-off hands? — and afraid that he was next in line, but it had come as a complete surprise that Glenn had gone so far with his security measures; they’d almost disrupted the entire operation. He had to admit it: he’d underestimated Glenn and fallen right into his trap.
He had originally planned to enter Glenn’s Eksjö house — “Villa Harmony” — through the back patio door and make his way to Glenn’s bedroom upstairs. The attack itself was supposed to be a piece of cake, but he never made it that far. Instead, he got stuck in the unspooled barbed wire in the yard that must have been connected to some sort of alarm.
Glenn was outside the house with a baseball bat in less than fifteen seconds. He had no choice but to drop down, hide behind some currant bushes, and do everything he could not to scream as the barbed wire sliced into his throat. In that instant he was sure it was all over and that his three years of work would come to nothing, which would have been the case if it hadn’t been for the dog, who came out of nowhere and got stuck in the barbed wire too. Glenn went to help it, but it tore itself free and ran away whimpering.
Glenn went back inside five minutes later, which finally gave him the opportunity to pull the barbs out of his throat. He was bleeding heavily and was forced to retreat. Once he arrived home, he discovered that his wounds were so deep they needed stitches, which he took care of himself. It wasn’t pretty, but he did a clean job and it stopped the bleeding. The lumpy stitches on his throat, which would undoubtedly scar, would serve as a constant reminder never to underestimate an opponent again.
He lay down on the blanket and realized that the screaming had finally stopped. Everything was under control here. Once he moved the Peugeot the following day, order would be restored, which would allow him to move on to the next step in peace and quiet.
He closed his eyes and thought
of all the people who were struggling to solve his puzzle, to figure out how it was all connected. Little did they know he had only just begun.
One last thought washed through him like a soft, warm wave before he drifted off. Soon, the whole class would have sleepless nights.
12
FABIAN RISK CLOSED THE door behind him as quietly as he could, pulled off his Converse shoes, and went into the living room. It looked like a bomb had just exploded. Black garbage bags were scattered all over the place, and there were open, half-empty moving boxes everywhere. It was almost four o’clock in the morning, and it was so far into dawn that it was more day than night.
He brushed his teeth and washed up in the kitchen to avoid waking anyone. After spending a few minutes searching for a towel, he gave up and dried off with his shirt before going upstairs.
Sonja was on the very edge of her side of the bed, turned away from him, which was a bad sign. She had still been angry with him when she fell asleep. He cautiously crawled under the comforter. Sonja turned onto her back and took a deep breath, a motion that could be interpreted as an extended hand; it was up to him to accept it.
He found her legs with one hand and carefully groped her thigh. She didn’t react; she was still deep asleep. He led his hand upward, edging closer toward her hips. He quickly realized that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Confident that he had interpreted her reactions correctly, he pulled the comforter off and spread her legs. She didn’t help him, but didn’t resist either. He dove down and ran his tongue along the inside of her thigh as lightly as he could, focusing on one side and then the other. He let his tongue get closer each time.
Her breathing started to change. He licked her labia and she pressed her crotch up against his face. He replied to her excitement by entering her with a finger as he continued to pleasure her with his tongue. Her body twisted and turned, and a few minutes later she buried her face in the pillow, moaning as she orgasmed.
She pushed his head away once she had recovered. Her breathing slowed as if she had never woken up. Fabian felt the frustration throbbing inside him, but he knew there was no point in trying and so closed his eyes.
*
THE IMAGES HE HAD repressed for so long were flying straight at him like a volleyball. He remembered one gym class where everyone was screaming his name to jump up and hit the ball. He whacked it as hard as he could. Claes, on the opposing team, was hit, and his glasses broke; blood streamed from his nose and everyone laughed, even the gym teacher. Fabian laughed too. Jörgen came over to give him a high five. Nice one, Fabbe! And he reciprocated. Claes cried and tried to go home, but the teacher kept him there. Everyone has to shower after gym class! They all headed to the white-tiled shower room. What the hell are you staring at? Claes’s pleading gaze, and his betrayal as he pretended to get soap in his eyes.
*
“HI, DAD! MOM SAID you were super tired and needed sleep.”
Fabian came down the stairs and took Matilda into his arms. The memories had haunted him all night. Ripped out of context, they had distorted into increasingly incomprehensible nightmares. He’d woken, drenched in sweat, to discover it was already nine thirty.
“Matilda, go brush your teeth so we can get going,” said Sonja.
“We’re going to Denmark!”
Fabian released Matilda, who edged her way past him on the stairs. He went to the kitchen, where Sonja was cleaning up breakfast.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Fabian nodded.
“As you heard, we’re going to the Louisiana Museum in Denmark today.”
“Oh — that’ll be nice. Do they have an exhibit on?”
“Theo doesn’t want to come.”
“Why not?”
Sonja shrugged. “Apparently he doesn’t want to do anything at all if you’re not there.”
“Sonja, no one wishes more than I do that —”
“I know. You have to do it.” She looked straight into his eyes. “But if Niva so much as thinks of calling again, you’ll have to live here on your own.”
“Honey, it’s not what you think at all.” He walked up to her and took her hands in his own. “She was only calling because —”
“You have no idea what I think.” She pulled her hands away and started loading the dishwasher.
Fabian knew exactly what Sonja thought, and he knew that he would never, ever be able to change it. After several failed attempts he had given up all hope of trying to tell her what had really happened. Or, most importantly, what hadn’t happened.
“Sophie Calle.”
“Sorry, what...?”
“You asked about the exhibit at the Louisiana. Sophie Calle is that Frenchwoman who made art out of a break-up email she was sent from her now ex-boyfriend.”
*
TUVESSON, MOLANDER, LILJA, AND Klippan were already reviewing the case details when Fabian joined them. Judging by the nearly empty fruit bowl, Fabian guessed they had been there for a while already. He sat down in an empty chair, sensing immediately that the atmosphere was heavy and serious — something had happened.
“Now that you’ve finally decided to join us, perhaps an explanation is in order?” said Tuvesson.
Everyone had turned to him with curious expressions. Fabian realized that he was that something.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m talking about your little solo tour last night. Evidently you have a number of ideas about the case that, for some reason, you chose to keep from all of us, isn’t that right?”
“I wanted to wait until I had more to go on, until I was sure.”
“Fabian, as I’ve said many times, I don’t know how you all work up in Stockholm,” said Tuvesson, pushing two pieces of nicotine gum out of their crinkly packet. “But here, we work as a team. It doesn’t make a difference whether we are sure or unsure.” She stuck the gum in her mouth and chewed as if the nicotine couldn’t work fast enough.
Fabian felt like he was at school, getting a talking-to in front of the rest of the class. “I thought I had a solid idea of the motive, but unfortunately it doesn’t hold up.”
“Or maybe it does.”
“And since we don’t have anything else to go on...” said Lilja.
Fabian realized it was too late to get out of this, so he stood up and walked to the whiteboard wall, drawing a circle around the picture of Jörgen. “I believe that in some ways, Jörgen Pålsson got exactly what he deserved.” He saw the others exchange glances out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know what he was like later in life, but when we were at school he was the worst sort of bully. His specialty was hitting with his hands — or rather, his fists.”
“And why are you only telling us this now?” said Tuvesson.
“I wasn’t one of his victims. I did what everyone else did; I looked away and tried to pretend nothing was happening. I had almost forgotten that it happened — it only came back to me last night that he used to beat someone up in this very shower room.” He drew an arrow toward one of the images, which showed the sawed-off hands on the tile floor.
“Who did he assault?” asked Tuvesson.
“Claes Mällvik.” He circled Claes on the enlarged class picture. The others came up to have a look.
“The only kid with glasses,” said Lilja.
“I suppose that’s all it takes,” said Klippan, moving to take the last pear from the fruit bowl.
“So you’re suggesting that his murder could be an act of revenge?” said Tuvesson. Fabian nodded.
“Would he attack just anyone back then?” asked Lilja.
“At first they picked on several kids, but in the end they settled for Mällvik.”
“They? It wasn’t just Jörgen Pålsson?” said Tuvesson.
“No. It was Glenn Granqvist, too.” Fabian circled Glenn in the class picture. “They were thick as thieves, and Glenn always did exactly what Jörgen told him to.”
“Did he have a specialty as we
ll?” Molander asked.
“Kicking.”
“So if your theory is correct, he’s in danger too.”
Fabian nodded. “I was hoping that the Peugeot in Denmark belonged to Mällvik.”
“But it doesn’t,” said Molander.
“No, the registered owner is a Rune Schmeckel. As far as I know, there was no Schmeckel in our class.”
“We’ll have to look at that as another clue moving forward,” said Tuvesson, draining the last few drops of coffee from her mug. “Irene, find out all you can about Mällvik and Schmeckel. Klippan, how’s it going with the rest of the class?”
“So-so, to be completely honest. The whole country is off soaking up rays over the holidays, so we haven’t even been able to get hold of an official class list.”
“Fabian must have one...” said Tuvesson.
“Unfortunately, all I’ve found is my yearbook from ninth grade. I can check with Lina Pålsson to see if she has one.”
Klippan laughed and grasped Fabian’s shoulder. “I imagine you can, but I’ve already taken care of it.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn’t have one. But at least I got a few names and numbers, most of which seem to be from the Cretaceous Era.”
“She didn’t give you any other information?”
“No... Like what?”
“I was just wondering if she’d thought of something else since I talked to her,” said Fabian, realizing that he was about to paint his way into a corner. “The school must have a class list, I presume?”
“You would think,” said Klippan. “But according to the secretary, their records don’t go back further than 1988 — at least when it comes to class lists and that sort of thing.”
“Why 1988?” asked Lilja.
“They installed their computer system that year. Prior to 1988, class lists were stored as mimeographs in a physical file.”
“And those no longer exist, of course.”
“They do actually. The papers were sent to the city archive long ago.”
“Have you been to the archive?” Tuvesson asked.
Victim Without a Face Page 7
