“People buy them and put them there without telling you?”
“Don’t ask me. Come on, you need a drink.”
Gertrud showed him out to the backyard. It looked just as Fabian had expected when he’d toured the inside of the house. The lawn was so meticulously mowed that it looked like a computer- generated image: there were garden gnomes, little windmills, and fountains in the background. There was even a little pond with a bridge across it. Matilda thought it was sheer paradise and ran around the yard as if she wanted to be everywhere all at once.
“Dad! The pond is full of fish! Come look!”
“I can’t right now! Do you mind showing Theodor instead?” he called back, receiving a tired glance from Theodor, who was apparently capable of taking his eyes away from his phone for once.
Everyone from the police station was there, even Florian Nilsson, the receptionist, who had dressed up in a red shirt that buttoned up the side in honour of the evening. It made Fabian think of Midge Ure and how long it had been since he’d listened to “After a Fashion.”
Molander was standing at the grill, looking as if his duty was a matter of life and death.
“Fabian, there you are! Come over here and say hi,” Irene Lilja called. She was standing next to a muscular man with close-cropped hair, worn jeans, and a pink shirt. His lip bulged with a large packet of snus. Fabian walked over to say hello.
“We were starting to wonder what had happened to you,” said Lilja. “Hampan, meet Fabian, my new colleague.”
“Are you a police officer too?” Fabian asked, shaking hands with the man.
“No, I’m a boyfriend,” the man replied, with a smile so broad that it revealed more than half of his snus packet.
“Oh. I see.” Fabian gave Lilja a look but received no help whatsoever.
“So keep your hands off her, otherwise you’ll get a taste of this,” Hampan continued, flexing one of his biceps.
“Wow,” Fabian said with a chuckle, but he could hear how hollow it sounded. “Maybe I’ll go find something to drink.” He walked over to the serving table, opened a beer, and wondered whether one would really suffice. Sonja already appeared to be on her second glass of red wine, and was in the midst of discussing her own art with Gertrud. Fabian took the opportunity to walk over to Tuvesson and Klippan, each of whom had a gin and tonic in hand, to explain the call from the person he believed to be the killer.
“And what makes you think that?” Klippan asked.
“He called from Glenn Granqvist’s cell phone, and I’m convinced Glenn is dead.”
“You mean he’s been murdered?” said Tuvesson, as she took a fair-sized gulp of her drink.
Fabian nodded. “His yard was full of barbed wire and alarms, as if he’d prepared for our guy to come after him, which is exactly what I think happened.”
“My God. What did he say when he called?” Tuvesson asked.
“I was the one who called him, and then he called me back.”
“From Glenn’s cell phone?” Klippan said.
Fabian nodded.
“He claimed he was in Sunny Beach in Bulgaria on vacation, and that he’d left yesterday — the same day the papers broke the story of Jörgen Pålsson’s murder.”
“It seems pretty pointless to put energy into laying out a bunch of barbed wire and then taking off for Bulgaria,” said Klippan.
“We’ll have to contact the airlines to confirm your theory that Glenn didn’t leave the country,” said Tuvesson.
“I can deal with that first thing tomorrow,” said Klippan.
“Shouldn’t we give the house a thorough look?” said Fabian.
“Absolutely,” said Tuvesson, draining her glass. “I just have to contact Högsell and get permission first.”
“Anyone besides me want a refill?” Klippan asked, holding up his empty glass.
“I wouldn’t say no to another splash,” Tuvesson replied, and they walked off together.
Fabian didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. Here they were, in the midst of a case with any number of leads to follow, yet barbecued meat and alcohol were the top priority.
“Just standing here alone, philosophizing,” Lilja remarked as she handed him an open beer. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
“I don’t know if I should.”
“Don’t mind Hampan. He’s just kidding around. Plus, he never gets too far away from the grill.”
“At any rate, I take it you two found your way back to each other at some point in the last few hours.”
“You would be reading too much into it. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason Molander invited Hampan. He was already here when I arrived. But let’s forget about that for now,” she said, pulling Fabian into the house and down to the cellar. “If I didn’t know Molander, this would totally freak me out.” She turned on the ceiling lights and Fabian quickly realized what she was talking about.
They were in a room packed with shelves, display cases, and glass counters that were filled with various objects categorized in different groups, like a museum collection. Fabian was reminded of a place on Gotland island where someone had turned his own hoarded belongings into a museum. Molander’s collection was more lavish and charming, though not as sprawling as the one on Gotland, which was made up of everything from magic wands to typewriters. Down here there was only one overarching theme: murder. He did have quite a few subcategories, such as hunting and fishing, poisonous substances, and various weapons — everything from firearms to knives and perfectly common tools.
After a closer look, Fabian changed his mind and elevated “Fishing” to a main category alongside “Murder.” Almost half the collection consisted of fishing-related objects: trolling spoons and rods, different types of nets, and lots of mounted fish. There was even a display case featuring a collection of dried-up flies pinned onto a cushion in rows.
“He certainly has an eye for detail,” said Fabian, studying a collection of scalpels.
“It probably explains why he’s one of the best forensic investigators.” Lilja pulled out a drawer lined with red velvet that was meant to display jewellery. It contained a collection of bullets, each marked with a number. “Each of these has killed a person.” She pulled out another drawer of bullets. “These ones have only injured people.”
Fabian looked at all the rows of deformed bullets. He counted thirty-eight extinguished lives in the first drawer, and an unknowable number of people left behind to deal with their sorrow.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’ve learned anything about Claes Mällvik?”
“Have you? I didn’t know if I should wait until Monday. Everyone here seems to be on vacation.”
Lilja gave him a snide smile, which was interrupted by her phone.
“Yes? What is it? I’m just with Fabian, showing him Molander’s collection... Just come down here if you don’t believe me.” She ended the call and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, where were we?”
“Mällvik.”
“Right. After compulsory school he did a four-year technical degree at Tycho Brahe School, where he got top grades. After that he studied medicine at Lund University, and in 1990 he started working as a general practitioner here in Helsingborg.”
“Isn’t Rune Schmeckel a doctor too?”
“Yes, but at a much higher level. Rune is a surgeon, one of the best in the country in his specialty. In any case, something happened in 1993. Claes went to the emergency room here in Helsingborg, and listen to this...” Lilja took a folded piece of paper from her jeans pocket, unfolded it, and read: “Fractured mandible, serious head injuries from blunt force trauma — likely from being kicked. Five fractured ribs, internal bleeding, and the list goes on. Look at this.” She handed him a photograph that showed a beaten, swollen face that had been so gravely abused that it hurt to look at it.
“So someone assaulted him.”
“I would probably label this as attempted murder. He underwent thirty-six operations. It’s a minor
miracle that he survived at all.”
“Is there anything about where the injuries came from?”
“The doctors asked, but he refused to tell them.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“The hospitalization and subsequent operations were the last things I could find out about him. I can certainly dig deeper to try and uncover more, but for now this is it.”
“Could he have died?”
Lilja shrugged. “Maybe. Or left the country.”
*
FABIAN SANK HIS TEETH into his meat, realizing how hungry he was.
“These cutlets are just about the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Sonja said, prompting agreement from the other guests.
“Thanks, Sonja,” said Molander. “But just so you know, they’re not cutlets.”
“They’re not?”
“No, this a butt roast.”
“Ingvar, don’t start with that again,” said Gertrud.
“But it is a butt roast. Why not call it by its proper name?”
“Because it doesn’t sound as appetizing.” Gertrud turned to Sonja. “Don’t pay any attention to him. His marinade is the secret to why it tastes so good. No one can make one like Ingvar. I think he should write a cookbook full of nothing but marinades!” She raised her glass. “Cheers, and thank you all for coming.”
They toasted and proceeded with dinner. The more they drank, the more pleasant it was, and their discussions moved from one extreme to the next. One moment they were debating how much Michael Jackson’s doctor could be blamed for the star’s sudden death, only to then discuss the finals of the World Cup, which Sweden wasn’t even playing in.
“It’s such a relief!” Klippan exclaimed, noting this was the first time in a while that the knockout matches weren’t giving him a stomach ache.
Even Sonja was having a good time. She smiled quite a few times at Fabian from across the table.
“What sort of paintings do you do?” Tuvesson asked Sonja.
“I mostly paint underwater images of schools of fish and crabs and things like that.”
“I love fish,” Molander said, raising his glass.
“No, you love killing fish,” said Gertrud.
“And those sell well?” Tuvesson inquired. She seemed genuinely interested.
“A little too well, actually. I don’t have time to develop anything new. Everyone just wants these damn fish all the time.”
“I have an artist friend who ended up in the same situation,” said Tuvesson. “He made a concrete bench with cut-out letters that spelled ‘liars’ bench’ in the middle several years ago, and people loved it. Now he spends most of his time creating customized benches — buyers get to choose what the benches say. It’s super smart, and it pays the rent. I think he even did a few for Princess Victoria and Prince Daniel’s wedding. But is he an artist still, or a concrete worker?”
“It would take at least a long lunch to answer that question,” Sonja said, holding up her empty wine glass. “And a little refill, please.”
“That’s a given,” Tuvesson said, filling Sonja’s glass.
“So why did you two move down here?” asked Lilja. “Stockholm is a fantastic city.”
“Stockholm is a goddamn crap city, if you ask me,” said Hampan. “I’ve been there three times and I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would want to live there. Stockholmers are so fucking stressed out they can’t even stand still on an escalator. Hell, I got run over by people just to get to the subway, even though another one always comes a minute or two later.”
“Well, Hampan, I wasn’t asking you — I was asking Sonja.”
Hampan chugged his beer and everyone turned to Sonja, as if they were expecting a thorough yet concise answer, which Fabian was fully aware she did not have. He was the one who had put the pressure on, and she was the one who had given in. He started to take it upon himself to respond to the question directly, but Lilja stopped him; she obviously only wanted to hear from Sonja.
“Actually, I’ve always liked Skåne. Spring comes a month earlier and fall happens a month later. And I’m hoping that the change of scenery will help me with my painting. As soon as this job opportunity popped up for Fabian, our minds were made up.” She raised her glass. “Cheers to Skåne!”
They toasted, and Fabian blew a kiss to Sonja. It was a good answer — so good that he almost believed her himself.
“I’m not that easily fooled,” Lilja said with a smile. Sonja’s face looked quizzical. “And to be completely honest I think that goes for everyone here. We’re police officers and we’re used to hearing excuses — each more outlandish than the last.”
“I thought this one was pretty decent,” said Tuvesson.
“Definitely, especially that bit about the importance of a change of scenery. If she hadn’t looked away at that very moment I would have given her a ten out of ten for sure. But she’ll have to settle for a seven.”
The others laughed.
“Okay, okay, okay!” Sonja broke in. Fabian could tell she was drunk. “Do you want to hear the truth?”
“Yes!” the others cried.
“Here’s the thing: my relationship with Fabian started to seem more and more like a long-distance relationship these past few years, even though we share a bed.” Sonja’s eyes scanned the others as they sat quietly and waited for her to go on. “But since we still love each other more than anything else, we decided to make some major changes. Start over and try to find our way back... Cheers!” She raised her glass and was met by applause and cheering.
“That’s what I’d call a fifteen,” said Lilja.
Fabian felt how right Sonja had been about one thing: how much he loved her.
*
BY THE TIME FABIAN’S phone rang, he had completely forgotten that he was in the midst of a complicated investigation, so his first impulse was not to answer it. Then he noticed it was a Danish number and immediately picked up.
“Hi, this is Mette Louise Risgaard... from the gas station,” explained the voice on the other end of the line. “The man is here right now,” she said, and the line abruptly went dead.
16
KIM SLEIZNER FELT HIS phone vibrating in his pocket, but he didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t a good time; he had been looking forward to this moment all week and he wasn’t about to let a stupid little phone call ruin everything. This moment was far too precious and life was far too short. He could say he was in a tunnel or an elevator with bad coverage. This was his area of protection — his very own little bubble that no one had any business disrupting.
He thought of Viveca, and whether he ought to have a guilty conscience, but decided against it. All she cared about was her yoga and whether there was money in her bank account. Given how much had been on his plate recently, it was a wonder he could even get out of bed in the morning. Viveca wasn’t the only one who depended on him to function and feel content — so did every citizen of Denmark.
The alternative was anarchy. He leaned back and enjoyed the prize he had awarded himself.
17
MORTEN STEENSTRUP WAS SITTING at the police station in the Danish town of Køge, tucking the shirt of his police uniform into his pants and adjusting the belt around his waist. The belt felt more uncomfortable than usual, as if it were crooked and chafing somehow. He had already made sure that his pistol, flashlight, and radio were attached in their proper places, so that couldn’t be it.
In truth, he knew very well what was bothering him. Exactly a month had passed since Else left him, and no matter how much he wished, he could not trick himself into thinking he was starting to feel better. It was quite the opposite, in fact. The pressure in his chest hadn’t subsided, and he had almost grown used to walking around with a constant sensation of breathlessness.
His doctor had advised him to find a friend to confide in, but there was no one he was close enough to who would understand. Whe
n he had tried talking to Niels, he had suggested that they visit a prostitute and even offered to pick up the tab, as long as he got to watch.
He had toyed with the thought of trying to win Else back but realized that would never work. She was on a completely different level, a fact they had both been aware of all along. They’d made a silent agreement to ignore that fact and pretend they were equals, and occasionally it had worked. At those times he felt like the happiest man on earth, but it usually only lasted for a little while. Each time, the realization of their inequality forced its way back to him, always crouching in the background like a distant but constantly rumbling threat. In the end he had started to get used to it, and had almost stopped thinking about it entirely. He’d let himself be lulled by the belief that there was no threat, that they were equal. They loved each other.
But there was no happiness in his life now. Everything was a strain, an uphill battle; even breathing took force of will. He would never be able to find someone new. Else was his soulmate. She hadn’t even cared about his harelip or his fibrous skin. She had stroked his rough body as if it were baby soft, ignoring that it cracked and peeled. She had kissed him as though she wanted him and no one else.
He leaned back in his chair and thought about whether he should have coffee or tea. He decided on coffee and walked to the kitchenette to pour a splash into his dirty cup. Niels was at the table, still mourning Denmark’s World Cup failure. Morten knew there was no point in trying to talk to him until he was over it. Morten had never been interested in soccer, much less Danish soccer. His only worry had been that the loss might lead to brawls. Statistics showed that sports defeats either cause people to get extra calm or encourage increased alcohol consumption, which leads to domestic abuse and, above all, vandalism. Contrary to what one might expect, a win usually led to a lot of the former.
He sat down at his desk with coffee cup in hand, unable to stop thinking of Else. She’d thought that he was too afraid of conflict, too timid. She said it like he was a coward. There was probably something to her opinion. He’d tried to stop avoiding conflict so much, but it was a fundamental part of who he was. He’d never liked arguments, and he didn’t believe his own opinion was that important.
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