“It was stuffed in her mouth.”
Fabian closed his eyes and felt the effects of his decision weighing on him. The possibility he had been worried about all weekend was now a reality.
“Fabian. There’s no doubt that this investigation has taken a large and valuable step forward. But the cost... is unjustifiable. The Danes now have an officer hovering between life and death, and a murdered young girl. They are placing the blame on us — the Swedish police.”
“The Swedish police? This is my fault.”
“You’re certainly right, but I stand up for my team.” She looked him in the eye. “Even when they run off on solo tours without getting my go-ahead or even letting me know. But yes, her murder is your fault, and that’s something you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life.”
Fabian nodded. All he could do was agree with her. He wondered whether he would ever get better at predicting consequences.
“I just got back from Malmö, who received a complaint from the Danes. Bengt-Åke Persson and I have decided to hold the line and defend our actions. After all, we tried to get hold of Sleizner. And when Morten Steenstrup chose to act alone, he did so on his own initiative, against all the rules, which is something we can’t assume responsibility for.”
Fabian knew where Tuvesson was heading — she was going to demand his badge and access card and remove him from the investigation, which was only reasonable. But it was too late for him to stop. This was more than just another case. It had become personal: the note proved it... WHY? ASK FABBE.
“I should remove you from this investigation and let you go back to your vacation. But...” She stopped talking, as if she needed to think it over one more time. “Unfortunately, I think this investigation needs you.” She stood up. “Everyone else is waiting.”
*
KLIPPAN, MOLANDER, AND LILJA were already assembled when Fabian and Tuvesson entered the conference room. No one said anything, but it was clear that everybody was aware that there was a third victim, a young Danish woman who was only connected to the case through Fabian.
“Now that we’re all here, I’d like to start by saying that Fabian will continue to participate in this investigation despite recent events.”
Klippan and Molander nodded and shot smiles in Fabian’s direction. Lilja’s expression, however, did not change.
“Irene? Do you have any objections?” Tuvesson said. Lilja shook her head. “Good, because now more than ever it’s important for us to work as a team and stand up for one another.” She fixed her eyes on each person individually, except for Fabian, but she was making herself perfectly clear. Those words were meant for Fabian and no one else. “Okay, let’s get going.”
They went through the most recent developments, adding pictures of Glenn Granqvist as an adult, along with photos of the murder scene and the two suspects, Claes Mällvik and Rune Schmeckel.
“Ingvar, I know you’re not finished yet, but did you find anything at the most recent crime scene besides that McDonald’s wrapper?” Tuvesson asked.
“We did, actually,” said Molander, holding up an evidence bag with a thick black marker inside. “Unfortunately it’s perfectly clean. We should probably take it as evidence that the killer has quite the sense of humour, or that he thinks it’s too taxing on the environment to print out a new picture for every victim.” Molander took the marker out of the bag, walked up to the whiteboard, and crossed out Glenn on the enlarged class photo.
Tuvesson sighed and shook her head. “He’s playing with us.”
“How are things going with the Peugeot?” Fabian asked. “Is it on its way here?”
“That’s going to take some time, I’m afraid,” said Tuvesson. “If I know Sleizner, he’s going to do everything in his power to drag it out so his own department can solve the case instead.”
“What?! This is our investigation,” said Klippan.
“In their eyes, the investigation is in their jurisdiction: a young girl was murdered and an officer is near death. Apparently Ekstra Bladet has already named him the hero of the decade.”
“Which decade? The 2010s have only just begun,” said Molander.
“I don’t want to dwell on this... we don’t have all day. How are things going on the McDonald’s front?” Tuvesson asked.
“There are eight locations within a twenty-kilometre radius of Åstorp,” Klippan said. “But only six of them do daily specials: one in Ängelholm, three in Helsingborg, one in Ödåkra, and one in Hyllinge.”
“What days do they sell Chili McFeast Deluxes?” Molander asked.
“On Thursdays, so that matches up.”
“We should go around and check to see if any of the employees recognize Mällvik or Schmeckel. Can you take care of that, Klippan?” Tuvesson said.
“No problem.”
Tuvesson handed a document over to Lilja. “I was thinking you and Fabian could deal with this.”
“What is it?”
“A warrant to search Schmeckel’s house.”
“How did you manage that?” Klippan said. “We don’t have a clear motive or any technical evidence. So far, the only thing that points to him is his car.”
“Which was probably just stolen,” said Molander.
“But why hasn’t he reported it stolen?” asked Tuvesson.
“That will never hold up in court,” Klippan continued. “And if I know Chief Prosecutor Stina Högsell, that’s exactly what she said too.”
“You’re right, but apparently her ex-husband is Danish.”
*
FABIAN SAT DOWN IN Hugo Elvin’s chair, feeling absolutely out of ideas. He was confused; nothing in this investigation seemed to be connected. He had correctly predicted Glenn and his crushed feet. All signs pointed to Claes Mällvik; if anyone had a motive it was him. But where had he disappeared to? Lilja couldn’t find any trace of him after 1993. It was like he had gone up in smoke.
And who was Rune Schmeckel? Had his car really been stolen while he was on vacation, or did he have some sort of connection to Jörgen and Glenn — a connection beyond the classroom? Maybe the murders had nothing to do with their school days. What if the class photo was just an attempt to lead them in the wrong direction? Fabian leaned back in the chair and realized that the more he tried to figure out how everything fit together, the further he got from solving it.
He decided to take a break and pulled out the top drawer of Hugo Elvin’s desk, which was empty. Perplexed that the drawer didn’t contain a single thing, he pulled out the next one. This one, too, was empty, and the same went for the third. The fourth and last drawer, however, was locked — a clear signal from Herr Elvin that he didn’t want anyone snooping through his stuff. Fabian picked up his phone to call home.
“You’ve reached the Risks. Matilda speaking.”
“Hi, Matilda. It’s Dad. I just wanted to see how things are going over there.”
“There’s a ghost in the cellar.” Matilda sounded as if this were a matter of life and death. “Me and Mom were down there looking for her paintbrushes, and one of the light bulbs went out. We changed it, but then that one went out too.”
“I’m sure it’s just a short circuit.”
“No, we checked the fuses and there was nothing wrong. Mom says there really are ghosts.”
“If there are ghosts, I bet they’re nice ones. Is Mom at home?”
“Moooooooooom! It’s Dad! He doesn’t believe there’s a ghost!”
“Hello?”
Fabian tried to interpret Sonja’s tone, but it revealed nothing. He was calling to tell her the investigation was getting under his skin, and that he now had the death of a young woman on his conscience. He needed to talk to someone about how he was feeling. But it didn’t sound like it was going to happen with Sonja right now.
“So you were visiting the ghosts in the cellar? Were they friendly?”
“I know you don’t believe in the supernatural. On a different note, the cellar is too small.”
“What do you mean it’s too small?”
“It’s smaller than it ought to be. It’s like there’s a hidden extra room, but no door to get in.”
“Maybe it belongs to the neighbours?”
“It’s possible, but we also found an oven. Did you know we had one?”
“No. What kind of oven?”
“A wood-burning bread oven, the kind with a hole that goes right into the wall. It’s quite large. Matilda and I thought it might be fun to find out if it works.”
“I’m not sure that sounds like a good idea. I might be mistaken, but I have a vague memory that the realtor said something about the chimney being closed off.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
Fabian knew just what sort of oven Sonja was describing. There had been one at his grandparents’ house in Värmland. It was so delightful when there was a fire in it. They baked bread and pizza in the oven and it warmed a big stone bench in the living room. His grandfather designed and built it himself so that the heat of the smoke conducted through the bench before it vanished up the chimney. It had been his great pride and joy.
Fabian had climbed into the oven once to hide when he and his sister were playing hide-and-seek. She didn’t have a hope of finding him, and he just lay there enjoying the faint warmth from the fire the day before. He had even fallen asleep. His family found him by chance an hour later, when Grandma was about to light the oven. Fabian hadn’t realized how dangerous it actually was until he was an adult.
“By the way, have you spoken with Theo today?” Sonja asked.
“I haven’t had the time. We have another victim.”
“From the class?”
“Yes. Glenn Granqvist. Jörgen Pålsson’s best friend.”
“Oh my God. Is there a chance that more —”
“Sonja, we don’t know yet. Right now it feels like this case could go in any direction.”
“I understand,” she said with a sigh. “I really hope you solve it.”
“We have no choice.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. I know you have a lot on your plate today, but I think you should take the time to call Theo. Now that the Internet is set up, he refuses to leave his room; it’s like he’s nailed down in front of his computer.”
“I promise to try and talk to him today.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
They hung up and Fabian wondered what could be causing Theodor’s behaviour. Sonja was right: he hadn’t been very talkative, and stayed in his bedroom for the most part. When they had gone to the beach yesterday, Theo had sat and then snorkelled apart from the rest of them. But wasn’t this perfectly normal behaviour for a fourteen-year-old? Hadn’t he felt exactly the same toward his own parents?
Sonja completely disagreed with Fabian. She thought that Theodor actually missed his father and was in need of a male role model — one who came home before ten o’clock at night. Fabian knew she was right, but he didn’t think his absence entirely explained Theo’s behaviour. He suspected that the move had caused Theodor to close himself off even more.
He dialled his son’s number while he paged through the yearbook he had brought from home. He noticed class after class of pimply students with hairstyles that made you wonder what sort of experiments they had been subjected to.
“Yo,” came a tired voice on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Theo. What are you up to?”
“Nothing. Playing Call of Duty.” Which was all Theodor ever seemed to be doing these days. He spent hours manoeuvring his players around bombed-out cities, hunting for other soldiers. Fabian was convinced that most kids could tell the difference between video games and real life, but Theo spent so much time in front of the screen, he couldn’t help but worry.
“Listen, I know that it’s a little rough with all your friends being back in Stockholm, but I guarantee that once you start school in August you’re going to...”
“Did Mom tell you to call?”
“No, but she told me that you’re cooped up in your room and don’t want to do anything.”
“There’s, like, not much to do here.”
“Sure there is! Helsingborg isn’t exactly a Podunk town with only one hot-dog stand on a windy square.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
Fabian realized he had no idea what his teenage son should do for fun in Helsingborg. The city had changed so much since he was young. Helsingborg had shed its skin and gone from a grey Swedish Anytown to a little pearl with a beautiful waterfront, cafés, and boardwalks. But Theodor’s interest in cafés and boardwalks was practically non-existent. What’s more, Fabian wondered if Theo was still disappointed that he and Sonja hadn’t allowed him to go to the Sweden Rock Festival.
“Why don’t you and I go out and do something tonight? Just the two of us.” Fabian felt like he had just jumped straight off a cliff without a parachute as the words came out of his mouth.
“Like what?”
“We could go out to eat and see a movie? We could see if there are any good concerts on?”
“I checked already. Sofiero is the only place with concerts nearby.”
“Who’s playing there?”
“No one, really, just The Ark, Kent, Robyn... people like that.”
“We could go see Kent. They’ve done quite a few harder songs, too.” Fabian heard how incredibly ridiculous he sounded and bit his tongue.
Lilja came into the room and indicated that Fabian should follow her.
“Listen, I have to go. Think about it, and we’ll talk later.”
“Sure,” was all that Theo could muster.
Fabian hung up.
22
THE CYLINDER OF THE lock had been fitted with a tempered-steel locking mechanism to make break-ins more difficult, and the spring-loaded pins had been treated with extra-hard chrome. This was no average Chubb lock; it provided very high security. In order to open the door, a key had to raise the pins to the correct levels and turn them in a very precise direction. And they didn’t have the key. Instead, the locksmith was using a six-millimetre, water-cooled diamond drill to precisely cut his way in, severing pin after pin, down to a hundredth of a millimetre.
A few minutes later, he was able to pull the bit out of the cylinder, stick a hook in the hole, turn it, and open the door. Fabian and Lilja stepped into a tiny front hall with a big pile of mail, flyers, and magazines on the floor. The July issue of National Geographic, with a chipped skull on the cover and the headline 4-MILLION-YEAR-OLD WOMAN, was on the top of the pile.
The floor plan was open-concept, with the living room on the right and the kitchen to the left. A staircase led to the second floor in front of them. The house was in the older part of Lund and had been built sometime in the 1700s. It had undergone a careful renovation that made it feel new and modern.
Fabian preferred to be alone when he visited the home of a victim — or, in this case, a suspect — for the first time. He wanted to be able to listen to the rooms, not the voice of another person. He didn’t want to miss any clues that could help them move forward. The tiniest little detail might be the very puzzle piece they needed to see the case in its entirety.
Lilja seemed to feel the very same way. Without a word, she disappeared up the stairs to the second floor.
Just as Klippan had pointed out, Fabian knew they lacked concrete evidence that Rune Schmeckel was the killer. Now that he was standing here in the middle of Schmeckel’s living room, he felt something nagging at him... something that didn’t add up. Who was Rune Schmeckel?
The room was sparsely furnished with a pale-brown vintage Newport sofa, and a well-used Bruno Mathsson chair and ottoman over by the window. There was no TV in sight, only a Bang & Olufsen stereo. A few framed black-and-white photographs of rolling countryside and an old city with lots of houses hung on the walls. Fabian thought the photos had probably been taken somewhere in Spain, Italy, or Portugal — he couldn’t tell exactly, but he
did know that they definitely hadn’t been taken in Sweden or Denmark. The windowsills were free of flowerpots and he couldn’t see any sign of pets. Aside from a thin layer of dust, the room was clean and tidy, and everything seemed to be in its proper place. Had Schmeckel planned his disappearance, or was he just a neat person who cleaned up before he went on vacation?
Fabian walked over to the stereo on the wall and turned it on. A CD started spinning and soon classical music emanated from the small speakers. Fabian had almost no knowledge of classical music — every time he gave it a chance, he decided it just wasn’t for him, just like golf, hunting, and vintage wines. He found an empty CD case on top of the stereo and established the music was Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. He cautiously sat down in the Bruno Mathsson chair, leaned back, and was struck by a broad, deep sound that couldn’t possibly be coming from the small satellite speakers. He looked around and realized there was a large subwoofer behind the sofa.
Fabian had spent a frightening amount of money on his own stereo equipment throughout the years. He’d even managed to make Sonja burst into tears once when he showed her his new speakers — a pair of Bowers & Wilkins 802 Diamonds. After the fact, he agreed they weren’t the most beautiful boxes ever, but they sounded fantastic.
He put his feet up on the ottoman and closed his eyes. This was just the way classical music should be enjoyed. A comfy chair, a good stereo, and above all: total solitude. As he opened his eyes, Fabian realized how isolated the entire room felt. Schmeckel probably didn’t have any relatives or friends, and spent his free time reading, listening to music, and improving himself.
Fabian rose from the chair and walked to the opposite wall, which was covered by a built-in, floor-to-ceiling bookcase with roughly seven or eight shelves. One section was devoted to CDs — mostly opera and classical, and some jazz — but the majority of the shelves were taken up by books. Schmeckel was obviously a big reader. The literature portion filled two shelves, and the rest were full of non-fiction titles divided into various subcategories such as “Medicine,” “Self-Defence and Martial Arts,” and “Physics and Biology” — all meticulously labelled. Fabian noted a number of titles in the Psychology section: I Don’t Want to Die, I Just Don’t Want to Live; It Wasn’t My Fault: On the Art of Taking Responsibility; Offence and Forgiveness; and Anger Management: The Complete Treatment Guidebook for Practitioners.
Victim Without a Face Page 13
