It was just the two of them in the meeting. Tuvesson would tell the others the news as soon as they were done going over the details.
“Why would Claes Mällvik change his name to Rune Schmeckel?” Tuvesson looked up from the photos and met Fabian’s gaze.
“I would assume to escape his tormentors once and for all, so he wouldn’t have to go through it again. He was brought to Helsingborg Hospital in 1993 more dead than alive, according to the records. It took thirty-six operations to save him, and that isn’t even counting the cosmetic surgeries.”
“And by tormentors, you mean Jörgen and Glenn.”
Fabian nodded and walked over to the two photos on the whiteboard that depicted Claes Mällvik and Rune Schmeckel. Now he could tell that they were the same person. Sure, Schmeckel had had plastic surgery and looked different, but once you knew, it was impossible to miss.
“He didn’t even report it to the police?” Tuvesson asked.
“No. Instead of alerting the authorities, he went underground and changed his identity so that he could plot his revenge undisturbed.”
“It certainly is a strong motive,” said Tuvesson. “But is he finished? Or could more classmates be in danger?”
“Are you asking whether more people bullied him?”
Tuvesson nodded. Fabian thought about it, looking at the enlarged class photo with Jörgen and Glenn crossed out. Fabian had never done a thing to him, besides look away and pretend nothing was going on. He told Tuvesson that he couldn’t think of anyone else who had messed with Claes.
Tuvesson looked out at Helsingborg through the panorama window. “I’m going to call a press conference. We’ll put out an alert for the suspect.”
*
FABIAN SAT DOWN AT Elvin’s desk with his ninth-grade yearbook, looking through the old class pictures for the umpteenth time to ensure that he hadn’t missed anything. Were Jörgen and Glenn really the only ones who had bullied Claes? The whole class, not to mention the teachers, shared the blame in some way since they’d let it keep happening.
Lina caught his eye in one of the photos. She still hadn’t called him and probably wasn’t going to. He thought back to when they both lived on Dalhemsvägen — he at 143C and she 141B, the apartment just across the courtyard.
He remembered meeting her for the first time. It was the summer before they’d started first grade. He was standing in the parking lot with his tennis trainer, trying to bounce the ball on top of his racquet as many times as he could. He hadn’t noticed Lina show up, but she was sitting on the curb watching him. She looked like a vision, with long blonde braids, a green skirt, and knee socks. She even had a tennis racket with her.
Neither of them said anything to each other. He tried not to look; he wanted to make it seem like he didn’t know she was there. It didn’t even occur to Fabian to let Lina play with the ball. His attempt at setting a record suddenly seemed absolutely trivial, and all he wanted to do was try to hit as hard as possible to show off his strength.
He went to bash the ball, but the blue rubber string he’d tied together in several places broke and the ball flew in a great arc, landing far out in the street. They both stayed put for quite some time, neither of them saying a word. He could remember how silly he’d felt, just quietly standing there. He was still pretending she wasn’t there, so he had no idea how to get himself out of the situation.
“Do you want me to help you find the ball?” she said.
He still remembered each word as if it was one of a string of lottery numbers that had made him a millionaire. The silence was broken.
“No. I was going to buy a new one anyway,” he replied, turning his back on both her and the tennis trainer and walking away. He waited several hours to sneak back and grab the ball, but by then it was gone.
His phone rang, giving Fabian a start. He accidentally tipped over his glass of water. A small flood spilled across the desk and he was quick to shove the yearbook and his stacks of documents aside as he answered the call.
“Risk speaking.”
A Danish voice responded. “My name is Dunja Hougaard and I’m calling from the Copenhagen police’s murder squad. It’s about the murder of Mette Louise Risgaard and the attempted murder of Morten Steenstrup. As I understand it, the two of us are looking for the same guy.”
“Dunja, I appreciate your call, but I think it would be best if you spoke to my boss, Astrid Tuvesson.”
“That is exactly what I’m hoping to avoid.”
By this time, Fabian had managed to rescue most of his documents from the flood, which was turning into a small waterfall at the edge of the desk.
“And why is that?” He crawled under the desk and rescued the day’s edition of Helsingborgs Dagblad.
“Don’t ask me why, but my boss, Kim Sleizner, has given clear orders to my unit not to contact you all.”
“So, in other words, this is an informal conversation.” Fabian watched the blurry image of the rearing forklift at Åstorp Construction Supply darken as the moisture from the water spread out over the newspaper.
“Exactly. I was hoping we could help each other out.”
“How are things going with the car? Have you found anything in it?” Fabian was just about to get up again when he caught sight of a key taped to the underside of the desk.
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. It would be better if we could meet.”
“I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”
“Of course. You know where to find me.”
Fabian ended the call and contemplated what Dunja had said. He needed to carefully consider the consequences of going over Tuvesson’s head again. She had given him a second chance, and made it crystal clear that it was his last one.
He gently loosened the tape, took the key, and weighed it in his hand. He stood up, checking to make sure no one was watching, and stuck the key in the lock of the drawer he hadn’t been able to open. The key slid in easily. He looked around again and cautiously pulled out the drawer. It was full to the brim.
On the top of the heap, there was a calendar beside a pencil box. He lifted up the box to see what lay underneath, and was surprised by its heavy weight. He wondered if he should give in to his curiosity and open the box, but decided against it. He closed and locked the drawer and taped the key back in its spot under the desk.
26
CAMERAS WERE CLICKING, chairs were being filled, and microphones were aimed at Astrid Tuvesson, who was sitting with Chief Prosecutor Stina Högsell behind a draped table on a podium. Fabian was leaning against the wall on the side of the room, amazed at what a freshly ironed white blouse, a few swipes of lipstick, a quick hair brush, and powder to cover dark rings under the eyes could do for a woman’s appearance. Few men could achieve such a quick turnaround.
“Take it easy! Everyone will get in,” ordered a guard, even though the room was already bursting at the seams. Journalists and photographers had come from all over Sweden for the press conference; there were even quite a few from neighbouring countries. The national television stations, TV4 and SVT, were there, as were DR and TV2 from Denmark, and NRK from Norway. Fabian could understand the enormous interest in the case. It was absolutely spectacular: a well-planned and artful crime like no other.
“I’d like to start by welcoming all of you here today,” Tuvesson shouted into the buzz of voices, which soon subdued. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Astrid Tuvesson and I am in charge of the crime squad here in Helsingborg. Chief Prosecutor Stina Högsell is with me.”
“Is it true that one of your officers was in the same class as the two victims?” someone in the audience yelled out.
“There will be time for questions later,” said Tuvesson. “Since the initial murder of Jörgen Pålsson, and then that of Glenn Granqvist immediately following it, we have focused on finding a tenable motive and perpetrator. While we were working on several lines of inquiry at first, one now stands out as most interesting. Today w
e are publicly naming this man a person of interest.” Tuvesson picked up a remote and aimed it at the projector mounted on the ceiling. A large picture of Rune Schmeckel appeared behind her. “This photograph can be found on our website. Right after this press conference, we will open up a twenty-four-hour telephone line so that the public can call us with tips. The man’s name is Rune Schmeckel, although he only began using that name in 1993. He previously went by the name Claes Mällvik. He was in the same class as the two victims, who allegedly mistreated him throughout his school years. There are also a number of reports suggesting that this mistreatment continued for many years into their adult lives.”
“Are you implying this is a revenge killing for being bullied?”
“That is one of several possibilities we are looking at.”
“Do you think he might kill someone else?”
“We can’t answer that question for obvious reasons, but for the moment we are working from the theory that he is finished and in hiding. He may have even left Sweden, so we are issuing his description internationally. I would also like to emphasize that he is extremely dangerous and will continue to take more lives in order to escape, something we witnessed in Denmark.”
“But isn’t it your fault the situation in Denmark ended that way?” asked a Danish journalist. “Wasn’t it your responsibility to inform the Copenhagen police that the killer was in the country?”
“I do not regard our efforts in that matter to have been misguided, but I have no further comment on that point, given that this investigation is currently active. We are putting all our efforts right now into finding and capturing the perpetrator, and that is the focus of this press conference.”
Fabian was impressed by Tuvesson’s ability to keep a firm hand on the wheel and to steer the topic away from the incident in Denmark. She had even managed to defend him without saying his name.
“I have a question for Fabian Risk. How well did he know the suspect?”
“Fabian Risk isn’t here right now, so I’ll have to ask you to direct your questions —”
“Yes he is; he’s right there!” said someone in the crowd, pointing at him.
Tuvesson turned to Fabian, who nodded and waved. “Yes, I’m here! And I didn’t know the perpetrator at all really.”
“Did you know he was a victim of bullying?”
Fabian thought for a moment before he nodded. “I did. I believe the whole class was aware of it.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it? Shouldn’t you have —”
“We can’t get into details, as I’m sure you understand,” Tuvesson interrupted. “But we have a strong suspect, who is currently at large —”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind answering,” said Fabian.
Tuvesson leaned back in her chair.
“Of course we all should have reacted, but we were afraid of becoming their next victim if we stuck our necks out. I think that’s something most people can relate to from their school days. I’m not proud of it. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I became a police officer. I didn’t want to see myself as the sort of person who turns his back and closes his eyes.”
Tuvesson let Fabian’s words sink in and then bent over the microphone. “Are there any further questions?”
“I have one about the automobile you found in Denmark,” shouted someone in accented Swedish from the mob. It was clear that it was a Dane trying to speak Swedish.
“The car is currently in the custody of the Danish police, who are undertaking a separate investigation of the events that happened there. We can’t comment on it.”
“I’ll ask anyway, and we’ll see if you can respond. Was Fabian Risk under your orders to remove one of the automobile’s tires and hand it over to the young woman at the gas station, who was later murdered?”
Fabian tried to see who had asked the question, but the man was hidden by the other journalists. He turned to Tuvesson, who looked confused.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see who asked the question.”
“It was me!” A man stood up, waving his hand. “My name is Svend Møller and I work for Sjællandske.” He was blond with a reddish beard, and was wearing round glasses and beige outdoor clothing.
“What was your question exactly?” Tuvesson continued.
“I have information that the back tire from the suspect’s automobile was removed and that there was a note on the windshield telling him to pick it up in the gas station,” the man said in broken Danish–Swedish. “As I understand it, the plan was to force the killer to contact the gas station attendant, who had orders to call the police. So I’m wondering if you sanctioned this, because it cost an innocent Danish girl her life.”
The silence only lasted for a few seconds. Yet it was very clear that Tuvesson didn’t have a response. Fabian had no idea how the reporter could be so well informed. Was there a leak in the police department? They were about to lose control of the situation, so Fabian decided to try and take the wheel.
“Excuse me, where did you get this information?”
The bearded journalist turned to Fabian, looking quite pleased with himself.
“I got it from Mette Louise Risgaard’s two colleagues. They claim there was a tire in storage from Thursday, July first, to Friday, July second, when the killer returned to the location. They gave me this as proof.” The man held up a note encased in plastic for everyone to see:
THIS VEHICLE IS ON PRIVATE PROPERTY
PLEASE CONTACT PERSONNEL
Everyone’s attention was on the journalist, who was displaying the note to cameras with a smile, answering his colleagues’ questions with a recommendation to purchase the next issue of Sjællandske.
One of the reporters from Helsingborgs Dagblad turned to Tuvesson. “Can you confirm these allegations are correct?”
“I can’t confirm anything when it comes to the various details of our police work at the present time. This is partially to do with our technical investigation, but also because of the ongoing investigation in Denmark. I would like to take this opportunity to emphasize that I take full responsibility for my officers’ actions, which have led us to the identification of a suspect. It is deeply unfortunate that these actions cost an innocent woman her life. We must not forget that the perpetrator is the one who took her life, not the police.”
“Didn’t the killer blame Fabian Risk for Mette Louise Risgaard’s death in his note?” asked the bearded journalist wearing the outdoor clothing.
The news that the perpetrator had mentioned Fabian Risk specifically hit the journalists in the room like a missile. All of them had caught the scent of blood and were drowning Tuvesson out with questions.
“No comment!” Tuvesson repeated, declaring the press conference over.
Fabian forced his way through the throngs of journalists who were each trying to shout their question loudest, toward the spot where the Danish reporter was standing. But when he got there, the spot was empty. He couldn’t see the man anywhere. Fabian climbed up onto the man’s empty chair and did a sweep of the room. Could he really have left so quickly? He turned to the podium and saw that Tuvesson was already on her way out.
27
DUNJA HOUGAARD WAS WAITING for the elevator doors to open. Her heart was racing and she could feel sweat forcing its way out through her pores, making her shirt stick to her back, and yet she kept making the mistake of cycling too fast. It was as if she was in a rush every time she got on her bike.
Today she was hurrying to see Morten Steenstrup, whose condition had become a matter of national concern; the media were following it as if he had royal blood. Medical experts had been flown in from Germany and England, and they had managed to stop the internal bleeding after a long series of complicated operations. His condition was now listed as “somewhat stable.” This gave Dunja a small window to speak with Morten before he was readied for the next operation.
The elevator arrived and she stepped in, pressing the button for the fourth floor. The elevator
moved up, stopping at the second floor to allow two men in green scrubs with masks hanging around their necks to step in. One of the men pressed the button for the third floor.
“How old did you say she was?”
“Forty-two.”
“Kids?”
“Three of them. I don’t usually react to that sort of stuff, but given her age and the fact that she had three kids, I couldn’t believe how perfect they were.”
“Real?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“It was impossible to tell.”
“You can always tell.”
“Believe me, I took a very good look.”
“There’s only one thing to do.” His hands squeezed at the air. “What room did you say she was in?”
They burst into laughter and left the elevator on the third floor.
Dunja was about to run after them to find out their names, but she stopped herself and let the elevator continue to the fourth floor. She was already late.
She stepped out of the open doors and shook off any negative thoughts about whether Steenstrup would be receiving the same care without his hero status. She had to focus and use her time well. After a lot of persuasion, the attending physician had agreed to give Dunja three minutes with Morten, and not a second more. Steenstrup had recently woken up and was in no condition to withstand a long interrogation. He was hardly aware of where he was, much less the excitement his efforts had caused. But that was no problem for Dunja — she knew exactly what she was after and it wouldn’t take her more than thirty seconds to find out.
She made her way down a long corridor that opened into a waiting room full of journalists. A few were typing at their laptops and others were playing chess. She saw a reporter from Jyllands-Posten playing against a reporter from Politiken, and noted with disappointment that Jyllands-Posten was winning.
One of the journalists noticed her and ran up to carpet-bomb her with questions, which caused the other reporters to come to life. Cameras started clicking as if she were the perpetrator; questions flew through the air, hitting her like wet snowballs. No one seemed to hear her when she said she couldn’t give any comment whatsoever at the current time.
Victim Without a Face Page 15
