In the rear-view mirror he saw Dunja standing and looking at her watch, casting impatient looks around the garage. The old man, however, was gone. It was time for Fabian to do what he’d come here for.
*
KIM SLEIZNER’S HEADACHE HAD started to ease up, and he could feel his body settling into an inner peace. He was standing at the window of his office, looking out across the water. He could see Islands Brygge on the other side of the harbour, as well as Gemini Residence, the harbourfront’s most spectacular building. The structure was composed of two large converted silos, attached like Siamese twins; the interior stairwells always reminded Kim of A Clockwork Orange. He lived there with his wife and daughter in a fantastic apartment — the largest in the building.
He hadn’t been able to get enjoyment out of much in the past twenty-four hours. His old ulcers had felt on the verge of tearing open from stress, and he feared that they might not be able to afford their apartment if he had to resign. But that was then. Now his anxiety had vanished, and he could barely feel his ulcers. Even his neck and shoulders were starting to relax.
The murder of Morten Steenstrup had played right into his hands. In one fell swoop, the storm of questions about who was to blame for the murder of Mette Louise Risgaard had abated, and all the focus had shifted to the perpetrator himself. Kim wanted nothing more than to solve the case before the Swedes.
Suddenly MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” came on, echoing through the room. He picked up his phone from the desk. His daughter had stolen his cell phone, adding the “U Can’t Touch This” ringtone and deleting all the other options. It was one of his least favourite songs — just the sound of it put him in a bad mood — but he didn’t know how to change ringtones. He had been suffering through it for almost a year.
He tried to answer it before the irritating “woo-o-oo”s kicked in. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Niels Pedersen.”
“Who?” Kim had never heard of Niels Pedersen, and felt a pure and unadulterated aversion to finding out.
“I work down in the warehouse.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m in a meeting —”
“This will only take a second. I just wanted to double-check that I have all the correct information.”
“What?” Sleizner hissed, feeling his ulcer awaken.
“You mentioned that nothing related to the Peugeot case is to be released to the Swedish police without your permission.”
“Hold on. Who am I speaking to?”
“Niels Pedersen, down in the evidence warehouse. We sat across from each other at the Christmas dinner in 2003.”
“Has someone contacted you?”
“Yes. He’s here right now.”
“Who, dammit? The Swedes?” Shit. How the hell could they have got this far without me knowing? Kim thought to himself.
“His name is Fabian Risk and he’s here with Dunja Hougaard.”
Dunja. Of course it was Dunja. This wasn’t the first time she had refused to follow his orders. He had made it perfectly clear the minute he took over as chief of the unit that he would be nice to her if she was nice to him. It was very straightforward. Someone like Dunja Hougaard would most certainly have understood his intention for a symbiotic relationship.
Kim had recognized the type of girl she was when they’d met nearly five years ago. He had seen it in her eyes right away, but his outstretched hand had yielded him no results. Back then, Dunja walked around like she just wasn’t horny, but ever since she had broken up with her boyfriend things had changed. Everyone in law enforcement seemed to know about the new Dunja. The rumours had spread like a virus to every backwoods town with a police station: how she gobbled up guy after guy, fucking like bunnies.
Yet she had rejected Kim, even at the most recent Christmas party, which he thought was pretty ridiculous considering that he had been hitting the gym three times a week, had the body of a thirty-five-year-old, earned good money, and had the power to jump-start her career — or stop it in its tracks. Kim had been searching for a solution that would allow him to get rid of her for a long time. He wanted to move her to a Podunk town as far away as possible, but no matter how hard he tried, he was never able to argue for her relocation because she was too damn good a police officer.
“Should I stop them?” Pedersen asked.
“No, let them continue,” Kim said, his eyes following a tugboat moving along the canal. “But keep an eye on them, especially if it looks like they’ve found something of interest.”
*
FABIAN TURNED OFF THE headlights so they wouldn’t flash on automatically, stuck the new-looking key in the ignition, and carefully turned on the car. He absolutely did not want the engine to roar to life. The dashboard panel lit up, revealing the GPS start screen — just what he was after. Seconds passed as slowly as cold honey until a map filled the screen. It was zoomed in on a spot about ten kilometres north of Køge, at the intersection between Cementvej and a strange little road that led straight out into a field and rounded a grove of trees. So that was where the chase came to an end, Fabian thought. A digression that had cost two innocent people their lives. But Fabian hadn’t come all this way to learn where Morten had ended his pursuit. He navigated to the main menu and pressed FAVOURITE DESTINATIONS. A list of three saved locations popped up on the screen:
— Home — Adelgatan 5, Lund
— Work — Klinikgatan 20, Lund
— Away — 15 rue du Thouron, Grasse
He made a mental note to ask Tuvesson if they had found anything of interest in Grasse, and pressed RECENT DESTINATIONS in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. This record was the entire reason for his visit to Copenhagen. A list of various addresses and times appeared on the screen. He glanced through them, quickly discovering that most of the trips before June 19 had been between home and work, with the occasional side trip to buy groceries.
The pattern wasn’t broken until Monday, June 21, which is where things started to get interesting. On June 22, the day of Jörgen Pålsson’s murder, the car had been at the Øresund Bridge toll booth and went down to Germany, only to stop at the gas station in Lellinge. The car GPS only confirmed the information about June 22 that Fabian already knew; it was June 21 that sparked his interest.
At 10:23 a.m. on June 21, the car stopped on a street without a name. The GPS showed the location on the map. The car had made quite the detour from its usual route, travelling up to Söderåsen about a kilometre north of Stenestad — thirty kilometres east of Helsingborg. The road appeared to stop in the middle of nowhere. Several hours later, the car left the deserted area and driven to Tögatan, the street Jörgen Pålsson lived on. Fabian jotted down the coordinates for the unnamed road: 56.084298, 13.09021. He had found exactly what he was looking for.
*
DUNJA LOOKED AROUND TO make sure that none of her colleagues could see her sneaking into the sleeping room they had been allocated two years ago but that no one ever dared to use. She lay down on the cot and closed her eyes. Risk had seemed very pleased when they parted ways, though he claimed to have found nothing of interest. Dunja knew he had found something. She’d managed to ascertain that he was going back to Sweden to check on a lead, and he promised to contact her if it turned out to be interesting.
She wondered if she should feel irritated about Risk’s reticent behaviour, but decided that she probably would have done the exact same thing in his position. She never liked to reveal anything prematurely, preferring to remain tight-lipped until she was certain the information she had was solid. She was well aware that several of her colleagues found this trait annoying; in their perfect world, every single idea would be shared with the entire team so they could twist and turn it beyond recognition.
Her phone started to vibrate. “Sleazeball” appeared on the caller ID.
“This is Dunja Hougaard.”
“You don’t have to pretend like you don’t know who’s calling.”
“Hi, Kim. It
’s always such a pleasure to hear your voice. What can I do for you?”
“Come over. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy working on —”
“Now.”
*
DUNJA CLOSED THE DOOR behind her and sat in the visitor’s chair facing Kim Sleizner’s tidy desk. His smile did not bode well for her. She always felt more at ease when he was angry or grumpy. It was a different story when he was boasting a self-righteous smile, which usually meant that he had come up with some plan or other that he thought was incredibly brilliant, and would ask his little minions to carry it out for him. Previous tasks included everything from some cold case they’d be forced to follow up on, to a new rule assigning each person a day he or she would be responsible for bringing treats to go with coffee — everyone but the Sleazeball himself, of course.
“You look a bit tired. Was last night a late one?”
“Not as late as I had hoped. As you know, we got saddled with another murder.” She made an effort to look as indifferent as possible.
“Right. How’s that going? Have you made any progress?”
“Not yet. But Richter is at the hospital, inspecting the ceiling space. There are quite a few indications that’s how the perpetrator got in.”
“So, in other words, you have nothing right now?”
“Correct.”
“Anything else you want to share with me?”
Dunja wondered if there was any chance he knew about her encounter with Risk. She thought it was unlikely and shook her head.
“You don’t think that the fact you spent half the day with a Swedish police officer, letting him examine the confiscated Peugeot, is important enough to tell me?”
How the hell does he know?
“Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?” He stopped talking and waited for a reaction that she wasn’t prepared to give. “Let me put it this way,” he continued. “What, exactly, was unclear about my instructions not to release anything related to this investigation, especially to the Swedes, without my approval?”
It must have been that old bastard. He was the only one who could have called to tattle on her. Dunja wanted to yank out his catheter and jam it into his mouth. “Kim, I understood your instructions, but I believe that finding the killer is the most important task at hand, no matter who —”
“I don’t think anyone asked for your opinion. While I am disappointed in you, I have no reason to broadcast your little overstep any more than is necessary.”
“I don’t agree that I overstepped. In fact, I think it —”
“Shut up! It doesn’t matter what you think. You have violated the confidentiality clause in your contract!”
Dunja had no idea what contract Sleizner was referring to until he placed the document she’d signed when she was first hired on the desk. He tapped his nicotine-stained nail on the clause in question and read it out loud: “The employee is prohibited from disclosing, releasing, or exploiting confidential information. This prohibition is applicable to the employee to the same extent that it applies to the public authority he or she is employed by.” He looked up from the contract and straight into her eyes. “I hope you are aware that this is more than sufficient grounds for me to fire you.”
He has to be joking, Dunja thought, even though she knew deep down that wasn’t the case. “You can’t do this,” she said, cursing herself for sounding so pathetic. Her facade had crumbled. “You just can’t —”
“I can do whatever the hell I want. If we’re out of toilet paper, I am well within my rights to use you instead. I’m sure you understand that I can’t have a bunch of unreliable leaks on my team.”
“All I did was let in one of our Swedish colleagues, who is working on the same case —”
“I know exactly what you did! You let in an unauthorized individual and allowed him to examine our technical evidence, without having the slightest idea of his true motive.”
“For God’s sake, he just wants to solve the case, same as we do! Or at least the same as I do!”
“As far as the case is concerned, the perpetrator could just as well be Fabian Risk as anyone else. After all, they were in the same class.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The only thing we know for certain is that Morten Steenstrup didn’t recognize the man in the wanted picture, which I’ve heard that Risk himself made a big deal of releasing. Steenstrup was murdered shortly after that, the same day Risk just happens to be in town. We also know that he was — and may still be — in love with the first victim’s wife. Perhaps those are only coincidences, but what if they’re not? In any case, you don’t give a crap. You rolled out a red carpet for Risk, giving him total access to the car, even before we’d had time to examine it. Do you even have an idea of what he was doing in the car? He could have been removing evidence!”
Dunja realized there was no point in arguing with Sleizner anymore. She was already stuck in quicksand: the more she fought, the deeper she sank. They sat staring at each other silently, both well aware that Sleizner was full of shit. No one could make bullshit sound more logical and meaningful than he could, which was probably why he had gotten so far in his career: he had certainly never been a good police officer.
Sleizner put away the employment contract and forced a smile. “As luck would have it, I’m not that kind of guy. I’m willing to put this little mess aside, let it marinate for a while, see how things shape up. Perhaps you can offer me a little something in return?”
44
FABIAN EXITED THE E6 and continued eastward along Highway 110 past Saxtorp. He had programmed the coordinates for the remote area into his own GPS and was letting the car guide him through the Skåne countryside.
He passed Markhögsvägen and a few large farms. The female voice from the GPS directed him to take a right on Eslövsvägen and then turn left on Hedvägen after a few hundred metres. Fabian was having no problem getting to his final destination, but he wondered what awaited him there. On the map it mostly looked just like woodland.
Fabian had investigated the area on Google Maps and discovered a two-building farm on the property. He hadn’t been able to find out who owned the farm, so he’d called Lilja, hoping she could help. Lilja wanted to know why he wasn’t on vacation and what had spurred his interest in this particular farm. Fabian told her the truth: he had found an extra key to the Peugeot when they were at Rune Schmeckel’s house, and he had gone to Copenhagen to examine the car, which, according to the GPS, had been at this very farm the day before Jörgen was murdered.
The other end of the line went completely silent and Fabian had been forced to ask if she was still there. “You call this a vacation?” she said, and then informed him of how stupid it was to go to the farm alone. He tried to reassure her by explaining that it was probably empty and deserted, but she saw right through him. “You’re scared, and you want to make sure we know where you are. Isn’t that your real reason for calling?”
Fabian had no idea what he was going to find at the farm.
The landscape changed after Kågeröd: forests were replaced by open sky, and the roads became narrower as they wound up along the Söderåsen ridge. Soon the road grew so thin that it was effectively one lane, with no noticeable turnoffs. Fabian didn’t think it was much of a problem given that he hadn’t come across a single car in the last fifteen minutes.
The road meandered its way to another farm. Fabian double- checked to see if the GPS had led him astray. According to the map, he had to go straight through this farm in order to get to his destination. He defied the feeling of being an uninvited guest and drove between the buildings, looking around from inside the car.
The barn door was wide open, but Fabian couldn’t see any people. It looked like the farm was deserted. A collection of rusty lawn-mowers, a few old tractor tires, a bathtub, and a pile of naked, dirty mannequins were strewn outside the barn. He thought of the famous Laurie Anderson quote — people in large cities all over th
e world have more in common with each other than they do with their own rural countrymen. Fabian believed that could definitely apply to him: he knew little about life in rural Sweden and the people who lived there.
He started driving again slowly and noticed something move in the mirror on his right side. A large, barking German shepherd ran alongside the car for about ten metres, only to suddenly vanish underneath the car. Fabian put on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop. He instinctively locked the doors and waited patiently for the dog to come out. After a while, he backed up a few metres, but there was still no sign of the dog. It felt almost surreal.
He wondered if he had in fact arrived at the coordinates from the Peugeot, but his GPS said he had a kilometre or so to go. He cautiously continued down the road. His phone rang. He answered, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Where was that dog?
“Urs Brunner,” Lilja said, on the other end of the line.
“Who’s that?”
“The owner of the farm you’re headed for.”
“A German?”
“Apparently. He bought the place in 2001. Do you think it’s another one of Schmeckel’s many identities?” The call started breaking up and it grew more difficult to hear Lilja’s voice.
“It could be,” Fabian said, continuing his slow crawl around the corner of a building. “Does he have a real address in Germany, or is it just a PO Box? Irene, can you hear me?”
“And I’m supposed to tell you that Tuvesson wants you to stop... until we...”
The call finally dropped. Fabian threw the phone onto the passenger seat and kept driving, dog or no dog. There was a forest on the right side of the road, and an open field on the other.
“In three hundred metres, turn left,” the GPS instructed him. Fabian turned onto the last stretch.
The road ended one hundred metres later. Fabian stepped out of the car and looked around. A few scattered clouds hid the sun, making the summer feel like autumn. Three loud, flying swans broke the silence, their enormous wings making the air howl. But soon silence descended across the area once again. There was no traffic noise, no distant buzz, no wind in the trees. It was unsettlingly quiet.
Victim Without a Face Page 22
