He could see the police standing around staring at Rune Schmeckel’s body on one of the six screens in front of him. Everyone was there except Fabian Risk, who had been taken to the hospital to have his burns treated. He had burst into wild laughter when he saw Risk catch fire. It was too good to be true. He hadn’t even planned it. If he believed in God he would have taken it as a clear sign that God was with him in this mission. Although, as far as he was concerned, chance was just as good. Chance was absolutely perfect.
Whether it was chance that had helped Risk find Rune Schmeckel several days ahead of schedule, he didn’t know. But a nagging worry told him that chance had nothing to do with it and that Risk was quite simply a dangerous adversary. He had already realized this a while ago, but this was further confirmation.
He had suspected this very thing might happen when he’d been forced to leave the Peugeot behind. And Rune was just the beginning. If his luck really went sour, the car could become a much bigger problem than he’d counted on. But for every problem, there was usually a solution. All he had to do was anticipate the problem in time — and for him, the solution’s name was Risk.
It would have been simplest just to kill him now. But who said it would be simple? He had poured so many years and so much money into it that he wasn’t about to settle for half-assing anything. He had already implemented the biggest changes in his plan: Risk was going to be the crowning glory of Plan B, so he had to be kept alive a while longer. All he had left was some recon to get the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place, which he would do tonight while Risk was in the hospital.
He pushed up one of the faders on the soundboard so that he could hear the police, who were standing around discussing Rune Schmeckel.
“It would be best if we could keep this internal for as long as we can. The longer it takes for the killer to learn that we’ve found Schmeckel, the better,” said the female chief.
“So you’re saying we’re sure Schmeckel isn’t the killer?” the cute one said, looking down at the dead body.
“Are you suggesting he might have taken his own life?”
“Why not? It’s a spectacular suicide. Look around — the gravel has even been raked. The whole point of all this must be that we’re meant to see it.”
“Yes, but I’m sure we got here earlier than he’d planned. He couldn’t have expected Risk to sniff this place out so quickly. And to be completely honest, I still don’t quite understand how he did.”
“Not to mention it would have been impossible for him to fasten himself down like that,” the crime scene investigator added, kneeling down and pointing at the strap, which had cut into Schmeckel’s wrist. “Look at these marks: clear signs that he tried to get free.”
“How long could he have been here?” the fat one asked.
“Hard to say right now. But the burn marks will help us out.”
“How?”
“The earth’s rotation around the sun makes each burn unique. So the burn would have started in a new spot each day and slowly moved across his body.”
He couldn’t help being impressed with the investigator’s deductive reasoning. Not everyone was capable of putting their emotions aside, but this particular guy seemed to be undisturbed by the naked man in front of him — a man who had obviously been forced to endure indescribable suffering before death took over and dulled the pain. A man they had been on the hunt for until now. A killer turned victim.
None of this seemed to affect the investigator in the least. Instead, he was totally absorbed in interpreting the burns and finding out how long Schmeckel had been bound to the plate of glass. Impressive, he thought. He was sure that he would have also made a good crime scene investigator. It certainly would have been fun. He had actually thought about pursuing it before, but that would have to be in another life now.
He had chosen to be self-employed, and he loved his job. He enjoyed nothing more than spending time in his workshop and working out new, innovative solutions. Sometimes he worked non-stop for several days, without pausing to eat or sleep. His work made him lose track of time and space. It helped him to forget what a pathetic guy he really was. He was sure that it was just the same for the investigator he was watching on the screen.
*
“LOOK HERE, FOR EXAMPLE,” Molander said, pointing at a line of burns that ran from the left hip and up across the chest and face, with a few gaps in between. “This is one day.”
“But if that’s only one day, why isn’t he burned here or here?” Lilja pointed at the empty spaces in the line.
“Those are probably from a tree or cloud that was blocking the sun.” Molander looked annoyingly smug, Lilja thought.
“So all we have to do is count the lines?”
“Exactly.”
“But you’ve already done that, haven’t you?”
Molander nodded and adjusted his glasses. “Seventeen.”
“Seventeen days? He’s been lying out here for over two weeks?!” Tuvesson exclaimed.
“That can’t be right,” Klippan said. “The decay would be more advanced, especially with this heat.”
Molander took off his glasses and polished them slowly and ceremoniously. “Just because he’s been lying here for seventeen days doesn’t mean he’s been dead for seventeen days. A person can survive for several months without food, and ten days without water.”
“Yes, but not in this heat.”
“Agreed. He must have had access to water in some form or other,” Molander continued, bending down and looking under the glass plate. “Just as I suspected.” He pulled out an empty drum with a transparent tube that led up through a small hole in the plate under Schmeckel’s neck.
“So, when did he die?” Tuvesson asked.
“Braids will have to take a look, but my bet is two or three days ago, max.”
Tuvesson and the others stood around the burned body looking at it in silence. It seemed that they had just now realized how much pain Rune Schmeckel had been forced to endure in his last few days of life. The case was completely baffling. They were now more puzzled than ever.
*
THE AMBULANCE STAFF APPROACHED with a stretcher and asked if they could remove the body. Tuvesson nodded mutely. They cut the straps with their forceps and lifted the body.
Some sort of moss was growing under the glass plate, following the exact contours of the body. The moss had flourished in Schmeckel’s shadow. It was shrivelled and burned in all the places that the sun had been able to reach. Rune Schmeckel was on his way to the ambulance in a body bag, but it almost looked as if he were still lying in the moss.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Klippan asked.
No one had an answer, not even Molander.
49
FABIAN RISK RECOGNIZED HIMSELF from the flames that shot up from the man’s back and neck. There was a black-clad man holding a pistol that was disproportionately large in comparison to his body. A bullet was flying through the air. It couldn’t be the first one, Fabian thought, because the black-clad man across from him had already been hit and was lying down with a gaping, bloody wound in his stomach, forming a considerable pool on the ground.
“That’s the murderer,” Matilda said, pointing at the bleeding man. “And that’s you.”
“But I’m still on fire. How am I supposed to —”
“There,” Matilda interrupted him. “You can just run over and jump in. Easy peasy.” She pointed at the deep blue sea in the corner of the drawing.
“Easy peasy,” Fabian repeated, putting down the drawing. His eyes moved to Sonja, who was sitting on a chair beside his hospital bed.
“How are you feeling?” she inquired.
“Okay, considering the circumstances. The doctor says I only have second-degree burns, so they don’t need to do grafts or anything.”
“That’s good.”
“Does it hurt?” Matilda asked.
“Not too bad,” Fabian lied, meeting Sonja’s gaze.
“I burned myself once and it hurt a lot. Here, look.” Matilda pulled up her shirt and showed them the scar on her stomach.
Fabian had hoped the scar would fade with time, but instead it seemed to have grown along with Matilda. She had been two years old when it happened. She and he were alone at the time, and he was boiling her pacifiers on the stove. She had been absolutely obsessed with pacifiers, or “pacis,” as she’d called them. She would whine and beg for a paci; she obviously didn’t care about any old bacteria. Want paci... please, paci now... Dada... Dada, paci now! Want now!
He hadn’t been able to take her whining any longer so he’d closed the bedroom door to make the bed in peace and quiet. It had come as a total surprise to him that she was capable of moving the stool, climbing onto it, and reaching the pot of boiling water.
“According to the doctor, I might be able to come home tomorrow or the day after.”
“That’s great.”
“And I was thinking we could get started on that vacation, and —”
“Please stop.”
“Sonja, I’m off the case.” He looked her in the eye. “I didn’t say anything earlier, but Tuvesson took me off it yesterday.”
“And yet here you are in the hospital.”
She was right. It didn’t matter that he had been removed from the investigation or was incredibly burned out. He wouldn’t be able to let it go until they had caught the killer, even though he was further from closing the case than ever at the moment.
“Where’s Theo?”
“He didn’t want to come. How was your trip with him yesterday, by the way?”
Fabian shook his head. “All he wanted was to get back to his computer and close himself off in his room.”
Sonja smiled for the first time since they’d arrived at the hospital. “You’re so good at solving cases; you’ll probably manage to solve that mystery too.”
Fabian laughed. “No one’s that good.”
Her smile faded. “Matilda and I are taking the night train to Stockholm tonight.”
“What about Theo? What does he think?”
Sonja shrugged. “You tell me. I asked if he wanted to come, but his new thing is to not respond when I ask him a question.” She sighed and shook her head.
“Have you tried texting him? He usually has headphones on, so he can’t hear you yelling, but he won’t let his phone out of his sight. Honey, he’s a teenager. Theo and most kids his age think we’re just about the most annoying, embarrassing people in the world. Of course they don’t want to talk to us.”
“If he absolutely doesn’t want to come I guess he can stay in Helsingborg, which might give you a chance to solve two things at once.” She stood up, leaned over, and kissed him. In the midst of their worst crises, a kiss could remind them how much they still loved each other, deep down.
“See you later,” she whispered into his ear, turning to Matilda. “Say goodbye to Daddy now.”
“Bye.”
“What, no hug?”
“Nope,” Matilda said, taking Sonja’s hand. “If you forget what to do, just look at the drawing.”
They knocked on the door. A uniformed officer opened it and let them out.
50
DUNJA HOUGAARD GLANCED OUT the window at the dark-pink sky that was scattered with a few feathery, golden clouds. She was lying on the couch in her two-bedroom condo, which was above Blågårds Pharmacy on Blågårds Plads. It confirmed her belief once again that this very place by the window, in this very apartment, lying on this very worn-out sofa that she had inherited from her grandmother, was likely the best place in the world. Sunlight streamed in on sunny days, and she could listen to raindrops patter against the window when it was raining.
She was slowly and systematically reviewing the personnel log for the second time. She marked everyone who had logged in with a coloured pen as soon as she noted their log-out time. If Sleizner had logged out using someone else’s ID, she would figure it out, but so far she hadn’t found anything that didn’t match up. Sleizner had arrived at 11:43 a.m. and left the building at 10:46 p.m. It was certainly a long day for a Friday, but there was nothing particularly strange about it, which was too bad.
She put down the stack of papers and looked out the window. She could see a blinking airplane far up in the sky and wondered what it would be like to go skydiving, to just tear open the airplane door and throw yourself out into the unknown. She had promised it to herself as a thirtieth birthday present, so she definitely needed to try it someday. She was almost thirty-five now.
Dunja vaulted out of her daydream. Could he have used one of the emergency exits? She grabbed the paper pile again, flipping to the hours before 5:33 p.m., when he was allegedly on Lille Istedgade. She went through the list a third time, and found what she had been looking for all along.
— Time: 4:27 p.m. — Emergency Exit 23A
— Time: 4:28 p.m. — Emergency Exit 11A
The Sleazeball had left through the emergency exits in stairwell A. He had probably made sure that the doors didn’t close completely, so he could come back in the same way and then log out with his card at 10:46 p.m. She now had confirmation that he had left the police station to run an errand on Lille Istedgade, an errand that as few people as possible would know about and one that was likely the very reason he hadn’t answered his phone.
Her cell phone started ringing: an unknown number was calling.
“Yes, hello...?”
“Hi, it’s me. I just wanted to see if it’s okay if I come over and get you into bed,” said Mikael Rønning in his most heterosexual voice.
Dunja burst out laughing. “Of course! If you can get it up, that is.”
“No problem. I’ll bring a fake moustache, bald cap, and baseball hat.”
“It sounds like you’ll be right at home.”
“By the way, did you see Ekstra Bladet?”
“No, why?”
“See for yourself.”
Dunja turned on her iPad and went to Ekstra Bladet’s website.
COPENHAGEN POLICE CHIEF CAUGHT IN LIE!
Kim Sleizner was lying when he claimed that he did not receive a call from the Swedish police. Ekstra Bladet can now reveal that he was on Lille Istedgade when the Swedish police tried to get in touch with him! According to our source, the Swedish police attempted to call Chief of Police Kim Sleizner at 5:33 p.m., but the call was picked up by voicemail. This report directly contradicts Sleizner’s own claims that he was never contacted. Ekstra Bladet’s source also claims to have proof that Sleizner was on the corner of Lille Istedgade and Halmtorvet at the time in question. Ekstra Bladet has not been able to reach Kim Sleizner for comment.
Shit.
“Are you still there?”
“Ugh, yes...”
“That’s what you were looking for, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t very smart to take it to Ekstra Bladet, darling.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Who was it then?”
“No idea,” Dunja said, but of course she did. It couldn’t have been anyone other than the guy from TDC. But she had been wondering how she could use the information to put Sleizner in a downright embarrassing situation and indirectly blame him for the deaths of Mette Louise Risgaard and Morten Steenstrup. And she knew the Sleazeball would assume the whole thing was her doing, just as Mikael Rønning had believed.
51
HE’D WATCHED FABIAN RISK’S wife and daughter leave the house at thirteen minutes past ten that night via the wireless camera in the rental car. They were each carrying a suitcase, and jumped into the waiting taxi. Now it was just past midnight, and the lights were still on in the son’s room. Regardless of where the others were going, he had chosen to stay at home.
He had not inteded to go into the Risks’ house after the son went to bed, but he couldn’t wait much longer. He had a long night of preparations ahead of him, and it was important that nothing went wrong. The time had come to shif
t into high gear. He wanted to increase the pace and the level of confusion, above all.
He planned to throw out some bait — two delicious little morsels for those media hyenas to sink their teeth into, and which would indirectly assist in elevating his actions from a national matter to one of worldwide importance.
He walked around the block and turned down the small gravel path that led to the back of the row houses. He climbed over the Risks’ fence and passed the trampoline, which took up more than its fair share of the small yard. There was no need for him to conceal himself or sneak up: Risk’s son was the only person home, and it was clear that he was practically glued to the computer in his bedroom, which faced the street.
He peered into the kitchen window from the deck. It was dark, except for the light on the stove. The back door was locked, as expected, but it was no match for his picklock. Thirty seconds later he was inside. He didn’t have to worry about making noise because death metal, or whatever you would call that blasting sound, was thundering down from the second floor. He could just about make out a man’s voice yelling about being an animal and not himself.
He took out the video camera and started filming. He wanted to capture every detail because he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for yet. The only thing he knew for sure was that this was the final piece of the puzzle, the Kryptonite that would put Risk exactly where he wanted him.
When he was done in the kitchen he moved to the living room, which still contained several boxes that hadn’t been unpacked. He opened a few of them, filming their contents, and walked up the stairs to the second floor with his camera still on. The further he went up the stairs, the louder the distorted guitars and rumbling percussion became.
The lyrics were clearer now. Something about the victim being the one who put the stick in his hand.
Victim Without a Face Page 24
