The door to the master bedroom was ajar. He opened it with his foot and turned on the bare ceiling light with his elbow. He noticed an unmade bed, a few open and half-empty boxes along one wall, and clothes tossed here and there. The chaos made him want to vomit.
The daughter’s room, however, was more orderly. The bed was made with red heart-shaped pillows on top, and there were a few drawings on the desk, which depicted the same scene in different ways. A burning man shooting another man. He picked out the one he liked best, turned on the desk light, and took a picture.
He returned to the hallway, where he had two doors left to explore: one led to the bathroom and the other to the son’s room — it was open slightly. The music spilled out of the crack, thundering about raping the raper and hating the hater. He approached the door and opened it all the way.
The son was leaning over his desk at the window, his back toward him. The speakers stood on the floor; their size explained the volume. This teen had obviously spent his entire allowance on the sound system. He took a step into the room and looked around. Although they’d moved in just a week ago, the room was so messy it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The walls were plastered with posters of Metallica, Slipknot, and Marilyn Manson. The bed was unmade and functioned as a general dumping ground for everything from dirty laundry to dumb-bells and scraps of pizza. His parents were clearly quite lax about the rules. It looked like he hadn’t been under the watchful eye of an adult for a while — until now.
Satisfaction washed over his body like a wave. He felt high. The last piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
He walked toward the son, who was singing along, full of feeling, as he frantically wrote something in a book. He was writing as if it were a race against time before someone would come and rip the pen from his hand.
The song reached its crescendo with a chain of expletives.
The pen stopped moving and the ink spread out into a fat spot. Theodor had stopped singing along. He looked up from the book, straight into the pitch-black window, where he saw the reflection of a shadow that was coming up behind him. Someone was in his room.
He whirled around.
52
FABIAN RISK WAS FEELING restless and bored. He’d always been terrible at being sick. A fever was never enough of a reason to stay home, and the few times he’d been afflicted by a stomach flu that forced him to stay in bed, he’d complained so much that Sonja had threatened to divorce him. He was well aware that he should follow the example of the rest of his hospital ward and get some rest, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Talking to Molander would be the only thing that would help him relax. Fabian needed to find out if they had arrived at the same conclusion. He had been taken away in an ambulance before he could hear everyone’s theories about the crime scene.
He decided to call Molander, even though it was quite a bit past midnight. He dug out his phone only to discover that the battery was dead. He looked around the hospital room. There was a phone on the wall not far from him, which was probably only for internal calls, if it was connected at all. He ignored the pain and extended his arm as far as he could, but he couldn’t reach it. With the help of one of the crutches leaning against the wall, he managed to unlock the brake on the bed and drag himself toward the phone.
He put the receiver to his ear and heard a dial tone, but soon discovered that his prediction was correct. He pressed zero and was put through to an operator at the hospital, who surprisingly agreed to place his call without asking any questions. He dialled directory assistance to request the cell phone number for Ingvar Molander in Helsingborg and was immediately connected: “Hello. You have reached Ingvar Molander’s voicemail. I can’t take your call right now, so leave your name and number after the beep, and I promise to call you back. Or, even better, you can send a text. Thanks. Goodbye.”
Fabian hung up. It was pretty late, but Molander couldn’t possibly have gone to bed already. The crime scene at Söderåsen would likely keep them busy all night long and part of tomorrow, at least. He closed his eyes and realized that maybe his body was ready to give in to exhaustion after all.
*
HE WOKE UP TO Tuvesson standing beside his bed. He lurched forward and felt his pain level shoot from zero to one hundred. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t actually think you were capable of sleeping.”
“I didn’t either, until... What time is it?”
“It’s early — seven thirty. I brought you some breakfast. Hospital food isn’t usually all that great.” She put a bag from 7-Eleven down on the bedside table. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m okay. Besides forgetting to apply sunscreen, I don’t have much to complain about.”
Tuvesson laughed. “The sun is always stronger than you think.”
“So, how are things going for the unit?”
“Well, we sure aren’t lacking evidence to examine. By the way, Molander mentioned you tried to call him.”
“I did, but he didn’t answer. Where is he?”
“It was his and Gertrud’s anniversary yesterday. They were going to stay at Marienlyst in Helsingør.”
Anniversary. Fabian savoured the word. It had been a long time since he and Sonja had celebrated their own. For the first few years, they hadn’t let anything get in the way of their annual celebration: they would hire a babysitter, dress up, and go out. One of them always surprised the other with an activity, anything from going out to the theatre and a restaurant, to having a picnic and taking a ride in a hot-air balloon. Fabian decided that as soon as this case was solved, he would surprise Sonja and make up for all their lost anniversaries.
“Have you come up with anything?”
He opened the 7-Eleven bag and was delighted to find that Tuvesson had treated him to a brownie, and a fresh roll, and was carrying a cup of good coffee.
Tuvesson pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Please allow me to ask the questions instead. I want to remind you that I took you off the case for a reason. You were supposed to let us handle this and take a vacation.”
“I was kicked off the case because you needed a scapegoat. What I do on my vacation is my business — as long as I don’t do anything illegal.”
Tuvesson sighed heavily and threw up her hands. “The truth is that we haven’t come up with much at all. And now that your theory about Rune being the killer has turned out to be totally wrong, we’re feeling mostly confused and like we’re back at square one.”
“You haven’t come up with a new theory yet?”
“Not exactly. It looks like it could be absolutely anyone — someone else from your class or one of the other classes in the same year, a teacher you were all a little extra-awful to, or even a parent.”
She took out a cigarette and ran it under her nose.
“I’m not going to light it, I promise. Klippan and Lilja have contacted everyone in the class who isn’t off travelling somewhere, and none of them have come up with any suggestions besides Claes Mällvik. So now I’m asking you... Do you remember if there was anyone who came in contact with the class in some way or another and —”
“Hold on. I don’t understand,” Fabian interrupted her. “How is it possible that you haven’t come up with anything?”
“Can you please just answer my question?”
“The crime scene at Söderåsen must have given you a few new leads. You must have found something!”
Tuvesson stuck one hand in her pocket to reassure herself that she had a lighter. “All we know for sure is that Rune Schmeckel lay there burning for more than two weeks, and he didn’t die until a few days ago. There was a drum of water hidden under the glass plate, and he had access to a straw so he could drink from it.” She stopped talking and shook her head. “I can’t even imagine how much he must have suffered, that poor man.”
Fabian thought about what Tuvesson had just said and realized that it only strengthened his theory. He met her gaze. “I think the
killer set up the whole place to present himself and his motives.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“The place itself — he wanted us to find it. Maybe not right now, but in time. He put so much time and energy into the presentation; it couldn’t just be about taking Schmeckel’s life. There’s more he wants to say.”
“But the murders of Jörgen and Glenn were committed as punishment for their crimes.”
“Right, and presumably the very same thing is happening here.”
“But what is Schmeckel — or Claes Mällvik — guilty of, besides being Jörgen and Glenn’s victim?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to ask Molander what you’ve found.”
“Not much more than what you already saw... Actually, there is one thing. We found it when we lifted the body off the glass plate. The moss all around the glass was dead, but the moss that grew in the shadow of his body was alive and healthy. It formed the shape of a person, so it actually looked like there was someone lying under the glass, but really it was just moss. Do you follow me? It’s kind of hard to explain.”
Fabian nodded. He understood. “That must be him.”
“Who? The perpetrator?”
“He created a self-portrait. That’s how he wants us to see him.”
53
HER HEAD WAS POUNDING with pain more intense than she’d ever felt before. Was this what a migraine felt like? She had never had migraines, but knew they were supposed to be horrible. This feeling had to be worse — much worse.
For once she had been really looking forward to her evening with Mona and Cilla. Most of the time these outings felt like a chore, but it gave her something to do. Really she just wanted to sit at home in front of the television all the time, even though she knew it wasn’t healthy. She had no idea why she felt like going out tonight. She just wanted to get drunk and crazy, and forget about tomorrow.
As usual, they’d ended up at the S/S Swea down by Kungstorget. A group of guys had been watching them on the dance floor, and Mona disappeared with one of them. Mona, who had a husband and a family — everything she had dreamed of for herself, but had realized she would never have. Not long after, Cilla hooked up with someone and took off for the sofas, just as a guy was trying to get with her. By then she was already feeling sick, and all she wanted to do was go home.
She had fragmented memories of trying to find her friends and eventually giving up. Everything was spinning, and she had trouble finding the door to leave. The last thing she remembered was someone helping her into a car.
And now she was lying somewhere, head pounding, with no idea where she was. She tried to open her eyes, but only her left eyelid obeyed. The other was stopped by something moist that was pressing against the right side of her face. She tried to figure out what it was and realized that it was damp dirt. She guessed she might be outside — maybe in a park or in the woods?
She tried to turn her body so she could lie on her back, but was forced to give up after a sharp pain stabbed through her lower belly. She whimpered. What had happened to her? She cautiously felt herself with one hand and realized that she wasn’t wearing any clothes and that something down there wasn’t quite right.
She gathered as much air into her lungs as possible and screamed.
54
KLIPPAN, LILJA, AND MOLANDER were sitting around the table in silence, waiting for Tuvesson. The investigation had been going on for more than a week now, and the lack of sleep was starting to wear on them. No one had any energy to waste on words; instead they took the opportunity to close their eyes. The silence was finally broken by Klippan’s ringing phone. He glanced at it quickly, but then closed his eyes again.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Molander said, but Klippan didn’t even look in his direction.
After a while, the caller hung up. Molander’s phone started ringing a few seconds later.
“Yes, this is Ingvar Molander. I see... Sure, no problem.” He handed the phone to Klippan. “It’s Berit.”
Klippan heaved a long sigh and took the phone. “Hi, dear... Because I’m at work, in the middle of a meeting... Yes, he’s working too and if he had known it was you he wouldn’t have answered, either.” Klippan shot Molander a look. “No, dear, I don’t have time right now. Did you check to make sure it isn’t just a blown fuse?”
Tuvesson entered with a travel mug in one hand.
“No, it’s not difficult at all,” Klippan continued, rolling his eyes. “Just check to see if the little red metal disks are still there or not. They’re not? Anyway, I have to go... Molander needs his phone.”
“No, I’m fine,” Molander said, receiving a threatening look from Klippan.
“Can’t you ask the neighbour or something? Bye.” Klippan hung up, sighed in relief, and handed Molander his phone. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem.”
“Shall we get going?” Tuvesson said. “As you know, we have another victim.”
“Have we identified the body?” Lilja asked.
“Her name is Ingela Ploghed, and she’s forty-four.”
“Is? Does that mean she’s still alive?” Molander wondered.
Tuvesson nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “She’s being kept under sedation for the time being. As far as I understand, she’s in critical condition. She was found in Ramlösa Brunnspark around eight o’clock this morning, without any clothing on. She was seriously hypothermic and she’d lost a lot of blood.”
“Had she been stabbed?” Klippan asked.
“No, that’s the strange thing. She had no obvious external wounds — the blood was coming from her genitals.”
“Do we know why?” Molander asked.
“Not yet, but I’m going over to meet with the doctor as soon as we’re finished here.”
“Ploghed... Wasn’t she in the same class as everyone else?” Lilja asked.
Tuvesson nodded and walked over to the enlarged class photo to point at one of the girls. “This is her.”
“Do we have a more recent picture?” Klippan wondered.
“I was hoping you could find one.”
“What do we know about her?” asked Lilja.
“Not much at this point, except that she lived alone — no children or husband,” Klippan said, browsing through his notes. “In 2002 she had her stomach pumped after overdosing on sleeping pills in a suicide attempt.”
“If she survives this attack, we’ll have a witness for the first time, which is exactly what we need,” Tuvesson said, circling Ingela Ploghed’s face and marking it with a question mark. She looked at the photograph, her eyes roaming from student to student until she came to Fabian Risk. “I stopped by to see Risk this morning.”
“And how is the private eye?” Klippan asked.
“He’s probably going to be stuck in bed for a little while longer.”
“Did you ask him if...”
“Yes, and he couldn’t think of any other suspect besides Claes Mällvik, but he had a theory.” Tuvesson turned to face the others. “He thinks the entire crime scene was somehow staged to depict the killer and his motive.” She took out one of the pictures of the human-shaped moss under the glass plate and held it up for everyone to see. “I think he was suggesting that the impression is the perpetrator’s self-portrait.”
Klippan burst out laughing. “Wow! What kind of drugs do they have him on? It must be something stronger than Tylenol.”
None of the others laughed, and Klippan soon grew quiet as well. A resigned silence took over. There seemed to be a collective realization that the perpetrator was not just a few steps ahead of them — he’d lapped them. Tuvesson’s eyes wandered aimlessly among the pictures on the wall, which ranged from Jörgen’s sawed-off hands on the shower floor to the half-metre sun lens to the moss in the shape of a human. She felt tired and worn out, and was well aware that it showed, but she was too exhausted to care. All she was worried about was making sure they couldn’t see that she had accep
ted defeat. Deep down she had given up hope that they would ever solve the case in front of them, even though hopelessness was a mortal sin in her line of work and she would never admit it. She had always believed in her team and had felt absolutely certain that they would figure it out in the end; after all, they had succeeded in solving most of the cases assigned to them. But right now she completely lacked trust in her own and the others’ abilities — a lack of trust that would bring total destruction on the rest of their work if she allowed her doubt to show.
On her way in to the police station, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how she would eventually have to make the decision to close the investigation. She knew she would spend the rest of her life looking back on this case as the most abject failure of her career. It would be her fault that they never fulfilled their objective; she was the one who had made the fatal error of removing Fabian Risk from the case. She had even toyed with the idea of bringing him back on board, but decided that would be tantamount to declaring the rest of the team incompetent. All she could do now was live with the consequences and hope for the best.
“I don’t know how you’re feeling,” she said, mostly to break the silence, “but this is the most difficult and frightening case I’ve ever worked on, and it feels like we’re still so far from even getting close to solving it. But I don’t believe we are so far away. I’m sure that we’re closing in on him.” She looked into Lilja’s, Molander’s, Klippan’s eyes in turn. “However, we have to be prepared to think outside the box if we’re going to have even the smallest chance of solving this case. There are no dumb ideas anymore. Fabian’s suggestion that the moss could be a self-portrait might be the key to understanding the killer and discovering his motive.” She let her words sink in.
“Are we even sure it’s a man?” Lilja asked.
“No. As things stand it could just as easily be a female perpetrator.”
“Speaking of thinking outside the box,” said Molander. “Has anyone followed up on Link’s idea about the graffiti at Fredriksdal School?”
Victim Without a Face Page 25
