Victim Without a Face

by Stefan Ahnhem

  It had felt like an eternity before Monika Krusentierna walked up, announcing the correct number of stairs. She had no intention of acknowledging that Claes was still sobbing, his eyes completely red.

  The Dutch family vanished down the stairs and finally she was alone.

  She rested her crutches against the wall, took off her sandals, and placed them beside each other along with her watch, headband, and necklace. She felt the pain return as soon as she climbed up and sat on the edge of the wall, but it didn’t bother her in the least. She looked out at the roofs and trees far below and let her feet dangle in the air. She’d thought she would feel faint and nauseous, but she only felt a sense of freedom. Soon it would all be over.

  She had considered taking her own life after the first rape, even giving it a few clumsy tries. She’d read somewhere that people who failed to take their own lives actually wanted to live, and that the attempt was just a cry for help. But that wasn’t true for her. After the incident in Lund she’d started to hate herself until, deep down, she just wanted to die. It was no exaggeration for her to say that the last few years of her life had been nothing but a string of failures.

  If she were to point her finger at the criminal who had assaulted her this time, it would only turn into another fiasco. She could identify him: the memory had come back to her in the policewoman’s car. She didn’t think she’d seen his face, but apparently she had. What did it matter now? No one would believe her anyway. If only it had been someone different, maybe she would have said something, but not him — not a chance. It would be her word against his. A drugged, half-conscious woman, or a...

  Ingela Ploghed let go of the thought, closed her eyes, and leaned forward.

  74

  FABIAN RISK FOUND AN empty spot right in front of his house. He had found his car key on Hugo Elvin’s desk along with a note informing him that his vehicle was out in the lot. Some kind soul had obviously driven it all the way back from Söderåsen.

  He locked the car door and started walking toward the row house. It didn’t feel like coming home — more like he was going to visit someone. Maybe that feeling wasn’t too strange, considering he’d only lived there for ten days and had hardly even been in the house for most of them. He’d been gone for three whole days this time, and if he knew Theodor, it had been one long orgy of take-out pizza, computer games, and pounding metal.

  He walked up the front steps and put the key in the door; he could already hear the rhythmic pounding of his son’s beloved death metal. He had never understood the draw of all that racket: it was more anxiety-inducing than invigorating. But he had promised himself never to complain about his children’s taste in music, even if he’d almost broken that vow several times already. His own parents had done nothing but complain. They couldn’t tell the difference between Kraftwerk, Depeche Mode, and Heaven 17. It was all just “thump thump thump” and “not even real instruments.”

  “You must be the new neighbour,” said a voice behind him.

  Fabian turned around and saw a pear-shaped woman in shorts with large pockets, a T-shirt, and a sun hat. She was holding a glass jar full of redcurrants.

  “Ulla Stenhammar... we live in number fifteen.”

  Fabian walked back down the steps and shook hands with the woman. “Hi. Fabian Risk.”

  “And what’s your business, if I may ask?”

  “My business?”

  “Yes. What do you do for work?”

  “So far I’m just on vacation, doing all I can not to think about my job.” Fabian forced out a smile for the sake of neighbourliness and hoped that his first impression of this Ulla Stenhammer would turn out to be wrong.

  “I just wanted to give you a warm welcome.” The woman handed him the jar of redcurrants. “Everyone was always a little curious about who was going to move in here. I was delighted to discover it was a perfectly normal family.”

  “Oh? Was there something wrong with the old occupants”

  “Not wrong... but they were certainly a bit odd, if you ask me. They never came to the spring or fall parties, and... well, you know how the backyard looks. It’s a jungle back there and the bushes block the sun from our entire patio. Moss is the only thing that will grow there, which isn’t so nice, if you ask me.”

  Unfortunately, Fabian was quickly learning that his first impression of Ulla seemed to be accurate. “I promise to do some cutting and pruning as soon as I have time.”

  “I don’t want to interfere.”

  A silence followed, and Fabian turned back toward the door.

  “The walls are pretty thick in these old houses, so you wouldn’t think you could hear your neighbours all that much, but let me tell you, you can. Don’t ask me how the sound gets through, all I know is that it finds a way.”

  “Is my son playing his music too loud?”

  “I don’t know if I would call it music, but if he would just turn it down a little at night, then it wouldn’t matter. However, none of this noise compares to the Paldynskis... the old neighbours, that is.”

  “They played music loudly too?”

  “No. Well... yes, some classical music, but that wasn’t the issue. The fighting was the problem.”

  “Fighting?”

  Ulla moved closer to Fabian, looking over her shoulder as if she were afraid of being overheard. “You can’t imagine the way they screamed at each other. It sounded like Friday the Thirteenth sometimes. It was so loud that when we were in our bedroom, it felt like they were in the room with us. I can’t say anything for sure, but I’m pretty confident he beat her.”

  Fabian realized that he had to revise his initial impression: this lady was far worse than he’d initially suspected.

  “Eventually she took off, and who can blame her? If you ask me, it wasn’t the most pleasant way to leave, but that’s none of my beeswax. There’s nothing worse than a neighbour who sticks their nose in someone else’s business.”

  “I agree. Thanks for the currants.” Fabian made another attempt to go up the front steps.

  “He had only left for the weekend — Berlin, I think? A strange city, isn’t it? I went there on vacation once and we were so tired once we came back that we had to take another vacation right away. But when he got home all the clothes and toys were gone. She had taken the kids with full suitcases and vanished, just like that. It’s not very amusing, if you ask me.”

  Now Fabian understood what the realtor had meant by “private circumstances.”

  “No, that doesn’t sound very nice. Do they have any idea where she went?”

  “That’s just the point.” She held up one index finger and raised an eyebrow as if to emphasize how strange a circumstance it was. “He didn’t even seem to care. It was like he just shrugged and went on with his life.”

  “He didn’t try to find them?”

  “Not that I know of. He seemed almost relieved, if you ask me.” The woman was shaking her head. “I was just flabbergasted; I didn’t understand it at all. Imagine coming home and finding that the rest of your family had left.”

  “So no one knows where they went?”

  The woman lit up with a big smile. “Well, I was so curious and couldn’t keep my mouth shut, so I asked him directly. It turned out that he knew exactly where she had gone, which certainly explained quite a bit of his odd behaviour.”

  “I see,” Fabian said, waiting to hear further details about the former homeowners, which Ulla didn’t seem to want to supply. “Didn’t he say where they were?”

  “No, he only told me he knew where they were. I didn’t want to keep prying. Even I have my limits.” The neighbour burst out laughing. “But just a week or two ago I heard from the Wingårds in number thirteen that the wife moved to Denmark. As far as I understand she’s living with another man there. I think she already knew him before, but that’s only my opinion.”

  “And when did this happen?”

  “A few months ago, in the spring. It was only a few weeks before he sold you the
house. It makes sense; I’m sure he didn’t want to stay here with all those memories.”

  Fabian walked up the front steps for the umpteenth time. He wondered how he would have reacted if Sonja had done such a thing. He turned the key, opened the door, and admitted to himself that a small part of him would probably feel relieved.

  Upstairs, a voice was shouting about the dancing dead, backed by the sound of distorted guitars and rat-a-tat drums.

  Even just being rid of this raging racket, which hit him like a wall of garbage as he came in, would be worth quite a bit. Well, at least he’s at home, Fabian thought. He closed the door behind him and found the house just as he’d left it on Wednesday morning when he’d taken off for the funeral in Denmark. Three days felt like three weeks.

  He walked into the kitchen, which bore several traces of Theodor, but not as many as he’d expected. The kitchen was almost pristine, aside from a few remnants of a kebab, a half-eaten pizza that was still in its box, some untouched coleslaw, and an empty Coke bottle. Had Theodor finally learned to clean up after himself?

  Marilyn Manson was now screaming lyrics about the world spreading its legs for a star. He had been Theodor’s favourite artist for the past few years, and was always on repeat. Fabian could hear why the neighbour had protested, but for now it was only quarter to five, so he wasn’t about to go up and ask Theodor to turn down the volume. Instead, he sent him a text to say he was home and suggested they have some coffee out on the deck.

  Two minutes later he received an answer: Playing Call of Duty and in the middle of an assignment. Skipping coffee. See you later. T

  The exact response Fabian had expected, and also what he had been hoping for, deep down. Although it would have been nice to have a coffee break, he didn’t have the time. He had to get that name before the day was over. A name he’d seen thousands of times but hadn’t the faintest memory of — the name of a killer who would strike again if he wasn’t stopped.

  He had an idea about how to identify the man. It was a long shot, and he wasn’t sure it would work, but given that he had nothing else to go on it was worth a try. But first he wanted to take a shower and change into clean clothes. On his way to the bathroom upstairs, he tried to remember the last time he’d gone for more than three days without a shower, and realized it must have been at the Roskilde Festival in 1995.

  He could remember it as if it had been just yesterday, despite the buckets of beer and the constant difficulty he’d had keeping his balance. When he looked back, that had been one of the festival’s very best years, with Oasis, Blur, The Cure, and Suede. This year’s lineup, which included Prince, LCD Soundsystem, and Vampire Weekend, wasn’t exactly anything to be ashamed of either. It was so tempting that he’d even suggested to Sonja that they begin their move by attending the festival as a family. She’d asked if he was having a mid-life crisis.

  He locked the bathroom door, and carefully loosened the bandage wound tightly around his upper body. He hadn’t thought about the stabbing, aching pain for several hours and it was only when he got down to the last few layers of gauze that he remembered how bad his injuries really were. Bloody pus had glued the bandage to his wounds, and he had to get under the shower and wiggle it free bit by bit. The pain went quite beyond his threshold, and he thanked Marilyn Manson, who drowned him out.

  After he’d finished loosening the last piece of gauze, he turned the cold water on full blast and let it wash over his inflamed wounds. He enjoyed the sensation for several minutes before soaping up, washing his hair, and stepping onto the bath mat to air-dry.

  He looked at himself in the mirror, which usually made him feel young. He was forty-three, but his body looked at least ten years younger. He wasn’t carrying around any extra pounds like so many people his age did. He didn’t even have the beginnings of a bald spot and hadn’t started to go grey. But the man he was looking at right now appeared at least ten years older than usual. He was white as a sheet and his face sagged as if the force of gravity had suddenly doubled. He thought about turning around to get a look at his injuries, but he decided it was better not to.

  The next track on Theo’s playlist kicked in. Fabian tried to tune out the noise as he got dressed.

  His clothes were still packed in the moving boxes beside his bed, and he dug around until he found a pair of clean underwear, socks, a loose red linen shirt to replace the gauze, and a pair of wrinkled linen pants...

  He plugged his phone in to charge in the kitchen, and carried the remains of the pizza with him down to the basement. He needed to get to the green filing cabinet, but it was no longer where he’d last seen it. It had been left next to one of the walls in the middle of the cellar, however it wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t know if Sonja had been down there to rearrange things, or if he wasn’t remembering correctly. Somehow it felt different down here, as if everything had been moved around.

  The basement was full of things that should have been driven straight to the dump, if only Sonja would have allowed it. She couldn’t bring herself to throw anything away. She believed that something might turn out to be useful when you least expected it. Her own parents had never saved anything, which meant they had thrown away a minor fortune’s worth of kitchen equipment that had gone out of fashion but later became super trendy. Fabian had no idea what he and Sonja were ever going do with broken bikes, sticky car seats, and boxes full of VHS tapes.

  Twenty minutes later, he found the green filing cabinet behind an old brown sofa with three demijohns positioned on top. He pulled out the middle drawer, took out his old photo albums, then sat between the demijohns on the sofa and started flipping through them. Several of the pictures had come loose from their tape, leaving his misspelled captions hanging like forgotten ornaments on a discarded Christmas tree.

  The pictures had been taken with the Instamatic he had received for his tenth birthday. Although the colours had changed and their sharpness had vanished, the pictures reminded him of when he’d glided further than anyone on his Ramprider skateboard with Tracker trucks and red Kryptonics; gone on a class trip to Copenhagen and eaten three cheeseburgers at the McDonald’s across from Tivoli; and piled up the first snow to make Big Mountain, a little hill made of trash, so he could use his mini skis.

  Almost all the photos had been taken during vacations in grades four through six. As soon as he started the seventh grade his camera had fallen by the wayside, except for one day in eighth grade when he took it to school and burned up a whole roll of film. He had taken thirty-six pictures of the same subject.

  He hadn’t thought of this series once in all these years. Klippan’s picture of the locker door was the only thing that had sparked his memory. The thirty-six photographs were well hidden in one of the many albums from his school years. He had written the same thing under each photo — a single word:

  Lina.

  She was in every picture, not always in the centre, or in focus, but the obvious target of each image. You couldn’t help but notice the photographer was in love, and Fabian remembered trying to get a shot of her any time Jörgen wasn’t around. He’d done all he could to make sure Lina wouldn’t notice; the last thing he wanted was to have Jörgen on his back. But now he could see how conscious she had been of his camera: her eyes, pretending to look away; her smile, trying to seem unaware. She’d liked it, and had never said anything to Jörgen. It was their secret.

  All of a sudden Fabian looked up from the album. He thought he heard someone shouting, but he couldn’t see anything around him to explain the sound. At the same time, he was sure he hadn’t imagined what he had heard: somewhere, there was a voice. It was impossible to tell what it was saying — just that it was shouting.

  Fabian stood up and followed the voice to the brick wall behind him and immediately relaxed. The wall faced the neighbours’ house, so the voice was definitely the neighbour lady he had just spoken to. He went back to the photo album and found the picture he was looking for soon after. Just as he remembered, it s
howed Lina putting a few books into her locker. The door of the locker next to hers was closed, but the number on it was clear: 349.

  Lina’s locker had been right next to the killer’s.

  75

  THE SILVERY-GREY BMW 1-series m coupé had gone from a shiny, top-of-the-line technological wonder to a pile of scrap metal in a matter of seconds.

  Ingvar Molander had always loved all German cars, and he had refused to drive any brand other than BMW since the latter half of the 1990s. Examining this demolished vehicle was extremely painful for him. As if that weren’t enough, he still hadn’t managed to find the cause of the crash, leaving him no choice but to review his notes one more time to ensure there was nothing he had missed.

  Left side: dents and severe scratches in circular patterns. The car drove into the side of a truck and struck its middle set of wheels. He had already located the silver paint on the truck’s lug nuts. Blades of grass and dirt are present on all four tires, especially those on the right front and rear. The car ricocheted toward the edge of the road and out onto the grass. Right headlight shattered. The right front bumper collided with the road sign and the car spun around a few times as it entered the highway again. The majority of the rear half of the car is crushed. The truck drove right over it. There are several severe scratches and dents, primarily to the roof. It rolled and came to an upside-down stop.

  Molander was frustrated. He’d gone through all the information more times than he could count, without finding anything to suggest it was murder. He couldn’t find any severed brake lines or loose lug nuts. There was nothing wrong with the steering- column lock or the servo, nor any indication that there had been another passenger in the car or any remote-controlled, foreign entity. The car looked exactly as it should after being run over by a truck and rolling over at 140 kilometres per hour.