She walked around the corner of the building, shone her flashlight into the crawl space, and noticed that the building contained clean-water and wastewater pipes for both a bathroom and a kitchen. A rusty old Vespa was leaning under a window at the back of the building. She climbed up onto the seat and peeked in.
The curtains were drawn, but the gap at the bottom was large enough to see inside. On some sort of workbench, just below the building were a pair of transparent plastic gloves, a few jars and bottles, and a number of tools that would all be at home in the average toolbox.
All but the scalpel.
Her phone started to ring.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Klippan here. I think you’d better come in.”
“Why? Has something happened?”
“You could say so. I obviously wouldn’t have called otherwise. I managed to get hold of eight of the class members.”
“Could anyone identify him?”
“No, but they’re at least trying to find their yearbooks now.”
“How many do you have left to contact?”
“Five, if we’re not counting Risk; Lilja’s on top of it. Also, she had Braids examine Camilla Lindén again. Apparently she was on that Arne guy’s table the first time.”
“And?” She could hear the irritation in her own voice, but she brushed it off. She was irritated. If something were to happen to her, Klippan was the one who would replace her, and for the most part, there was nothing wrong with that. Klippan was both competent and experienced. He was careful and methodical and there was no task too big — or small — for him. Therein lay the problem: Klippan had a tendency to get caught up in minor details like no one else; they took up his time, and everyone else’s too. “Klippan, I don’t have time for this. What did Arne miss?”
“Her eyes. As far as I understand, they were completely burned up.”
“What do you mean burned up?”
“I don’t know. All Lilja said was that they were burned up.”
“By fire?”
“I’m not sure, and for the time being I don’t think Braids knows either. The point is her blindness probably caused the crash.”
“Wasn’t she the one who liked to watch when Claes was bullied?”
“Yes.”
“And they’re sure that this eye injury wasn’t caused by the collision?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Tuvesson didn’t know what to think — a feeling that was becoming ever more frequent in this investigation. If Camilla Lindén hadn’t already been blind when she got in the car, the perpetrator must have blinded her by burning her eyes as she drove, while managing to avoid the crash himself. The more she thought about it, the more confused she became — the killer seemed to have inexplicable supernatural powers. “Do you have more information?”
“If you have time.”
“I don’t, but go on.”
“Camilla Lindén had sole custody of her two children, ages three and five.”
“Children? But there weren’t any kids in the car.”
“Exactly.”
“So where are they?”
“I wondered the same thing, so I checked with their preschool. According to the principal, her ex-husband, Björne Hiertz, picked them up half an hour before the accident.”
“Have you contacted him?”
“His number isn’t working, and he lives out in Strövelstorp, just a few kilometres from the accident scene. I’ve sent two officers over, so we’ll see where that gets us.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Do you have more time?”
Tuvesson closed her eyes and put all her energy into keeping herself from exploding.
“Astrid? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“The Danes finally sent the Peugeot over. Ingvar’s working on it now, and won’t stop until he finds something.”
“Good. Let’s hope he does.”
“How are things at your end?”
“I don’t know, exactly, but I think I found the spot where Ingela Ploghed lost her uterus.”
“You think?”
“We can’t be sure until we get inside, and we’ll need a warrant from Högsell for that. If there’s anything there, it has to hold up in court.”
“Of course. Well, I’ll count on seeing you here soon. We have to talk.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” She heard a heavy exhale on the other end.
“We have to talk about what we’re going to do with the members of the class. I don’t want to do it over the phone. I think it would be best for Irene to be there, too.”
“I’ve already told you, I’ll check with Malmö to see if they can —”
“Astrid, I don’t think we can wait for Malmö. Everyone asks questions when we talk to them, and we don’t know how to respond, even though we know they’re in danger. The question isn’t if, but when he’s going to strike again, and against whom. I don’t know about you, but I have the feeling that...”
The deafening roar came out of nowhere and hit Tuvesson like a ton of bricks. She lost her balance and fell off the Vespa. The train came and went, and silence returned before she even had time to hit the ground. She brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? Klippan?” Her phone had dropped the call.
78
THERE WERE ALREADY SEVERAL cars outside Lina Pålsson’s house, forcing Fabian Risk to drive past it and park two houses further down the street. He made one last attempt to call, but once again he was met with a voice that informed him that the number was disconnected. Directory assistance had explained that she’d likely switched to an unlisted number.
He would have preferred not to show up unannounced, but he had no choice. He squeezed past the cars outside the house and rang the bell. A well-groomed man in a suit who was wearing too much cologne opened the door.
“It’s open, come on in. Just don’t forget these.” Cologne held up two blue shoe protectors. “Just shout if you need anything.”
Fabian didn’t have time to respond before the man vanished back inside. So Lina was in the process of selling the house. That really wasn’t so strange. This was her chance to move on. He couldn’t say he blamed her.
He himself would never survive in a 1980s building out in Ödåkra. Even just coming for a visit put him in a bad mood. He’d never understood the point of living out in the country while simultaneously crowding into cloned subdivisions.
Some form of life insurance must have been released upon Jörgen’s death, and if they didn’t have too many loans she could start a new life without an abusive husband. Was that why she had gotten an unlisted number, or was she trying to escape the killer?
Fabian put on the shoe protectors and found the realtor. “Excuse me, I’m actually here to see Lina Pålsson. Does she happen to be around here somewhere?”
The realtor looked at him with a curious expression. “Is this the first time you’ve been here?”
“Uh, no...”
“Okay, I must have missed you last Wednesday. My bad. Ed Pärsson’s the name.”
They shook hands.
“Fabian Risk. But that’s not —”
“Risk. Sounds like you might put in an exciting bid. But a word of warning might be in order. These days, no one knows where interest rates are headed.” The realtor clapped Fabian on the shoulder and thrust a prospectus into his hands.
“I’m not here to look at the house. I’m here to see Lina Pålsson.” Fabian handed the prospectus back.
“Here’s the deal. Lina and I have a reciprocal contract with each other. Which means that she can’t have a deal on the side, even if she wanted to. So the bidding will go through me and no one else. All right?”
“Like I said, I’m not at all interested in the house. I just want to get her new phone number.”
“And how may I help you?” The realtor had deserted Fabian in favour of a middle-aged couple.
“Well, this house was built on a sill
plate in the early 1980s. So what kind of shape are the joists in? Because in our house we’ve had to —”
“You can read all about that in the inspection report. But I can tell you right now, the joists have never been better. Do you smell any mould?”
The couple exchanged glances.
“Because I sure don’t,” the realtor continued. “And I can promise you, with this schnoz I could get a job in Customs out at Sturup.”
Fabian pushed between the realtor and the couple. “Excuse me, but does the inspection report include the fact that this was where the Class Killer’s first victim lived? Jörgen Pålsson, I think his name was.”
“He lived here?” the woman said, at which the realtor took Fabian aside and shoved a piece of paper into his hand.
79
IF INGVAR MOLANDER WERE to rank the days of his life, this one would have no problem landing very close to the top of the “worst day ever” list. The question was whether it would take first place, surpassing the day that Ljusne Kätting went bankrupt and he lost all of his savings.
He had received and examined two cars today: two cars that should have contained tons of evidence and clues, but so far he had come up empty.
Lilja had informed him that the BMW driver’s eyes were burned, which could explain the crash. But it still didn’t explain how her eyes had been burned. The same went for the Peugeot. He’d meticulously examined the car without finding even the hint of a clue. Given how much the killer had risked by trying to retrieve the car, it should have contained more than just what Fabian had found on the GPS. There should have been some Kryptonite, something so devastating that the perpetrator’s whole plan would be at risk if the police got their hands on it.
He had one last small thing to check, an itty-bitty item he’d saved for last, mostly because it was so silly and obvious that he really didn’t believe it would work. The guy they were after was intelligent, almost too smart for his own good — it would be far beneath him to leave such a trace behind. In fact, there was only one reason for Molander to inspect it: just so he could say he had and put an X in another box. He wanted to ensure that no one could come along and call his examination into question or criticize him later on because he hadn’t done his due diligence and then some.
He got into the driver’s seat and began to brush the steering wheel and the dashboard with white powder.
“How are things going here?” It was Astrid Tuvesson.
“To hell. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
“I won’t make you. We can talk about my day instead.”
Molander looked directly at her. “Did you find something?”
Tuvesson nodded. “I think so, at least. But you don’t have to look so worried. I won’t hold it against you.”
“Against me?”
Tuvesson responded with a smile. “Weren’t you the one who was so damn sure I wouldn’t find anything, and that my search was a complete waste of time?”
Molander stepped out of the car, stretching his back. “Astrid, what did you find, exactly?”
“If I’m right — I think I found the place where Ingela Ploghed’s operation took place. It’s blocked off, totally isolated, and only twenty or twenty-five metres from the railroad tracks. I actually lost my balance out of sheer panic when a train thundered by. I felt like I was right on the tracks. I’m sure that’s what Ploghed was reacting to.”
Molander considered what she was saying and scratched his stubble, evidence that he had been working non-stop for the past few days. “What’s the address?”
“It’s on Gamla Rausvägen. A really creepy place with several small ponds.”
“I think I know where it is. I was there a few years ago.”
“You were? What were you doing there?”
“Fishing. It was a fish farm and you could go rod fishing there.”
He grew silent and Tuvesson looked over at the demolished BMW. “I heard she was blinded.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea how it could have happened?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing in the car that could have caused it, and I have a hard time believing that the perpetrator was in the car with her.”
“So it must have come from somewhere outside the car, right?”
“Like I said, I have no idea right now. But let’s get back to Gamla Rausvägen... Did you go inside? Did you see anything?”
“Just through the window. I didn’t want to enter until we have Högsell’s approval.”
“We’ll probably have to wait until after the weekend to get it.”
“Au contraire,” Tuvesson said, holding up a signed warrant, which Molander grabbed and read.
“Like hell.”
“This is top priority. Malmö has offered to send their crime scene techs, but you’re the only one I want. If you can manage, that is.”
Molander smiled. “I’ve hardly gotten any sleep in the last few days, so what’s another couple of hours? I just have one last thing to check here, and I’ll stop by Rausvägen on the way home.”
Tuvesson gave Molander a big hug that he didn’t know how to respond to; he stood there as stiff as a board, totally caught off guard. “Thanks, Ingvar. What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know. But if you don’t let go soon, I’ll have to report you for sexual harassment.”
Tuvesson hissed like a cat and headed for the door, putting an exaggerated swing in her hips. Molander sat back down in the Peugeot’s driver’s seat and continued to dust powder anywhere someone might conceivably have put their fingers.
Most forensic technicians used gold- or silver-coloured powder and transparent gelatine lifters, but Molander preferred good old white powder and the black lifters, even if they resulted in a negative image that had to be photographed in order to obtain usable prints. The prints were immediately visible, which was an advantage.
He didn’t find any prints on the steering wheel or the dashboard. All he found were traces of a microfibre cloth. But he did find them on the gas-tank cover release, around the glove compartment, on the sun visor, and on the buttons that controlled the windows. The perpetrator had cleaned up under pressure, and missed the less obvious places. But this wasn’t what caused Molander’s heart to beat faster — that honour went to something else entirely. In order to confirm his gut feeling he would have to study the fingerprints under a microscope.
He removed the protective cover from the gelatine lifter cut-outs, clipping a corner on each end so he could tell which way was up, and placed the lifter over the prints, pressing out the air bubbles and carefully peeling it back off. Then he reattached the protective cover to secure the print. He climbed out of the car ninety-eight minutes and twenty-two secured prints later; his back on the brink of a slipped disc.
During nearly twenty years as a forensic technician, Molander had seen his share of fingerprints, and had developed an eye that could tell at a glance which finger a print had come from, whether it was from a right or left hand, and whether the prints were all from the same person. Or, as was the case here, whether they were from different people.
Molander had discovered two different sets of prints.
His suspicions were confirmed under the microscope. Twenty of the prints belonged to Rune Schmeckel. The other two, a thumb and an index finger, both from a right hand and in all probability from the same person, belonged to someone else.
Were two fingerprints enough of a reason for the perpetrator to take such a great risk to retrieve the car? Could it really be his motive for killing an innocent woman and a police officer? In Sweden, being linked to the car was not the same thing as being linked to the murder, so he must have had another motive.
The killer had to be in the database.
Molander put the secured prints in a folder and placed it in the usual spot. He finished by writing an email to Lilja asking her to search the registry.
He had too many other things to do right now.
80
FABIAN RISK TURNED OFF Tögatan onto Frostgatan. A few turns later he was speeding through Väla and accelerating onto the southbound E4. The realtor seemed to have given him the correct number because Lina Pålsson picked up, which surprised Fabian. What had he expected? That Lina was behind the murders and had gone underground?
He asked why she’d changed numbers, and she told him she hadn’t had a choice. Since Jörgen’s death, the papers had hounded her day and night for interviews and statements, although she had made it clear she wasn’t interested. She explained that she had moved to Norra Hamnen and invited him to stop by as soon as he had the time and desire. He told her that now was a good time, though it was clear from her tone of voice that he’d caught her off guard. After a few seconds, she’d told him to come over and ring the bell when he arrived.
He couldn’t help feeling that something wasn’t quite right: one moment she made herself inaccessible, only to be excessively hospitable the next. It was like she had been waiting for him to call and ask for her help, like she knew what he was after. She had changed her address and phone number. Could he be the only one who knew where she was, about to fall right into her trap? Should he call Tuvesson and the others and let them know?
But he knew it couldn’t be Lina. He was confident the killer was the boy hidden behind Claes. Or at least he thought he was sure. Maybe it wasn’t him. Why did he have no memory of this mysterious classmate? Maybe the boy in the picture was just another false lead; maybe the picture had actually been manipulated. Was it possible that someone had exchanged his yearbook for a different one? Maybe one of the movers did it.
Fabian’s thoughts were darting every which way, as wildly as free electrons. It wasn’t until he was driving down Hälsovagen that he was able to regain control, thanks to Of Montreal’s “Disconnect the Dots,” and to determine that his paranoid thinking was likely the result of a lack of sleep. He found a parking spot behind the City Theatre and crossed in front of the old Sandrew movie theatre, where he’d managed to get into Halloween at age twelve but had to ask the projectionist to call his mommy to come pick him up after it was finished.
Victim Without a Face Page 36
