In just half an hour, he would kick off his vacation by calling Sonja and asking her and Matilda to get the first train back. Then he would drag Theodor out of his room and order him to experience their new hometown. On a warm summer evening like this, there was nothing better than a walk down the hill and through the woods to Pålsjö Krog.
He logged onto his laptop at the same time that Theodor’s reply popped up on his phone. I’m home. Still playing CoD. Headphones on. But Pålsjö Krog sounds good. Do they have burgers?
Fabian laughed. I’m sure they do, but am afraid they’re about a hundred times better than McD’s.
Sweet, Theo replied.
Fabian focused on his computer again. He went to Eniro, the online directory, and typed “Torgny Sölmedal” into the search box. Just as he’d expected, there was only one person with that name, and he lived in Helsingborg — at Motalagatan 24 in Husensjö. A Google search, however, turned up 879 hits, which surprised Fabian; he had only been expecting a link back to Eniro.
There was a paid link at the top of the Google list: SÖLMEDAL ENGINEERING AB — INVENTIONS, DESIGNS, BUILDS — NO TECHNICAL PROBLEM IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR US!
Of course he owns an engineering firm, Fabian thought, scrolling down through the rest of the search results. Most concerned various patents on everything from small-machine parts to electronic operating systems. A few pages later he found a link that interested him: READ MORE ABOUT T. SÖLMEDAL, which relayed him back to Sölmedal Engineering AB.
Torgny Sölmedal was born in Ekeby on August 12, 1966. He stands 6’1” above the ground and burdens the earth with less than 160 pounds. He is ambidextrous and has an IQ of 131 and above, depending on the test. He has loved to build things ever since he received a Meccano set for Christmas when he was a child. In 1986 he started Sölmedal Engineering AB, with the motto that there are no problems that can’t be solved; his work has resulted in a number of patents as well as economic independence. He continues to run his company because — in his own words — “it’s fun.”
“Because it’s fun,” Fabian repeated to himself; he didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. A few results down he found a link to an article that piqued his interest. It was about the operation in which Rune Schmeckel had failed to remove two plastic clips from a man’s bladder during an operation. The patient, Torgny Sölmedal, is not planning to file suit at this time, he read. Was that why he’d chosen Claes Mällvik as his main victim? First he had taken all the attention away from him in school, and then he’d supervised this catastrophic surgery.
Fabian’s thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound coming from upstairs. It grew louder and louder, and sounded like someone was speaking through a megaphone. A minute later he heard an audience whistling and applauding. He realized Marilyn Manson was back on again, right before the drums and distorted guitars thundered to life at top volume, proclaiming the singer as all-american.
It was thirteen minutes past nine — not all that late. But considering that the neighbour had already expressed her displeasure, albeit in mild terms, and that Marilyn had probably been screaming at the top of his lungs all day, Fabian thought enough was enough and headed for the stairs.
The song was repeating a single swear word over and over again.
The volume was considerably louder on the second floor; it was nearly unbearable. He didn’t understand how Theodor could even stand to be in the same room as those speakers. Was that why he was using headphones? Something seemed off. The door was ajar. Fabian was about to open it when his phone started vibrating in his pocket: it was Sonja calling. She was probably wondering how everything was going. He’d been meaning to call her but hadn’t had the chance, so he hurried back downstairs, went out on the deck to shut out as much of the music as possible, and answered the phone.
“Hi darling.”
“It rang for a while — am I calling at a bad time?”
“No, not at all.”
“I mostly just wanted to check and see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, I don’t know, about as expected, I suppose,” Fabian said, realizing that he hadn’t even thought about his burns for the past few hours.
“Are you still at the hospital?”
“No, I just got home. Sonja, I —”
“So you’ve seen Theo. Has he been okay alone?”
“Uh... yes, I think so. We’ve actually only texted so far, but at least he responds. His stereo is turned up so loud that it feels like my ears are about to —”
“Fabian, I met her.”
“Huh? What? Who?”
“Niva Ekenhielm. We had coffee today. Lisen took Matilda, so we had time for a good long talk.”
Fabian didn’t know how to respond.
“She told me everything: every tiny, intimate detail. I wanted you to know.”
She just doesn’t give up, Fabian thought. Niva couldn’t leave him and his family in peace. Was it because he had asked her for a favour? He wondered exactly what she’d told Sonja and how many liberties her active imagination and wishful thinking had taken this time. He wanted to protest — to tell Sonja that Niva had surely exaggerated her story to drive a wedge between them — but he stopped himself, realizing that it didn’t matter in the end. He had lost this match long ago.
“Do you feel better?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
“Not right now.”
He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. She obviously wanted him to say something, so he did: “I love you. Just so you know, I love you.”
“Call me when you’re finished. And can you tell Theo that he has to answer when someone calls him?”
“Darling, you can actually go ahead and book a ticket —”
He heard a click in his ear, stuck the phone back in his pocket with a disappointed exhale, and walked inside.
Marilyn Manson was still singing about raping the rapers.
As he walked back up the stairs to the second floor, he was overcome by a feeling that was growing stronger and stronger — a feeling he’d had since he stepped into the house. He stood outside Theodor’s bedroom. He was sure that something was wrong, horribly wrong. He pushed open the door and stormed into the room.
The music was at fever pitch now.
He pressed button after button on the stereo, but it stubbornly continued to project a chain of expletives that assaulted his ears.
He finally yanked the entire stereo loose, cables and all, and threw it on the floor. The subsequent silence was anything but enjoyable. He knew it was pointless, but he still looked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the wardrobe. Theodor was not in his room.
He shouted for his son over and over, as loudly as he could, even though he didn’t expect a reply. He screamed until he had to stop, collapsing onto the edge of the bed to gather his thoughts, but he couldn’t. Something inside him just kept wanting to panic and cry, as if he knew deep down that all was lost, that it was all his fault.
He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to take deep, slow breaths. A few minutes later he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Had Theodor even been here when he’d returned home earlier? He had been welcomed by the same album of hellish noise then. He started to think about it, and realized that he’d last seen Theodor when they’d gone to a movie and taken the ferry to Denmark — on Tuesday. Now it was Friday. They hadn’t spoken for three whole days.
Sonja had nagged him to call his son, which he’d done. But there had been no answer, except in the form of texts. He’d been satisfied with that response. He had never heard his son’s voice, but had been content with his replies in writing.
He had only been thinking about the investigation.
Fabian put his head in his hands, hoping it would turn out that Theodor had just run away from home. It would be perfectly understandable: he probably would have done the very same thing himself. But Fabian was sure that wasn’t wha
t had happened. He was absolutely certain that something else was behind it, something much worse.
He stood up and started searching the room for clues. Most of Theodor’s belongings were still in moving boxes. Aside from some clothes, only the computer and stereo had been properly unpacked. There was a black notebook he’d never seen before in the middle of the desk. A pen was stuck in the cord that held it closed. He pulled the pen out, loosened the cord, and opened the notebook.
This diary belongs to:
Theodor Nils Risk
If you are not the person listed above, and do not have permission from the person listed above, close this book immediately.
Did his son really keep a diary? He started flipping through it.
This is the first time I’m writing in you even though I got you for Christmas two years ago from Mom. She said it’s always good to write down your thoughts so that you don’t forget anything... I’ve tried to smell my own BO. I don’t think I smell. But I know I’m ugly — ugly as shit... I hate school. I hate it!... heard them looking for me and yelling that I was gay... they punched me in the stomach and said it was my fault... spit in my face... I hate them so much. They don’t understand a goddamn thing... they took my hat and peed on it and made me put it on again...
Hate myself!... Laban was lying in his cage like he was sleeping, but he wasn’t sleeping. I stuck a needle in his back to get him up. At first he squeaked and tried to get away but I held him down super hard... super funny... walked up to one of them, and hit him in the face with the brass knuckles under my mitten... yanked him down to the ground, and started pounding his head on the pavement... most awesome thing I’ve ever done. Well, since the first time I went to Legoland...
July 7
It’s been a week since we moved to this shithole. Dad’s fucking idea. Everything is supposed to be so fucking nice and super-duper great here — like hell it is. He’s good at promising... this is like a slow, drawn-out hell... . I’m just sitting here alone, hating... playing CoD... Dad took me to a fucking piece of shit movie and tried to talk to me. So fucking pathetic... I feel like hitting someone so goddamn hard. Just dragging it out and
The last entry ended abruptly, as if he’d been interrupted mid-thought. Fabian didn’t know how to interpret the diary. It was no secret that Theodor had had a difficult time at school and that he’d been involved in a number of fights. But this was something else entirely. Did Sonja know? He turned the page to make sure there was nothing more.
If you ever want to see your beloved little good-for-nothing son again I suggest you put on the baseball cap sitting on the moving box to the left and follow my instructions. I. M.
Fabian couldn’t breathe. Deep down he’d known since he stepped into the room, but now he had proof. Everything was spinning and he was forced to sit down on the bed again before he lost his balance. The killer had been here — in his house — and taken his son. The pattern had definitely been broken. Until now, he’d only been after the people in his class — not their children. This was different. He took out his phone and sent a text to Theodor. Come on down. Let’s go. Your burger awaits...
His hands were shaking so much that he had to put down the phone while he waited for a reply. It arrived much more quickly than he’d expected. Nice try, but you’d better follow my advice.
Fabian realized he had no choice and looked around the room for the hat. He found it quickly. It was black with a brim. He’d seen caps like it before: it had five LED lights on the front that could be illuminated at the push of a button. He’d thought about buying one himself the last time he was at Clas Ohlson, but had decided against it when he imagined Sonja’s teasing voice in his head.
He picked up the cap — the eye of a camera had replaced the middle light on the brim. He hesitated, trying to think through the alternatives, but quickly realized he had none, and put the cap on his head. It fit perfectly, as if it had already been adjusted for him. He received another text: Log in at http://89.162.38.99:8099/cam12 password: aLmos1oVer
Fabian did as he was told. A grainy image appeared on the screen showing Theodor lying on his back in a narrow space with his hands bound. He had obviously tried to free himself because he had bloody wounds on his arms and hands. He lifted his head and stared straight at the camera, completely terrified. He looked like he was screaming for his life.
“Theo, where are you? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you!” Fabian shouted at his phone.
He can’t hear you.
“What about you? Can you hear me?!”
No one knows how long the oxygen will last. All I know for certain is that it’s running out. It could be tomorrow, or maybe next week, or in two hours?
“Why bring my son into this? What does he have to do with anything? Take me instead!”
You have a task to complete if you ever want to see him alive again.
Fabian looked at his phone. He wanted to see Theo again and tried to type in the login information for the second time. But instead of seeing an image from the webcam, he received a message: Incorrect password! Unauthorized Entry Denied. He tried again but got an identical notice.
Get in your car, drive to the police station, park there, and don’t let anyone see you.
Fabian didn’t even have time to wonder what he could expect before another message popped up.
Tick tock, tick tock...
83
“ALL WE KNOW FOR certain right now is that it will take place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, but speculation on the topic is already in full swing. Do you have any comment?” asked one striped tie to the other.
“Yes, this is absolutely the last straw. Considering what we learned yesterday, Kim Sleizner should have held a press conference right away, but gave an exclusive interview to Ekstra Bladet instead, which is far from sufficient to rebuild trust in the police. Tomorrow’s press conference is absolutely crucial.”
Dunja Hougaard wasn’t surprised in the least. When it came to Sleizner, nothing would shock her anymore. She felt like she had been drained of all her energy since his latest sneaky move. She pushed the button on the remote control and the ties were replaced by a young Julia Roberts, who was standing on Hollywood Boulevard next to a red Ferrari along with her prostitute friend. “And remember, don’t mouth off. They don’t like that.” Dunja had watched the scene at least a hundred times and decided it must be the most frequently shown movie on TV ever.
As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help flipping back to the news.
“And what do you think the topic will be?”
“It’s likely that he’ll announce his resignation and try to spin it as his own decision.”
“Does that mean he’s actually been fired?”
“Yes, in all likelihood. But a man with Sleizner’s experience and competence will always be in demand. There’s even talk that he could become our next Minister of Justice, so who knows what he’s got up his sleeve.”
“What if the press conference isn’t about his resignation?”
“Then he’ll have to have a tangible lead in the investigation — something to show that it’s moving forward and that he’s still a force to be reckoned with in the police corps.”
“But you don’t consider that likely?”
“No.”
Dunja turned off the TV, then yanked the batteries out of the remote and threw it across the room so she wouldn’t be tempted to turn it on again. She knew exactly what Sleizner’s little press conference was going to be about: the picture of the killer.
Her picture.
Sleizner would beat his chest and hammer home the message that the department functioned very well while he was in charge — so well, in fact, that the Danes, not the Swedes, would soon solve the case and catch the killer.
As if Kim Fucking Sleizner gave a shit about the case.
It was all just a charade, a spectacle to take attention away from his private scandal. He had no interest in co-ordinating with the Sw
edes to find out what leads or theories they’d come up with, he was just taking the opportunity to toot his own horn. This press conference was about him and only him, no matter what it cost in the end.
He had lied straight to her face without batting an eye, sacrificing both her and her work. The ink on her resignation hardly had time to dry before he’d demanded her keys, badge, security card, and service weapon. He’d given her two minutes to gather her belongings in a box, watching over her shoulder the whole time like a hawk.
She had been tossed out in the cold like Fabian Risk, and just like him she couldn’t let it slide. There was no chance that she would be able to keep herself from working on the case as long as it remained unsolved.
She didn’t know what sort of ripple effect to expect from Sleizner’s press conference the next morning, but she was prepared for the worst. The killer would probably go underground, becoming nearly impossible to find. The longer he remained uncertain about how much the police knew, the better. It increased the chances that he would eventually become overconfident and careless, and that he’d make a fatal mistake.
She had to do something. She couldn’t stop Sleizner from publishing the picture, but she could make sure the Swedes got it first. She picked up her phone and called Fabian Risk. The phone rang, but no one answered. It was only twenty past nine, which wasn’t super early, but also not exactly too late to call. She tried again, this time leaving a short message to say that she had something he needed to see and that she was on her way to Sweden to show him.
Since there was a possibility that someone had tapped his phone, she didn’t want to specify what she had to show him. She hadn’t initially planned to say she was on her way to Sweden, but now that she thought about it, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She could send him the photo via email but, just like his phone, she couldn’t assume that Risk was the only one who had access to it.
Victim Without a Face Page 38
