Victim Without a Face

by Stefan Ahnhem

  Dunja opened her computer and launched her email client. But her inbox didn’t appear; instead, the program asked for a password. She typed in “Shawarmapie55” — a password she used in far too many places and ought to change as soon as she had time.

  Incorrect password

  She tried again.

  Incorrect password

  Had that bastard already managed to get her password changed? If he had, she could only think of one person who could have helped him.

  “Yes, this is Rønning...”

  “Did you change my email password?”

  “Well hello there, sexy. Listen, I’m kind of busy,” he whispered. “I have company and we’re almost finished with our sushi —”

  “Mikael, for Christ’s sake,” Dunja interrupted. “This is important. Are you the one who changed it?”

  She could hear him sigh as the theme from Titanic played in the background.

  “I heard you quit.”

  “The Sleazeball didn’t give me a choice, and I have to get into my mail.”

  Another sigh.

  “He came over as soon as you were gone and ordered me to change it. Technically, from a legal perspective, it isn’t really your email.”

  “Mikael, it is extremely important for me to log onto my email right now. Not later. Now. Understood?”

  “Why?”

  “The less you know the better, so you’ll just have to trust me. All you have to do is give me the new password.”

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t. Sleizner is almost definitely going through your inbox this very second and he’ll notice right away if another IP address tries to get in. As soon as he realizes it belongs to you, he’ll know that I helped you.”

  He was right. Shit.

  “But... I had a feeling you would call, so I made a copy of your entire hard drive before Sleizner could get his hands on it. I can put up a Dropbox folder.”

  “Perfect, and preferably right away.”

  “Sure. My visitor and exercise ball seem to have found a way to each other during this conversation.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Dunja was able to transfer the picture of the killer to a USB stick. Fifteen minutes after that, she had cleaned the dried ink from the cartridges and printed it out. Ten seconds later, she left her apartment on Blågårdsgade and hurried toward Nørreport Station.

  84

  “THE JAIL?” TUVESSON REPEATED.

  “Why not? It would only be for the weekend,” Klippan said. “It’s already under guard, and then we wouldn’t have to wait for Malmö to send people over. On Monday we can decide if there’s a better solution.”

  They had left the grill and were following Rundgången to the right; they could see both the prison and the police station on the other side of the street. Tuvesson hadn’t decided what she thought of the idea of sending the class to the jail. It would certainly be a drastic solution, and wouldn’t exactly be uncontroversial, but maybe, in the end, it was the least terrible idea.

  “Let’s be honest — it’s the obvious thing to do. What choice do we have?” Klippan said, as if he were reading her mind.

  “Do you know how much shit we’ll have to take for this?”

  “It’ll be nothing compared to how much shit we’ll have to take if we don’t act and keep letting him pick them off one by one.”

  Klippan was right. They had every reason to believe that the perpetrator might strike again at any moment and that he had no intention of stopping until the whole class was wiped out. The main point in favour of the plan was, in fact, time. If they started now, and if everything went smoothly, they could gather everyone during the night. The main point against it was the plan itself.

  “Didn’t Risk take his car home?” Lilja pointed at Risk’s car, which was parked outside the police station.

  “I guess not,” Klippan said. “He’s probably still not in any condition to drive.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” said Tuvesson. “We’ll bring the rest of the class in over the weekend. In order for this to work, we have to make sure we keep as low a profile as possible and tell people only on a need-to-know basis. We have to keep this from leaking to the press at all costs — the whole plan depends on it.”

  *

  SOMEWHERE, HIS SON WAS lying with hands and feet bound in a space as narrow as a coffin — and the oxygen might run out at any moment. Maybe it already had. The image of Theodor locked in that room was etched into Fabian’s mind; he couldn’t stop thinking about what his son was going through, not just right now but during all his years in school. How could he have failed to notice? Had he really been that self-absorbed? What about Sonja? If she’d known, she would have told him, right?

  He remembered one occasion when she had said she was worried about Theodor after he came home with two broken ribs and a concussion. He’d thought she was overreacting and believed it was a normal part of growing up — boys Theo’s age got in fights. He had even bragged a bit, saying that he once broke a rib by coughing when he had a bad cold.

  But Sonja hadn’t given in; instead, she’d had a serious talk with his teacher and attended classes to get a picture of their son’s situation at school. Everything had seemed perfectly normal, just as Fabian and Theodor had said all along. In the end she let it go and agreed that she had overreacted.

  He had been so wrong — so terribly wrong.

  But now it was time to pay the piper — and he was the only one who could do it. He would pay up, no matter what the cost. He would perform whatever task he was assigned. If there was still any chance he could save Theodor, he was prepared to throw everything else overboard. Neither the investigation nor his own life mattered anymore. Being too late wasn’t an option.

  He was following every order to the letter — he’d used the most direct route to drive to the station, parked away from other cars, and kept the baseball cap on the entire time. The perpetrator, or Torgny Sölmedal as Fabian now knew he was called, could see and hear the same things as him. But all their communication was via text: the Danish policewoman had called him, but he’d been forbidden from answering his phone.

  None of his colleagues were in sight when he stepped through the entrance, which was illuminated in the dark. There was no Florian Nilsson behind the reception desk, so he was able to swipe his access card through the reader, enter the code, and walk in. He needed to get to Ingvar Molander’s lab. He had never been there, but he knew it was somewhere on the bottom floor. He’d asked the perpetrator what he should do if it turned out Molander was there, and he received a swift answer:

  Take care of it.

  TECHNICAL INVESTIGATION I: MOLANDER read the sign beside the closed door. Fabian stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to make sure that his service weapon was ready, opened the door, and walked in. The room looked like a large garage: the floor and walls were made of concrete and there were a number of well-lit islands that functioned as workstations. Molander was nowhere to be seen.

  Stand in the middle, turn around once. Slowly.

  Fabian did as he was told, realizing that the perpetrator didn’t know what he was looking for either. It was clear the killer suspected that Molander had found something, which was what Fabian was here to find out.

  Take a rag, go over to the Peugeot.

  Fabian’s eyes had been so focused on the demolished silver-grey BMW that he hadn’t even realized that the Peugeot was there until he got the text. The Danes had finally come to their senses and shipped it over. He walked up and read the handwritten note on the windshield.

  Dear Ingvar Molander,

  Fabian Risk has spoken highly of you. I hope you can find something conclusive in this car, since nothing is being done here in Denmark.

  Best wishes,

  Dunja Hougaard

  Homicide Unit of the Copenhagen Police

  So the Danish woman was behind it. As soon as this was over — if he survived, that is — he would get in touch to thank her. The value of a useful contact on th
e other side of the Sound couldn’t be underestimated.

  Get in the driver’s seat and look around.

  Fabian opened the driver’s side door, sat behind the wheel, and scanned the interior of the car. There were small pieces of tape with arrows and numbers on the dashboard, around the glove compartment, and on the gearshift, to mark places where Molander had found and secured fingerprints. Was that why the car was so important to the killer?

  Remove the markers — wipe everything.

  Fabian removed the pieces of tape and started wiping down the panel. Now and then he received a reprimand telling him to wipe more thoroughly or aim the camera in a different direction. Twenty-two minutes later, he was allowed to step out of the car.

  Go get the prints.

  “Unfortunately I have no idea where they are.”

  Find them.

  *

  IT’S PROBABLY BETWEEN NINE and ten, maybe nine thirty but definitely not quarter to, Astrid Tuvesson thought, although she didn’t really care. No matter what they did, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were a step behind, that in some incomprehensible way this had all been planned and predetermined. But Klippan was right: it would have been seriously irresponsible not to offer the rest of the students from the class temporary, secure housing.

  She lay down on the sofa after drawing the curtains and turning off all the lights. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as dark as she’d hoped — about fifteen blinking diodes made sure of that. She didn’t understand why electronics manufacturers still insisted on putting diodes everywhere, and decided they must have watched too much science fiction when they were kids.

  Earlier she had spoken with Ragnar Palm, who was in charge of the jail, to explain their situation. He had only been able to offer her two empty cells, which could provide space for four of the ten at the most. A group cell would have been perfect, but as far as she knew there were none of those in Sweden. Instead, Palm had offered to block off parts of the detainees’ common areas, where it would be no problem to fit ten beds. They would have access to the TV room, a kitchen, and a small library, which would help them feel less like prisoners.

  Lilja and Klippan had offered to call around to inform everyone of the plan, so Tuvesson could use the time to get some rest; something told her this was her last chance. Unfortunately, her brain was refusing to take a break and seemed to have decided to speed up while the rest of her was trying to hit the brakes.

  Ingela Ploghed swirled into her thoughts. That fragile little woman had felt so unwell and hadn’t wanted to come for a ride in her car. In fact, she had tried to refuse, but Tuvesson had chosen not to listen to Ingela Ploghed or the doctor. Instead she’d pushed her as hard as she could, and felt that Ingela’s memories had come back to her when they were by the tracks. She believed the sound of the train had sparked the woman’s subconscious. It had lit up in the darkness with a bright, orange light.

  The sun was making her sweat. The warmth was radiating throughout her body, causing her pulse to race and pump all that orange light around. She loved heat and couldn’t get enough of it: thirty, thirty-five degrees, a chaise longue, and the sound of waves hitting the beach in Koh Chang. What could be better? As soon as she could afford it, she would leave the Nordic darkness behind for good. She didn’t know where she would grow old. All she knew was that it didn’t really matter as long as she had good food and a pleasant climate.

  But she would never be able to convince Sten to move. He was like a grumpy old sunfish who vetoed everything. She took another sip straight from the bottle and found that she was having trouble focusing, but she could see him coming straight at her. That goddamn bastard... having the gall to say she should put down the bottle. He should talk. She shouted that she hated him so much and threw a bowl, which shattered against the wall. He tried to stop her and she swung at him with the bottle, heard it break, but kept hitting...

  Her phone’s ringtone penetrated all the way through her deep sleep, and Tuvesson realized that she wasn’t on a beach in Thailand or at home in the kitchen with Sten — she was on the sofa in her office.

  “Finally. You weren’t sleeping, were you?” Molander said on the other end.

  “No, no. Hi Ingvar. Have you found anything?”

  “Quite a bit. But nothing of interest to us.”

  Tuvesson sat up. “Are you sure?”

  “Astrid —”

  “I know, but... are you sure you’re in the right building?”

  “Didn’t you say furthest on the left from the gate? It says KRIGSHAMMAR on the door.”

  “That’s the one. I’m sure I saw a scalpel.”

  “You did. But it wasn’t used to remove a uterus — it was used to build and modify Warhammer figures.”

  “Warhammer? What’s that?”

  “It’s the nerdiest game in existence, but you have too many breasts and too little penis to get it. A more detailed explanation would prompt your mobile carrier to discontinue their flat rate, so we’ll worry about the description another time.”

  “You searched the whole building?”

  She heard a deep sigh on the other end. “Well, it’s not exactly huge.”

  “What about the other buildings?”

  “The warrant is only valid for this building. You’ll have to talk to Högsell again.”

  “Right... Well, crap.”

  “By the way, has Lilja had time to check the database?”

  “Huh? Do what?”

  She heard him sigh again. “I found prints in the car and I sent her an email asking her to run them through the database.”

  “I don’t think she’s had time to check her email yet. We went out for a bit and now she’s with Klippan, calling —”

  “Okay, well, can you make sure she reads it right away? I’m going to sleep for a few hours.”

  “Wait, hold on — what kind of prints?”

  “It’s in the email. Good night.”

  She heard a click. Tuvesson was surprised that Molander had hung up mid-conversation. She’d been hung up on plenty of times before, but never by Molander.

  She left her office and had to squint through the bright fluorescent light in the corridor on her way to see Lilja, who was sitting on the mattress in her office, talking on the phone.

  “Okay, good... I can’t answer that at present, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more. Just make sure we can reach you at this number.” She hung up and looked at Tuvesson.

  “How many have you reached?”

  Lilja ostentatiously held two fingers up.

  “That’s all?”

  Lilja nodded. “Jafaar Umar and Cecilia Holm didn’t answer, and I was just about to call Stefan Munthe. Nicklas Bäckström and Helene Nachmansson are set, anyway. How’s Klippan doing?”

  “No idea. But I just spoke to Molander and apparently he sent you an important email.”

  Lilja gave her a quizzical look and stood up. She went to her overloaded desk, and turned on her computer.

  From: ingvar.molander@polisen.se

  Subject: Important!

  I think I found and secured perp’s prints in the car. I also suspect he might be in the database. Needs to be checked right away. Two-fer sent me on an assignment in Ramlösa, so I’m counting on you. You’ll find the prints in the usual place. /I

  “You better check that out right away. I’ll take over and call Stefan Munthe,” Tuvesson said.

  Lilja nodded and pulled on her worn Converse. “One last thing: Seth Kårheden will be landing in twenty minutes, so we’ll see if he keeps refusing to turn on his phone. If he does, it will probably take him at least two hours to make it home to his landline.”

  Tuvesson nodded. “What will we do about Cecilia and Jafaar?”

  “Let’s hope they’re just at the movies or something.”

  “Okay, we’ll hold off for a bit and then I’ll try again.”

  “Nachmansson was wondering if she’s supposed to drive over to the prison herself or if someone
will pick her up.”

  “I think Klippan and I will each take a car to get them. I don’t want to involve any more people than we have to.”

  Lilja nodded and headed for the door.

  “Hey, wait. Two-fer? Is that what you call me?”

  Lilja grinned and vanished.

  *

  FABIAN RISK HAD LOOKED in every box he could find. He’d gone through the entire archive cabinet, which was full of folders from old, closed cases. He’d even searched the wardrobe full of Molander’s work clothes, and the large metal cabinet filled with technical equipment. But he couldn’t find anything that even resembled fingerprints.

  “There’s a possibility they’re not here. He could have taken them home or given them to someone else.”

  His phone buzzed.

  Call him. Say you have to meet.

  Fabian racked his brain to find a way to get out of this, but he couldn’t see anything but massive, impenetrable cliff walls. There was nothing he could do but confront Molander face to face. He was just about to call him when the door opened.

  He looked quickly around the room for a place to hide, but it was too late. Lilja had already seen him.

  “Fabian? What the hell are you doing here?”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.

  “I thought I saw your car in the parking lot. Aren’t you supposed to be at home resting?”

  “I won’t be able to rest until this case is solved. You know me... Well, no, you don’t, actually, but anyway, that’s the kind of guy I am.” He added a laugh to make him sound reasonably relaxed, but judging by Lilja’s expression she wasn’t buying his act.

  “Fabian, be honest. What are you really doing here?”

  He felt his phone vibrate again.

  Molander asked you to run the prints through the database.

  He looked Lilja in the eye and took a few steps toward her. “Don’t ask me why, but Molander called me of all people, to ask for a favour. Maybe he thought the rest of you were too busy and that I wouldn’t be able to handle just lying around resting. I don’t know.” He stopped speaking, realizing that he was babbling. The words were just pouring out in a desperate attempt to hide the obvious. He waited for Lilja’s reaction, but none was forthcoming. She just stood there staring at him. To keep the silence from becoming too uncomfortable he had no choice but to continue. “He secured some fingerprints from the Peugeot, which might be from the perpetrator, and he wanted me to run them through the database.”