But who was she to say that there weren’t other — or better ways — to tackle the situation? Maybe she had just been too tired to think clearly.
She spoke carefully, trying to give them a somewhat reasonable explanation for why she couldn’t answer all their questions, and to remind them how important it was that their location remained a secret. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she could tell how hollow they sounded. “What are you trying to say?” “I have to go pick up my kids.” “I have to go to work; I was only planning to sleep here.”
Klippan finally had to climb onto a chair and drop the bombshell: “You might as well realize this now. In order for our plan to work, no one can leave the jail until further notice.”
“What if we do anyway?” asked Stefan Munthe.
“Like I said, no one can leave the jail until further notice! The whole point of having you here is to keep your location secret, which means that I have to collect your cell phones. You can have them back as soon as this is over. The daytime staff can help you make a few necessary calls tomorrow. Is that understood?”
Klippan climbed down from the chair and started walking around to collect phones. No one said a thing. Tuvesson wondered if it was because they were in some form of shock, or if they were just too tired to put up a fight. Part of her wanted to run up and stop him, to make him give the phones back and tell them they could go back home. But Klippan was right: of course there was a risk that one of them might call a family member or friend, or even a journalist, and reveal the plan.
“I know you probably can’t answer this, but how long do you think it will go on?” Seth Kårheden asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes, I want to know too,” Cecilia Holm said. “You can’t just keep us locked up in here forever, just because you can’t afford to protect us in our own homes.”
“No, we can’t,” Tuvesson said, wondering how she should continue. “We hope and expect that this won’t last too long.”
“You hope?”
Tuvesson looked at Lena Olsson and noticed her dejected expression; it said more than all of their protests combined. She realized that she had to throw them a bone, otherwise they would never let her leave. She had to think of something to help them relax and go to bed.
“We don’t really want to make this public, but since you’re so cut off from the outside world, I can tell you that we’re not quite as far from solving the case as it might seem. So without promising too much, I don’t think we’re talking about more than a few days here at most. If the investigation does drag on, I promise to personally ensure that those of you who want to return home can do so under police protection.”
To her great surprise, most of them seemed to think this sounded reasonable.
“So, what do you know that hasn’t been made public?” Kårheden asked, apparently having a harder time swallowing the bait than the others.
“For obvious reasons, I can’t discuss that right now. I have to leave it at that. Goodnight, and I hope you get a few hours of sleep.” She walked brusquely to the exit so she could make it out before they asked any more questions.
102
THEODOR HAD ALWAYS BEEN beautiful; even the midwife noticed it when he was born. She’d said he was one of the most beautiful babies she’d ever delivered. Fabian remembered how happy that had made him, but deep down he’d thought that was what they said to all new parents, something they learned in a class. Not until the midwife called in her colleagues did he realize that his son really was something special. And he remained beautiful as he grew. His curly blond hair always hung down in front of those blue eyes with their rather mysterious, introspective gaze. He had prominent cheekbones and that soft skin, which as far as Fabian knew had never had a single pimple.
But now his hair was dyed black and kept mostly hidden under a hat. Both of his eyebrows were pierced, and he had basically done everything he could to appear ugly, although he hadn’t been particularly successful. Theodor was still one of the most beautiful people Fabian had ever seen.
A few years ago, Sonja had suggested he contact a modelling agency to make a little extra money, but she’d received only a grunt in return. Beautiful seemed to be the last thing he wanted to be, as if it were the most shameful thing in the world.
And now he was lying in bed, eyes closed, perfectly relaxed, and Fabian couldn’t help thinking that he was staring at death — death at its loveliest. He wanted nothing more than to cry, but he couldn’t get any tears out.
Fortunately, his son wasn’t dead, but he’d come so close that he had been declared dead for a few moments before his heart agreed to start beating again. Now he was in a drug-induced sleep, hooked up to a whole bunch of machines that were keeping an eye on him.
If it weren’t for Dunja Hougaard, he would be dead. Because of her CPR, Theodor’s blood had received oxygen that pumped throughout his body. She had been fired for helping the Swedish police, but had crossed the Sound to give Fabian Risk the picture of Torgny Sölmedal. He wasn’t home and hadn’t answered her calls.
He must have forgotten to lock the door, so she’d walked in and called out his name. It was the middle of the night, and she hesitated for a moment before shouting again — louder than before, and even louder the third time. There was no response, but she heard sounds coming from the basement.
Unlike Fabian, Dunja had realized that the sounds weren’t coming from the neighbours’ house but from something inside the wall. By the time she managed to drag Theodor out, he wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse. But she didn’t give up; instead, she started first aid and didn’t stop until the paramedics arrived, nearly a whole hour later. How would he ever be able to repay her?
Fabian was sitting as close to the bed as he could, holding Theodor’s hand. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t let go until Theodor woke up. However, the threat against him was judged to be so severe that he couldn’t remain at the hospital. He protested and tried to use his neck injury as an excuse, but when the X-rays showed that nothing was broken, the doctors gave the okay for him to leave the hospital with a neck brace and a bottle of pain pills.
A nurse came into the room and handed him a phone. He knew exactly who it was; he’d been trying to think of what he would say, but hadn’t come up with a single idea.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Did Irene tell you?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t say anything; she didn’t either. For once, their silence didn’t feel uncomfortable. He could hear her breathing, and the sound of her exhales calmed him. He closed his eyes and imagined she was there, lying close to him, breathing in his ear. He missed her so much.
“Sonja, I... I had no idea.”
“We’re coming down tomorrow. We’ll talk then about what to do.”
“Okay.”
He heard the click in his ear, and handed the phone back to the nurse, who passed Lilja on her way out.
“Are you ready?”
Fabian nodded and stood up. He kissed his son’s hand and followed Lilja out of the room.
103
BLACKSBURG, KAUHAJOKI, BAILEY, MONTREAL, Jacksboro, Red Lake, Cold Spring, Red Lion, Erfurt... The list of school shootings was infinitely long. They’d each had their moment in the limelight, but these days they all shared the same fate: forgotten in the deep abyss. Nobody remembered the schools on the list anymore — no one but those who mourned.
This was different in every way and would never be forgotten. It would be etched into millions upon millions of minds, and no one would ever be able to forget his name. The process was already fully underway. The news of the spectacular murders had spread far beyond the borders of Sweden, and had been one of CNN’s top stories for the past twenty-four hours.
And that was when they only knew about six dead members of the class. What would they do when they heard about the next five deaths, which would soon be a reality? How would they react when they realized that nobody was safe, not eve
n those who left Skåne and settled in Oslo, or happened to be on vacation abroad?
He was closer to his goal than he’d ever dared to dream. During the past several years he had persuaded himself that there was no alternative but success. It was all the result of his meticulous preparations. Until now he hadn’t dared to let himself admit how naive he had been and how bad his odds actually were, but at this point complete success was more or less a given. He was in the home stretch and the finish line was in sight.
He had nine left to go: nine people who, according to the original plan, had been scheduled to receive a night-time visitor, one by one. He’d calculated that it would take five hours, including travel time, but things had changed completely.
All nine of them were now locked in the same room — with him.
He tried to look like he was asleep, but he had a hard time hiding his smile. This was almost too good to be true. It was like God had been testing his patience and decided to reward him by rolling out the red carpet.
No one even seemed to suspect that he wasn’t who he said he was. The moustache had done the trick, and the coagulated blood plus the contact adhesive he’d found held better than he had hoped. He had also done a good job playing his role and was surprised how easy it was, considering that he didn’t have any time to prepare.
The obvious way to act would have been to lie low and make as little fuss as possible, to stay in the shadows and let the others do the talking the way he’d always done. But as soon as he got into the car he felt like doing the exact opposite. He felt like talking. And for the first time, they listened. He’d spoken more with his former classmates in the past few hours than he had during all his years at school.
Back then, they had hardly responded when he spoke. Now it was different. Now they were happy to talk about themselves: their kids and marriages; divorces and cheating; the career that took them close to the top of the Ericsson hierarchy, only to end in a pink slip, forcing them back to school to learn how to write a resumé; their shattered hopes and depression; the new outdoor bathtub; home-loan interest rates.
They all thought they knew who they were talking to, but really they hadn’t the foggiest idea. And he was enjoying it so much. The pathetic little failures of their lives were like music to his ears, and hearing about them was like a remedy for his years of jealousy — jealousy of their success and of everything they’d had that he would never be able to partake in.
He’d always wondered how everyone else could be so secure in their roles — everyone but him. But everything was different now: the roles were reversed. They were no more than extras in his own biopic — a gang of losers — a vapid, grey mob with lives so uninteresting that he was surprised they could even bear to discuss them, much less live them.
There could be no doubt that he was doing most of them a favour by ending their days on earth. Several of them would probably thank him afterward if they could. Now, at least, their insipid little lives would come to a meaningful end. They would be transformed into another check in a box, a number added to the others to form a sum that no one would ever be able to beat — no one had ever killed their whole class.
No one.
Nine more, and he would be done.
Twenty out of twenty.
Most of them wouldn’t even feel a thing; a tiny poke, and a few seconds later it would be over. Some of them would probably try to put up a fight, but that wouldn’t change anything. The end result would be the same.
Twenty out of twenty.
For a few hours it would look like only nineteen out of twenty had been killed, as if one had managed to defend himself and had stuck the syringe in the killer and survived. This hero would be Seth Kårheden. Before the police managed to sift through the chaos and discovered that Kårheden was dead too, he would be far away. He hadn’t yet decided whom he would select to be the killer...
Everyone had turned off their bedside lamps, although he could hear someone opening the lid of their retainer case and someone else pulling off their socks; a third punched a pill out of a blister pack. They would all be asleep within fifteen minutes. His watch said it was twenty past three, and he could feel his energy returning with every tick of the second hand.
He heard someone jangle their keys and he couldn’t figure out why, until he heard the heavy metal door opening. He opened his eyes and saw two prison officers carrying in another bed; they placed it in the row across from his. Was there one more person? He was confused. Everyone was already here.
He watched as they made the bed and put a chair beside it. He wondered if one of the guards would be sleeping here, which wouldn’t be such a big problem. He would just have to wait for at least half an hour more.
But his suspicions turned out to be wrong. Instead, a man was led in, but it was too dark for him to make out his identity. It wasn’t until the man took off his jacket and revealed his neck brace that it dawned on him who it could be. Was it possible that Fabian Risk was sitting on the edge of the bed and glancing around the room?
There was no way he could have managed to escape on his own. The only plausible explanation was that the police had found his hiding place, which in turn meant that they had identified him. He couldn’t figure out how they would have managed it: he had taken care of the prints from the car. But maybe there had been others.
He closed his eyes and tried hard to hide that he was wide awake, his heart beating double time. He really just wanted to run over there and stick a syringe in that bastard and end him once and for all, but he knew he couldn’t — not yet. Instead, he had to keep his eyes closed and consider his options. He couldn’t risk stumbling at the finish line — not right now. He had come too far.
The fact that they had identified him didn’t necessarily hurt him that much, considering that he would be making his own identity public in just a few hours. The process had already been set in motion, and at least a hundred people were working on it at this very moment. So, upon review, there wasn’t really any reason to worry.
But he was concerned about this uncertainty. It was the last thing he needed right now. What else had they figured out? Did they know he was in the jail? And if so, did they know he had taken on Kårheden’s identity? Is that why Risk was here? Or did they think joining the others was the safest option even for him?
He realized that the police likely had no idea. If they even suspected he was locked up with the remaining members of the class, they would have sent the SWAT team in ages ago and brought each of them in for questioning. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was.
They definitely had no idea.
At least Tuvesson and her colleagues didn’t know. What was going on in Risk’s head, however, was another question entirely. Fabian Risk existed under completely different laws of nature to his colleagues.
Risk should have died a little more than two hours ago but there he was, sitting on a bed across the room, gazing at the ten sleeping people. Nothing surprised him anymore about this man. There could be no guarantee that Risk didn’t suspect he was here. He might have inexplicably managed to figure out exactly what was going on and then decided to spend the night there. If he did, he should have informed his colleagues; the operative word being “should.” This wouldn’t be the first time Risk didn’t do what he was supposed to. It was equally likely that he had decided to keep his suspicions to himself. Or perhaps he didn’t suspect a thing, and was only hoping to get a few hours of sleep in the safety of the jail.
He turned onto his side, trying to make it look like he was moving in his sleep. No one could see his smile when he started the timer on his watch.
Thirty minutes, and not one second longer.
He had found his killer.
104
THE PICTURE WAS NEARLY perfect. Unlike the archival image they had been using, he wasn’t sporting a wild beard, and his facial features, anonymous though they were, were all visible. This was what Torgny Sölmedal looked like today.
“And you were fired because you wanted to forward this to us?” Tuvesson asked. Dunja Hougaard nodded.
“Yes, and because I sent you the car,” Dunja said, trying to sound as Swedish as possible.
Tuvesson shook her head and exchanged glances with Lilja, Klippan, and Molander. She didn’t know what to say. She’d met Kim Sleizner a few times, and had always thought of him as a stuck-up, bullying type. Bullies were far from scarce in the police system, on both sides of the Sound. Like everyone else, she had heard stories about Sleizner and assumed they were just rumours. But the fact he would put up roadblocks to hinder an investigation in Sweden for his own personal gain was something else.
“And he has no idea you’re here?”
“No, he doesn’t even know I have the picture. That psychopathic fucking asshole blocked my email right after he fired me.”
Tuvesson and the others looked at one another.
“Sorry,” Dunja said. “What I mean is, he’s —”
“I think we understand,” Tuvesson said. “But how did you get hold of the picture?”
“I have a good friend in the IT department.”
“You can never have too many of those,” Klippan said.
“Just so you know, you can count all of us as friends,” said Tuvesson. “Without you, we wouldn’t... I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I just can’t understand why Sleizner doesn’t want us to have the picture,” Lilja said.
“My guess is he wants to present it himself at the press conference in a few hours,” Dunja said.
“It’s all about getting the credit.”
“And taking the focus off his own mistakes,” Klippan added.
Victim Without a Face Page 45
