“Do you know what you’d like?” she asked as soon as she had decided on the grilled lamb sausage with French potato salad.
“Yes, I’ll just have the salad of the day,” Ylva replied.
Irene really should have ordered a salad as well, but she loved lamb sausage and decided to ignore what she should do. It was those damn breasts that were making her feel so insecure.
“So tell me what happened,” she said as she filled their glasses with cucumber water from the carafe.
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure if anything did happen.”
“What do you mean?” Irene put down the carafe.
“I just mean that if I were you, I wouldn’t read too much into this. But my colleague at the salon thought I should file a report.”
“But is it true that your husband has been missing since Monday?”
“My boyfriend. We live together, but he’s just my boyfriend.”
“Okay, your boyfriend. And you still don’t know where he is?”
“No, but…” Ylva sighed, and her eyes flickered toward the window. “I mean, on Sunday…don’t ask me why, but for some reason we started arguing. We’d had a few drinks. I’m sure it was my fault. I always get so hysterical the minute I start…” She took a sip of water. “I don’t know what got into me, but suddenly I just saw red and started throwing things.”
“What were you fighting about?”
“Sex, probably. That’s what it usually is. He’s been so darn boring recently. Or maybe it was money. I don’t remember. Anyway, he didn’t come home after work on Monday. Although at the time I didn’t worry.”
“Why not?”
“I assumed he’d slept over at Stefan’s, which he always does when we’ve had a fight. That’s his best friend.” She sighed and shook her head while the food was served.
“But then you contacted this Stefan?”
“Yes, yesterday. He hadn’t slept there after all.” Ylva Fridén shrugged and began to pick at her salad. “I suppose he’s at Christina’s.”
“And who is Christina?” Irene asked, feeling the conversation begin to wear at her patience.
“His ex. Whenever he’s not at Stefan’s, he runs to her. So freaking pathetic.” Ylva stabbed her fork into the salad and stuck it in her mouth.
“And what did Christina say when you contacted her?”
“Why would I contact her? That’s exactly what he wants. For me to come crawling back to him, on my knees, to beg for forgiveness.” She snorted. “This time he can do the crawling.”
“Okay, so nothing is actually out of the ordinary then?” Irene could hear the irritation in her voice. She found the woman across from her incredibly annoying. Whether that was because of her unconcerned attitude as she sat there taking up Irene’s time, or because of her breasts — which were definitely fake — Irene didn’t know. But it didn’t matter; she’d had enough. “You drank a little too much, got hysterical, and said some things you shouldn’t have. And then he took off.”
She expected a protest, but instead she was met with a calm, thoughtful nod.
“You’re probably right. I guess I don’t have anything to worry about.” Ylva Fridén put down her silverware and looked into Irene’s eyes. “But when they called from his work this morning and wondered where he’s been all week, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking he’d left me forever.”
“So he hasn’t been to work?”
“Not since Monday morning.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he went off somewhere with Christina.” She sniffed with disdain. “So irresponsible. Especially considering how his boss died in that car accident yesterday. Okay, maybe he doesn’t want to call me, but he should at least —”
“What do you mean, died?” Irene felt the floor sway under her feet. “You’re not saying your boyfriend worked at Ka-Ching?”
Ylva Fridén nodded, as if this were the most obvious fact in the world.
12
Peter Brise’s apartment was located at Trädgårdsgatan 5, right across from Stadsparken, the city park. It was in one of those trendy old buildings down in central Helsingborg that Fabian had never given a second thought to when he was younger. Only now as he was turning a key in the lock, pulling open the front door, and stepping into the stairwell did it occur to him that this building was quite charming and lavish.
A dark red carpet extended across the checkered floor; it ran up the curved staircase and was held in place by thin, shiny brass rods. Across from an illuminated bust in a wall recess hung a framed board that informed visitors, by way of gold letters on a red felt background, that Brise lived on the fourth floor, the highest in the building. Each apartment must have had four- or five-metre-high ceilings, or there would be more floors.
Another sign that this place was out of the ordinary was the way it smelled. It was that very particular combination of old and dazzlingly clean that you usually only encounter in museums.
Fabian opened the elevator door, which was painted green. The grille didn’t make even the tiniest creak as he slid it to the side and pressed the topmost of the row of black Bakelite buttons. The elevator lurched and began its silent ascent as Fabian noticed the light fixture had been spared the embarrassment of a horrid low-energy bulb.
Brise’s apartment door was actually two tall doors with brass details and leaded glass. The key slid into the lock with no trouble, allowing Fabian to open first the door and then the security grille.
The hall was painted white and featured mirrored doors in nearly every direction. The flat was enormous. Of course, he hadn’t expected anything less. What struck Fabian was how empty it was. While it would have been no surprise if Peter Brise had chosen to decorate in a minimalistic, Spartan style, this was something else.
Fabian walked into one of the adjoining rooms, which was so large that it probably ought to be called a salon. This room, too, was completely white and had windows facing both Bruksgatan and Stadsparken. The park was so rich in foliage that it was impossible to see the city library.
This room was empty as well — white walls with equally white baseboards, and a herringbone parquet floor that creaked beneath him. It was all bare. Every object had been removed. The same went for the next room, and the next, aside from a couple of white Windsor chairs along one wall.
Fabian entered the kitchen, where both the fridge and freezer were unplugged with their doors ajar. They were both so empty and clean that it was hard to imagine that any food had ever been inside them. He rounded the island and inspected the inside of the freezer. It didn’t seem possible to stuff a man inside and still close the door.
If this was even where Brise had been killed. Nothing could be taken for granted in this investigation. But if statistics were to be believed, there was little doubt. The place you were at the greatest risk of being attacked was, ironically enough, the very place you felt safest — your own home.
Home was where a person was most vulnerable and alone, and pretty much anything could happen without anyone noticing. Contrary to what most people assumed, neighbours were seldom much help at all. In cases where the sounds of violence and abuse were heard through the walls, the typical neighbour preferred to flip the deadbolt and pull the curtains instead of ringing the doorbell and checking to see if anything was wrong.
Fabian turned back toward the front door. Despite the security grille and locks, the front door constituted the weakest point in a house, because most people would open it before considering who might be knocking. In cases where there was a peephole, it was rarely used by anyone under sixty-five. Often it was enough just to knock and step right in.
The power of the unexpected could not be overestimated, and it seldom took more than a well-aimed fist to gain the advantage. According to Braids, Peter Brise’s face had been seriously injured. The blood at the edge of the wound had been dry, which suggested that the inju
ries had nothing to do with the car crash, but had occurred while Brise was still alive.
Fabian turned on his flashlight, squatted inside the door, and swept the beam along the white wooden floor, which appeared to have been recently cleaned. He took out a cotton swab, pressed it into one of the cracks between the floorboards, and ran it back and forth a few times.
There was no doubt it had darkened; it was now more rust-brown than white. Fabian had his suspicions about where that colour had come from, but before he could be certain he would need to get Braids to run an analysis.
Fabian placed the cotton swab into a small plastic bag, opened the nearest door, and walked down a long, white hallway with doors along the left-hand side. It was a row of empty, clean rooms with windows that faced the courtyard. Fabian wondered why a young, single man needed so many rooms. Two or three guestrooms, an office, maybe a home gym, but why all the rest? Had they just stood there, unused, waiting for —
He interrupted his own thoughts and stopped outside one of the open doors.
Unlike the other rooms, this floor was covered in wall-to-wall grey carpet. But that wasn’t what caused him to stop. Near the bottom of the doorframe was a dried and nearly invisible bloodstain. Fabian entered the room.
There were obvious scrape marks in the white paint on one wall, roughly at waist height, and in the carpet just underneath there were four indentations that, viewed together, formed a rectangle of about one metre by two. Something heavy had definitely stood on that carpet for quite some time.
The sudden sound of a door opening caused Fabian to reach instinctively for his holstered gun, even though he’d never fired his weapon in the line of duty. This wasn’t something he was proud of. Quite the opposite. The incident at the Israeli embassy in Stockholm during the winter of 2009 still weighed heavily on Fabian. He’d had the chance to save his colleagues, but instead he’d frozen with the gun in his hands. Sometimes, at night, he could still hear them screaming for help. So Fabian had decided to do something about it. The previous fall he had applied for membership at the Magnus Stenback Shooting Club in the Berga industrial area. These days he went there regularly to practise sharpshooting. Using a gun had started to feel better after just a few sessions, and by now most of his discomfort was gone, even though the safe environment of the shooting range was definitely not the same as the reality he was facing at the moment.
Fabian could hear steps moving across the creaking herringbone parquet, which meant the intruder was headed through the salon on the other side of the flat. Fabian stepped out of the room and headed to the far end of the hall, which opened into a larger room with a number of doors.
He cautiously opened one at random and found himself in the kitchen, where he was met by the sound of footsteps coming from the other direction. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the man was holding a phone that had just come to life and was playing a nostalgic ringtone, he would have been just a few metres from running right into Fabian. Instead, he stopped and stood with his back to the kitchen as he answered the phone.
“It’s me,” said the man, who was wearing a suit and had hair that was slicked back so stiffly it must have taken a whole jar of pomade. “Yes, it looks good. At least as far as I can tell. I just got here.” His voice was brusque and he sighed in annoyance as he approached the kitchen island; he set his briefcase on it and ran one index finger across the glass stovetop. “Listen. The contract has been signed and the money changed hands on Tuesday. So it’s fine. Everything is under control.” He took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling as if to fend off an approaching outburst, then walked over to the fridge and freezer and closed the doors with his elbow. “Yes, I’m aware that he is on every single fucking front page. But what the hell do you want me to do about it? The show must bloody well go on.” He sighed again and ran water in the sink.
The man had no chance to react as Fabian snuck up on him, grabbed hold of one arm, and twisted it behind his back. The phone bounced off the tiles, and Fabian just had time to see the screen fracture into a spiderweb before he forced the man onto the floor.
“What the fuck?” The man lay on his stomach, fighting and kicking as he tried to wriggle out of Fabian’s grip. When it didn’t work, he began to yell for help.
“I’m a police officer,” shouted Fabian, forcing the man’s other arm up behind his back. “The best thing you can do is remain calm.”
“Okay, okay, okay…”
Fabian loosened his grasp a little, and when he was sure that the man would keep calm, he let go of his left arm so he could hold his police badge in front of the man’s face. The man nodded grimly, and Fabian stood up and helped him to his feet.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Fabian asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Excuse me, but who tackled who here?”
“Either answer my questions right now, or I’ll bring you in for an official interrogation — with a tape recorder, a long wait, and bad coffee.” Fabian added his sternest look, even though he was far from having sufficient grounds to take the man into custody.
“What if I refuse? Will I go to jail?” The man fired off a smug smile, as if he saw right through Fabian’s bluff.
“I’ll cite you for obstructing a criminal investigation in accordance with Chapter Thirteen, Paragraph Eight of the criminal code, and yes, that is punishable by up to one month in jail.”
The man swallowed, revealing his ignorance of the criminal code. “I don’t know what you think I did, but whatever it is, I’m innocent.”
“Then I’ll ask you again: who are you and what are you doing here?”
“Johan Holmgren. I’m just making sure everything is in order before the new owners get access to the flat —”
“So you’re a real estate agent,” Fabian interrupted him, to drive home the fact that he would decide when they were done here.
“With Residence Real Estate.” The man hurried to take a business card from his breast pocket. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing here, and who’s going to pay for a new screen for my little buddy here.” He bent down and picked up his cracked phone.
“On whose behalf did you sell this property?”
“The owner’s, of course. Who else?”
“You mean Peter Brise? Are you aware that he’s dead?”
“Yes, I don’t think that news has escaped anyone. I’m starting to think that’s what you’re fishing for — the estate. Am I right?” He aimed his index finger at Fabian as if to underscore his point. “And in theory, you’re right. The flat is usually part of the estate. But in this case it so happens that Brise met with my buyers on Tuesday and signed a contract of sale.”
“Wait, hold on.” Fabian couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you saying that you saw Peter Brise the day before yesterday?”
“Yes, obviously. You’re not suggesting that I would allow buyers and sellers to meet without me.” He walked up to the kitchen island, opened his briefcase, and took out a multi-page document. “Here’s the contract, signed by both parties. But if you ask me, he sold too cheap. If he’d held off a little he could have gotten at least another million and a half…”
Fabian no longer heard what the man was saying; he just saw his mouth moving. Did this mean that Cliff was right — that Braids, against all expectations, was wrong, and Peter Brise really had been alive up until yesterday? Or had Braids examined someone other than Brise? Was Peter Brise still alive? Had he been the one behind the wheel in a wetsuit? All to fake his own death?
If so, why?
And who was the dead man in the morgue?
13
Fabian closed his eyes, splashed cold water on his face, and took a few deep breaths to help his body destress. He could hear the guests starting to arrive.
The fact that the real estate agent claimed
to have seen Peter Brise just two days ago had turned his whole afternoon upside down. Instead of going straight home, which would have given him plenty of time to get ready for the opening reception, Fabian had gone to the police station and called an emergency meeting to share the information with the rest of the team.
Everyone but Irene Lilja was there, and tempers had run high. Cliff had more fuel for his fire — he was sure Braids was wrong. It took nearly two hours for everyone to come to an agreement that Fabian was the best person to get in touch with Braids and back him up against the wall, as Cliff put it. After all, Fabian was the one he’d called in the first place.
Unfortunately, Braids had already left the pathology lab, and since — as usual — he refused to answer his phone outside of working hours, Fabian had no choice but to drive around looking for him.
But when he couldn’t find him at home, in any of the nearby grocery stores, or at the yoga studio Yogiana in Råå he regularly frequented, Fabian finally gave up and headed home.
If only that had been the end of it. He cursed himself for not bringing a regular tie instead of the bow tie Sonja had given him for Christmas. Yes, his plan to surprise her by wearing it was a good one, and she would surely appreciate it. The problem was, he had no idea how to tie it.
“So this is where you’re hanging out.” Ingvar Molander, who had traded his white lab coat for a grey checked blazer, in honour of the evening, came over and stood in front of one of the urinals. “Just so you know, almost everyone is already here, and your lovely wife is running around stressing out and looking for you.”
“Just what I needed to hear.”
“Sorry, it was just a joke. The truth is, she hasn’t had time to even think of you — she’s got her hands full greeting all her male admirers.”
“Suddenly I feel so much better,” Fabian said after another failed attempt with his tie.
“Need help?”
“You know how to tie these?”
“If Oscar Wilde is to be believed, the most important step in life is to learn how to tie a bow tie.” Molander went over to one of the sinks to wash his hands. “By the way, I started examining the car before I left work.”
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