Molander turned to Tuvesson, who nodded after considering it, and Chris Dawn was removed from the list as well.
“I didn’t know you were so into gossip,” Cliff said with a laugh.
“I’m not. But even I have to get a haircut on occasion.”
“Okay, we don’t have all day,” Molander said. “Any more names we can get rid of right now?”
Lilja and the others shook their heads. But not Fabian. Once again, he hadn’t heard a single word that’d been said, because his focus was swallowed up by one of the names further down the list. A name that had etched itself into his memory, even though he’d only heard it the day before.
He shouldn’t have been so surprised to see it on the list. It was, of course, both possible and quite logical that wealthy art collector Alex White might be their perpetrator’s next target. Not only was he filthy rich and single, he was also the right age and had the same slender body type as Peter Brise.
But it wasn’t concern for White that made Fabian dial down the others’ voices until they became a distant curtain of impenetrable murmurs. It was Sonja he was thinking of — Sonja and her three final words.
Bye bye now.
25
“Why didn’t you call me?” Magnus handled the crime-scene tape so roughly as he tied it to one of the poles holding up the corrugated plastic roof that it snapped. “Coming in here all by yourself.” He shook his head and tried again. “What if — it could have ended really badly, you know?”
Dunja, who was on her way to the other end of the yard with the roll of tape, stopped and turned to him. “Magnus, I know you mean well. But seriously, how would it have helped to call you? You wouldn’t exactly have given a thumbs up to deserting your pizza in order to initiate an investigation of our own and go against Ib’s explicit orders. Correct me if I’m wrong here.”
Magnus was about to protest but changed his mind. “Just think, what if she’d been here? What would you have done then? Hope she was just as bad a shot as last time?”
“Why would she shoot at me? You wouldn’t have been there waving your six-shooter around.”
Dunja turned her back to him and continued unrolling the crime-scene tape.
“Dunja…” Magnus walked across the yard and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I know it all went wrong. But I felt we were under threat in that situation, and I was really just trying to do my best.”
Dunja nodded and waited for him to remove his hand. Instead, he looked into her eyes.
“That’s why there are two of us, not just one. And whatever you think of me, I would do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens to you. Just so you know.”
Dunja nodded again and even gave him a bit of a smile.
“But then there’s the fact that no matter how much you wish it, we’re not homicide detectives,” he went on. “We’re patrol officers. Our job is to be visible in the community and keep order. Which is one of the most important pillars of —”
“Oh, come on, do you really believe that? Or were you just taught to rattle it off?” Dunja interrupted with a sigh, although in some ways she thought it was a relief that clingy Magnus had been replaced by letter-of-the-law Magnus. Now she could turn her back on him and keep walking toward the overturned shopping cart with a clear conscience. “You know as well as I do that if it weren’t for me, he would have remained here and rotted within a week.” She nodded at the body.
“I see we’re well underway blocking off the scene.”
Dunja and Magnus turned around and saw Søren Ussing and Bettina Jensen, homicide detectives dressed in civilian clothes, entering from the narrow alley between the buildings.
“Hi, I’m Dunja Hougaard.” Dunja walked up to shake hands.
Ussing removed his aviator sunglasses, pushing them into his hair, and gave Dunja’s outstretched hand a look before turning to Jensen. “Isn’t she the one from Copenhagen who got fired?”
“You mean the one who forged her boss’s signature?” Jensen turned to look at Dunja. “Right, it is, yep.” She lit up with a smile that revealed her nicotine-yellowed teeth, and ducked under the tape along with Ussing.
“The body’s over there.” Dunja moved to show them the way as she tried to convince herself that the important thing was the investigation, not her personal opinion of the two investigators.
“I think we can handle this perfectly well without your help,” Ussing said.
“Of course. I was just going to show you what I —”
“So if you could remain outside the tape, that would be terrific,” Jensen interrupted her, baring her yellow teeth once more.
“I’m sorry, are you saying I’m not allowed inside the barrier?” Dunja said. “Are you seriously going to stand here and tell me that?”
Jensen stopped with a sigh and exchanged glances with his colleague. “Do you remember the uniform’s name?”
“My name is still Dunja Hougaard. D-U-N-J-A. Or is that too many letters for you to remember?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Magnus pretending to be busy with the tape at a safe distance. “And no, I’m not just some fucking uniform. I’m here because I’m the one who discovered the body. What’s more, I met the woman who —”
“Oh, right.” Jensen broke in and pointed at Dunja. “You’re the one who got her service weapon stolen.”
“And here’s the deal.” Ussing took a step forward, occupying more space. “The fewer Copenhageners tromping around here and messing up the evidence, the better.”
Dunja looked back and forth between the two detectives and wondered where to start.
“Dunja,” Magnus called from the other side of the tape. “Just do what they say and come here.”
“Smart colleague you’ve got there. You should listen to him,” said Jensen, heading toward the bloody body with Ussing.
Dunja remained where she was, listening to the detectives as they concluded that the corpse looked fresher than two days. That matched the timeline for when the bloody woman had been on Stengade. They assumed she must have freaked out when the victim stole her last hit, and killed him. Simple as that.
Dunja wanted to explain to them that they ought to be focusing on the man’s sunken chest, and how it suggested that the perpetrator must have jumped with both feet on the body to do so much damage. She wanted to tell them about the homeless woman’s sneakers, which had been free from blood, and how this suggested that she was innocent. How the blood on her hands, arms, and T-shirt was more likely to indicate that the victim was someone close to her. She wanted to tell them about the conversation she’d had with the woman, that it sounded like there was not just one but several perpetrators.
But there was no point. They weren’t about to listen to a word she had to say.
26
Fabian turned off Norra Kustvägen onto Stora Vägen, heading for Arild. After the meeting at the station, he’d asked Lilja to visit Ka-Ching without him so he could make his way north instead. She had agreed, after a brief protest, though she had clearly seen right through him.
Sure, she was correct to reiterate that the list was just an inventory of wealthy men in northwestern Skåne. A list that would likely become much shorter very soon. But it didn’t matter. The knowledge that Sonja was at White’s house, working on one of her installations, was enough to make every cell in Fabian’s body want to speed up there and bring her home.
He’d tried to call her, but Sonja didn’t answer. She rarely did while she was working. “It disrupts my concentration” was her usual explanation. So Fabian had no other option but to drive up and disrupt her concentration on site.
White lived at the end of Tordönsvägen in Arild. On his way there, Fabian listened to Neon Golden by The Notwist on repeat. He parked the car about twenty metres before the abrupt rightward curve in the road, accompanied by the last few bars of “Pilot.”
&nbs
p; Fabian had spent the car ride trying to picture himself ringing the doorbell, which would be answered by a puzzled Alex White. What would happen next was less clear. What would Fabian say? Would he disclose his suspicions that someone might be trying to take over White’s identity? What about Sonja? How would she handle the intrusion? It felt like anything might happen, which was why Fabian decided to get a sense of the property before he made himself known.
Sonja’s red Mini Cooper was parked in the driveway next to a yellow Ford Mustang that looked like it had come straight from the factory. There was a security camera mounted above the closed garage door, so Fabian kept to the road until he could use the shelter of some trees to make his way onto the property. White’s was the last privately owned lot before the public lands that bordered the sea. He could hear waves striking the coast, but it wasn’t until he left the protective shadow of the trees and made his way onto the well-manicured lawn that it was possible to see all the way down to the deserted beach.
The house was built into the sloping plot, and felt at once modern and classic. The side wall was made entirely of mortared stones, with a few gaps to let in the light; in contrast, the back of the house was a giant wall of glass.
Thus far Fabian hadn’t seen any additional security cameras, although he was convinced they were there somewhere. He made his way up to the back of the house and took shelter behind a stone wall, which stuck out a few metres past the glass. Fabian paused to gather his courage for a few seconds before leaning around to peer in.
The glass wall reflected most of the light from outside. If he were going to have any chance at seeing in, Fabian would have to stand closer to the glass. He continued around the protruding wall and walked up a short set of stairs to the wooden deck. If they saw him, so be it. He passed a set of dark brown patio furniture and approached the glass wall. Inside he could see a pillar that afforded him some protection. He pressed his face to the glass and cupped his hands to block the light.
The room inside looked like a large gallery in a museum of modern art. It had to be almost one hundred square metres, perhaps even larger, and extended all the way to the roof ridge, about ten metres up. A staircase appeared to float in mid-air, zig-zagging its way down from a loft that stretched from one side of the building to the other. The entire room was full of art, ranging from enormous paintings on the walls to strange video installations and abstract shapes of various colours that hung from the ceiling.
Neither Sonja nor White was anywhere to be seen. The only sign of life came from the kitchen off to the right. There, the island was set up for a meal of bread and cold cuts, and a pot was steaming on the stove. Fabian took out his phone and used the camera’s zoom function to get a better look. Just as he’d thought, the pot was full of boiling water — and it looked like eggs, considering the two empty egg cups placed next to the full juice glasses.
This was obviously a breakfast for two. Well, no — it was a breakfast from Alex White to Sonja. The juice — Brämhult’s strawberry-lime — was her very favourite. The same went for the jar of Nutella, and the fact that the tube of Kalles Kaviar next to the egg cups was dill-flavoured. Sonja was the only person he knew who liked the dill caviar best. They were going to eat breakfast now? It was already after three in the afternoon. What the hell were they up to?
Fabian’s sudden rage surprised him. The chilliness between Sonja and him had been there for so long that he no longer thought much about it. Deep down he knew it was only a matter of time before she set off on a new adventure. He could even see the positive side of it. Hopefully it would restore their balance and help each of them to move on with their lives.
But at that moment, it felt anything but fine. Every muscle in Fabian’s body tensed in protest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Without thinking, he found himself dialling White’s number to speak to his own wife. He checked himself as he realized that they were on their way down the floating staircase. Sonja was wearing her coveralls and the green earrings he’d given her on their last anniversary. White was barefoot and wearing black jeans, a loose sweater, and a blue jacket that matched his sunglasses.
Fabian struggled to erase the images his mind was projecting, while also trying to figure out if they had just taken a shower together. White’s laser-cut bangs — which were like something straight out of Star Trek — revealed nothing, and Sonja only ever got her hair wet when she was going to wash it.
A text message from Molander prompted him to realize that he should just back off and leave them alone. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Alex White off the list of potential victims.
Once downstairs, White placed his hands on Sonja’s shoulders and whispered something into her right ear. Fabian saw her laugh and nod. He wanted to cry. But he couldn’t. Not right now. She walked across the pale hardwood and stopped next to a large sheet of paper on the floor. She stood there studying it for a minute or two, then squatted down, picked up one of the crayons next to it, and started sketching with broad, intense strokes.
Fabian pictured himself punching through the glass wall and coming at her with shards raining down. Sonja would turn to him, and her puzzled eyes wouldn’t protest in the least as he lifted her into his arms and walked back out with the glass crunching under his feet.
A series of sharp raps brought him back to reality. Raps so close to his face that he nearly stumbled over an ottoman as he backed away. A smiling White stood on the other side of the glass waving at him. With his temples pounding, Fabian raised a hand as White opened the door to the terrace.
“Well, if it isn’t Inspector Risk,” he said in his American accent.
“I tried the doorbell, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Sonja, look. Your husband is here.”
Fabian turned to catch Sonja’s reaction, but once again, all he could see was the sea and his own reflection. What was he doing? He wanted nothing more than to disappear, to go up in smoke and spread out on the wind like he’d never existed. But here he was, with no choice but to walk in and shake hands with White, who didn’t even have the courtesy to remove his sunglasses. Who the hell did he think he was? Some fucking rock star? “Can we talk?” he finally managed to say.
“What are you doing? Why are you here?” Now Sonja was in the doorway, looking at Fabian in astonishment.
“Darling, I’ll explain later,” he said, attempting to look neutral. “Right now I need to talk to Alex.”
Sonja shot White a look and shook her head. “I mean…I don’t know what’s gotten into you, why are you sneaking around —”
“In private, preferably.” Fabian turned to White, now wearing a smile that had to look way too forced.
“Of course. No problem.” White raised his hands in a soothing gesture.
“I hope you know how pathetic this is,” Sonja said, turning her back on him as White showed him into the house. He realized too late that his shoes were leaving traces of dirt behind on the pale wood floor.
“Never mind.” White opened the door to an adjoining room, where the walls were lined with books. “But just so you know, I’m in a hurry and I have to leave soon. Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Fabian took a seat in one of the easy chairs and waited until White had closed the door and sat down across from him.
“Okay, what can I do for you?” White crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers. “Sonja said something about how you work on the homicide squad. I hope I’m not a suspect in something serious.”
“I want you to end your relationship with my wife and withdraw your commission.”
So she had talked about him, mentioned that he was a police officer.
White gave a laugh and shook his head. “And why on earth would I do that?” He persisted in using English phrases.
“Because you’re not interested in her art in the least. You don’t think I know what
you’re after? She’s such an easy mark when you come along waving your millions.”
What else had she told him?
“Here’s the deal, Fabian. I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. I’ve worked with some of the biggest artists in the world. I have galleries in New York, Los Angeles, Berlin, London, you name it. So I know what I’m talking about, okay?” More Swinglish.
“So why did you move here?”
“Because this is where it’s all happening right now. Or, more accurately, this is where it will be happening soon. Sonja is one of the best indicators that I’m right. So no, I’m not going to withdraw my commission or let you stand in the way of her development. I’m sorry.” White threw up his hands and stood. “If that’s all, then like I said, I have to get to a meeting.”
Fabian wanted to strike back with a crushing reply. But his wings had been clipped and all he could do was stand up and follow White back into the great room. Sonja was no longer in sight. She wasn’t at the rolled-out sketch on the floor or anywhere else. But one juice glass was empty and the remains of her egg were visible in one egg cup. They walked up the stairs and along the loft toward the front door.
“We’re going to have a little party once she’s done,” White went on, holding the door open. “It would be nice if you came. Maybe you’ll even see her in a new light.”
“Just so I have the right idea,” Fabian said on his way out, as White set the alarm and locked the door. “You’re saying that you and Sonja only have a professional relationship?”
White turned to Fabian and shook his head. “No, no, no. I’m saying that I’m not the problem in this equation — you are. And so is the fact that you haven’t seen your own wife as she truly is for the past seven years, if she’s to be believed. Bye bye now.”
Fabian stood there mulling over those last three words as the Mustang roared to life and backed down the driveway.
27
Matilda had followed the instructions Esmaralda had given her to the letter. She hurried home after school and cleared away all the boxes and furniture in the basement, to make space where the spirit energy was strongest. The sofa had been no problem at all, but the avocado-green filing cabinet was so heavy that she got all sweaty, and the old computer she’d never seen Dad use, the one that lived on top of the cabinet, had almost tipped over.
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