It made no difference that it was glaringly obvious Landertz had helped plan the fire in his own party offices; if they couldn’t produce solid evidence soon, they would have to release him.
It was best not to even think about the fire at the refugee reception facility in Kvidinge. Technically, the Bjuv Police were in charge of that. So far, though, they hadn’t made any real headway and he could already hear the critics on the left accusing the police of racism.
He backed into a free spot and looked over at the entrance, where people were crowding around with their empty trollies, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. At least that meant the cordon was up and the shop evacuated. That was something, though not nearly enough. The whole car park should have been closed to give the ambulance and police vehicles room to manoeuvre. The way things stood, the press photographers, who were no doubt on their way already, would have no difficulty zooming in straight through the glass doors to snap pictures of the ongoing police work.
Responsibility rested with him now. It was his job to climb out of his car, push through the crowd, duck under the police tape and take over the investigation. Make sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to and that nothing was missed. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even bring himself to unbuckle his seat belt.
It just wasn’t him. This whole I’m the one in charge and you’d better do as I say role was a bad fit for him, and to be honest, he’d never been particularly interested in it. But the hierarchy was what it was and he hadn’t had any choice but to grit his teeth and try to do his best until Tuvesson came back.
A few deep breaths later, he got out of the car and walked towards the crowd outside the entrance; once there, he heard himself order everyone to remove their cars from the car park then give the uniformed officers clear instructions on how to expand the police cordon.
When he entered ICA Maxi, he only had to walk through the automatic barriers and the plastic toys section before he spotted two of Molander’s assistants putting on protective clothing in the fruit and veg section. And over by the bread aisle, a few members of the staff were comforting a colleague who had gone to pieces.
‘There you are,’ Molander called out as he emerged from the Tex-Mex and spice aisle, wearing his white work coat. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been here for over an hour already.’
‘As you know, we have a number of other cases that need seeing to as well, and speaking of which, we’re going to need another triangulation now we have Assar Skanås’s number.’
‘Yes, yes, Lilja’s already been on to me about that.’ Molander snorted derisively. ‘If only she’d thought to check the phone book before we spent the entire morning locating his brother.’
‘I know, but the worst thing we can do now is to turn on each other. Tell me how you’re getting on instead.’
Molander shook his head. ‘So far, we’ve only really been able to do your job. We’ve talked to the staff and a handful of customers who witnessed the event.’
‘Why haven’t you got started on the technical investigation?’
‘The answer to your question starts with F and ends with lätan.’ Molander snorted again. ‘Don’t ask me why, but he seems to think the coroner has first dibs on the scene. He has categorically refused to let us in for almost half an hour now. Bloody crank. Thinks he’s so special with his striped trousers and long hair.’
‘All right, I’ll take care of it,’ Klippan said, even though conflicts were not his forte.
‘If anyone should have first dibs, it should be me and my team.’
‘Ingvar, I said I’ll take care of it.’ There was nothing unexpected about Flätan and Molander rubbing each other up the wrong way. They were both extremely competent in their fields. Their egos and posturing were the problem. They had never been able to fit into the same room and likely never would. ‘Tell me about the witness statements instead.’
‘All right.’ Molander started walking him towards the scene. ‘Some of the information is contradictory, but then isn’t that always the way when something out of the ordinary happens? But the aggregate picture of the course of events is that the perpetrator, a dark-skinned man with an odd appearance and his hood pulled up over—’
‘Odd appearance?’
‘Yes, several of the witnesses put it exactly that way without being able to specify what was so odd about it. Either way, the man was supposedly queueing, waiting for his turn by the meat counter, when all of a sudden he jumped over to the other side, snatched up one of the knives and stuck it into the victim’s throat.’ Molander pulled the string that opened the door marked No Unauthorized Access and continued into a short hallway with shabby walls and glaring fluorescent lights.
‘So it wasn’t premeditated at all?’
‘Let’s put a pin in that for now, because the altercation didn’t end there,’ Molander continued as he showed Klippan into a room where a row of carefully placed stepping pads led to one of the assistants who was squatting down, taking pictures of something on the floor. ‘Apparently, the victim was in remarkably good physical shape and—’
‘Well, well, well, the prodigal son returns,’ Einar ‘Flätan’ Greide exclaimed on his way through the swing door leading to the area behind the meat counter. ‘Exquisite timing, I have to say. I just finished.’ He pulled off his bloodstained silicone gloves, turning them inside out in the process. He pushed them into his tattered suede briefcase, decorated with hippy fringe and embroidered peace signs, and pulled out a glass bottle filled with something green and viscous, which he knocked back without ceremony. ‘Where was I?’
‘You had just finished,’ said Klippan, who, though he was very familiar with Flätan’s unique sartorial sensibilities, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the red-and-white striped trousers poking out from beneath his blood-spattered lab coat, which made his legs look like candy canes. ‘And I’m given to understand that the crime scene technicians have been kept waiting a bit too long.’
‘Oh, that’s okay, I’m sure they’ll live.’ Flätan turned back to the swing door, pushing it open with his elbow and inviting Klippan and Molander into the space behind the meat counter.
‘I will, of course, conduct a more thorough examination once I get the body back to home base. But as you can see, it doesn’t take a genius to determine that the victim experienced hypovolemia and bled out soon after.’
The pool of blood was about three feet across; when Klippan squatted down, he could see the coagulated surface layer ripple in the barely noticeable draught from the swing door.
‘Is that it?’ Molander said.
‘Pardon me?’ Flätan, who was about to leave, stopped in the middle of a stepping pad and turned to face Molander with a look on his face that made it abundantly clear what he thought of him.
The main puddle was far from the only blood. Large areas of the floor were stained. The same was true of the white-tiled back wall and several of the work surfaces. Even the buttons on the scale and the roll of wrapping paper were stippled with blood.
‘Well. Don’t you have a scenario in mind? Even a hypothetical one?’ Molander said, seemingly unfazed by Flätan’s look.
The victim, who according to his name tag was called Lennart Andersson, was of middle age with hair growing in a semi-circle around his bald pate. He was lying on his back in the middle of the pool of blood. His right arm was outstretched, his left bent with its hand over a bloody gash in his throat.
‘Like I said, you’ve been able to work undisturbed for quite a while now, and as far as I can make out, quite a few things happened here before the hypovolemia set in.’
‘Of course. A blind chicken could see that. But I’m not in the habit of discussing my personal theories with all and sundry. I prefer to wait until I’ve conducted a full autopsy and can present facts.’
The victim’s work coat, which had once been white, was now so covered in blood the white patches that were left looked like stains. The handle was the only visib
le part of the knife lodged in his chest.
‘If you’re interested in baseless suppositions and theories, you should contact my colleague Arne Gruvesson instead,’ Flätan continued. ‘He’s something of a specialist when it comes to rash conclusions and sloppy work.’
There was a meat fork in the victim’s face as well, rammed in so deep next to his nose that the two tines poked out below his jaw.
‘I daresay there’s more here than “baseless suppositions”. You only have to look at the blood spatter to see a pretty clear scenario, if you ask me.’ Molander met Flätan’s eyes.
‘I had no idea you were a blood spatter expert.’
‘Expert might be pushing it. But at least I know what I’m talking about. That crack, for instance, suggests the perpetrator jumped over the counter somewhere around here.’ Molander pointed to a crack in the curved glass of the counter. ‘Then he probably snatched up one of the knives from this cutting board.’
‘Not one of the knives. That one.’ Flätan pointed to the corner where a long, thin knife lay on the floor. ‘It matches the wound in his throat, and the powerful blood spatter indicates that he had a blood pressure of somewhere between 120 and 180, which must be considered completely normal, considering the situation he was in. Ergo, that must have been the first cut.’
‘I feel like you’re skipping a few steps and oversimplifying when you just assume that a powerful spatter means normal blood pressure.’
‘Well, I apologize. I summarized it in slightly simplified terms so you could understand.’ Flätan allowed himself a smile. ‘The thing is that if you cut the carotid artery of an otherwise uninjured man, the spurt can easily reach six feet with each contraction of the heart. And if you take a closer look at the footprints in the blood, you’ll also notice that the victim stayed in the same spot rather than dash about bleeding all over the place.’
‘Surely you’re not implying the carotid artery was completely severed?’ Molander shook his head. ‘He would have collapsed in a matter of seconds, and it would have been game over.’
‘True. It was partially severed, though definitely enough to create the fountain of blood we see the effects of here. It was only when he pulled the knife out with his right hand to defend himself that he had some success in stopping the bleeding with his left.’
‘Well,’ Molander said, doing a weighing motion in the air. ‘That assumes the perpetrator took or knocked the knife out of his hand, or that he dropped it himself. Either way, it should have ended up somewhere near where he stood and not all the way over there. I’d bet anything he threw it as far away as he could.’
‘You know how I feel about gamblers. He could just as easily have dropped it. The perpetrator could have kicked it.’
‘Not according to the blood on the floor. Even you would be able to see that if you had a closer look,’ Molander said. ‘That knife flew through the air and hit the wall exactly here.’ He walked over, sank into a squat and pointed to a small notch in the wall diagonally above where the knife lay. ‘That also explains some of the witness statements about the victim screaming at the perpetrator to calm down. Which in turn suggests there’s no link whatsoever between the victim and the perpetrator.’
‘Agreed, it was probably just a crazy person who went berserk when he couldn’t wait for his turn any longer.’
‘Sure, maybe. Either way, it seems to have been completely unplanned. Because once the knife is out of the picture and the victim is standing there with his hand on his carotid artery, trying to get the perpetrator to calm down, I’m guessing he picks up that cleaver and strikes a blow full in the—’
‘No, the cleaver comes later, when the victim is on the floor. The wounds are so deep the perpetrator must have used both hands. At that point, he used this.’ Flätan pointed to the knife still buried in the victim’s chest. ‘And this time, he doesn’t make the mistake of leaving it in. Instead, he keeps a firm grip on it and stabs him again and again, five times, until he manages to get it in between the ribs and sever the aorta. Only then does the victim stop resisting and collapse, at which point the perpetrator can switch to the cleaver.’
‘And the meat fork?’ Molander nodded to the twin-pronged fork in the victim’s face.
‘The cherry on top, I guess. How should I know?’ Flätan shrugged. ‘At that point, it was already over.’
‘Already, that’s one way of putting it. I would say—’
‘Fabian?’ Klippan exclaimed with his eyes on the swing door through which Fabian was entering. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Tuvesson called.’
‘What? What do you mean, Tuvesson? She’s in rehab and seclusion. And you? Aren’t you on sabbatical?’
‘Apparently not any more. Because there’s been another murder.’
‘We know. We’re kind of up to our ankles in it,’ Molander said.
‘Her name was Molly Wessman,’ Fabian continued, ignoring Molander. ‘Her neighbour, who happens to be good friends with Tuvesson, found her about an hour ago.’
PART II
17–24 June 2012
‘Everything you know is wrong.’
G. PARLDYNSKI
40
Kim Sleizner turned over in bed. He could feel the sheet had come off the mattress and was bunched up underneath him. As if that wasn’t bad enough, light was persistently seeping in through the gap between his bespoke blackout blinds.
A glance at his phone informed him it was only twenty-three minutes past five in the morning. He had hoped it would at least be gone half six, considering the eternity he’d already spent twisting and turning, increasingly sweaty and entangled in the damn sheets that had cost him a fortune and which, according to the salesperson, would breathe and give him a wonderfully restful sleep.
Restful. The word felt like being spat at in the face. He hadn’t slept all night. In fact, he’d barely shut his eyes since Friday afternoon.
And once again, it was all Dunja Hougaard’s fault.
Ever since she leaked a story to the media about him entertaining a whore in the back seat of his car, it’s been his own little mission to crush her.
That little cunt was worse than a fucking cockroach. It didn’t matter how much he stomped, gassed and put out traps. One way or another, she always managed to scuttle away.
Just a month ago, he’d used his position as head of the Copenhagen Homicide Unit to demonstrate his authority and show her, once and for all, that she was never going to be able to get out from under him, not even if she schlepped all the way up to the Helsingør Police to beg for a job.
And yet, that is exactly what she’d done.
He couldn’t say exactly what had triggered his anxiety, but for the past week he’d felt increasingly sure something was amiss. Things had been too quiet. Especially considering what he’d done to her.
For some bizarre reason, she hadn’t retaliated. He almost felt disappointed, even though part of him was relieved at the easy victory. At finally having managed to break her so comprehensively she would never get up again.
But just a week later, worry had started gnawing at him again.
It had simply been too quiet.
It was at that point he’d requisitioned the computer files. The ones he shouldn’t really be able to get without a warrant, which would only ever be granted under very special circumstances directly related to national security. The ones that drilled into her life, describing every last detail in the form of long columns of numbers.
Since last Friday, he’d been able to see everything, from her emails to her text and call lists. He’d been able to study the traffic from her IP address and see every website she’d visited. If she’d bought a pair of knickers, he would be able to tell how much they cost and where she got them. If he wanted to, he could probably find out the colour and size as well.
The problem was that every fucking list and table was empty. Not one row, not one goddamn number for him to look at. No timestamps or any kind of informat
ion whatsoever.
At first, he’d been convinced something was wrong. Furious, he’d called up Mikael Rønning in IT, only to find out everything was exactly as it should be. That the files genuinely didn’t have anything to offer but empty tables and columns full of zeros.
Unlikely as it seemed, Dunja The Cunt Hougaard had not shopped, emailed, called, got cash out or travelled abroad in the last month. There was no trace of her.
She had done nothing, as in zero.
Nothing as in gone underground.
As in licking her wounds and planning her revenge.
He could sense it, and it left him sleepless.
For the first time in his life, he was worried for real.
41
He’d tried to sleep, but hadn’t been able to keep his eyes closed for more than thirty seconds at a time. And that was after wolfing down a big steak with French fries and Béarnaise sauce and two large glasses of Coke across the street at Sam’s Bar. After that, he’d completed a gruelling workout session in his flat and followed it up with an hour’s meditation in the bath.
But nothing had helped. Even though it would soon be twenty-four hours since his little trip to ICA Maxi in Hyllinge, he was still so wired he couldn’t sit still.
But then again, he had never experienced anything like it. Nothing else compared. That feeling of knowing no one else had any idea, of just standing there, holding his queue number and waiting for the right moment. My God, they must have been so shocked. They hadn’t even screamed. Or maybe he’d been so focused he hadn’t heard them. Either way, no one had even tried to intervene.
Lennart ‘Beefsteak’ Andersson, on the other hand, had been exactly as physically fit as he’d feared and had, consequently, offered a good deal of resistance. But in hindsight, he counted that as a plus. Instead of the whole thing being over in seconds, he’d been forced to go at it for well over a minute before the old man gave up and he could escape through the staff entrance and cycle home.
Motive X Page 20
