‘I think I’ve got it working now.’ Klippan picked up the remote and started the overhead projector, which made his desktop picture – his dog, Einstein, chasing a tennis ball – appear on the wall.
‘Is this going to take long?’ Molander downed the rest of his coffee and looked at his watch. ‘Because my guys are actually sitting around right now, waiting to get started on Molly Wessman’s flat.’
‘It will take as long as it takes. So I would suggest not wasting any additional time.’ Klippan started the 14.32 seconds long video, which had no sound, low resolution and a colour resolution that left a lot to be desired.
Even so, Fabian couldn’t deny there was something fascinating about the images from the ICA Maxi CCTV cameras. There was something almost feng shui about the man’s movements as, completely without warning, he pushed his way through the queueing crowd, placed one hand on the glass counter, swung himself over it as though it were the easiest thing in the world, snatched up the long, thin blade from the cutting board and stabbed the victim in the throat. All in one fluid motion that must have taken hours of practice to perfect.
The most remarkable aspect was the total lack of hesitation during the actual execution, even though there were at least ten witnesses within close range. That took not only nerves of steel but above all careful planning. At the same time, there was something spontaneous about the whole act. As though it were just a spur of the moment thing.
‘Do you have any footage of him entering the shop?’ he said, while furtively studying Molander, who seemed completely absorbed by the clip, even though it was the third viewing.
‘Absolutely. But just so you know, it’s over five minutes long, and not particularly eventful. But let’s have a look at that, too.’
The way the perpetrator passed through the entrance, grabbed a basket and continued into the shop in his baggy hip-hop clothes, black gloves and hoodie with its hood pulled up over his head was confident and bold. As though he had a concrete goal in mind.
At the same time, there was nothing about his movements among the shelves that suggested he was there for anything other than food shopping. First a litre of Oatly oat milk and freshly squeezed juice from Brämhult in the dairy section. Then he walked over to the bread aisle and grabbed a bag of Fazer rye rolls before continuing towards the meat counter.
But instead of taking a number, he just glanced at the meat counter on his way to the vegetable section, where he put his basket down and squeezed some avocados before walking over to the mountain of vine tomatoes and selecting some with great care.
After tying his bag of tomatoes closed, he walked towards the potatoes. But halfway there, he changed his mind mid-step and turned back towards the meat counter, where he pushed the button for a ticket and waited his turn.
It was virtually impossible to get a good look at his face at any point during the clip. Whether that was because he knew where the cameras were and made sure to keep his back to them or through sheer happenstance was impossible to say.
Forty-three seconds later, he pushed through the crowd without warning, jumped over the counter and stabbed Lennart Andersson.
The blood fountained out of Andersson’s throat for several seconds before he managed to pull the knife out himself, throw it away and clap one hand to the wound, his eyes baffled and terrified in equal measure. There was nothing to suggest they’d met before. Then the perpetrator picked up another knife from the cutting board and struck again and again while the victim, despite grievous injuries, managed to stay upright and fight back.
But when the perpetrator managed to get the knife in between his ribs on his fifth try, he collapsed out of shot. After that, the only thing they could see was the perpetrator snatching up a cleaver and raising it above his head.
‘Maybe that’s enough.’ Klippan paused the video and turned to the rest of the team. ‘I don’t know about you, but I have two things I think merit discussion.’
‘Good. Let’s start with them,’ Tuvesson said.
Klippan nodded and backed the video up slightly. ‘This is the first.’ He paused at the exact moment the perpetrator plunged the knife into Andersson’s throat. ‘Can anyone see what that is?’
‘What, should we?’ Tuvesson leaned forward to have a closer look at the frozen image, which looked more like one of those banned horror films from the infancy of VCR technology.
‘Sure, I would go so far as to argue it’s obvious enough you don’t have to tear your hair out to see it,’ Molander said as he put his reading glasses on and started flipping through his papers.
‘Good,’ Klippan said. ‘Has anyone other than Ingvar been paying attention?’
‘Klippan, come on,’ Lilja said on a tired exhalation. ‘Can we save the quizzes for the Christmas party and do our jobs instead?’
‘Ingvar even gave you a clue. But all right.’ Klippan took out and passed around one of the crime scene photographs, in which Lennart Andersson could be seen lying on his back in a pool of blood with a meat fork implanted next to his nasal bone. ‘Now do you see?’
Fabian and the others nodded, instantly identifying the clue Klippan had referred to.
In the picture on the paused screen, the victim appeared to have thick hair covering his entire head. But in the post mortem picture, most of the hair, other than some on the sides, was missing.
‘He wore a toupee?’ Tuvesson said.
‘Looks like,’ Klippan replied.
‘So you’re saying the perpetrator took it with him.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘You’re thinking about Molly Wessman’s cut-off fringe,’ Fabian put in.
‘Exactly. Maybe there’s a connection.’
‘What kind of connection would that be?’ Tuvesson wanted to know. ‘Apart from the hair, there are no similarities whatsoever.’
‘I don’t know.’ Klippan shrugged. ‘Maybe the victims knew each other? Maybe they were connected to the perpetrator in different ways. Or maybe they simply—’
‘You’d do better to stop there,’ Molander said, taking his glasses off just as the phone vibrated again in Lilja’s hand. ‘Because there’s no connection. Not even with the hair.’
‘What, you found the toupee?’
Molander nodded. ‘Apparently, it had slid under the counter. Sorry, Klippan. Didn’t mean to rain on your parade.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It was just a theory.’
You disgusting little Jew cunt. Let’s see how cocky you are when we’ve fucked every hole you have bloody. When we’ve pissed on you and fisted you so hard with our knives there’s not a drop of Jew blood left in you. Then we’ll see how much your police badge can help you.
P.S. I hope you like your new lawn.
‘Irene, what’s the matter?’ Tuvesson said. ‘Are you okay?’
Lilja looked up from her phone. ‘I’m just a bit tired.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Let’s keep going so we can wrap this up sometime today.’
‘All right,’ Klippan said and pressed play, which made the perpetrator resume stabbing his victim. ‘As you may be aware, the witness statements are contradictory to say the least when it comes to the perpetrator’s appearance. Some describe his nose as large and others as small. One mentions an underbite, another an overbite. The only description they all seem to agree on is “odd”. Apparently, they all feel he looked odd. And I didn’t understand what they meant until I saw this.’ He paused the video and proceeded frame by frame.
For the first and only time, the perpetrator turned his face to the CCTV camera for a fraction of a second, and it was suddenly obvious what Klippan meant.
The man’s appearance really was odd in a way that was hard to describe. He was dark, but that wasn’t it. It was all the other things. Like his nose, which was a bit crooked and looked like he’d just lost a boxing match. Or his right cheek, which drooped lower than his left. Not to mention his eyes. His face was definitely odd. As tho
ugh it didn’t belong to the perpetrator.
‘See this?’ Klippan aimed his laser pointer at the perpetrator’s arms, which were raised above his head, holding the cleaver, and stopped at a lighter section in the gap between the sleeve of his hoodie and his glove.
‘Yes, it’s his wrist,’ Tuvesson said.
‘Right. But can’t you see the difference in skin tone? Can’t you see how much lighter this is than his face?’
Tuvesson nodded. ‘Are you saying that his face isn’t his?’
‘Exactly. It’s just a mask. Or, I don’t know about just. I don’t think that’s something he picked up in a gag shop. If you ask me, it was made by a professional mask maker.’
‘Which means the whole thing was planned and not a sudden impulse.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Which suggests there might be some kind of connection between the victim and the perpetrator,’ Molander put in.
‘Such as?’
Molander shrugged. ‘It could be anything. An unpaid gambling debt. Or why not an affair with the neighbour’s wife that was discovered?’
An affair with the neighbour’s wife. Fabian almost couldn’t believe that’s what Molander had said. Was it a Freudian slip or was he toying with him? Was this his way of showing he knew and was so many steps ahead he wasn’t even concerned?
‘But listen,’ Lilja suddenly interjected, looking up from her phone. ‘Don’t you think this whole thing feels a bit… How do I put it, schizophrenic, somehow?’
‘Schizophrenic?’ Tuvesson reached for the coffee thermos and loosened the lid. ‘What do you mean?’ Only to discover it was empty.
‘I’m not sure, but there’s something here that’s not right. Or at least it doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, if you’re planning to kill someone, surely you wouldn’t choose to do it in front of CCTV cameras and a bunch of witnesses at ICA Maxi.
‘Maybe it was just to confuse us and make it look spontaneous?’ Molander suggested.
‘But aren’t there a hundred easier ways of doing that? Like a hit and run with a car. Or, if you prefer knives, it wouldn’t take much of an effort to make it look like a botched robbery. If you want to make it really easy, you could always pretend to be some drugged-up junkie attacking whoever’s in your way.’
‘That’s true,’ Tuvesson said. ‘But strange as it may seem, he did choose to commit the murder at ICA. It’s our job to figure out why, whatever the underlying reason may be.’
‘Have you considered that it might be the other way around?’ Fabian said, and suddenly he had everyone’s undivided attention. ‘What if he wanted to be seen? What if the whole point was to have as many witnesses as possible?’
‘Then why go to the trouble of wearing a mask?’ Molander countered. ‘Not to mention the cameras. He should have turned to them if that were the case.’
‘CCTV cameras the police can use to zoom in and analyse is one thing. Witnesses at the scene is something else entirely. But I would say we’re asking the wrong question. Instead of asking why he wore a mask, we should be asking ourselves why he wore a dark-skinned mask.’
As though everyone needed a moment to take in what Fabian had just said, silence fell and lasted until Lilja broke it.
‘If I’m understanding you right, you’re saying the underlying motive might be racism.’
‘I know you’ve been on that track all along, and even though I don’t think we should make too much of this, we should at least give it serious consideration.’
‘The only problem is that Assar Skanås is a paedophile, not a racist,’ Klippan said. ‘Besides, he would never be able to pull off something this sophisticated.’
‘Who said it had to be him? He might not even be the person who killed Moonif Ganem. All we know for sure is that he was in the laundry room that same morning.’
‘Fabian, what are you trying to say?’ Tuvesson said. ‘Are you suggesting there’s a connection between the murder of Moonif Ganem and the murder of Lennart Andersson?’
‘Not necessarily. But if you look at them side by side, it’s hard not to see links. First he kills a young boy in the most brutal and sensationalist way imaginable. It wasn’t important who the boy was. The only thing that mattered was the colour of his skin. Then we had the fire, which killed three asylum seekers. And now he responds by donning a dark-skinned mask and killing Lennart Andersson, a white middle-aged heterosexual man, in front of a bunch of witnesses.’
53
How would a person react if they found out their life partner had murdered at least three innocent people, one of whom was their own father? Would they even be capable of taking it in, or would they dismiss it out of hand as a misunderstanding?
On his way to see Gertrud Molander, Fabian had pondered how to broach his subject without spooking her, and whether there was a way of finding out what she had told her husband without also spilling everything he knew.
But he had been forced to conclude that whatever he did, there was an imminent risk he would make the situation worse. Still, he had no choice but to try. If he did nothing, it would be only a matter of time before Molander finalized his plan for his demise. Seen from that perspective, he’d dawdled too long already.
He opened the gate and continued up a garden path made of slabs of slate, which despite their irregular shapes seemed to fit together so precisely that not one blade of grass had managed to push its way up into the sunlight. When he reached the door, he overcame his last shred of hesitance, rang the bell longer than necessary to make sure she heard and backed up a step so he wouldn’t be in the way of the door, which in true Molander spirit was newly treated and smelled of oil.
The silence that followed was palpable, and he was struck by how no silence was like the silence in the gap between ringing a doorbell and the door opening. How long was he going to wait before ringing again? A minute? Two? Thirty seconds?
And how should he stand? It didn’t matter which foot he put his weight on, he felt stiff and uncomfortable regardless. And his hands. What was he supposed to do with them? He tried letting them hang straight down, but that felt exposed and vulnerable. Shoving them in his pockets didn’t work either. Not his front or back trouser pockets or his jacket pockets.
At length, he stepped forward and rang the bell again. This time, he kept his finger on the button for so long it left a round indentation in his fingertip when he stopped.
Had she seen it was him? Was that why she wasn’t opening the door? Had she figured out why he was there and called her husband, who had promptly left Wessman’s flat and was now on his way home?
Her car was definitely parked in the driveway and he could see lights on in some of the windows. There was, however, no sign of the bike she had used the day before. Maybe she was running an errand. It hadn’t started raining yet. But it was in the air, like an omen, just waiting to start pouring down; she would have to hurry home if she didn’t want to get soaked.
That was probably why he was feeling cold. Considering they were only days away from Midsummer’s Eve, the weather was unusually chilly. Or maybe it was the same as every other year – overcast and four or five degrees warmer than Christmas. Even so, he could feel a droplet of sweat trickle from one of his vertebrae down his spine.
He, who was never usually nervous, was now trembling so violently he had no choice but to stick his hands in his pockets as the door slid open and Gertrud appeared, wearing an apron and curlers, staring as though she didn’t recognize him at first.
‘My goodness, Fabian, is that you? I had no idea who might be calling at this hour.’
‘Hi, Gertrud.’ He held out his hand, even though it was far from steady. ‘Do you have a moment?’
‘Yes, I suppose. What’s this about? Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘I’d prefer to discuss it inside. I think it might be starting to rain any second.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry, do come on in.’ She let him into the hallway and closed the door. ‘Let’s go into
the living room. Oh, would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thank you, I’m good.’ He took his shoes off, only to discover he was still wearing the sock with the hole on the heel. ‘This won’t take long.’ He continued into the living room, which was beige, past the breakfront that housed Gertrud’s collection of crystal owls, which, if she was to be believed, had grown out of control because their friends insisted on sneaking a new one in every time they came to visit.
‘Isn’t he a sweetheart?’ Gertrud put down a tray with a jug of water and two glasses.
‘I’m sorry, who?’
‘Reidar, who else? The man you were talking to yesterday.’ She sat down on the edge of the sofa. ‘Water?’
‘No, thank you, I’m good,’ he replied, for the simple reason that his hand was still shaking too hard to hold a glass without spilling. Instead, he took a seat in one of the armchairs, pondering whether she had brought up Reidar because she’d already figured out why he was there and wanted to help him along.
‘I have to say I find it impressive that he’s managed to move on and even find a new woman and everything. Not everyone does, even after an ordinary divorce. I honestly don’t know how he gets out of bed in the morning.’ She put her hand to her chest and shook her head. ‘It’s so awful to think about.’
Or was she in fact prepared for his visit and trying to gauge his suspicions?
‘I don’t know how I would get by if something happened to Ingvar. But at least you’ve reopened the investigation. That’s a step forward.’
‘It is, and that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh? Did something happen? I mean, do you know who did it, or did you even arrest him already?’
‘Gertrud, I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘And what does any of it have to do with me? Ingvar never mentioned anything. I just happen to live next door and—’
‘Gertrud.’ Fabian held up his hand to her; it was finally feeling reasonably steady. ‘As I’m sure you understand, I can’t discuss the exact state of the investigation.’ Her anxiety had a calming effect on him. She was not play-acting, nor did she have an ulterior motive. ‘What I can tell you is that due to various technical details, we’ve chosen to keep a very low profile and won’t be making any statements to the public at all. For that reason, I wanted to ask you not to talk to anyone about the case or tell them it’s been reopened.’
Motive X Page 27
