Victim Without a Face

by Stefan Ahnhem

  What made him get up every morning, take a shower, get dressed, and go to work? What was he waiting for? He unsnapped his holster, took out his pistol, and weighed it in his hands. It would be so simple — just a little pressure from his index finger and his suffering would be over. His loneliness, sorrow, and shortness of breath would be obliterated. But whichever way he looked at the situation, it would be nothing more than a pathetic end to a pathetic life — no one would do more than shrug their shoulders.

  His phone started to ring. The call was from a Swedish number. As soon as he answered it, he realized that this was the very moment he had been waiting for.

  *

  SEVEN MINUTES LATER, MORTEN Steenstrup fastened his seatbelt, stuck the key in the ignition, and started the car. The engine roared to life and he wondered if he should turn on the siren, but decided it could wait until he was further away from the station. He didn’t want Niels to come rushing out and ask what was going on. All Morten had told him was that he was going out for a bit “to show police presence.” He put his favourite recording of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons into the CD player and turned up the volume. No one could conduct the piece as well as Carlo Chiarappa, especially the first allegro movement of “Spring,” which always managed to fill him with positive energy.

  The woman on the phone had been from Helsingborg. He had never been good at understanding Swedish, and thought the southern Skåne dialect was even more difficult to comprehend. He managed to understand that her name was Astrid Tuvesson, chief of the crime squad in Helsingborg. She told him that she hadn’t been able to get hold of Kim Sleizner, her counterpart in Copenhagen, which was why she was calling the station in Køge. After that it became harder for him to understand what she was saying. She told him something about a car that was parked at the gas station in Lellinge, a car that might belong to a Swedish criminal the police were after. A woman named Mette Louise Risgaard, who was the attendant at the gas station, had called the police and claimed that the man was in Lellinge to pick up the car at this very moment.

  He had no memory of the rest of the conversation, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to hear more to realize that this was his chance to stand out. He even knew Mette Louise because he often filled up in Lellinge when he was on the night shift and she was usually working. She’d pierced her lower lip a year ago, and he had summoned up the courage to ask her why she’d done it. What was the point of ruining such a beautiful lip? To this day he could recall the way she had responded with a look of disgust, and she hadn’t so much as looked in his direction since, not even when he complimented her new hair colour.

  And now she might be in danger. He couldn’t understand why she had called the Swedish police and not him. He had even once left his business card to make sure that she had a direct line to the police station. How had she known the man was wanted in Sweden?

  He was finally far enough from the station to turn on the sirens and speed up. He felt the adrenaline start to pump. Finally, he had the chance to show Else that he wasn’t timid at all. He turned down the music, which had just transitioned into the largo movement of “Spring.” He had arrived at the Lellinge gas station, where everything seemed to be just as quiet as usual; some might even describe it as dead. He preferred the term peaceful, even if he did feel a bit disappointed that there was no action here. He slowly drove around the building and discovered it was pretty lifeless. All he saw was a man in sand-coloured shorts, a light-blue polo shirt, and a cap, kneeling next to a Peugeot that was propped up by a jack. He was holding a lug wrench and there was a tire beside him on the ground.

  Could this be the man who had put Mette Louise in danger by picking up his car? Morten couldn’t see Mette Louise and the man didn’t look particularly dangerous; in fact, he looked more like an idiot tourist. But if Morten had learned one thing during his years as a policeman, it was that it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Morten calculated that it would be at least five more minutes until the man would be ready to leave, so he decided to make sure that Mette Louise was okay. He drove around and parked on the other side of the gas station, so that he could get out of the car without worrying about being seen by the man. He adjusted his belt and made sure that his handgun and baton were where they should be, and continued toward the building on foot.

  As soon as he stepped inside the store he sensed that something wasn’t right. Nobody was there, not even near the register. He called for Mette Louise but didn’t hear an answer, so he hurried behind the counter into the staff area. It was the first time he’d been back there, and it was much smaller than he had expected. There was a kitchenette, a table with a pile of dog-eared magazines, a few chairs, a Michelin wall almanac, and a bathroom with a locked door. He knocked and asked if anyone was inside.

  The silence caused more alarm bells to go off. Where was she? He hurried back out into the store and searched around for a useful tool to turn the bathroom lock. He found a screwdriver, tore open the door, and discovered an empty bathroom. He tried to gather his thoughts, but felt a sudden thirst, as if his mouth had turned to sandpaper. He took a Coke from the cooler and let the sweet, bubbly drink fill his mouth before he swallowed and felt his energy return.

  Mette Louise would never leave the gas station unmanned, which must mean that she was with the man next to the Peugeot. He hadn’t seen her there, but he had only driven by with a quick glance. He left the store and walked toward the man, who was still crouching beside the Peugeot with his back to Morten. As he got closer, he could see that the man was tightening the lug nuts with the wrench and didn’t seem to have noticed his presence at all.

  “Excuse me. May I ask you to stand up? Spread your legs, hands above your head,” he said in Danish.

  There was no reaction from the man, who tightened the next lug nut. Is he deaf? Does he not understand what I’m saying?

  “Hello! This is the police! I want you to stand up immediately!” he said, trying to imitate the Swedish pronunciation he’d heard on TV. He was almost beside the man now. Morten looked into the car and observed that it was empty. Mette Louise wasn’t there, either.

  Morten Steenstrup had drawn his weapon three times in nearly twenty-eight years of service. He had fired his gun only once, at a man who was on drugs and threatening those around him with a knife. Morten had shot him in the leg and cuffed his hands behind his back. It was all by the book.

  Right now would be his fourth. His body moved automatically, recreating the action he had performed countless times at home in front of the mirror. His right hand moved back across his hip to open the holster without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. The gun slid out and he disengaged the safety with his left hand.

  “This is the police! I order you to stand up right now!” he shouted in English.

  After that, everything happened so quickly that he would have trouble remembering the exact sequence of events later on.

  The man stood up suddenly and swung halfway around with his right arm extended. Morten didn’t realize what was going on until he heard crunching in his right ear as the lug wrench struck him with full force. His vision went black; he felt a flash of pain and heard a loud, piercing noise. Just before his head met the pavement, it occurred to him that he would never again get to enjoy The Four Seasons.

  *

  THE HOWLING IN HIS ear persisted and he could hear his own pulse, which meant he was still alive. He felt his ear with his hand. It was wet and sticky. His sight was slowly returning, but it took a few more seconds for him to figure out just what he was looking at because everything was tilted ninety degrees. About twenty centimetres ahead of him he saw the inner side of a car tire with a man wearing Croc sandals crouching beside it.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man’s arm moving around and around. He quickly realized that the man was in the process of lowering the jack. He saw the wrench hit the pavement and the Crocs vanish from sight. The exhaust system of the car started to vibr
ate soon after that, and he could hear a dull rumble.

  Protect your head, protect your head, he repeated again and again in his mind as the car started backing up.

  The back wheel went first.

  He tensed his chest and back muscles as best he could, but he still felt his ribs cracking one by one, the pain spreading from the upper part of his body to the lower, like red-hot lava.

  Then it was time for the front wheel.

  He saw the Peugeot moving away from him, turning left onto Ringstedvej. At least his head must have survived. Heartened by the realization that he was not dead yet, acknowledging that he could see and think, register information, and make decisions, he defied the pain in his chest and got to his knees. He reached for his gun, which was still lying on the pavement next to the wrench. Then he got to his feet and tried to make his way to his car.

  His left leg refused to obey him, so he had to help it along with both hands. The burning pain in his chest was turning into a duller, pulsing sensation, and he could see more and more blood seeping through his uniform shirt. He really ought to contact Niels and let him take over and send an ambulance, but that would mean not only that the Swede would almost certainly escape, but also that Else would be proven right.

  In one last burst of effort, Morten Steenstrup started the car, backed out of his parking spot, and headed east on Ringstedvej. He pressed on the gas pedal and thanked God for automatic transmission, otherwise he would never have been able to drive, considering the pain in his left leg. The aching sensation in his chest was almost entirely gone and he could only feel a dull throbbing. His shirt was red and sticky with blood. He decided not to look down again; it was better to focus on what was up ahead and think about which way the Swede had gone. The man had a little less than two minutes’ lead, but he was already out of sight. Morten assumed he would have no reason to go toward Køge, so decided to bet on the E55 highway north, toward Copenhagen and the bridge to Sweden.

  He felt like his entire body was about to go numb. He turned on the lights and siren to keep himself awake. The cars ahead of him slowed down right away and moved to the inner lane. Morten put the pedal to the metal and watched the speedometer pass 200 and push toward 220. He wasn’t even the tiniest bit afraid anymore; it was as if he had left his fear behind in Lellinge. He knew that he could handle anything that might happen. He wanted to show everyone that he was brave enough. Now he just needed to remain conscious.

  The red needle was pointing to 230. If he could just keep going at this speed he would catch up with the Swede in a few minutes, assuming that he was sticking to the speed limit. Ten kilometres later, he could see the Peugeot, and he turned off the roof lights.

  But it was too late; the Swede had seen him, and sped up to take the next exit. Morten steered after him. A wave of cold sweat came over his body as realized that this would soon be over. The car in front of him skidded right on Cementvej. Morten took the turn a bit more slowly. He didn’t want to risk ending up in a ditch now that he’d come this far.

  Out of nowhere, the Peugeot swerved to the left onto a gravel road. Morten looked at the GPS and saw that it led out into a field and up toward a cluster of trees, only to go around the trees and turn back again. Had the Swede painted himself into a corner, or had he seen the same thing on his own GPS and planned an ambush?

  Morten cut the engine and rolled down the window. He could clearly hear the engine of the Peugeot on the other side of the trees. He defied the urge to close his eyes and just fall asleep; instead, he stepped out of the car and continued down the gravel path on foot, dragging his left leg and using a branch as a crutch. His shirt was sticking to his stomach and chest, but he resisted the urge to look down.

  About fifty metres in front of him he saw the Peugeot, which looked like it had been deserted among some bushes with the engine running. Morten limped toward the car with his gun in his hand. He swung halfway around and couldn’t see anything but trees and an open field. He took the last few steps to the car, bent down, and cupped his hands around his eyes so he could see inside. The car was empty. And then everything went black.

  18

  THE FESTIVE ATMOSPHERE VANISHED once Fabian received the call from Mette Louise Risgaard. The barbecue at Molander’s quickly transformed into a regular police meeting, except this one included everyone’s family members and quite a bit of alcohol in their bloodstreams.

  Tuvesson immediately called her Danish colleague Kim Sleizner in Copenhagen. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message on his voicemail to inform him of the situation and let him know that she was going to contact the local police station in Køge. Then she called the Swedish national police commissioner, Bertil Crimson, who in turn promised to contact his Danish counterpart, Henrik Hammersten, right away. She had to notify her superior because the Swedish police would be working with the police from another country.

  The ball was rolling. All they could do now was to continue their dinner, and wait and see what happened. Sonja hadn’t said anything, but it was obvious to Fabian that her mood had gone downhill. He could sympathize. He tried to come up with new topics of conversation, but only Gertrud Molander took the bait. Everyone else was waiting for Tuvesson’s phone to ring.

  One hour later, their wait was over.

  It was Kim Sleizner on the other end of the line, and Tuvesson turned on speakerphone so that everyone could hear the conversation.

  “Henrik Hammersten said that you were trying to get a hold of me, but I’m sorry to say I haven’t received any calls from you,” said the Danish voice.

  “I definitely called you about an hour ago,” said Tuvesson. “You didn’t answer, so I left a message.”

  “If that were the case, I should have a missed call and a message waiting for me, shouldn’t I? I’m telling you that I don’t. Perhaps you forgot to dial the country code first — what do I know?”

  Tuvesson shot the others a look and shook her head.

  “But what I do know is that Morten Steenstrup, from my lot in Køge, took up the chase for the perpetrator.”

  My lot, Fabian thought. Sleizner did sound like the sort who considered his subordinates his personal property.

  “And he did all this despite the fact that he was gravely injured and had lost a great deal of blood. If I hadn’t been so quick to send a few cars out as soon as I heard what happened, he would be dead.”

  Fabian wondered whether this was all Sleizner had to say for now or whether he’d paused on purpose, to force Tuvesson to ask for the details. She didn’t seem to feel the need to break the silence, which was bordering on painful by the time Sleizner gave in and continued of his own accord.

  Morten Steenstrup had been run over by the assailant and was in intensive care, hovering between life and death. He’d clearly been a true hero, and against all odds had managed to get the Peugeot into police possession. The perpetrator, on the other hand, had gotten away. Other than the car, the only clue he had left behind was a pair of Crocs.

  The fact that the Danish police now had the car was a great triumph in and of itself, and it was sure to be a large setback for the killer, but Fabian couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to Mette Louise. There had been no trace of her thus far. Had the perpetrator taken her with him as a hostage? And if so, why?

  *

  IT WAS ALREADY PAST midnight when the Risks arrived home. Theodor, who had spent the entire evening sitting in a corner with his phone, vanished straight to his room, and Matilda claimed she was wide awake and didn’t want to go to bed. She didn’t even fall asleep after three chapters of Harry Potter.

  “Dad, is the man you’re looking for a serial killer or just a regular killer?” Matilda’s bright, alert eyes met his own. He wished he could pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, but he thought she deserved an honest answer.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. So far there’s only been one murder, although I’m pretty sure that at least two have been committed.”

  “Ho
w can you be so sure about that?”

  “Because it’s my job.”

  “So does that mean it’s a serial killer?”

  “No, there would have to be at least three deaths for it to be the act of a serial killer, and I wouldn’t categorize him as a serial killer yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “A serial killer commits murders for the sake of murder. This killer’s motivation is completely different,” Fabian explained. He told her about the case and about how he had thought the original motive was revenge against people who had been mean to the killer, but now he was unsure about everything. Then he looked over to discover Matilda sleeping like a log. He left her, walked down to the kitchen, and uncorked one of the bottles of wine he’d forgotten to give to Molander.

  Sonja was up in her studio, unpacking her current projects. She didn’t even glance in Fabian’s direction when he came in with the wine, two glasses, and his iPod. They really needed to talk, but both of them were too tired. Besides, there was nothing they hadn’t said to each other already. Instead, he sat on the floor, poured the wine, and put on their song, Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U.” They’d danced to it the first time they met. Tonight they made love in the studio.

  *

  THE NEXT MORNING, ASTRID Tuvesson gave Fabian the go-ahead to stay home over the weekend, as long as he promised to keep his phone within arm’s reach. She promised only to call if it was an emergency.

  They were able to spend all of Saturday morning in peace and quiet — unpacking boxes, emptying the last of the plastic bags, and putting up shelves. With Theodor’s help, Fabian even managed to set up the stereo. They had a late lunch together on the deck in the shade of the umbrella and then went out in the afternoon. They bought a snorkelling set for Theodor, had coffee at Fahlmans Konditori on Stortorget, and then went for a walk by the new marina, stopping at Tropical Beach.