“What a goddamn pig,” Tuvesson said, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry to say that it’s hardly even begun.”
“Why isn’t there any sound?” Molander asked.
“I think they just forgot to turn it on, but they figure it out in a little bit.”
They continued watching the video.
...Jörgen is holding the bottle toward the camera, grinning. Glenn’s hand enters the frame. He takes the bottle while Jörgen puts brass knuckles on his fingers and rings the bell again; this time he holds the button down for a long time. After a few seconds, Claes Mällvik opens the door. He talks as his eyes flick back and forth between Jörgen and the camera. He looks afraid. His mouth moves again. Jörgen responds by what looks like burping in his face and shoving him into the apartment. The shaky camera follows them, moving all over the place as the apartment door is closed and locked. The camera finally settles on a hall mirror. Glenn is visible from head to toe, filming himself. He raises the full bottle with a smile, and puts it down on the hall table. He presses a button on the camera. The sound kicks in...
The emotional distance Tuvesson and the others had been able to maintain up to that point in the footage diminished immediately. Now they were fully present with Glenn, Jörgen, and Claes. They could hear Claes’s weakening voice, begging and pleading for them to stop, in between Jörgen’s powerful blows, which sounded like a hammer striking a watermelon.
...Glenn takes the camera, moving further into the apartment to find Claes, who has been silenced. He’s lying motionless on the floor, receiving blow after blow from Jörgen’s brass knuckles. His face is red with blood and mucus, and it looks more and more like one big open wound. Jörgen is out of breath and sweaty. He stops hitting him and wipes his bloody hand on Claes’s shirt. “Shit, he can’t give up that easily,” Jörgen says with a sneer. “I think he’s thirsty. Give him something to drink!” The camera moves down until it’s level with Claes’s bloody face. Glenn’s hand enters the frame, holding the beer bottle. He pours the urine into Claes’s mouth. Claes comes to life and coughs. Quite a bit of the liquid ends up on his face. “There you go. Clever boy. Just drink up.” He presses the bottle into Claes’s mouth and empties it. “Have some more.”
1993-04-13 8:03 p.m.
Claes is hanging from the lamp hook on the ceiling like a punching bag, his arms extended above his head. His wrists are bound with duct tape, and the duct tape is wound around the hook. He’s fighting to hold up his battered head, but it gives in to gravity and drops to his chest over and over again. Glenn is bouncing from foot to foot in front of him, as if he were in the middle of a karate match. Now and then he jumps up and kicks Claes’s head, which snaps sideways at full force. “Hold your head high, I said!” Jörgen screams from behind the camera. He walks up to Claes and cuffs his ear a few times. “Jesus Christ, you’re so disgusting! You fucking little pussy!” Claes tries, but he can’t hold his head up. His mouth moves, but no words come out at first. Then: “Please... just kill me... please,” he says in a voice that’s barely audible. Glenn enters the picture: “Come on. Let’s go grab a bite.”
1993-04-13 10:28 p.m.
Claes is lying motionless on the floor of the hall with the house phone beside him. His wrists are still bound with tape. “How the hell did he get over here?” The camera zooms in on Jörgen, who shrugs.“Well, it doesn’t matter, since the line was cut.” Jörgen holds up the severed end of the telephone cord. “But you didn’t think about that, did you? You disgusting little bastard!” Jörgen grabs the phone and slams it into Claes’s head again and again. “Hey! Only hands and feet,” says Glenn from outside the camera frame. Jörgen throws down the phone, lifting Claes’s feet and dragging him back into the room.
Lilja pressed pause and turned to face the others. “It continues on like this for another hour.”
None of the others spoke.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Klippan managed at last. “I’m starting to wonder whose side I’m on.”
“I don’t understand how he survived,” Tuvesson said, standing up. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I need to take a break.”
“Should we decide on a time to resume our meeting?” Lilja wondered.
“No,” Tuvesson said, and left the room.
39
HE WOKE UP FROM a pain that felt like a serrated knife was being pushed into his chest. He reached for the button to increase his dose of morphine and pressed it — nothing happened, so he pressed it again. He had a faint memory of some men wearing white, probably doctors. They were discussing his case. As far as he could tell, they were saying that he would survive, but it would take years of physical therapy if he were ever to walk again. Or was it the other way around — that no amount of physical therapy would get him back on his feet?
He tried to count the days he had been awake, but it was difficult. Everything had a tendency to melt together into a haze of days, nurses, examinations, and meals. He understood enough to know that he was seriously injured and in a hospital, probably Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen, given his injuries.
He remembered some of the details of what had happened that night: how he’d walked toward the perpetrator as he was putting the tire back on the Peugeot; the way he’d grabbed his pistol but didn’t draw it in time; and being surprised as the lug wrench struck him in the ear. But the memories were only fragmented images.
A woman had dropped by today. He was hoping it would be Else, but as the woman came closer, he realized she was definitely not who he was hoping for — she was nowhere near as beautiful. No one was more beautiful than Else. Else was the first thing he thought about when he woke up every morning in the hospital. He wondered if she knew what had happened to him and if she missed him? Did anyone miss him?
The woman was a police officer but she was dressed in civilian clothing. She said she had initially visited him two days ago. She was on the hunt for the person who’d injured him and she claimed to know his identity. She showed him a photograph, but it wasn’t him. At least, he hadn’t thought it was him. But now that she was gone he felt unsure all of a sudden — unsure of what he’d said and what he had seen.
He tried to concentrate on what he knew for sure, hoping that various small details might spark the rest of his memories to return. But all he could come up with was that he couldn’t be absolutely certain of anything.
What if none of it had really happened? What if it was all just a dream, a dream that might come to an end at any moment when his alarm went off? His alarm made a horrible sound. If this turned out to be just a dream, he decided he would finally get a clock radio instead.
He pressed the morphine button again. The acute, sharp pain was almost completely gone, but there was still a pulsating, dull ache everywhere. A shapeless sea of questions floated around inside his head. Maybe he would stop breathing if he held his breath for long enough? Was that possible? Else, his beloved Else, did she know what had happened? Was she sorry she left him? Did she think about him? Did she even care?
He looked up and noticed one of the ceiling tiles was moving, revealing a hole above him. Maybe the tile had never been there? His thoughts moved to his colleagues. Had he made a fool of himself in front of them? He took a deep breath and felt the knife twist in his chest again. A figure in dark clothing came down a rope through the hole in the ceiling and walked up to him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, all of his doubts vanished. He didn’t even need to see the man’s face. He was totally certain that the man currently injecting a syringe into his IV bag was the same man who had struck him with the lug wrench and run him over in the Peugeot with Swedish plates. What was the licence plate number again? The man pulled out the syringe and massaged the IV bag.
JOS 652, Morten thought. A wave of peacefulness washed through him. The last thing he remembered was the sound of blaring alarms from the machines. They howled like crazy monkeys crowded into a tiny cage.
40
THE BELLS OF
LELLINGE Church were already ringing when Fabian Risk arrived, a reminder that everything comes to an end. He hadn’t been able to find his black suit, so he was wearing black jeans and a dark-grey wool jacket that felt far too warm. The church was full to capacity and he had to push his way through to find a place to stand along the side. Fabian was surprised Mette Louise had thought she had no friends.
The pastor who led the service had both christened and confirmed Mette Louise Risgaard. He spoke of her as a fantastic girl, full of life and joy. Many people were crying openly, and even the pastor had trouble keeping the tears at bay. He spoke of how Mette Louise had cried, or rather screamed, so loudly during her christening that not even the church organ had been able to drown her out. But she’d grown quiet as the consecrated water touched her little head and had given the congregation a smile that could have melted the polar ice caps.
The pastor was certain that Mette Louise and God had seen each other and he wanted this knowledge to act as an extended hand to help all of them through the sorrow that lay ahead.
“There is purpose in all of God’s actions, even this one. We don’t always understand it, but it can be helpful just to know that it exists.”
If the purpose was to make the lump in his throat grow, God had succeeded, Fabian thought. The killer was right: Fabian was the only person to blame for Mette Louise’s death.
After the ceremony, the churchwarden showed everyone to the neighbouring hall for coffee and cookies. Most people seemed to know each other, and within fifteen minutes the hall was buzzing with conversation. Fabian stood alone with a cup of coffee, wanting nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible, but something told him it was important to stay, not to run away, from his guilt.
He struggled to stand still, and started walking among the mourners. A few children were grouped around a cell phone, and a few older gentlemen in suits were sitting at a round table. He gathered that they were talking about the warm summer. One of the men claimed this year was nothing compared to the summers of the 1930s.
A short, round woman, roughly Fabian’s age, kept looking at him from a group standing further down the hall. He acknowledged her stares with a smile and short nod, but she didn’t respond positively. It was quite the opposite — the woman looked more and more upset as she spoke with the others in the group.
Fabian put the pieces together and realized that she must be Mette Louise Risgaard’s mother. He thought about going up and saying hello, but he didn’t have enough time to make a decision because the woman was suddenly walking toward him. He extended his hand, but she didn’t take it. She asked his name. He introduced himself and promised to do everything in his power to catch the killer.
“The killer? You’re the killer! It’s your fault!” the woman shouted. “You’re the one who murdered her, who sentenced her to death!” The woman beat his chest with her fists, screaming over and over again that he was a murderer and he deserved to burn in hell.
Fabian didn’t try to resist. The rest of the congregation stopped talking and turned to watch the incident unfold. A man with short hair and suspenders approached them.
“What the hell is going on here? Are you the Swedish police officer?”
Fabian nodded. Before he could react, the man shoved him. Fabian lost his balance and spilled his coffee on his white shirt as he fell to the floor. The man straddled him and drew his fist back to hit him again, but Fabian was faster. He grabbed the man’s arm, pulled him down onto the floor, and then pushed himself up, allowing him to lock the man’s arm behind his back.
“Let’s take it easy here, okay?” Fabian increased the pressure to show him that he was serious. Three other men quickly yanked Fabian away and advised him to make himself scarce as fast as he could. He heeded their advice and hurried out of the hall. He heard people shouting that it was important to keep Denmark clean and trail the Swedish bastards back to the border.
He got behind the wheel of his car, locked the doors, and tried to stick the key in the ignition. But his jittery hand refused to obey him, and it took a few deep breaths before he was able to insert and turn the key, using both hands. He was definitely shaken.
On the way out of the church parking lot, he thought about the pastor’s speech. If Mette Louise’s death had any point at all, it was to help them find the killer before any more innocent people lost their lives. Fabian couldn’t put his finger on why, but something told him that no matter how hard his new colleagues worked, the whole case depended on him. He put the car in gear, let up the clutch, and aimed for Copenhagen.
41
DUNJA HOUGAARD WOKE UP to the sound of a flushing toilet. It took her several seconds to realize that she was in the bathroom of the violent crimes unit at the Copenhagen police station. She had been so busy over the past twenty-four hours that her only chance to get some rest was to lock herself in a bathroom at work.
Morten Steenstrup’s death had turned everything upside down. She’d heard about it just after two thirty this morning. She always went out on Tuesday nights — it was her only night out all week — and last night had been no exception. It was a ritual she’d had ever since she left her ex-boyfriend Carsten, which she’d done on a Tuesday night almost seven months ago.
She had gone up to Stockholm to surprise him; he was at a trade seminar with lots of other Nordea employees. But she found her live-in boyfriend/fiancé/father of her future children in bed with one of his Swedish colleagues, just the way it happens in bad movies. She turned around without saying a word and walked straight into the Stockholm night, her desire for revenge on the brink of boiling over.
She ended up at Kvarnen, an old beer hall in the heart of Södermalm. She had no problem finding someone to fuck. She couldn’t remember his name, and maybe he’d never even told her. All she remembered was that he had red hair and was bigger than Carsten.
A little over a week later, she felt like she was more or less over Carsten. She hadn’t given him a single thought since the redheaded Swede. A man would have done the exact same thing in my situation, she thought, and it had worked. She’d felt happier and lighter than she had in a long time, and she decided to make it a tradition. She would go out every Tuesday to top up on validation.
She had only ever missed three Tuesdays. Two of them could be blamed on the flu, but the third was because her father’s new wife died after a long battle with lung cancer. He’d called a bit later in the evening, when she already had a few drinks in her. As soon as she realized who was calling, she regretted picking up the phone, but she couldn’t bring herself to hang up. She agreed to keep him company even though she had never even met his wife and she’d stopped speaking to him several years before. She arrived at Rigshospitalet, where he was keeping vigil, twenty minutes later. She sat beside him and held his hands. Neither of them said anything all night. When the sun came up, he pulled his hands away and told her she could go and that he wouldn’t need her help from now on.
They hadn’t spoken since. She knew he was still alive, and she knew where he lived. Sometimes she even wondered how she would react if he died. She hoped she would shrug with indifference, even though she knew deep down that she wouldn’t be able to escape the grief — for everything they never had time to work out and for all the things she never said out loud.
She had spent this past Tuesday in Kødbyen, where she had met a black American who worked as a commercial director. His attempt at Danish put her in a good mood, and after a few mojitos her problems at work seemed as blurry as the mint leaves behind the condensation on her glass. She got the call from work just as the American was unhooking her bra and kissing her breasts.
The hospital was in complete chaos when she arrived twenty- five minutes later. No one knew what was going on. What was the cause of death? Had he taken his own life, or had someone murdered him? And if so, who — and how? The whole ward had been under heavy guard. And to be totally honest, she’d still been a little drunk.
She looked down at her
phone and saw that she had slept for forty-seven minutes. She got up from the seat of the toilet, and fixed her hair and lipstick before she left the bathroom. On her way back to her desk she wondered again how the perpetrator had managed it. So far, they hadn’t been able to find any clues that might lead in any particular direction. Richter was still on the scene with his technicians. She emphasized, for the second time, that they would have to continue searching until they found something.
Her buzz was finally starting to wear off, and she mostly just felt hungover now. She cupped her hand over her mouth to smell her own breath. Just as she decided that she should probably avoid talking for the rest of the day, Jan Hesk caught up with her with an update: Oscar Pedersen in forensic medicine had just called with Morten’s cause of death.
“It was suffocation,” he said.
“Suffocation? How? There were no signs on his body.”
“No visible ones, but he had high levels of botulinum in his blood.”
Dunja was very familiar with botulinum toxin, which was basically the same neurotoxin used in Botox. In high doses it could paralyze the muscles of the chest and cause suffocation.
“Did they check the IV bag?”
Hesk nodded. “Apparently there was enough toxin in there to kill half of Denmark. And speaking of...” He smiled and held out a packet of Fisherman’s Friend. She ought to have been insulted, but she took a lozenge without protest.
“Take another one. Or a couple.”
She took two more and headed for her office.
“It might be best if you took the whole bag,” he yelled after her. She gave him the finger over her shoulder without turning around.
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