“Come on, that was almost thirty years ago!” Lilja said. “The school must have been renovated several times since then.”
“Apparently not,” Klippan said. “According to Link, the school is set to undergo its first true renovation next summer, so there’s a chance his theory could be true. How do we know for sure?”
“I suggest you go over to Fredriksdal and take a look,” said Tuvesson. “It seems like we don’t have anything to lose.”
Klippan nodded mutely.
“Irene, you’re coming with me. Ingvar, go to Ramlösa Brunnspark to investigate our new crime scene.”
They all gulped the last of the coffee from their mugs and stood up.
“There’s one thing we haven’t discussed,” Lilja said. “Jörgen and Glenn, the two class bullies, were the first victims. But now we’ve added Claes and this Ingela person to the list. How do they fit in? Does that mean everyone in the class is a potential victim?”
Tuvesson didn’t know how to respond. The same thought had occurred to her, but she had dismissed it, perhaps because it felt as frightening as it was impossible to answer. Or maybe she was just too tired.
“I suppose we ought to put everyone under police protection,” said Klippan.
“We don’t have the resources,” Tuvesson said. “We already have four men stationed at the hospital with Risk and Ploghed, and we’ll have four more working the next shift because they need twenty-four-hour security. I’ll call Malmö and see if they can help us out.” Deep down she knew that they wouldn’t be able to spare enough men. There was only one form of protection they could offer — capturing the killer.
55
ALTHOUGH HE DID ALL he could to move as slowly as possible through the hospital’s seemingly endless corridors, the smallest movements stabbed at Fabian’s back like a thousand needles. The two uniformed officers who had sat outside his door during the night had been switched out for two new cops, and they had reluctantly agreed to escort him to the emergency department, where he was hoping to find Ingela Ploghed. Neither of the officers had said a word during the slow journey, and Fabian wondered if they were playing the Quiet Game or if they were just angry at each other.
He had woken to the headline ANOTHER VICTIM IN THE CLASS OF EVIL forty minutes earlier. I’m part of the class of evil, he thought. He mouthed the words and tried to figure out why he had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. For the first time, the perpetrator had failed to kill his victim. Was that his intention? Furthermore, he remembered Ingela Ploghed as one of the kindest people in the class. He couldn’t recall her ever saying a mean word about anyone. In fact, she was the only person who had dared to stand up for Claes.
In one lesson they had presented their dream jobs to each other, and Ingela had said that she wanted to become a lawyer to help those who were weak and vulnerable. He had no idea if she had followed through with her goal, but he had got wind of a rumour that she suffered from serious depression and had even tried to take her own life.
When they finally arrived at the block of elevators, Fabian broke the silence and asked one of the officers not to press any of the buttons; he wanted to do it himself.
As a boy, he had loved playing with these very elevators. There were four of them in the middle of the cross-shaped hospital building — one for each point of the compass. The round elevator vestibule had a large control panel in the middle and it felt like you were beaming right up into the command bridge of the starship Enterprise every time you got in. All the elevator buttons were on this central podium — you even used it to select the floor you wanted to go to, rather than using buttons inside the elevators.
Fabian glanced around and realized that it still brought him the same sensation. The room had aged with similar plasticky dignity to Star Trek, and Christine Chapel’s healing laser beam was the only thing missing. He pressed the green street-level button and the elevator doors opened soon after.
*
“YOU’RE ALREADY BACK ON your feet?” Lilja asked when Fabian shuffled into the emergency department.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I want to see how your burn looks.” Lilja walked around and stood behind Fabian, looking down at his neck under his hospital gown. “Oh, shit.”
“Thanks. Just what I needed to hear.”
“I’m guessing you’re here for the same reason we are, vacation notwithstanding,” Tuvesson said. Fabian looked at her without responding.
A doctor joined them and pulled down his mask before shaking Tuvesson’s hand.
“I understand you’re here about Ingela Ploghed.”
“How is she?”
“She’s okay, given the circumstances. We’ve finally got the bleeding under control. It took some time before we figured out what had actually happened to her.” The doctor stopped speaking and glanced around to make sure that no one else was listening. “Someone without medical skills tried to perform a vaginal hysterectomy on her.”
“What does that mean?”
“He surgically removed her uterus.”
Tuvesson turned to Fabian as if she were waiting for him to say something, but he was far too preoccupied trying to think of why someone would subject Ingela Ploghed to a vaginal hysterectomy — or anything at all cruel.
“How do you know he wasn’t a doctor?” Lilja asked.
“The incisions aren’t anywhere near where they ought to be, and he didn’t bother to close up the wound. There were high levels of benzodiazepines in her urine, which is medication used for treating anxiety and insomnia.”
“Someone drugged her and performed the operation while she was unconscious?”
“Yes, but someone raped her first.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll send you a written report, but first I have to continue on my rounds.” The doctor took off before they could ask any follow-up questions. Tuvesson shook her head and turned to the others: the news of the rape seemed to overshadow the entire torturous operation. As far as Fabian was concerned, the rape removed all doubt.
“At least we’ve confirmed the killer’s sex,” said Tuvesson.
“And that we probably have conclusive evidence,” adding Lilja.
Tuvesson nodded.
“This isn’t our perpetrator,” said Fabian. “It’s someone else.”
“Why would it be a different perpetrator?” Tuvesson asked.
“It doesn’t fit with the previous pattern,” Fabian said, suggesting that they take a seat in the café.
“I actually see quite a few similarities,” Lilja disagreed as she cleared away the dirty coffee cups and saucers from the table and rubbed the dried spots with a napkin. “Besides the obvious ones, like the fact she was in the same class as the rest of the victims, we have the meticulously planned actions. Not to mention the timing. I was starting to hope he was finished.”
“Yes. Many of us were hoping that,” Tuvesson said, putting down the tray containing their order.
Fabian tasted what the hospital insisted on calling a cappuccino and realized that Lilja and Tuvesson had made the right choice by ordering tea. “Our perpetrator doesn’t rape his victims.”
“We don’t know that with certainty. Ingela was the first female victim,” said Tuvesson.
“Other than Mette Louise Risgaard, but point taken,” Lilja added.
“Ingela Ploghed was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met,” Fabian said. “She was more or less the only one in our class who stood up for Claes and always took his side. Why would anyone want to hurt her? And what does her uterus have to do with anything?”
“But Claes Mällvik isn’t a suspect anymore — he’s dead,” Tuvesson said.
“Maybe the perpetrator is planning on killing everyone in the class one by one? I’m sorry to be grim, but it’s a possibility,” Lilja said.
Fabian nodded. He knew exactly what she meant: he had been thinking the same thing for the past few hours — anyone from the class, including
himself, could be next. “But why didn’t he kill her? Our guy wouldn’t have left her alive.”
“Maybe he was just unsuccessful.”
“It’s possible, but if you ask me, he doesn’t seem like the type to fail. He’s in the process of building something up, I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, I heard you had a theory that the moss we found underneath Claes’s body was meant to be his self-portrait,” Lilja said.
“More like his self-image.” Fabian gave the brown sludge another try, but gave up and pushed the cup away.
“What’s to say that the removal of Ingela’s uterus wasn’t part of his plan? Maybe we just can’t see the connection yet,” Tuvesson said.
She had a point. It was certainly possible that this was the same guy, and that everything would be explained in good time, but Fabian had his doubts. Unlike Tuvesson, he had nothing to base his argument on except a strong suspicion that it didn’t fit. He had a gut feeling that the person who had done this to Ingela was someone else entirely. On the other hand, he had been absolutely sure that Claes Mällvik was the perpetrator, so he couldn’t be sure about anything related to this case now. All he knew was that whoever had done this would probably strike again soon.
56
KIM SLEIZNER HADN’T SLEPT a wink since the news had landed like a bombshell. He and Viveca had been out on the balcony drinking wine, looking out across the water and down at the crowds on Islands Brygge. They had been discussing the possibility of travelling somewhere other than Thailand this winter. Viveca had suggested Vietnam; apparently it was like an unspoiled Thailand. Kim had been receptive to all her suggestions because he was in an excellent mood: he finally had some dirt on Dunja, not to mention the newsworthiness of the conflict with the Swedes had finally started to cool off. Pretty soon, the record heat wave would dominate the headlines again. But Nanna had come running out just when they had decided to uncork a bottle of De Saint Gall Brut Rosé.
“Dad, you’re in Ekstra Bladet! It says you’re a liar!”
At first he’d had no idea what she was talking about. Why would he be in Ekstra Bladet? What could he have possibly lied about?
A few seconds later, panic started creeping in through his pores. He handed the champagne to Viveca and followed Nanna to her computer.
He had locked himself in the bathroom after he read the article so that he could splash water on his face and collect himself. He needed to figure out how to get himself out of this situation. When he had come back onto the balcony, Viveca was sitting in a chair, staring straight into the darkness with the half-empty bottle of Saint Gall in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Wow, you have to be quick if you want any champagne around here,” he had said, adding a laugh to emphasize that he was joking. But the laugh was far too tentative, revealing that he knew exactly what had happened.
“You bastard. I want you to leave,” she responded. There wasn’t a trace of bitterness or anger in her voice. It was just a quiet statement, like a cashier at the grocery store telling you how much you owed. “You can get your things tomorrow while I’m at work.”
It had dawned on him that she was far more prepared for this situation than he was. In truth, she had been waiting for something like this to surface. She had known all along but hadn’t said a thing. She’d waited for him to embarrass himself. She’d wanted to catch him with his pants down.
He’d left the house without saying a word and checked into Hotel Kong Frederik, where he got a room looking out onto Vester Voldgade. Kim had lay on the bed, nervous about how big a story he was going to be, and waited for the next news segment to start on TV. But they didn’t say anything about him or what had happened on Lille Istedgade. The news hadn’t spread beyond Ekstra Bladet yet, which did not reassure him in the least. It was only a matter of hours before all hell would break loose. He’d turned out the lights and tried to sleep, but eventually gave up and opened the minibar.
The next morning he’d woken up on the floor with a pounding headache that only improved after drinking the last little bottle of Gammel Dansk. After a quick shower, he’d checked out and left the hotel. On the way to his car, he’d realized that the story had spread — his name was in all the papers. Politiken blamed him entirely for Mette Louise Risgaard’s death, while Ekstra Bladet was focused on his Lille Istedgade activities, offering a 50,000-kroner reward to anyone who could clarify exactly what he was doing at the time.
The ride home to his apartment in Islands Brygge was fine, even though he was in no condition to drive. He didn’t want to take a taxi and risk being recognized by some chatty driver. Once he got home, he went straight to his office and turned on his laptop so he could follow the latest developments. The most recent articles had been up for at least two hours already, a minor eternity in this type of situation.
During his drive home, he had wondered whether he should just turn his back on it all, go straight to the airport, and buy the first one-way ticket he found to somewhere warm. If he could empty his bank accounts fast enough — faster than Viveca’s greedy fingers could, that is — he could last for a very long time in Thailand. He already had his diving certificate, so maybe he could learn to be a scuba instructor.
He took a deep breath, went onto Ekstra Bladet’s website, and immediately learned that the 50,000-kroner reward had already been paid out. Jenny “Wet Pussy” Nielsen had gone public, revealing that Kim had been in her apartment on Lille Istedgade at the time in question. She did not, however, wish to reveal exactly what they’d been doing out of consideration for her client, but she did mention he was one of her regulars.
This was all that fucking cunt Dunja’s fault. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Instead of taking his warning seriously, she had publicly spat in his face and declared war. He would give her a battle — one that he wouldn’t quit even when she got down on her knees to beg and plead for forgiveness.
But first, Kim needed to think through the situation in peace and quiet. He wanted to weigh up his options, and evaluate the repercussions of each of them. There had been enough surprises. From now on, he would be back in control of the situation and stay a step ahead of everyone else. His phone started to ring, interrupting the calm — it was the national police commissioner, Henrik Hammersten.
*
DUNJA HOUGAARD SAT DOWN at her desk and turned on her computer. Her days with the Copenhagen police were numbered, so she had to work quickly. The Sleazeball would probably hide away a little while longer, licking his wounds. But there was nothing more dangerous than an injured lion, and once he emerged from his cage it would be her hide he was out to get.
She was aware of the consequences and had made up her mind: this case was more important than her career. She had lain awake all night, reviewing her options over and over again in her mind, only to realize that the choice was really quite simple. This was exactly the sort of investigation that had spurred her to become a police officer in the first place. She couldn’t just back down.
She logged onto the police network with her name and password and clicked on the tab titled “Forms.” Though she had never used a H3-49U, the form for special release of technical evidence, she knew exactly where to find it. She clicked on the PDF symbol and the form appeared on her screen. She filled in the information: Peugeot, Swedish registration, JOS 652, archive number 100705-B39C, to be released to the Swedish police authority in Helsingborg for technical investigation. She signed off as “Kim Sleizner” and clicked the print button. Then she placed the printout on top of her old employment contract and adjusted its position until Kim’s signature was right where she needed it. She chose her best pen, tested it on a piece of scrap paper, and began falsifying the document.
She had everything to lose, but her hand didn’t shake at all. She wasn’t the least bit nervous. She blew the ink dry, folded the form, and left her office. Maybe for the last time, she thought as she walked through the hall.
The elevator door opened the moment she pressed
the button. She stepped inside, swiped her security badge, and pressed the button for sub-basement four. The elevator doors closed and the car started to descend, feeling like it was moving slower than the usual free fall that caused her feet to feel light on the floor. This time it was practically plodding down, as if to mess with her. She took a few deep breaths, but she couldn’t relax. The elevator slowed down and stopped at ground level. The doors opened and the Sleazeball stepped in.
“Hello,” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible.
He didn’t respond; instead, he gave her a look and pressed six. The door closed and the elevator continued its descent.
It felt like the walls were closing in on her. She tried to find somewhere to focus her attention and chose a small scratch on the door. Should she say something? No, she decided, best to act natural. But what was natural about this situation? She was sweating, and felt hot and sticky. She tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t go away. Don’t take your eyes off the scratch on the door. Just keep focusing on it and wait out these never-ending seconds.
Sleizner was standing less than a metre away from her and she could feel his eyes drilling into her side. Has he figured out what I’ve been up to? she thought. He was chewing gum, but it seemed to have no effect on his breath, which stank of stale alcohol and made the enclosed space feel even smaller.
When the elevator door finally opened, it took great effort to avoid running out.
“See you,” he said. She turned around, but only caught a glimpse of him smiling as the doors closed.
*
THE AIR ESCAPED FROM Kim Sleizner like he was a punctured tire as he collapsed on the fold-down chair and put his head in his hands. Dunja was the very last person he’d wanted to run into at this particular moment, but he’d handled it with panache and turned it into a beneficial encounter. All his years of being the boss had paid off. He had immediately gone on the offensive and hadn’t responded to her greeting or shown any signs of hesitation whatsoever. His gaze hadn’t wavered an inch.
Victim Without a Face Page 26