Victim Without a Face

by Stefan Ahnhem

  More than ten years had passed, but she remembered the first blow like it happened yesterday. They had been at her childhood friend Pavlan’s for dinner. Her name was Elsa Hallin now that she was married to Jerker. The Hallins had invited them over for fondue after finding a fondue set while cleaning out the basement. During dinner they all talked about how unfair it was that such a delicious meal had been banished to the basement for who knows how long. Then they started talking about everything they liked about the 1980s, and she noticed that Björne had gone silent.

  The Volvo’s taillights flashed on and she had to brake hard so that she didn’t rear-end the other car. She looked over her shoulder to see if she could drive past, but a truck was struggling to pass her on an incline. What was the point?

  Björne hated everything to do with the eighties. It didn’t matter that he had just gobbled down all that fondue as if he had a hollow leg. He despised anything eighties — full stop. The others discussed clothes and hairstyles, describing how much more fun it had been than the nineties. Pavlan commented that the obligatory nineties outfit — ripped bleached jeans, T-shirts, and flannel — was not a good look. She was apparently unaware that Björne was wearing a white T-shirt under an unbuttoned plaid lumberjack shirt. Or maybe she had been perfectly aware of it? It would have been so typical of Pavlan to want to stir the pot.

  Camilla had tried to backtrack by saying that she thought plaid shirts could be pretty hot. Björne opened his mouth for the first time in twenty minutes. “The eighties were just for fucking faggots and homos with their goddamn shoulder pads and shit.” Jerker had wondered what the difference was between faggots and homos, and raised his glass with a sneer.

  The Volvo’s brake lights flashed again and Camilla slowed down. Her speedometer was down to 125 kilometres per hour.

  Everyone but Björne had drunk a toast. By all indications, his mood was way into the red danger zone. Camilla had tried to steer the conversation over to work. Pavlan caught on and said that her boss consistently under-prioritized children’s literature.

  “So, you’re seriously saying you like that homo music they were making back then?” Björne had hissed. “Soft Cell and those Human League guys didn’t even use real instruments. Fucking homos in makeup who couldn’t even sing!”

  If there was anything they could do, it was sing, Camilla thought as she noticed a green light come on in the back window of the Volvo, which was still right in front of her. Her thoughts quickly returned to that dinner. Jerker must have been super drunk because he really egged on Björne. “That’s the kind of thing a closeted homo would say,” Jerker had exclaimed and started singing, “Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me? Oh!” as he got up, kneeled in front of Björne, and started rubbing his thighs. “You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you. I picked you out. I shook you up, and turned you around...” As Camilla tried to remember more of the details, the little camera in the car in front of her was in the process of locating her face and guiding the green ray up along her windshield.

  Pavlan had cracked up, and Camilla also had a hard time holding back her laughter. Jerker just kept singing and showing off at Björne’s feet, “Turned you into someone new,” until she and Pavlan were howling with laughter. By the time she realized that Björne’s expression had gone completely stony, it was too late. He stood up so fast that his chair tipped over and he informed her they were leaving. She had been stupid enough to obey him.

  Once they got home, he’d locked the door with the deadbolt and a key. She’d watched him stick the key in his pocket, take a deep breath, and turn toward her.

  She screamed as burning pain penetrated her left eye. It felt like someone had either thrown acid at her eye or stuck a needle into it. She closed both eyes and grabbed her face, but she couldn’t detect any substances or objects. All she could feel was the intense pain that continued to burn into her eye socket. Her car was running off the road, but she managed to straighten out before it was too late. She stopped screaming and tried to calm down. What the hell was going on? Was she having a stroke or was it some sort of blood clot? Her eye still hurt, but the pain was dying down and becoming more manageable. She was soaked with sweat, but felt cold. Everything felt tight and sticky. She took the wheel with her left hand, and used her free hand to cover her right eye to establish if she could see out of the left one — she couldn’t. What kind of sick nightmare was this? She just wanted to wake up.

  She saw the green light again as it shot out from the back of the Volvo and hit her windshield. This was no dream. The narrow beam travelled up across her chest. What the hell was it? Her thoughts didn’t get any further than that before she felt the burning again: the same needle-like pain, but this time in her right eye. Everything went blurry and she could only see colourful spheres moving across her retinas. She screamed as loudly as she could while trying to keep the car in its lane, but her hands refused to obey and the steering wheel seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Camilla’s BMW veered into the side of a truck, only to pinball back into her lane and spin out into the grass, where it struck the STRÖVELSTORP 500M sign. One leg of the sign smashed the right headlight and caused the car to ricochet back onto the highway in front of a semi-trailer, which crushed the back of the car under its wheels like a tin can in a bottle-return machine. One revolution later, the car landed on its roof and slid across the road before coming to a standstill.

  The cars around the BMW stopped, quickly creating a long traffic jam. The driver of the truck and a few other drivers got out of their cars and looked at Camilla’s mangled BMW, which resembled a beetle on its back, wheels spinning in the air. A few people took out their phones and called for an ambulance. Others called home to tell their families how much they loved them. One of the men walked up to the BMW, opened the driver’s door, and felt unsuccessfully for a pulse in Camilla’s neck. He got back into his burgundy Volvo and drove off.

  60

  FABIAN HAD BEEN BEDRIDDEN for over twenty-four hours now and recognized that he would not survive another day of rest. A few more hours, and he would likely die of boredom. It didn’t matter how much the hospital personnel nagged him about the importance of rest: the murder of Claes Mällvik — the latest twist in the case — would not give him a moment of peace.

  Tuvesson also wasn’t making it easy for him to relax. She had done all she could to hide her helplessness, but her eyes had given her true feelings away: deep down, she had given up hope of solving the case. It didn’t matter to Fabian that he was officially off the investigation and stuck in hospital; it was now up to him to figure out how everything was connected — or if it even was connected.

  He really wanted to leave the hospital, but his back pain was too severe. He couldn’t even get out of bed. He was paying the price for his walk down to the emergency department. He gave in and took pills to alleviate the pain; a numbing calm spread through his body. With any luck he would now be able to focus on his work — because, pain or no pain, he was going to work.

  A messenger had dropped by his house to pick up his computer, cell phone charger, and some underwear. He had managed to convince the station receptionist, Florian Nilsson, to send over everything from his desk at the station to the hospital. One of the nurses helped him obtain a power bar, a shelving unit on wheels, a work lamp, and a foldable tray table that made an excellent bed desk.

  He plugged the charger in and turned on his phone first. There was a message from Sonja: On the train. Theo didn’t want to come. Gave him 500 kr. so he doesn’t starve while you’re in the hospital. Please call and make sure everything’s okay. Sonja.

  He called Theodor right away, but there was no answer. He called Sonja instead and tried to tell her how he was feeling, but she was only interested in knowing whether he’d spoken to Theo. He explained that he had only just got his phone charger, and promised to try again as soon as they were done talking. “Then I think we should hang up now,” she said.

/>   Fabian really didn’t want to hang up and so he asked how she and Matilda were doing. Sonja said they’d been to the Gröna Lund amusement park with her sister and the cousins, and they’d had a wonderful time. “Listen, I have to go now. Call Theo.”

  “I love you,” he said, and waited for her response.

  “Call me as soon as you’ve talked to him.”

  Fabian dialled their new home number and listened to the phone ring again and again, echoing slowly into the ether. He tried Theodor’s cell again, but the voicemail came on after only three rings. He was probably playing video games in his room. Fabian promised himself he would try to get Theo to leave his room more, to help him do something other than imaginary killing.

  An officer wearing a uniform that was at least two sizes too small opened the door.

  “We have a delivery here for you — just a couple of things from the station.”

  The messenger came in with a box stuffed full of binders and documents, and handed him a sheet of paper to sign.

  “I don’t suppose you have the phone number of your colleague who was at my house about an hour ago picking up a computer and some other things?” Fabian asked while signing the paper.

  “Pålsjögatan 17?”

  Fabian nodded.

  “Let me check,” he said, looking up the information. “It was Jocke the Rocker.” He found the number on his phone and showed it to Fabian, who punched the number into his own cell and dialled it.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Jocke?”

  “Yes. What’s this about?”

  “My name is Fabian Risk. You picked up a computer and a few other things from my house earlier today... Pålsjögatan 17.”

  “Listen, I’m done with work for the day.”

  “I just have a quick question.”

  He heard an exaggerated sigh on the other end.

  “Was my son at the house when you were there? He’s fourteen and has dark, shoulder-length hair.”

  “No idea. But someone was blasting Marilyn Manson as loud as it’s supposed to be heard.”

  “Thanks, that’s all I wanted to hear.” Fabian hung up and felt sudden relief, something he never thought Marilyn Manson at the highest decibel would ever bring him.

  Twenty minutes later, his phone flashed with a new text message: Hey Dad. Saw you called. I was out getting a kebab, just about to pay. When are you coming home?

  He typed a response: As soon as the doctors let me go. My phone is back on now, so just let me know if anything happens, or even better, why not come visit A . He sent the text and wrote another: Honey, just heard from Theo. He’s apparently eating kebabs ’til they come out his ears. Kisses. F.

  He put down his phone. Finally, he could get to work.

  61

  THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE, Tuvesson thought as she paid for the pizza and told Lilja, Molander, and Klippan that the food had arrived. Their focus had dwindled along with their blood sugar, and if they didn’t eat something soon they might as well close up shop. The team had been working intensly all day and night, and their lack of sleep had long since passed a reasonable level. In an attempt to rid herself of the hopelessness she’d been feeling, Tuvesson had decided that no one was allowed to go home until the investigation had taken a big step forward. If the food served its purpose, they would get a second wind, which was Tuvesson’s favourite. Everyone in the group was focused and committed to solving the case at any price during a second wind. Everything else was subordinate. Ordinarily, everyone would go home to his or her family, but for now they were the family. It reminded her of being a kid and sleeping over at her best friend’s house, playing doctor or building with Lego all weekend. They were always in pyjamas because there was never any time to change. There was hardly even any time to eat — playing was the only thing that mattered.

  Lilja and Molander rushed over and opened the two-litre bottle of Coke. They each poured themselves a glass. “If I had to choose between drinking only wine or Coke for the rest of my life, I would definitely pick Coke,” Lilja said, chugging her glass.

  “What kind of pizza did you get?” Molander asked, poking at the boxes.

  “What kind did you want?”

  “Oh... uh... maybe a kebab pizza?”

  “Your wish is my command,” Tuvesson said, handing him one of the boxes.

  Although he never wanted to admit it, nine times out of ten Molander wanted at least half a kebab pizza. After a few slices, he usually got tired of the taste and wanted to try everyone else’s pizza. Tuvesson had ordered on the safe side and got six different kinds of pizza.

  “Where’s Klippan? Doesn’t he want any?”

  “He locked himself in the conference room. He’ll come out as soon as he’s finished with that graffiti analysis,” Lilja said.

  “Oh right... that theory,” Molander said disdainfully.

  “I know it’s a long shot,” Tuvesson said. “But Klippan has put a lot of time and energy into it, so I want us to give him an honest chance. Okay?”

  Molander and Lilja nodded, sat down, and started eating as though their survival depended on it. One-third of a kebab pizza later, Molander broke the silence.

  “What else have we got on Ingela Ploghed?”

  “More and more,” Tuvesson said. “I’ve got a written report on her examination from the doctor, which is really just a repeat of what he told us earlier today.”

  “What did it say?”

  “The operation definitely wasn’t performed by a real doctor.”

  “How can he know that?”

  “For one, whoever did this to Ingela used a standard scalpel, which isn’t meant for performing a hysterectomy — not to mention it wasn’t sterilized.”

  “Oh my God,” Lilja said

  “The perpetrator also went in vaginally instead of an incision in the abdomen, which is considered the easier route.”

  “Let me get this straight... It’s more difficult to do a hysterectomy vaginally?” Molander asked.

  “Yes, but apparently the operation was impressively precise for a beginner.”

  Molander cut a bit of the kebab pizza. “Anyone want to trade?”

  Tuvesson and Lilja shook their heads.

  “How about you, Lilja? Have you come up with anything?”

  Lilja nodded and washed down a bite of pizza with some Coke. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t understand Ingela. She left Fredriksdal with a perfect grade point average. She also finished secondary school at the top of her class, studying natural sciences. Then she did two and a half years of law school in Lund, but then quit out of nowhere.”

  “What did she do after quitting?”

  “Nothing — that’s the weird part. She started working on the checkout at a grocery store, and is still there as far as I can tell. Talk about a waste of talent.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. She had an abortion in 1992. Ten years later, both parents died of cancer within a year of each other.”

  “Maybe the perpetrator took her uterus because she terminated a pregnancy?” Molander wondered, pushing away the kebab pizza. “Let’s consider the pattern: he took Glenn’s feet because he liked to kick, and Jörgen’s hands because he used them to hit, so why not take the uterus of someone who had an abortion?”

  “Your theory assumes it’s the same guy,” Tuvesson said.

  Molander stopped chewing and turned to Tuvesson in confusion. “Of course it’s the same guy.”

  “Not according to Risk,” Lilja said. “He thinks Ploghed breaks the pattern.”

  “Breaks the pattern? How the hell can he think that? First he took the feet, then the hands, and now the uterus from people who were all in the same class. If that’s not a pattern, I shouldn’t have a job.”

  “But Ploghed survived — not to mention he raped her.”

  “So? She’s the first female victim other than the Danish girl, who was obviously not part of the plan.”

  “True, but accordi
ng to Risk she was the only one in the class who stood up for Claes.”

  “We all know that this isn’t about Claes anymore. Someone else...” Molander stopped speaking and looked back and forth between Lilja and Tuvesson. “Are you seriously suggesting that you think it’s a different person?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what to think,” Tuvesson said.

  “Me neither,” added Lilja.

  “But I suppose I’m leaning toward the idea that all the crimes were committed by the same perpetrator. I just want us to make sure we don’t rule anything out at this stage. It could be absolutely anyone,” said Tuvesson.

  “Are there any double calzones?” they heard Klippan call from the hallway.

  “Of course.” Tuvesson pushed the fattest box down toward him.

  Klippan cleared his throat and made an announcement: “I would like to take this opportunity to invite you all to the conference room.” He had one arm out to welcome them, and appeared very pleased with himself.

  Tuvesson and the others stepped into the room and looked around. Klippan had done a remarkable job papering all the walls with printouts of graffiti, starting at the floor and running two metres up. There was even a Post-it on each picture to note the location where it was taken.

  “Wow!” Lilja exclaimed. “Is this all just from Fredriksdal School?”

  Klippan nodded. “I thought this was the best way to get an overview of the graffiti.”

  “I feel like I’ve walked straight into a giant public bathroom,” Molander said.

  “Have you found anything of interest?” Tuvesson inquired.

  “I haven’t started looking yet.” Klippan opened the pizza box and started eating as the others looked around at the walls. “I thought we could do it together. If we take a wall each, it shouldn’t take too long.”