As soon as Klippan finished eating, they spread out and got to work.
“How many ‘dick in a pussy’ do you all have?” Molander asked.
“I’m already up to three,” Lilja said.
“Does ‘suck my dick’ count?” Klippan wondered.
“No — two completely different things,” Molander objected. “One is penetration, the other is oral. Come on, we need to have some semblance of order here.”
“I have two orals already,” Tuvesson said.
“Which category does ‘Alex likes toe sex’ belong in?”
Fifteen minutes later, a focused silence had descended on the room. They all seemed committed to exhausting every possible lead. Klippan had done an enormous amount of work and they didn’t want it go to waste. He hadn’t only photographed the most obvious public graffiti — the stuff on walls and lockers — he had also found the hidden messages under desks and on the backs of chairs.
Hope you have a Plan B was written on one of the toilet-paper holders; Gays shit just like everyone else. They just have a little more fun on the underside of a toilet seat. Most of the rest were along the lines of Cecilia is a whore... HIF is best, fuck the rest!... Slipknot rules — Hellström sucks... Jörgen ♥ Lina... Rock is dead! Long live synth!
Tuvesson scanned the graffiti; she felt like she was awash in teenage minds from past and present. Some of the images revealed several layers of graffiti, like growth rings left by years of students. It took some concentration to interpret the innermost layer.
Her eyes stopped at Die, Mjälle. The Post-it identified it as coming from the back of a bench in the boys’ locker room. She shuddered and studied the picture more closely. The letters had been carved into the wood in a sprawling, angular style and looked like they had been made with a knife. The edges were smooth, meaning it could easily have been there for almost thirty years. But who would write such hateful words? Jörgen, Glenn, or the perpetrator?
“I found something interesting,” Lilja said, reading the graffiti aloud to the others: “I speak; no one listens. I ask; no one answers. The Invisible Man. What do you make of it?”
“Where was it found?” Molander asked.
“Behind the fire extinguisher in the south corridor.”
“I have a similar one,” Klippan said. “I hate every one of these fuckers, but who the hell cares? The Invisible Man.”
“Do you think it could be him?” Lilja asked the others.
“Why not?” Tuvesson said.
All four of them took a few steps back and stared at the graffiti, as if they were hoping the killer would climb out of the walls.
*
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Molander walked up to his wall, took down one of the pictures, and sat at the table, examining the photo with a magnifying glass. The others continued to work on their walls, and gathered behind Molander as soon as they’d finished.
The graffiti he was inspecting was impossible to read. Over the years, the words had worn down so much that a few dots and lines of various sizes and angles were the only things legible; Molander was trying to restore them as letters. The Post-it said that the graffiti had been found inside locker 349.
“Don’t tell me you unlocked every single locker,” Lilja asked Klippan.
“They were already open — probably so they could be emptied and cleaned over the summer.”
Tuvesson leaned over Molander’s shoulder so she could see parts of the text. No one sees me... No one... She couldn’t make out the last few words. Molander’s hand was covering the final section, and she didn’t want to disturb him. When he was this focused, it usually meant the investigation was about to take a big step forward.
She secretly thanked the kebab pizza and looked out of the panorama window, which revealed a beautiful view of night-time Helsingborg. It was an unusually clear evening and she could see all the way across the Sound to Helsingør. She could even identify the blinking light on one of the towers of Kronborg Castle. Ven Island was evident in the distance, although she had never been there, like most people from Helsingborg. Then again, it was possible the lights she thought were Ven Island were just lights from a boat.
“Here he is!” Molander exclaimed suddenly.
Tuvesson turned around. “Are you sure?”
“If this wasn’t written by our guy, I’ll throw in the towel and change careers.”
“What does it say?” Lilja asked, pouring the last of the Coke into her glass.
Molander read the graffiti, meeting the others’ gazes. “No one sees me. No one hears me. No one even bullies me. I. M.”
“He called himself the Invisible Man because no one ever noticed him, which is his whole motive, right there,” Tuvesson said. “People say that constantly being ignored and left out is one of the worst feelings. You’re not even teased. It must feel like you don’t even exist.”
“So that’s what he’s after,” Lilja said. “He wants to put himself on the map; he wants to be famous.”
Tuvesson nodded.
“So far, he seems to be doing everything he can to remain invisible,” said Klippan.
“Either way, it means he was almost certainly in the same class,” Molander said.
Tuvesson walked over to the enlarged class photo. Four of them were crossed out: Jörgen, Glenn, Claes, and their teacher, Monika Krusenstierna. There was a question mark over Ingela Ploghed. Tuvesson could feel her heart beating faster. They had finally gotten somewhere and narrowed down their pool of suspects to any one of the remaining students in the class. “We have to contact everyone who’s still alive and check their alibis.”
“Lilja and I already did that,” Klippan said. “At least, those who aren’t on vacation somewhere.”
“And?”
“Unfortunately, they’re all watertight.”
“Every single one?”
“Yep. All of mine, anyway,” Klippan said, turning to Lilja.
“Mine too.”
“What about the people who are on vacation?” Molander asked. “Have you made sure they’re really gone?”
“No, not yet,” Lilja responded.
“Make sure to do that right away, and double-check the rest of the alibis too,” Tuvesson said. “If his signature is ‘The Invisible Man,’ do we think we can assume the killer’s a man?”
“Of course it’s a man,” Molander said. “He raped Ingela Ploghed.”
“In that case, we’re down to seven suspects.”
“Does that include Risk?” Lilja asked.
Tuvesson’s eyes narrowed in on Fabian in the class picture. His hair was parted down the middle and he was wearing the same uniform as the other students: polo shirt and wool cardigan. Tuvesson was considering the question when the door opened. A man walked in whom they didn’t recognize.
“Are you the officers working on the class killer?”
“Excuse me, but who are you and how did you get in here?” Tuvesson said, as two of the building’s night-security officers rushed in after the man and grabbed him.
“Sorry, we didn’t have time to stop him and he blocked the elevator on his way up,” one guard said as they tried to drag him out of the room.
“Take it easy, for God’s sake! I only want to —”
“Report your wife missing. We know,” said the guard. “But you don’t do that here; you have to call the emergency number, which we will be happy to help you with... downstairs.” The two guards, who had run out of patience, pushed the man to the floor and shoved his arms behind his back until he started to whimper.
“Calm down or we have to get out the handcuffs!” one guard shouted in the man’s ear.
“Hold on, let him go,” Tuvesson said.
The two guards looked at her quizzically.
“It’s okay. I’ll talk to him.”
They exchanged glances and shrugged. “Okay, he’s all yours.” They let go of the man, who stood up and adjusted his clothing and hair, which was completely messed up. He looked afraid, as i
f he might be apprehended at any moment.
Tuvesson walked over and shook his hand. “My name is Astrid Tuvesson and I’m in charge of this investigation. How can I help you?”
“My wife, she... she’s gone... missing. And I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to...” The man started crying. Lilja and Klippan helped him to a chair.
“Let’s take things one step at a time. What’s your name?”
“Jerker... Jerker Hallin.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Elsa Hallin.”
“Hallin... What was her maiden name?”
“Pavlin.”
“Elsa Pavlin. She was in the same class as...”
Jerker Hallin nodded. “That’s why I’m here. It was her turn to make dinner so I could go work out. By the time I was done I had a bunch of missed calls and texts from Bea, our daughter, who wanted to know why no one was home.”
“And you’ve tried calling her, of course.”
“It just goes to voicemail.”
“Where does she work?”
“At the central branch of the library, downtown. I already talked to them. She’s not there.”
“Were they able to tell you when she left the library?”
Jerker trembled, ignoring the question. “Please... can’t you put out a description or send out a search party? Anything.”
“Of course we can do that,” Tuvesson said, although she knew it was already too late.
62
DUNJA HOUGAARD HELD ONE leg above the surface of the water and ran the razor up her shin. She wiggled her foot, happy to see that the months of Pilates had already made her legs look several years younger. She definitely couldn’t complain. People were seldom able to guess her true age. When she revealed she was thirty-five, they usually thought she was joking. And she couldn’t blame them — she’d never looked better.
In the past six months, she had gone through a dramatic transformation. Some of her old friends hardly recognized her. She had a new hairstyle, had stopped shopping at H&M, and amped up her exercise routine, which had finally burned off the last of the baby fat she thought would follow her to the grave.
She put down the razor, slid her head down under the water, and rinsed out the hair mask. She was finally starting to relax. The warm bath and all the pampering had helped drive away thoughts of work, which had preoccupied her mind earlier in the day. She’d had to cut her workout short to go home and unwind because her thoughts were spinning so out of control: one second she thought she had done the right thing, only to decide a moment later that she’d made a fool of herself. But now she had finally made up her mind once and for all: she had made the right decision. If they wanted to fire her, so be it. All she wanted was for the investigation to move forward. If the car could help the Swedes, then a setback in her career was a reasonable price to pay.
She stood up, pulled the tub stopper out with her toes, and turned on the shower. After rinsing herself off, she stood on the bath mat, took the top towel from the freshly washed stack, and dried herself to the sound of the bathwater disappearing down the drain. She rubbed lotion on her skin and it burned where she had shaved.
Dunja listened to the prolonged slurping noise from the tub as it emptied. She knew the sound was the drain’s cry for help, reminding her it needed cleaning. She had been meaning to do it for a while, but something had always gotten in the way. It seemed plausible that she wouldn’t fix it until the water was flowing onto the floor and into the living room, with its recently refinished floor.
She was just wondering if her condo insurance would cover that sort of damage when the doorbell rang. Her watch, which lay on the counter, said it was twenty minutes before midnight. Maybe someone had gotten lost? The bell rang again — long and insistent this time. Dunja put her kimono on and tied it at the waist as she walked into the hall. Could it be one of her more recent lovers? Although she’d always been careful never to bring them back to her place or to use her last name, three of them had managed to track her down. She hadn’t had any problem with the first two, and had been more than willing to let them in. The third had come to propose to her and had broken down when she kindly but firmly said no. Two pots of tea later, he had finally agreed to take a taxi home. She realized that, somewhere inside her, she was hoping it was one of the other two men at the door tonight.
She leaned toward the peephole but couldn’t see out into the stairwell. It was pitch-black. The doorbell rang again, this time at quick intervals, like a warning buzzer before an imminent blast. She turned the lock and opened the door.
“Mmm... just showered? Nice.” Kim Sleizner took a sip of the half-empty bottle of whisky he was holding in one hand.
“Excuse me, but it’s almost midnight. What do you want?”
Sleizner held up a warning finger and grinned. “You and me... we’re gonna... have a little talk.” He pushed past her into the apartment, and Dunja was left with the stink of alcohol in his wake.
He was standing at her iPod stereo when she walked into the living room, turning up the volume of Sade’s “Your Love is King.” Then he sank onto the sofa with legs splayed wide and took another sip from the bottle. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I’m here? I would be, if I were in your shoes — or your kimono. It’s pretty, by the way. Sexy.”
“Kim, I have no idea what you want, nor do I wish to find out. All I want is for you to leave — now!”
“That’s some tone to take with me when you’re already down for the count. I really ought to be offended, but I can’t help but think it suits you, especially in that kimono.” He gulped down the whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now, I want to know if you were the one who tattled to Ekstra Bladet.”
So that’s why he was here. He didn’t yet know that she had forged his signature and that the Peugeot was on its way to Sweden. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t find out about the car until after he was forced to resign, which everyone was expecting in the aftermath of “Blowgate” — the name Ekstra Bladet had given to the affair.
Dunja took a few steps toward the coffee table and looked down at him. Don’t sit down. Don’t invite conversation. And for God’s sake, don’t show any sign of weakness, she said to herself.
“Kim, it’s no secret that you and I haven’t always gotten along, and that we tend to have different ideas about how an investigation ought to be run. But I would never sink so low as to contact the papers about your infidelities.”
Sleizner considered what she had said, and then rose from the sofa. He walked past her into the hall. “So that’s your statement? It wasn’t you? Interesting.” He stopped, turned around, and looked into her eyes. “So you had nothing to do with it?”
He must have been able to smell the whiff of hesitation as she wondered how to respond, which was a microsecond too long. “Listen, Kim —”
He cuffed her ear so hard that she thought her neck had dislocated. She could hear him shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her cheek burned and throbbed in time with her heart. He grabbed her kimono and yanked her toward him. She felt his pungent breath encroaching on her. Then her hearing returned. It was as if someone had turned up the volume again.
“Don’t you think I know you’re lying? I know it was you!”
He knocked her legs out from under her and she fell straight to the floor. The recently refinished wood still smelled like varnish close up. He straddled her, clasping her arms above her head with one hand as he fumbled for her crotch with the other. His panting, stinking breath was right in her face. “Mmm... so smooth and shaven. How nice. Is that for my sake?” he rasped in her ear. “Maybe you could just feel that I was going to come for a visit? I know you want it. You just have to admit it. The first time I saw you I knew just what kind of woman you were, but you didn’t want to sleep with the boss and reap all the benefits. Fair’s fair, right?” His middle finger roamed about her clitoris. “But I have good news. Even though I’m your boss, I ca
n guarantee that you will not reap a single benefit,” he said, shoving three fingers inside her. “Just so you know. I’m going to be on you like a fucking leech.” He moved his fingers up and tightened his grip on her pubic bone. It hurt, and she tried to twist out of his clutches, but he only pressed harder.
“And I’m not going to let go until I’ve sucked you dry.” He pulled his fingers out. “And even if I’m not always around, you should be afraid that I might suddenly show up, because I will — when you least expect it.” He tasted his fingers and wiped them on her cheek. Then he stood up and left the apartment.
63
FABIAN LOOKED AT THE clock. It was eighteen minutes past three. The hospital had long since gone to sleep, and all he could hear was a faint buzz from the ventilation system. He had heard the sound of distant sirens three times, and assumed this counted as an unusually quiet night.
He turned his eyes toward the yearbook that was sitting on the tray he was using as a desk. Aside from a few short minutes when he’d dozed off, Fabian had spent the last three hours studying his yearbook from the ninth grade in great detail. He had gone through it from cover to cover, calmly and methodically: class by class, student by student. With each new face, he’d tried to form a mental image of the person in question. He remembered most of them, although a few of his schoolmates took their time coming to life. People he had never had anything to do with turned out to be in there somewhere, like ghosts roaming his memory.
He had not, however, managed to come up with any suspects. Not one of those faces stood out more than any other. Just a few hours ago, he had been certain that the perpetrator would be in the yearbook somewhere, but now doubt had caught up with him. Was he on the wrong track?
He decided to flip through one last time. If he didn’t find anything, he would turn out the light and try to get some sleep. At this point, the book more or less opened itself to class 9C. He didn’t know how many times he had stared at this picture in the past week, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there was something he had missed. Something about the photo looked like it was hiding some sort of secret. Why else would the perpetrator have left this particular picture near Jörgen Pålsson’s body with his face crossed out? It had to mean something, especially considering that nothing else seemed to have been left up to chance.
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