He stood up with renewed energy. He had an idea.
“Fabian, you have to let us take care of it.”
“Okay,” he said, leaving the conference room.
His idea couldn’t wait.
*
TUVESSON WALKED UP TO the class picture and studied the hair behind Claes Mällvik that belonged to the boy no one remembered. All they needed now was a name — just one name.
If only they could identify him, the rest would follow, like solving one of the last words in a crossword puzzle. They would be entering the last stage of the case soon, so it was extra crucial to make sure that everything was handled properly. They had to follow the rules: an overlooked clause, a missing signature on a document, a piece of conclusive evidence that was collected in the wrong way — anything could become a potential obstacle in a trial, setting the killer free again before they even managed to take their lieu days.
Risk had already been in a similar situation. Tuvesson knew all about it; it had been during an investigation in Stockholm at least as big as this one, if not bigger. Risk didn’t know that she knew, and she had no intention of ever bringing it up.
“Irene and Klippan, you’ll have to contact everyone in the class again. Hopefully someone will remember him and can give us a name. And don’t forget to remind them to look for other yearbooks.”
“How are we handling the police protection?” Klippan asked. “Have you spoken with Malmö?”
“No, I haven’t had time, but I’ll do it right away.”
Lilja and Klippan headed for the door. Tuvesson took out her phone, dialled a number, and looked at Molander, who had stayed behind. “You could get going on the wrecked car, so we can figure out what actually happened to Lindén.”
Molander nodded and went to leave, but he turned around again. “Hey, how did your field trip with Ingela Ploghed go?”
“Oh right, that was today.” She called Lilja and Klippan back in. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you all. I took Ploghed out this morning.”
“How did that go?” Lilja asked.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I took her to the boat, and all she remembered was that she was picked up by a man in a blue car.”
“Blue?” Klippan said. “She didn’t remember what model it was? Or whether it was old or new?”
“No. Just that it was blue.”
“Who doesn’t have a blue car?” Molander said.
Lilja turned to him. “Isn’t your car blue?” He nodded.
“Was that all you found out?”
“Yes. We went to Ramlösa Brunnspark after and nothing sparked her memory there either, although I sweated everywhere pushing that wheelchair through the gravel. On our way back to the city...” Tuvesson stopped speaking and walked over to the window to look out at Helsingborg. “I had to pull over and stop. Ingvar, it was right around when you called to tell me about the camera you found at Söderåsen. We were parked right next to the tracks, and as soon as a train went by...” She stopped speaking again.
“What?” Lilja said.
“She sort of flipped out, and had some kind of panic attack. She started flailing her arms and screaming at me to drive away. I tried to calm her down, but it was impossible.” Tuvesson sighed.
“Maybe the sound of the train triggered her memory,” Klippan said.
“Could the assault have taken place on a train?” Lilja asked.
“No, I doubt it — sounds way too complicated. But maybe it was near some tracks.”
“Wasn’t she drugged and unconscious during the operation?” Molander said.
“Maybe she registered the noise in her subconscious,” said Klippan.
Molander snorted and shook his head.
“What? It’s possible! Those trains are really loud,” Klippan continued. “I go mushroom-picking near the tracks south of Ramlösa, and you basically have to cover your ears when trains go by.”
“Can I interject?” Molander said. “I think you’re on the wrong track.”
“Why’s that?” Tuvesson asked.
“What if she wasn’t reacting to the sound, but felt trapped in the car?”
“Of course, you’re absolutely right. Given how complicated the operation was, it’s most likely he took her to someplace where he could be relatively certain he could work without interruption.”
Lilja and Klippan nodded.
“Possibly a private home without neighbours close by,” Tuvesson went on.
“Or some sort of workshop,” Klippan said.
“Near the tracks,” said Lilja.
Tuvesson added thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s all possible. I’ll take a look at the neighbourhoods around Ramlösa. After all, there’s nothing to lose.”
“Yes there is — time. I don’t know about you, but I would say it’s in short supply when it comes to preventing more murders,” Molander said as he left the room.
Lilja watched him go and looked at the others. “What the hell is up with him? He’s so freaking grumpy and negative.”
“He’s just tired,” Tuvesson said. “Who isn’t?”
“I think he’s grumpy because he didn’t think to look around Ramlösa himself,” Klippan said just as Tuvesson’s phone rang.
“This is Astrid Tuvesson... Yes, that’s right... What? Suicide? Are you...” She got Lilja and Klippan’s attention. “I don’t understand. How? And where did you say?”
72
DUNJA HOUGAARD HAD NEVER tried so hard to appear unfazed as she did when she stepped out of the elevator and headed for the violent crimes unit. She was only here to get work done. Sleizner was nowhere to be seen, but the door to his office was closed, which meant he was there — unless he had snuck out through an emergency exit.
She logged onto her computer and checked her inbox: she had a response from nearly every newspaper she’d contacted. She had asked them to send her all the photographs that had been taken in the waiting room outside Morten Steenstrup’s ward, and to her surprise they had complied with hardly any protest. Out of the big dailies, only Jyllands-Posten had grumbled about wanting a guarantee that they would get dibs on the news if their photos turned out to contain anything of interest. She started with their pictures for that reason and felt relieved when she recognized all the faces — she knew which journalist wrote for each paper. She looked at Politiken next, browsing through an abundance of pictures of herself looking like a total wreck: sweaty, no makeup, under-eye circles so dark they seemed to have been painted on. She came across as someone who needed all kinds of treatments.
The only bright side was that none of the terrible pictures of her had been published. Maybe even journalists had moments of compassion, or perhaps they’d realized they would never get a single interview or piece of advance information from her again if they so much as thought about publishing any of those photos.
She found him an hour and a half later. The picture had been taken from a bird’s-eye perspective, as if the photographer had held the camera high above his head to snap a few pictures at random. From a publication standpoint, the photo was worthless — full of the partial, thin-haired heads of journalists and out of focus on the bottom edge. But for her purposes, the picture was nearly perfect. She knew she had unearthed a shot of the killer.
The chairs along the far wall were in focus. A lone man sat holding a magazine, observing the fuss from a distance. She zoomed in on him and the focus was almost perfect, although there was something unclear about his face. She knew in her gut it couldn’t be anyone else.
There was no way Sleizner would agree to allow her to share the pictures with the Swedes, even if it was the right thing to do. They would have to manage without help. Kim Fucking Sleizner wanted to solve the case on his own, and would rather it remain unsolved than allow someone else to have the glory.
Every cell in her body was brimming with hatred for Sleizner. The thought she had toyed with so many times throughout the years was starting to solidify into a concrete de
cision. She had no choice. She had to get rid of him — not just for her own sake, but for the sake of this case and the whole Danish police authority. She had to do everything in her power to get him fired.
She picked up the phone and called National Police Commissioner Henrik Hammersten before she could change her mind. He answered and readily agreed to a confidential meeting with her later that day. She hung up and took a few deep breaths.
“There you are,” she heard from a voice behind her. How long had that bastard been standing there? She turned around and looked him in the eye, but his expression was indecipherable.
“How about coming into my office and... having a little chat?”
“Is there any reason we can’t do it here?”
“Not at all, but if I were you I’d prefer to have this conversation behind closed doors.”
She followed Sleizner into his office. He closed the door behind her. Dunja ignored all the warning signs and took a seat in the visitor’s chair. The Sleazeball walked around the desk and sat in his own chair. To her surprise, he wasn’t wearing his usual superior sneer.
“I want to start by telling you how sorry I am for last night.”
Was she dreaming or was he joking?
“To be totally honest, I don’t remember exactly what happened, and maybe that’s for the best. But what little I do remember is more than enough for me to realize that there is no excuse for the way I acted. All I can say is that I’d had a lot to drink and I lost control.” He paused. “I just want you to know that I feel so terribly ashamed.”
Dunja thought he actually looked like he meant it, and she wondered if she was supposed to say something, but she didn’t want to make it easier for him.
“Dunja, I was totally sure that you were the one who tipped off Ekstra Bladet, but now I realize it wasn’t you at all, and so I’m prepared to bury the hatchet. If you don’t report me for the horrible things I did last night, I won’t report you for refusing orders and falsifying documents.”
He knew about her trick with the car.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sleizner continued, “and the answer is yes. I have been fully aware of what you’ve been doing this whole time, but I’m prepared to wipe the slate clean, and even give you total freedom to work on this case however you see fit.”
Was he serious? Had he really burned himself so badly that his only option was total retreat? Did he have no choice but to ignore his own ego and let her do her job? Dunja knew Sleizner far too well to relax completely, but if he seriously intended to let her continue with the investigation, she didn’t want to throw a wrench in the works. It wasn’t her style to put herself before a case, nor would it ever be. She gave him a barely perceptible nod.
“Good. So that’s taken care of,” Sleizner went on. “How is the investigation going? Have you come up with anything I should know about?”
It would be a breach of duty not to mention the picture of the perpetrator, but Dunja knew that the photo should be sent to the Swedes straightaway, a relationship Sleizner had forbidden thus far. She decided to test him. “I think I have a picture of him.”
Sleizner’s expression changed. “You do? How did you manage to find it?”
Dunja told him about Kjeld Richter’s investigation, which proved that the perpetrator had reached Morten through the ceiling space. She explained that, based on this information, she’d deduced the killer must have been in the same waiting room as the journalists.
“Fantastic, Dunja. Well done.”
“I suggest we send it to the Swedes and see what they have to say before doing anything else,” said Dunja.
“If that’s what you want, I’m okay with your decision.” He walked around and sat on the edge of his desk in front of her. “Dunja, I truly meant what I said. You and I, we haven’t gotten along from the start and that’s my fault, for the most part. You’ve always been a fantastic police officer, and from now on I intend to allow you to excel. If you think we should send the picture to the Swedes, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Dunja stood up.
“Just one more thing.”
She turned around.
“If I’ve understood it correctly, you booked a meeting with Hammersten. If you don’t mind, I thought we could meet with him together.”
Dunja didn’t know how to respond, but she found herself nodding.
73
THIRTY-SEVEN... THIRTY-EIGHT, she counted to herself before stopping to take a short break. She was already out of breath and she could feel the sweat soaking through her thin blouse. This was more difficult than she’d expected, even though she had crutches to help her along. She hardly felt any pain after swallowing four Tylenol 3s. The hospital had recommended she stay in bed for at least a week to lower the risk of bleeding, but she’d solved that problem with a hospital diaper and three menstrual pads. Her two police guards had initially insisted on following her, but after arguing about it for a bit they’d agreed to stay at the bottom of the stairs and guard the entrance.
She continued up the spiral staircase as she drank the last of the Brämhults Juice she had bought at the Pressbyrån down on Stortorget. She wished she’d bought a bigger bottle. She had wanted the larger size, but chose the smaller out of sheer stubbornness even though the price per litre was the same. It didn’t matter anyway. Pretty soon nothing would matter.
Fifty-nine... sixty. She had eighty-six steps left before she was at the top.
Sixty-one.
This was the second time in her life she’d walked up Kärnan tower. The first time was on a class trip in the eighth grade: they’d had to go into the various rooms to look at paintings and hear about how the thirty-five-metre-high tower had been built by the Danes in the early 1300s to keep watch and defend the Øresund inlet, along with Kronborg Castle. All she and her classmates had cared about was counting the steps up to the top as fast as they could.
Glenn Granqvist had been the first one to finish and he claimed there were one hundred and thirty-nine steps, but he was wrong. She remembered it as if it were yesterday —maybe because she’d been the first one up to broadcast the right number. There were one hundred forty-six steps; no more, no less.
Seventy-four.
She remembered her high school years as the best of her life. She’d been in her prime: top grades in all her classes and she’d still managed to be one of the most popular people in the class. Back then, Ingela Ploghed was the sort of person that people listened to. She’d wanted to become one of the best lawyers in the country and devote all of her energy to helping the weakest people on the bottom rungs of society. She’d had no problem getting accepted to law school in Lund and had loved the student life.
In retrospect, she had no idea how she did so well in school. There wasn’t a night without an invite to a party, each one crazier than the last. She would dance herself into a sweat at Västgöta Nation, only to go to a Twin Peaks party dressed as the Log Lady the next day. Two and a half years later, the romance had ended.
One hundred thirteen.
Late one night, she ran into Gerhard Kempe, her Civil Law lecturer, on her way home from Malmö Nation. He insisted on walking her to her door, and on the way they discussed the considerable differences in salary between male and female lawyers. Gerhard believed male lawyers earned more money because they were better at negotiating and realizing their own worth. She had argued that it didn’t matter how much women negotiated, they would still receive lower salaries than men. Now, in retrospect, she would probably agree with him.
Once they arrived at Sparta, the student building she lived in, he asked if they could have a nightcap. She declined, explaining that the last thing she needed was more alcohol. After that, everything happened so fast that all she had left were sporadic memories.
One hundred twenty-six. A hard blow to the face, falling.
One hundred twenty-seven. Head hitting the asphalt. Hands everywhere.
One hundred twenty-eight. Trying to claw her
way free, screaming.
One hundred twenty-nine. More punches. Her front tooth loose. The taste of blood.
One hundred thirty. The sound of underwear ripping.
One hundred thirty-one. Eager fat fingers, deep inside her.
One hundred thirty-two. Giving up, letting him continue.
One hundred thirty-three. Turned on her stomach.
One hundred thirty-four. Hair pulled. Pain in her anus.
One hundred thirty-five. A warning not to tell anyone.
One hundred thirty-six. Scurrying footsteps, further in the distance.
She ran up the last few stairs as fast as she could and emerged into the daylight, the gentle breeze cooling her sweaty body.
The only visitors aside from her were a Dutch family with two adults and two children. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she could make out that the daughter standing by the binoculars was begging for money and the son kept stubbornly trying to climb up over the edge.
She went to stand in the corner furthest from the family, struck by the marvellous view. She couldn’t recall being this impressed when she was here with her class, which was unusual. As a kid, everything felt bigger, bolder, and deeper, but back then she’d had other concerns.
As usual, Jörgen and Glenn hadn’t been able to leave Claes alone; they had lifted him up to the edge of the wall and threatened to throw him over. She could still hear his voice, begging and pleading with them to stop. Their other classmates emerged from the stairwell one at a time, each out of breath and armed with a guess on the number of stairs in the tower. As soon as they realized what was going on with Claes, they’d rushed to the other side of the tower and pretended to enjoy the view.
She had approached Jörgen and Glenn and ordered them to put Claes down. “He’ll get down all right,” Jörgen replied with a grin. Camilla and Elsa had been there, too. Camilla just stood there staring as they messed with Claes, like she always did. It was as if she’d enjoyed watching Claes suffer. Predictably, Elsa ran her mouth. “Come on! What the hell are you waiting for? The wind is blowing his fucking dandruff around like snow! Oh my God, it’s so gross!”
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