Tuvesson paused for a moment, but her mind was already made up. Sleizner would be furious and would likely raise Cain to ensure that the relationship between the Swedish and Danish police forces became even more strained, if that was possible.
“Let’s put out an APB right away.”
Dunja felt the lump in her stomach start to dissolve. Finally — she was with a unit where the police put the case first.
“I’ll upload it to the server,” Molander said and then vanished.
Klippan and Lilja were already calling around to the morning papers.
“Dunja, if you want something to eat or drink, the kitchen’s over there. Make yourself at home,” Tuvesson said. “And if you want to rest, we have a —”
“What if I want to help?”
105
SINCE JUNE 16 SHE had only passed by the house, and it felt very strange every time. She hadn’t delivered the paper for three and a half weeks, which was like an eternity for Kårheden. In nearly ten years of delivering newspapers, she couldn’t remember a single time he had suspended his subscription for so long. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t recall that he had ever suspended it before.
To be completely honest, she missed him, even though she didn’t know him. She hardly even knew what he looked like. But she knew one thing — he eagerly awaited the newspapers she delivered. It was probably the highlight of Kårheden’s day.
But now the dry spell was over. She would deliver his newspaper, and order would be restored. She got off her flatbed moped, took a copy of Helsingborgs Dagblad, and folded it up as she walked toward the house. Smoke was coming from the chimney as usual, even though it was the middle of summer. Sure, it had rained quite a bit overnight and the old house must be damp, but Kårheden clung to his routines. She had figured out that much.
Halfway to the door, she changed her mind and went back to pick up a Dagens Nyheter and a Svenska Dagbladet as a little welcome-home present. It was the least she could do to show her appreciation. At the door, she folded up Svenskan and carefully pushed it through the mail slot. She wondered how he would react. Would he assume she had delivered the wrong paper and quickly open the door, or would he accept it with curiosity and see it as a little adventure for today?
But nothing happened.
The newspaper plopped to the hall floor and stayed there, as if no one cared. No hand reached for it. She hurried to fold DN and pushed it through the slot.
Nothing.
What did this mean? She knew he was home; maybe he had just fallen asleep. Out of sheer impulse, she rang the doorbell as she pushed HD through the mail slot. She watched it fall and land on top of the other papers. Something felt wrong but she didn’t know what to do. Should she leave and pretend everything was fine?
She probably should have done that, but instead she turned the door handle. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, but left the papers on the floor. Just as she had imagined, there was a comfortable reading chair in front of the fireplace, in which wood was smouldering.
Where was Kårheden? She didn’t hear the sound of a shower. She said hello, but didn’t get a response. He wasn’t home. Why wasn’t he here and who had lit the fire? She knew it didn’t really matter and that whatever was going on was none of her business. She told herself that she should leave the house, go back to her moped, and continue on her route. Kårheden wasn’t the only one who needed his paper, after all.
She walked into the living room and looked around; one door was ajar, which appeared to lead to the bedroom. Maybe he was just in there sleeping? She had no idea where he’d been during the long subscription break. It was possible he was just jetlagged.
She kept telling herself to leave, but kept going further into the house.
She pushed the door open with her foot and found him in bed, wearing pyjamas. He wasn’t sleeping. He was dead, hands and feet bound to the bed frame.
She was bewildered; then she thought of all the books she had read and how many clues could be found at the scene of a murder. She had to take a closer look, even though it was against her better judgement. This was the first time she’d ever seen a dead person in real life, other than the time she passed an overturned car on Highway 111. The ambulance had already been on the scene, and she’d slowed down to catch sight of the sheet-draped stretcher. Today was entirely different.
She pressed her index finger to his bare foot. It felt cool, and the pale spot remained. She wondered if that revealed anything about how long he’d been dead. She thought about what she had read in her favourite crime novels. How much of what the authors wrote was based in reality? Did your body really start to grow stiff as soon as you died?
Her eyes moved along his arm. His pyjama sleeve was rolled up, and she could see some dried blood that had run down his forearm. She took a closer look and discovered a small red spot in the crease of his elbow. Someone had stuck a needle in his arm and poisoned him. Her heart started to race. She was really good at this.
However, she couldn’t understand his face. When she’d first stuck her head into the room, she had assumed he had a moustache, but now that she saw it close up she realized it wasn’t hair at all: his moustache had been removed — cut off, skin and all — and what remained was a swamp of coagulated blood.
106
KIM SLEIZNER WOKE IN a cold sweat; the sheets on his bed were damp. It was only ten past four. He could sleep for two more hours and still have time for a long shower and a good breakfast before the press conference.
He could hardly wait. At last the spotlight would be aimed at what truly mattered: the real criminal — the killer who had taken the lives of six Swedes and two Danes.
Soon the papers would have something serious to write about, instead of dwelling on his private life. He gazed out the window and looked east. It was still dark, unusually dark for July, but the sky wasn’t quite as dim over near Sweden. No matter what, today was a new day full of possibilities.
He watched a ship pass along the canal on the way to Langebro. He got carried away in a fantasy where he raced to the garage, took the car to the bridge, and hopped onto the ship’s deck so he could leave all this shit behind and start a new adventure, never to return.
His heart was still pounding, but he didn’t understand why. He hadn’t had a single cup of coffee all day yesterday, and everything was going as planned. Dunja was out of the picture and soon he would be going public with a news item that would silence the criticism around him in one blow. He ought to feel confident, but he only felt anxious.
He took a few deep breaths before bending down as far as he could and standing up again, taking another deep breath; he extended his arms above his head and brought them down in a circle, just as he’d seen Viveca do when she was practising yoga in front of the TV. He tried again, but the movements didn’t seem to have any effect on him.
He gave up and walked over to his desk, turned on his laptop, and checked to see if he had received any new emails.
Three of them had managed to make it through the spam filter.
July 10, 2010, 2:12:40 a.m.
[email protected]
Talked to the realtor, who will be by to look at the apartment at one o’clock today. I expect it to be nice and clean, and for you to stay away. — V
July 10, 2010, 3:32:51 a.m.
[email protected]
The picture has been printed, framed, and uploaded to our server with the password Kb48Grtda7.
See you!
Jens
Sleizner had no idea why Jens Duus always insisted on using such complicated passwords. In just a few hours it would be passed along to every journalist in the country so they could log in and download the picture, and he knew that at least a third of them would type in the wrong combination of letters and numbers.
July 10, 2010, 3:51:10 a.m.
[email protected]
http://politiken.dk/
The message didn’t contain anything other than a link
to Politiken. Sleizner looked at the clock and realized that this email had just arrived. Who was Niels Pedersen? He didn’t think he knew anyone by that name. He clicked on the link.
He couldn’t believe his eyes; he was flummoxed, absolutely flummoxed.
They had already gotten a hold of the picture he had made sure to have framed and prepared so that he was the one to make it public.
HERE HE IS!
The Swedish police have released a picture of the Class Killer, Torgny Sölmedal, and say they are hot on his trail. A source tells us, “He should soon be in custody.”
Sleizner went to Berlingske’s website and discovered the image there, too.
THE SWEDISH POLICE HAVE MADE GREAT STRIDES IN
THE HUNT FOR CLASS KILLER TORGNY SÖLMEDAL!
They had even identified him! Dunja must have leaked it — it couldn’t have been anyone else. But how the hell had she done it? She was worse than a fucking cockroach. No matter how hard he stomped on her, she just kept running around. He had made sure to block her email account, of course, and yet she had managed to get her hands on the picture that was the centrepiece of his entire press conference; the counterpoint to all the rumours that he was going to announce his resignation.
He would have to cancel, which would mean a major loss of prestige. Hammersten would start to wonder what was going on, but he had no choice. Without the picture he had nothing to bring to the table, and the whole discussion would end up revolving around his potential resignation. No matter how he looked at the situation, he came to the same conclusion: that filthy fucking little whore had won and he was down for the count.
But he had gotten up before. He wasn’t out of the running just yet — not by a long shot.
107
“AND DON’T FORGET...”
“What?”
“He is incredibly dangerous.”
He heard a click, and the call ended. He picked up his coffee cup, but his hand was shaking so much that he had to hold it in both hands. The coffee had grown cold, but with any luck the sugar would give him the energy he needed. He felt an instinctive reluctance, but he knew he had no choice — if he hesitated in the slightest they might end up with even more victims. He heard a toilet flush and his colleague emerged from the bathroom with a newspaper in hand.
“What is it? You look totally... what the hell is going on?”
“Sh-she called from the c-crime unit, you know, that T-Tu-Tuvesson lady.”
“Okay? What the hell did she want?”
“He’s here. The C-C-Class Killer.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean, here?”
“S-Seth Kårheden was found dead in his home,” he replied, relieved that the nervousness in his voice was finally starting to let up.
“Are you suggesting that the killer is lying down in there with everyone else, disguised as Seth Kårheden?”
He nodded and felt himself starting to calm down. Now that there were two of them, it all felt so much better.
“Fucking A.”
“They’re working on getting us backup, but you and I have to go in and get him before he can do any more harm. We can’t wait.”
“Okay. Let’s go — if you’re up to it, that is.”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be up to it?”
His colleague punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Wow, this is so cool. You and I get to be the ones to take down this fucker.”
They quickly checked their gear and left the guardroom. When they arrived at the locked door that led to the sleeping area, they stopped and exchanged glances.
“Ready?”
He nodded. His colleague turned the key as gently as he could, then pushed open the door.
“Maybe we should take off our shoes so we don’t wake anyone up.”
“Good idea.”
They removed their shoes, entered the room, closed the door behind them, and waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. They knew exactly where to look: the killer was the guy who had done most of the talking and the majority of the protesting when faced with the idea of sleeping in the jail. He’d been right in front of them the whole time. Talk about a cold-blooded bastard. But soon he would be in custody. He didn’t even feel nervous at all anymore. It would all work out — he was sure of it.
A few minutes later, they started moving toward the next-to-last bed on the left-hand side. His colleague was ready with the handcuffs. Taking off their shoes had been a brilliant idea because it was impossible to hear their steps as they crossed the room.
When they arrived at the bed they discovered him asleep, lying on his stomach. His head was turned away from them, and his right hand was under the pillow while the left was beside his body. It didn’t look very comfortable, but in his seventeen years as a night guard he had seen the most peculiar sleeping positions first-hand.
They were as ready as they would ever be.
He raised his left knee in the air and shoved it forward just as he bent down over the sleeping man; his plan was to jam his knee into the man’s back and pull both of his arms behind him — a move that was second nature for any prison officer and one he had performed more times than he could recall.
But just as his knee was about to land, the man slid away and twisted around, and he suddenly felt a stabbing pain in his left thigh. He tried to locate the pain but he didn’t have time because the man shot up out of the bed and grabbed the neck of his colleague, who dropped to the floor without a sound.
Then he realized that he was also lying on the floor. His legs must have fallen out from under him. Why couldn’t he feel anything? He tried to get up again, but he couldn’t move his legs. He tried to use his arms, but he couldn’t move them either.
He couldn’t even breathe.
108
THE DOORS CLOSED, ONLY to open again, which was typical for this time of day. There was always some waffler standing there to keep them from closing as he shouted to one of his buddies who had collapsed against one of the pillars on the platform.
Sievert Sjödal remembered being that age and leaning against the very same pillar with the same amount of alcohol in his bloodstream back in the mid-1980s. He was sure it had been more fun back then. He recalled the night Lustans Lakejer played their farewell concert at Ritz. He had stood at the very front and even got Johan Kinde’s autograph afterward.
He had waited for the train that night. The atmosphere at the station reminded him of this evening; the only difference was that this time he was waiting for the train to leave so he could jump onto the tracks with his bucket and brush, a ladder over his shoulder.
He had to be careful where he put his feet, although he’d been doing this job for so many years now that he would have no problem performing the whole procedure blindfolded. He didn’t feel like he would be missing out if he couldn’t see: the ads he had spent the last few years pasting up were so hopelessly boring and stupid that he was certain not one of the millions of passengers who took the subway paid any attention to them. Even the 1980s campaigns had been better, like Gevalia’s “Unexpected Visitor” series, or the one from Nokia that no one had understood and kept trying to figure out.
But the campaign he was in the process of putting up right now was actually kind of unique, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was actually an ad for. It featured the portrait of a man who looked incredibly ordinary, with five words written at the bottom of the poster in red letters.
IT WAS ME.
— TORGNY SÖLMEDAL
109
THE FEELING OF HIS own pulse woke Fabian up. He was out of breath; he must have been dreaming again. Normally, he never had dreams, but for the past day they had come as soon as he closed his eyes — sick, twisted plots that didn’t seem to have anything to do with his real-life experiences. He couldn’t remember his dream tonight, but he was sure he’d had one.
Or had something else woken him up?
He sat up and saw the row of beds along th
e wall across from him. He remembered he was sleeping in jail along with his former classmates. He picked up his watch from the chair: 4:23 a.m.
He was tired, far too tired to get up after just a few hours of sleep. He looked around at the other beds, but everyone seemed to be asleep. Why was he awake? He didn’t usually wake up in the middle of the night. He needed to use the bathroom. Maybe it was just the pressure of his bladder that had roused him.
He got to his feet and walked toward the bathroom door on the other side of the room. He opened it as quietly as he could, and felt along the wall for the light switch, but decided not to flip it. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to see a thing on the way back.
It was pitch-black inside the bathroom, and he had to feel his way forward with both arms extended. There was a drawn plastic shower curtain to his right. He ran his hand down it until he felt something cold and hard — the edge of a bathtub. Maybe he would be able to take a bath tomorrow.
He moved further in and passed the sink before he came to the toilet. He felt for the cool, slightly sticky porcelain edge. He pulled up the seat, relieved himself, and flushed. It was louder than he’d expected, and he hoped it didn’t wake anyone. He found the faucet and the soap dispenser and washed his hands.
He couldn’t find a towel to wipe his hands with, so he turned back to use the shower curtain. His foot touched something on the ground that rolled across the tiles. It sounded hard and metallic. He bent down and groped at the floor to find out what it was.
At last he found it next to one of the walls and, sure enough, it was made of metal and shaped like a hemisphere, a centimetre or two in diameter. He could feel some sort of pattern in relief on the rounded side, and there was a little loop sticking out on the other. He realized what it was.
A button.
The button from a uniform.
Suddenly everything fell into place. He knew why he had woken up and why the shower curtain was pulled across.
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