FABIAN HAD SPENT JUST one hour in the house — one hour — before the doorbell rang. He understood why Tuvesson had chosen to contact him: he might be able to remember something that could speed up the investigation, and even save a few lives in the long run. But Fabian hardly remembered anything about compulsory school and he had no desire to relive that period of his life.
Tuvesson led Fabian to her white Corolla across the street from the house. She had offered to drive him to the crime scene and back, so that Sonja could unload their car. “Just so we’re clear, I truly appreciate you taking the time to come with me, even though you’re in the middle of a vacation.”
“Middle? It’s hardly even begun.”
“I promise this won’t take more than an hour.” Tuvesson stuck the key in the lock and turned it. “The car has automatic locks, but the door sticks, so you’ll have to put some muscle into it.” Fabian yanked the door open and noticed the passenger seat was covered with empty travel mugs, open packs of Marlboros, keys, scraps of food, used paper towels, and a box of tampons.
“Sorry. Hold on, I’ll...” She swept everything but the keys and the cigarettes onto the floor. Fabian got in and Tuvesson started the car and pulled away. “Is it okay if I smoke?” Before he could respond, she lit a cigarette and rolled down her window. “I’m actually going to quit. People always say that but don’t follow through. But I’m planning on it — just not right now,” she continued, taking a deep drag as she turned left onto Tågagatan.
“No problem,” said Fabian, his eyes glued to the class photo with Jörgen’s crossed-out face. Why hadn’t he been able to recall Jörgen Pålsson? If there was anyone he should remember, it was Jörgen. Of course, he had never liked him, so that might explain it. Maybe he had simply repressed the memory of him. “Where was his body found?”
“Fredriksdal School. From what I understand, he was a shop teacher there.”
“He was also a student there once.”
“Not everyone has the opportunity to go all the way to Stockholm, Mr. Risk. What do you know about Jörgen?”
“Pretty much nothing. We never hung out.” Fabian started thinking about his school days, how all the guys used to wear Lyle & Scott sweaters and how the TV would be rolled in to watch skiing sensation Ingemar Stenmark. “To be completely honest, I didn’t like him.”
“No? Why not?”
“He was the class bully and a general pain. He did whatever he wanted.”
“We had a guy like that at our school, too. He disrupted all the classes and took other people’s lunch trays. No one stood up to him, not even the teachers.” Tuvesson sucked the last bit of nicotine from her cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. “That was back in the day before all the letter-combo diagnoses like ADD and ADHD.”
“Jörgen also only listened to KISS and Sweet.”
“What’s wrong with KISS and Sweet?”
“Nothing. They’re good. But I only figured that out a few years ago.”
*
FABIAN STEPPED OUT OF the car and looked at Fredriksdal School, a two-storey red-brick building that loomed behind the deserted schoolyard. Two basketball hoops with ragged nets stuck up out of the asphalt — a reminder that this was normally a place for children. He let his eyes explore the long rows of narrow, prison-like windows and had a hard time understanding how he’d survived three years in this building.
“Who found him?”
“Before I get to that, his wife called to report him missing a week ago, last Wednesday, but there was nothing we could do at that point. He had gone down to Germany the day before to buy beer for Midsummer, and was supposed to have returned home that evening.”
“Buying beer in Germany? Is that still worth the trip?”
“It is if you buy enough. Forty kronor a case, and you get reimbursed for the ferry trip back if you don’t stay longer than three hours.”
Travelling all the way down to Germany just to fill your car to the brim with beer? The more Fabian thought about it, the better it seemed to fit with the Jörgen he was starting to remember. Jörgen, and possibly his partner-in-crime Glenn. “Did he never make it to Germany?”
“He was definitely there. We checked at Øresund Bridge and he returned on Tuesday night, as planned. But that’s where all traces of him end. Our next clue didn’t come until yesterday, when a glass company requested the removal of a vehicle that was blocking its cherry picker.”
“His vehicle?”
Tuvesson nodded and they continued around the corner to the back of the school building. About twenty metres away, a Chevy pickup truck was parked next to a cherry picker. Police tape was already up, forming a generous perimeter. Two uniformed officers were guarding the area.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair, who was wearing disposable blue coveralls, approached Fabian and Tuvesson. His glasses were perched low on his nose.
“I want to introduce the two of you,” Tuvesson said. “Ingvar Molander, our forensic investigator, please meet Fabian Risk, who doesn’t officially start until August.”
“Does it matter when you have an investigation like this to sink your teeth into?” Molander pulled his glasses down even further down his nose, and eyed Fabian as he extended his hand.
“It does make you wonder,” Fabian lied, shaking Molander’s hand.
“You’re right about that. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Ingvar, he’s just here to do a quick once-over.”
Molander gave her a look that sparked Fabian’s curiosity, albeit reluctantly. Then he showed them into the school building and gave them each a set of coveralls.
This was the first time in almost thirty years Fabian had been inside the school. It looked just as he remembered, with the red brick along the walls of the hallways and the sound-absorbing tiles that resembled compacted trash stuck to the ceiling. They made their way to the wood shop off the rearmost hallway. Woodworking had never interested Fabian in the least until he realized you could make your own skateboards. One semester later he had heated, bent, and cut so many sheets of plywood that he had been able to sell them and save up for a pair of real Tracker trucks.
“Allow me to welcome you to a murder scene that without a doubt qualifies as one of the top-ten worst murder scenes I have ever seen.” Molander showed Fabian and Tuvesson through the door. “As luck would have it, the perpetrator set the AC to its lowest setting. Otherwise this would have been in the top five, considering that the body has been lying here for over a week.”
Molander was right: the wood shop was very cold. It felt like stepping into a fridge, even though the thermometer indicated it was between twelve and thirteen degrees. Three other people in coveralls were taking pictures of the room, examining the scene, and gathering evidence. The familiar smell of wood and sawdust was all mixed up with a rotten, sweet stench. Fabian walked over to Jörgen Pålsson’s body, which was lying in a large pool of dried blood, right next to a door. The lock mechanism and the door handle were covered in more blood. The body was large and fit, dressed in a pair of loose, worn jeans and a bloody white undershirt.
Fabian didn’t remember Jörgen being so big — tough and cocky, yes, but not this thick. He must have been as strong as an ox. And yet the perpetrator had managed to cut his hands off at the wrist on both of his tattooed arms. The stumps were bloody and ragged, and Fabian couldn’t even imagine how much it must have hurt. Why the hands in particular?
“As you can see, the blood on the floor indicates that he made his way from the workbench over there to the door where we came in,” Molander said. “It doesn’t have a lock, but what he didn’t know was that it was blocked with benches, chairs, and tables on the other side. After he tried that escape route he made his way over here and attempted to get out through this door. But how easy is it to turn a door handle when you don’t have any hands?”
Fabian studied the bloody knob.
“Have you had time to inspect the lock?” Tuvesson asked.
“It’s filled with superglue, which explains the state of the victim’s mouth.” Molander took out his medical pincers and lifted Jörgen’s upper lip to reveal a row of broken top teeth.
“He tried to turn it with his mouth?” Tuvesson asked.
Molander nodded. “Talk about survival instincts. I definitely would have died with my teeth intact.”
“I don’t understand. Surely he must have put up some resistance?” Tuvesson said.
“That’s a good question. Maybe he did, but maybe he was drugged. We don’t know yet. We’ll see what Braids comes up with in the lab.”
“How long did he struggle for?”
“Three or four hours, I’d guess.” Molander showed them across the shop to one of the workbenches; it, too, was covered in dried blood. “The killer fastened his arms in this C-clamp, and performed the amputation with this handsaw.” He used the pincers to point at a bloody saw that had been tossed on the floor.
“Have you checked with the glass company who called to request removal of the truck?” Fabian said.
“Why? Are you suggesting they’re involved?” asked Tuvesson.
“If you ask me, this doesn’t look like the work of a person who relies on chance.”
Tuvesson and Molander exchanged glances.
“I have the company’s number here.” Tuvesson took out her phone and called the number with speakerphone on. After an unusual ringtone, an automated voice told them that the number they’d dialled was not in service. “It looks like you may be right. We’ll have to find out who rented the cherry picker. Ingvar, make sure to examine the crane for any clues.”
Molander nodded.
“And the hands?” Tuvesson went on.
“We haven’t found them yet.”
Tuvesson turned to Fabian. “Well? What do you think? Is this ringing any bells?”
Fabian’s eyes swept over the workbench, the bloody handsaw, the tracks of blood on the floor, and the body without its amputated hands. He looked Tuvesson and Molander each in the eye, and shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”
“Nothing? Not even some inkling that it might be someone from your class, or an idea of why someone would do this to Jörgen Pålsson in particular?”
Fabian shook his head again.
“It was worth a shot. If you think of anything, promise me you’ll call or come by the station. Okay?”
Fabian nodded and followed Tuvesson out of the wood shop haunted by a question that wouldn’t allow him any peace until he had found the answer.
Why the hands?