THE HELPLESS, PATHETIC SCREAMS echoed through the warehouse that was more than a hundred metres long. The screams managed to find their way in among the tall shelves, even though he had chosen a spot at the other end of the building. It sounded like a goddamn stuck pig.
He didn’t like screaming, especially not from a man. It was a sign of weakness and lack of self-control. By this point, he should have realized that it all was over anyway and that screaming wouldn’t help. He was going to die, so why not do it with dignity?
It was three thirty on Friday morning. Åstorp Construction Supply, which was closed for vacation, wouldn’t open again until Monday. He had found a relatively isolated spot, squeezed in between two shelves, where he could lay a blanket down and sit with his McDonald’s.
He hadn’t slept or eaten in the past twenty-four hours — not for lack of appetite or because of an inability to sleep, he just didn’t have the time. But he was still a whole day behind schedule. A minor incident had delayed him and risked the whole plan. After a thorough review of the situation, he realized that the plan wasn’t in any great danger of being derailed. Luck was on his side, and by tomorrow order would be restored.
The following day, he would go retrieve the car from Lellinge and park it at the harbour at Ishøj, where it wouldn’t be found for many days, likely long after he was finished. But he wanted to be cautious and saw this as an extra safeguard. It was all part of his plan.
In a little more than a week he would be finished. Then he could lean back and let everyone else clean up the mess. He would watch them gather up the pieces while trying to understand everything. They would be amazed by his aptitude — it would keep them busy for years. Everyone would be talking about him.
He tore at the damp, paper McDonald’s bag and shovelled down the cold, spongy hamburger and the barely salted fries. He saved the apple pie for later; it would be his breakfast. He licked the oil from his fingers and set the timer for four hours. If anyone showed up unexpectedly before it went off, the noise would wake him up and he would have at least a minute to gather up his blanket and escape through the window. It opened upward, which was definitely a drawback, but he’d already loosened the hasps and propped it ajar with a stick that he could easily remove from the outside.
He was very organized. He had gone through every scenario imaginable, time and again, and he felt as focused as Björn Borg going into a big match. He was totally convinced that the key to success lay in his meticulous planning and absolute focus, which is why he had spent the past three years devoting himself solely to his preparations.
He had officially decided to follow through with his plan in spring 2007, though the idea had been percolating for considerably longer. He had been walking around full of rage for as long as he could remember, with a wound that refused to heal and became more infected with each passing day. He felt like a walking pressure cooker, holding his feelings inside, ready to explode at any time. He had tried to be friendly and do all he could to make people like him. Nowadays he was sickened by his old, fawning, treacly behaviour and couldn’t understand how he had managed to keep up a happy face for so long.
But it would all be over soon. His wound would finally be opened, drained of its pus, and everyone who was to blame would be held accountable. Every single one of those bastards who thought they had nothing to be ashamed of and slept peacefully at night would pay.
It was time for them to pay the piper.
His thoughts turned to Fabian Risk, who had stepped into the plan unexpectedly. Risk was always a wimpy little bastard, at once decent but underhanded, always with his own agenda and constantly preoccupied with trying to please everyone. Risk had never dared to say what he truly stood for, so it was no surprise that he became a cop. It was surprising that Risk had moved back home again. He could have never foreseen that, and it meant he’d had to make a number of adjustments to the first part of his plan, even though it hadn’t changed anything crucial. In fact, he saw it as an unexpected bonus.
After studying Risk’s resumé from Stockholm, the last little bit of worry left him. He had worked on a few murder cases, some armed-truck robberies, and a network of pedophiles, all of whom had gone free due to lack of evidence. Most recently, he had more or less been fired after trespassing at the Israeli embassy last winter that was as incomprehensible as it was illegal. Fabian Risk was no great threat, either to him or to what he was about to set in motion. As an added bonus, Risk’s move to Helsingborg would save him the two days he had allocated for travelling to Stockholm.
Jörgen Pålsson, on the other hand, had been very predictable. For each of the past three years he had driven down to Germany to buy beer the week of Midsummer’s Eve, and this year was no exception. The plan couldn’t have worked any better. All he’d had to do was follow Jörgen’s flashy pickup truck down to Malmö, across the bridge to Rødby, and then pretend to run into him when he stopped for gas on the way home.
The only thing that had worried him beforehand was whether Jörgen’s size would pose a problem. Once they were standing eye-to-eye, Jörgen’s body looked so pumped up that it might explode at the slightest touch, but by then it was too late for him to abort the plan. Besides, bodybuilders were seldom as strong as they looked.
Jörgen hadn’t recognized him, and he didn’t do a thing to jog the man’s memory. Instead, he said that his own car had quit on him and that he had to get back home to Helsingborg. Jörgen took the bait immediately and offered him a ride.
The biggest problem then became Jörgen’s insufferable, amoebalevel babbling, which he’d had to listen to all the way home. It had been an unparalleled ordeal, and at several junctures he’d felt the urge to take out the bag with the drenched rag early and shove it into his face just to get the damn guy to shut up. But he’d restrained himself and waited for the right moment: Larmvägen in Fredriksdal, where he had claimed to live.
Jörgen insisted on driving him all the way there. Once they arrived he was finally able to take out the rag, and the rest went like clockwork. Jörgen slept through the entire operation. If the newspapers were to be believed, he woke up at the planned time and failed to escape. The superglue in the lock had been his favourite touch — he still got excited every time he thought about it.
Glenn Granqvist hadn’t been quite so easy. He had certainly expected the news of Jörgen’s fate to make Glenn more vigilant — how else could he interpret those chopped-off hands? — and afraid that he was next in line, but it had come as a complete surprise that Glenn had gone so far with his security measures; they’d almost disrupted the entire operation. He had to admit it: he’d underestimated Glenn and fallen right into his trap.
He had originally planned to enter Glenn’s Eksjö house — “Villa Harmony” — through the back patio door and make his way to Glenn’s bedroom upstairs. The attack itself was supposed to be a piece of cake, but he never made it that far. Instead, he got stuck in the unspooled barbed wire in the yard that must have been connected to some sort of alarm.
Glenn was outside the house with a baseball bat in less than fifteen seconds. He had no choice but to drop down, hide behind some currant bushes, and do everything he could not to scream as the barbed wire sliced into his throat. In that instant he was sure it was all over and that his three years of work would come to nothing, which would have been the case if it hadn’t been for the dog, who came out of nowhere and got stuck in the barbed wire too. Glenn went to help it, but it tore itself free and ran away whimpering.
Glenn went back inside five minutes later, which finally gave him the opportunity to pull the barbs out of his throat. He was bleeding heavily and was forced to retreat. Once he arrived home, he discovered that his wounds were so deep they needed stitches, which he took care of himself. It wasn’t pretty, but he did a clean job and it stopped the bleeding. The lumpy stitches on his throat, which would undoubtedly scar, would serve as a constant reminder never to underestimate an opponent again.
He lay down on the blanket and realized that the screaming had finally stopped. Everything was under control here. Once he moved the Peugeot the following day, order would be restored, which would allow him to move on to the next step in peace and quiet.
He closed his eyes and thought of all the people who were struggling to solve his puzzle, to figure out how it was all connected. Little did they know he had only just begun.
One last thought washed through him like a soft, warm wave before he drifted off. Soon, the whole class would have sleepless nights.