IRENE LILJA SUGGESTED THAT they meet down at Olsons Skafferi for lunch just after one o’clock. Fabian knew the place and had been there several times before moving to Stockholm. It had been a new, hip restaurant back then, but now it was an old classic.
On the way there, he called Sonja, who was eating lunch with Matilda at the Louisiana Museum’s outdoor café, where the view alone was apparently worth the whole trip. He told her about the invitation to the barbecue at Molander’s and, to his surprise, she thought it sounded like a good idea. She believed it was important that they get to know some new people. If he had some nice colleagues, why not start there?
Fabian thought she was being sarcastic at first. Sonja had never been particularly interested in meeting his friends, much less his colleagues. But maybe she was doing just as they’d agreed — giving their new life a fair chance. They decided to meet at home around five. He said he would pick up some wine.
He found an empty parking spot on Hästmöllegränden across from Systembolaget, where he scanned the shelves for a creative wine. He usually ended up with a few different Riojas, chosen at random from the more expensive shelves.
Up until a few years ago, his ignorance about wine had chafed like a stiff laundry tag against his neck. As soon as the wine list came around to him he would be struck by panic at the thought of making a decision. He tried to remedy his ignorance by joining a wine-tasting club, but after just a few meetings, during which he’d tried to muster up enthusiasm for gurgling wine and discussing vintages and varieties of grapes, he’d accepted that his knowledge would never be anything to brag about.
He stepped into Olsons and saw that Lilja was already waiting for him at the window table in the corner.
“What do you say to Skåne roe deer with chanterelles sautéed in butter, puréed parsnips, potato blinis, and veal gravy flavoured with lingonberries?”
Fabian nodded and sat down.
“Good, because I already ordered it for us both — it was the most expensive item on the menu,” she continued, placing a file on the table.
“Schmeckel?”
Lilja nodded.
“And?”
“So far I’ve only looked online, but he’s definitely of interest and he seems to have a number of skeletons in his closet. He was born in 1966, just like you. He’s single, no kids, and he works at the hospital in Lund as — and this is where it gets interesting — a surgeon.”
“A surgeon? Any particular specialty?”
Lilja nodded and took a bite of bread. “He started working at Lund Hospital in 1997, and quickly became one of the best surgeons in the country for prostate cancer operations. But in 2004 there was an incident and he was barred from working for twelve months.”
“What kind of incident?”
“He left two plastic surgical clips inside a patient.”
“He left them inside the...”
Lilja nodded, sipping her mineral water. “In the bladder. The patient, Torgny Sölmedal, had to pee them out and apparently said it was one of the worst things that ever happened to him. Ironic, given Rune’s last name, isn’t it?”
“Did it end there?”
“No. They opened a huge investigation, as I understand it, and made a pretty big deal out of the whole thing. In any case, it turned out Rune was suffering from sleep deprivation and downing as many pills as Michael Jackson just to manage his job, but it clearly didn’t help. The hospital administration supported him throughout the entire ordeal and he was back with knife in hand one year later, but these days he mostly does hernias and appendixes.”
“Any other incidents?”
“Not that I could find.”
“What do you have on his childhood?”
“More or less nothing, which is why I think it’s fishy. Everything after 1994 seems more or less typical: his education, work history, various home addresses, phone numbers, the cars he’s owned, and so on. He runs the spring marathon in Helsingborg every year, for example.”
“Since when?”
“Records show since 1994. But that’s the thing — there’s almost nothing on him before 1994. The only information I managed to find about his childhood was on Wikipedia of all places: Rune Schmeckel grew up in Malmö, where he graduated from the natural sciences program at secondary school with top grades. After that he did his compulsory military service as a non-commissioned officer in Kristianstad. That’s his entire early- life biography. Other than those two sentences, it’s like he didn’t even exist before 1994.”
“So you don’t believe that information?”
“Well, for one thing, I checked the records and he never did military service in Kristianstad. It seems he made up a few things to make himself sound good.”
“Why would someone do that?”
Her face lit up and she leaned toward him. “To hide the fact that there isn’t anything there.”
Lilja’s theory had something to it. The Internet had been in its infancy in the 1990s, but for the most part enough information could be found to form a picture of the person in question. Holes had a tendency to fill themselves, but apparently not when it came to Rune Schmeckel.
“Did you find any pictures of him?”
“On the third page of the document.” Lilja held the file out to Fabian, who felt something spark inside him when he looked at the picture of Rune Schmeckel. He had never seen this man before, yet there was no doubt there was something familiar about him. He tried to figure out what it was, but gave up once their food arrived.
A few minutes later, Lilja broke the silence. “Did you and your family move to Helsingborg for a change or were you running away from Stockholm?”
Fabian had to finish chewing the bite of Skåne roe deer he had just put in his mouth before he could respond. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“You and your wife.”
“Sonja. Her name is Sonja.”
“Are things okay between you and Sonja? Or are you like most couples?”
Fabian had no doubt about the answer to that question, but it was hard to figure out what to tell her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch a raw nerve.”
“No, it’s okay, you just took me by surprise. We moved to Helsingborg for a change, but like most people, Sonja and I have our ups and downs. What about you? How long have you been living in your office?”
“Since last week. It’s been completely nuts. He refuses to move out, even though it’s actually my apartment.”
“Maybe he’s hoping you’ll come back.”
Lilja snorted. “He can forget about that. You have no idea what a fucking asshole he is. It’s over this time, dammit, even if I have to sleep in my office for the rest of the summer.” She resumed eating in silence and then looked at him across the table. “Wasn’t it your colleagues who were involved in the incident at the Israeli embassy last winter?”
Fabian had been waiting for this question. He nodded mutely.
“What happened?”
“You tell me. I really don’t have any idea.”
“I suppose it’s still under investigation, but isn’t it weird how little the newspapers have reported on it? I mean, two police officers died. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“I don’t know,” Fabian said, shrugging. “By the way, I tried to get hold of Glenn Granqvist —”
“Doesn’t it almost feel like the whole thing has been covered up?”
“Like I said, I have no idea.”
“Sorry. What do I know? Maybe you’re not even allowed to talk about it. Forget it... Coffee?”
Fabian nodded and Lilja left to go to the counter. He could certainly understand why she was curious. He probably would have been wondering about the very same questions if he were in her position, only he wouldn’t have voiced them. But Lilja wanted answers, and she wasn’t above asking for them. She was on him like a furious wasp — and he liked her.
“You were trying to get hold of Granqvist.” Lilja set down two cups of coffee.
“I called but he didn’t answer his phone, so I was planning to stop by his house.”
“I was planning on contacting the national registration office to see what they have on Schmeckel,” Lilja said, downing her coffee in a single gulp.
“We should take a look at Schmeckel’s house as soon as possible.”
“Agreed. Tuvesson has promised to do what she can, but vacation season is throwing a wrench into the investigation. Worse comes to worst, it might not be possible until late next week.”
“Let’s hope we can get in there earlier.”
“What do you mean, hope?” Lilja said, standing up.
*
A POLICE OFFICER DOESN’T hope. A police officer takes action and works methodically until the perpetrator is caught, making sure there is enough evidence for a conviction. Going around full of hope is the job of family members, not the police. Yet here he was, having just expressed himself as having hope. He pondered Lilja’s question, started the car, and pulled out onto Drottninggatan.
Had he already given up, thinking that the battle was lost? Did he feel absolutely powerless to change the outcome, believing the only ace he had left was the small hope that everything would probably work out in the end, as if this were a Sunday night movie? In truth, he had no idea how this would end. All he knew for sure was that for the first time in a long while, something about this case frightened him. He was scared this was far from over and scared of what the consequences would be if he failed again.
Fabian hit the gas pedal to make the very best of the wave of green lights that had followed him all the way from Hälsobacken. He passed police headquarters going 145 kilometres per hour. Tuvesson called as he was driving through Väla.
“I just spoke to Sten Hammar regarding a search warrant for Schmeckel’s house.”
“And?”
“Unfortunately, he does not consider there to be sufficient grounds. I’m not surprised. All we have is a car that crossed the Øresund Bridge at the same time as our victim and is now parked at a gas station in Denmark, which is not enough. We need something more concrete.”
Tuvesson was right. The problem was that something more concrete would likely not be found in Schmeckel’s house.
He put Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief into the CD player and turned up the volume. He turned off at Ödåkra as the last few bars of “2 + 2 = 5” petered out. Soon, he was slowing down on Jupitergäten outside Glenn Granqvist’s house. He stepped out of the car and scanned the area with his eyes. The neighbourhood seemed as deserted as it might be after a nuclear accident.
Granqvist’s house looked just like the others on the block: two storeys, a white plaster facade, a pitched roof, and a separate garage. The house sat at the very front of the lot.
Fabian walked up to the front door and noticed that the outdoor lights were on, even though the sun was still high in the sky. The same went for the ceiling light in the living room. Was this a sign that he had come too late? Had Glenn already received his punishment? Or would the whole bully idea turn out to be a dead end?
He rang the bell, holding down the button for a long time. He looked at his watch and followed the second hand with his eyes. He decided to wait for sixty seconds.
Although he hoped that Glenn would come to the door and prove himself perfectly healthy, he couldn’t ignore the little part of him that was crossing his fingers for the opposite result, because then all his doubt about the motive would vanish.
The door remained closed.
He rang the bell again, and held it for even longer this time.
A woman walked by with a stroller, casting a look of suspicion. He responded with a smile.
“Hi! Listen, the guy who lives here, Glenn Granqvist... You don’t happen to know if he’s home, do you?”
The woman shook her head.
“The lights are on. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him here in the past few days?”
She shook her head again and hurried on.
“Well, fine then.” He took out his phone and dialled Glenn’s home number, which he had found in Lilja’s notes. He could hear it ringing as clear as day from inside the house.
“You talking to me?”
This time, Fabian left a message introducing himself and asking Glenn to give him a call as soon as possible. Then he called Glenn’s cell phone and left the very same message as he walked around to the back of the house.
The yard consisted of a large lawn surrounded by a hedge that hadn’t yet grown taller than a metre. An open field began where the hedge ended, perfect for anyone who wanted to pay a surprise visit. But that wasn’t what caught his attention — it was the barbed wire.
Fabian didn’t understand. Why in the world would anyone lay barbed wire all over his backyard? He crouched down and cautiously touched the sharp wire, which twisted here and there across the lawn in long spirals. He heard a distant clucking noise and turned around, but wasn’t able to locate the source of the sound before it stopped. He grabbed the barbed wire between his index finger and thumb and yanked at it. Once more he heard the clucking — this time loud enough for him to figure out that it was coming from one of the slightly open windows on the second floor. He stood up, taking a few steps toward the house so that he could get a better look, and walked straight into a piece of fishing line that was strung between the barbed wire and what turned out to be a wind chime made of bamboo, hanging inside the window.
So Glenn had come to the same conclusion as Fabian: now that Jörgen had been taken care of, it was his turn next. But Glenn clearly had no intention of being as ill prepared. Was Glenn’s paranoia justified? And if so, was he able to defend himself?
Fabian was jolted out of his thoughts by his ringing phone. He took it out and looked at the screen: 0765-261110. He repeated the number to himself before realizing that it was the very same number he had just called.
“This is Fabian Risk.” He tried to sound as composed and neutral as he could, but there was no response on the other end. Instead, there was an expectant silence. He could only just hear the sound of someone breathing.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“You were trying to reach me.”
“Is this Glenn Granqvist?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we were in the same class at school.”
“Fabbe? Is that you?”
“Yes, that’s right. How are you?”
“I can’t complain. How about you? I heard you became a cop and moved to Stockholm.”
“Yeah, I did. But I’ve actually moved back home now and I’m working for the police here in Helsingborg.”
“Well, how about that! Guess I better behave myself.”
Fabian laughed and decided to guide the conversation toward the topic at hand. “I assume you know why I was trying to get hold of you.”
“Jögge.”
“Right.”
“It’s just awful. I read about it in the paper and... damn. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”
“We’re working on... a number of parallel leads.” Fabian had been about to answer more fully, but he’d stopped himself. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but for some reason he felt uncertain and on guard.
“Am I one of them or something?”
“In a manner of speaking. You were best friends after all, at least as far as I can recall from school. Were you two still in contact?”
“Jögge was my very best friend.”
“I’m sorry, you must feel terrible. But I was thinking, could we meet? I have a number of questions you might be able to help me out with.”
“Of course we can meet, but now is not a good time. Not unless you want to come down here.”
“And where is down here?”
“Sunny Beach, Bulgaria. It’s pretty fucking sweet. I’ve never seen so many horny chicks on one beach.”
This damn vacation season was making it impossible to work. He might as well take a vacation himself, as planned, and hold off on solving the case until August 16, when most people would be back at work. On the other hand, maybe this trip to Sunny Beach was what had saved Glenn’s life.
“When did you leave?”
“Just yesterday — July first. I’m staying for two weeks, until the fifteenth.”
They had only gone to the newspapers with the murder yesterday. If Glenn read about it down there, as he’d claimed, he wouldn’t have had enough time to string barbed wire all over his lawn.
“When did you first hear about the murder?”
“Lina called to tell me about it a couple days ago. Why?”
“Did you feel threatened when you heard about the murder? Was that why you left?”
“Why would I feel threatened?”
Either Glenn was lying or Fabian was speaking to someone else on the phone, he decided. “I thought the nature of the murder and the choice of location might make you feel a bit nervous.” He had revealed more than he should have, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to provoke a reaction, to force whoever it was on the other end of the line to show his true colours.
“Excuse my French, but what the fuck are you talking about?”
Fabian decided to put the screws on.
“Why else would you have laid out barbed wire behind your house and connected it to the wind chime on the second floor?”
There was an uncertain silence, long enough for all of Fabian’s doubts to scatter. The call ended.