FABIAN WAS SUPPOSED TO have run home to pick up Sonja and the kids to go to Molander’s barbecue more than half an hour ago. But he couldn’t go home yet; there was no time to lose. He called Tuvesson and left her a short message about his conversation with the killer. She was probably busy fighting the Danes so they could go pick up the Peugeot from the gas station. There was no way for her to know that the information he now had would make her job much easier.
As Fabian waited for Tuvesson to return his call, he entered Glenn’s house through the back door and searched it, but didn’t find anything of interest.
Even though he didn’t find any leads in the house, Fabian was absolutely certain that the motive he had suggested earlier concerning Claes was accurate. Glenn Granqvist wasn’t on a sunny beach in Bulgaria; Glenn Granqvist was dead. Fabian was equally certain that the man he had spoken with was the perpetrator. Both he and Fabian had played their roles well, even if there could be no doubt that both had understood exactly what was really going on.
Fabian parked outside the police station and hurried in. The lobby was empty and he had to use his access card for the first time. He was surprised to find he remembered the code, and he used the time in the elevator to call home.
“Hi, Dad. Mom says you should have been here more than half an hour ago.”
“Yes, doll, Mom’s absolutely right.” He stepped out of the elevator. “A few things have come up at work and Dad has to take care of them.”
“That’s exactly what she said, too. And when the phone rang, she said it was you calling and that we probably wouldn’t be going to any barbecue tonight.”
“Did she? How could she know all of that?”
“I don’t know. But you and that lady who isn’t allowed to call are the only ones who have our new number. If you really wanted to talk to Mom, you would have called her cell phone. By calling home, you hoped that me or Theo would answer instead.”
She would make a good police officer, Fabian thought, and he asked his daughter to report that the barbecue would surely be cancelled, since Molander would also be tied up with things to do all night at the police station.
Fabian walked into the department offices, which were also empty. Where was everyone? He understood it was Friday, but they were in the midst of an investigation that might very well develop into one of the Helsingborg police’s worst cases ever. He opened the door to Tuvesson’s office, which was just as empty and desolate as the rest of the department. He walked over to the panorama window and took out his phone to call her again. Instead, it started ringing in his hand. It was Molander.
“Hello there. Where are you?”
“Huh? I’m at the station.”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“A number of things have come to light in the investigation, so I think we’re going to have to cancel tonight and —”
“What do you mean, cancel? The barbecue is lit. There’s no sign of a cancellation on our end,” said Molander, without even a shred of interest in what might have come up.
“I’m sorry, Ingvar, but I’m afraid I have to work. We’ll have to come over another time. By the way, do you happen to know where Tuvesson is?”
“Here. Where else would she be?”
Fabian pulled the phone away from his ear, and started at it as if it had come from another planet.
*
“WELL, HELLO AND WELCOME! You must be the new people,” exclaimed a woman who seemed mighty proud of her extreme tan. “You’re the only ones we’re still waiting for. My name is Gertrud Molander. Come in! What would you like to drink?”
Sonja and the children followed Gertrud into the house and Fabian felt an immediate sense of relief. The car ride had only taken fifteen minutes, but it had been painfully silent, almost unbearably so. He’d asked about the Louisiana Museum and whether it was as beautiful as everyone claimed, and if they would like to visit again.
Sonja hadn’t bothered to answer a single one of his questions. But now they were here, and he could tell already that she was in a better mood. Apparently someone like Gertrud was just what she needed.
As they walked through the house, Fabian observed that Ingvar Molander was married to a true collector. One of the largest plate collections he’d ever seen hung on one wall of the living room, and a lighted display cabinet contained crystal owls of all imaginable shapes, sizes, and colours.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Gertrud exclaimed, moving toward him.
Fabian nodded, although he had never understood the fascination with crystal decorations. “Are you the one who collects them?”
“No, but I started buying them when I was on my first trip around Europe.”
“So they’re Ingvar’s?”
“Ingvar? You think he could stand collecting crystal?” she said, as if this were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. “To be completely honest there isn’t one person behind it, but most of my friends have contributed to it. Now and then a new little owl just shows up.”
“People buy them and put them there without telling you?”
“Don’t ask me. Come on, you need a drink.”
Gertrud showed him out to the backyard. It looked just as Fabian had expected when he’d toured the inside of the house. The lawn was so meticulously mowed that it looked like a computer- generated image: there were garden gnomes, little windmills, and fountains in the background. There was even a little pond with a bridge across it. Matilda thought it was sheer paradise and ran around the yard as if she wanted to be everywhere all at once.
“Dad! The pond is full of fish! Come look!”
“I can’t right now! Do you mind showing Theodor instead?” he called back, receiving a tired glance from Theodor, who was apparently capable of taking his eyes away from his phone for once.
Everyone from the police station was there, even Florian Nilsson, the receptionist, who had dressed up in a red shirt that buttoned up the side in honour of the evening. It made Fabian think of Midge Ure and how long it had been since he’d listened to “After a Fashion.”
Molander was standing at the grill, looking as if his duty was a matter of life and death.
“Fabian, there you are! Come over here and say hi,” Irene Lilja called. She was standing next to a muscular man with close-cropped hair, worn jeans, and a pink shirt. His lip bulged with a large packet of snus. Fabian walked over to say hello.
“We were starting to wonder what had happened to you,” said Lilja. “Hampan, meet Fabian, my new colleague.”
“Are you a police officer too?” Fabian asked, shaking hands with the man.
“No, I’m a boyfriend,” the man replied, with a smile so broad that it revealed more than half of his snus packet.
“Oh. I see.” Fabian gave Lilja a look but received no help whatsoever.
“So keep your hands off her, otherwise you’ll get a taste of this,” Hampan continued, flexing one of his biceps.
“Wow,” Fabian said with a chuckle, but he could hear how hollow it sounded. “Maybe I’ll go find something to drink.” He walked over to the serving table, opened a beer, and wondered whether one would really suffice. Sonja already appeared to be on her second glass of red wine, and was in the midst of discussing her own art with Gertrud. Fabian took the opportunity to walk over to Tuvesson and Klippan, each of whom had a gin and tonic in hand, to explain the call from the person he believed to be the killer.
“And what makes you think that?” Klippan asked.
“He called from Glenn Granqvist’s cell phone, and I’m convinced Glenn is dead.”
“You mean he’s been murdered?” said Tuvesson, as she took a fair-sized gulp of her drink.
Fabian nodded. “His yard was full of barbed wire and alarms, as if he’d prepared for our guy to come after him, which is exactly what I think happened.”
“My God. What did he say when he called?” Tuvesson asked.
“I was the one who called him, and then he called me back.”
“From Glenn’s cell phone?” Klippan said.
Fabian nodded.
“He claimed he was in Sunny Beach in Bulgaria on vacation, and that he’d left yesterday — the same day the papers broke the story of Jörgen Pålsson’s murder.”
“It seems pretty pointless to put energy into laying out a bunch of barbed wire and then taking off for Bulgaria,” said Klippan.
“We’ll have to contact the airlines to confirm your theory that Glenn didn’t leave the country,” said Tuvesson.
“I can deal with that first thing tomorrow,” said Klippan.
“Shouldn’t we give the house a thorough look?” said Fabian.
“Absolutely,” said Tuvesson, draining her glass. “I just have to contact Högsell and get permission first.”
“Anyone besides me want a refill?” Klippan asked, holding up his empty glass.
“I wouldn’t say no to another splash,” Tuvesson replied, and they walked off together.
Fabian didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. Here they were, in the midst of a case with any number of leads to follow, yet barbecued meat and alcohol were the top priority.
“Just standing here alone, philosophizing,” Lilja remarked as she handed him an open beer. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
“I don’t know if I should.”
“Don’t mind Hampan. He’s just kidding around. Plus, he never gets too far away from the grill.”
“At any rate, I take it you two found your way back to each other at some point in the last few hours.”
“You would be reading too much into it. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason Molander invited Hampan. He was already here when I arrived. But let’s forget about that for now,” she said, pulling Fabian into the house and down to the cellar. “If I didn’t know Molander, this would totally freak me out.” She turned on the ceiling lights and Fabian quickly realized what she was talking about.
They were in a room packed with shelves, display cases, and glass counters that were filled with various objects categorized in different groups, like a museum collection. Fabian was reminded of a place on Gotland island where someone had turned his own hoarded belongings into a museum. Molander’s collection was more lavish and charming, though not as sprawling as the one on Gotland, which was made up of everything from magic wands to typewriters. Down here there was only one overarching theme: murder. He did have quite a few subcategories, such as hunting and fishing, poisonous substances, and various weapons — everything from firearms to knives and perfectly common tools.
After a closer look, Fabian changed his mind and elevated “Fishing” to a main category alongside “Murder.” Almost half the collection consisted of fishing-related objects: trolling spoons and rods, different types of nets, and lots of mounted fish. There was even a display case featuring a collection of dried-up flies pinned onto a cushion in rows.
“He certainly has an eye for detail,” said Fabian, studying a collection of scalpels.
“It probably explains why he’s one of the best forensic investigators.” Lilja pulled out a drawer lined with red velvet that was meant to display jewellery. It contained a collection of bullets, each marked with a number. “Each of these has killed a person.” She pulled out another drawer of bullets. “These ones have only injured people.”
Fabian looked at all the rows of deformed bullets. He counted thirty-eight extinguished lives in the first drawer, and an unknowable number of people left behind to deal with their sorrow.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’ve learned anything about Claes Mällvik?”
“Have you? I didn’t know if I should wait until Monday. Everyone here seems to be on vacation.”
Lilja gave him a snide smile, which was interrupted by her phone.
“Yes? What is it? I’m just with Fabian, showing him Molander’s collection... Just come down here if you don’t believe me.” She ended the call and rolled her eyes. “Sorry, where were we?”
“Mällvik.”
“Right. After compulsory school he did a four-year technical degree at Tycho Brahe School, where he got top grades. After that he studied medicine at Lund University, and in 1990 he started working as a general practitioner here in Helsingborg.”
“Isn’t Rune Schmeckel a doctor too?”
“Yes, but at a much higher level. Rune is a surgeon, one of the best in the country in his specialty. In any case, something happened in 1993. Claes went to the emergency room here in Helsingborg, and listen to this...” Lilja took a folded piece of paper from her jeans pocket, unfolded it, and read: “Fractured mandible, serious head injuries from blunt force trauma — likely from being kicked. Five fractured ribs, internal bleeding, and the list goes on. Look at this.” She handed him a photograph that showed a beaten, swollen face that had been so gravely abused that it hurt to look at it.
“So someone assaulted him.”
“I would probably label this as attempted murder. He underwent thirty-six operations. It’s a minor miracle that he survived at all.”
“Is there anything about where the injuries came from?”
“The doctors asked, but he refused to tell them.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“The hospitalization and subsequent operations were the last things I could find out about him. I can certainly dig deeper to try and uncover more, but for now this is it.”
“Could he have died?”
Lilja shrugged. “Maybe. Or left the country.”
*
FABIAN SANK HIS TEETH into his meat, realizing how hungry he was.
“These cutlets are just about the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Sonja said, prompting agreement from the other guests.
“Thanks, Sonja,” said Molander. “But just so you know, they’re not cutlets.”
“They’re not?”
“No, this a butt roast.”
“Ingvar, don’t start with that again,” said Gertrud.
“But it is a butt roast. Why not call it by its proper name?”
“Because it doesn’t sound as appetizing.” Gertrud turned to Sonja. “Don’t pay any attention to him. His marinade is the secret to why it tastes so good. No one can make one like Ingvar. I think he should write a cookbook full of nothing but marinades!” She raised her glass. “Cheers, and thank you all for coming.”
They toasted and proceeded with dinner. The more they drank, the more pleasant it was, and their discussions moved from one extreme to the next. One moment they were debating how much Michael Jackson’s doctor could be blamed for the star’s sudden death, only to then discuss the finals of the World Cup, which Sweden wasn’t even playing in.
“It’s such a relief!” Klippan exclaimed, noting this was the first time in a while that the knockout matches weren’t giving him a stomach ache.
Even Sonja was having a good time. She smiled quite a few times at Fabian from across the table.
“What sort of paintings do you do?” Tuvesson asked Sonja.
“I mostly paint underwater images of schools of fish and crabs and things like that.”
“I love fish,” Molander said, raising his glass.
“No, you love killing fish,” said Gertrud.
“And those sell well?” Tuvesson inquired. She seemed genuinely interested.
“A little too well, actually. I don’t have time to develop anything new. Everyone just wants these damn fish all the time.”
“I have an artist friend who ended up in the same situation,” said Tuvesson. “He made a concrete bench with cut-out letters that spelled ‘liars’ bench’ in the middle several years ago, and people loved it. Now he spends most of his time creating customized benches — buyers get to choose what the benches say. It’s super smart, and it pays the rent. I think he even did a few for Princess Victoria and Prince Daniel’s wedding. But is he an artist still, or a concrete worker?”
“It would take at least a long lunch to answer that question,” Sonja said, holding up her empty wine glass. “And a little refill, please.”
“That’s a given,” Tuvesson said, filling Sonja’s glass.
“So why did you two move down here?” asked Lilja. “Stockholm is a fantastic city.”
“Stockholm is a goddamn crap city, if you ask me,” said Hampan. “I’ve been there three times and I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would want to live there. Stockholmers are so fucking stressed out they can’t even stand still on an escalator. Hell, I got run over by people just to get to the subway, even though another one always comes a minute or two later.”
“Well, Hampan, I wasn’t asking you — I was asking Sonja.”
Hampan chugged his beer and everyone turned to Sonja, as if they were expecting a thorough yet concise answer, which Fabian was fully aware she did not have. He was the one who had put the pressure on, and she was the one who had given in. He started to take it upon himself to respond to the question directly, but Lilja stopped him; she obviously only wanted to hear from Sonja.
“Actually, I’ve always liked Skåne. Spring comes a month earlier and fall happens a month later. And I’m hoping that the change of scenery will help me with my painting. As soon as this job opportunity popped up for Fabian, our minds were made up.” She raised her glass. “Cheers to Skåne!”
They toasted, and Fabian blew a kiss to Sonja. It was a good answer — so good that he almost believed her himself.
“I’m not that easily fooled,” Lilja said with a smile. Sonja’s face looked quizzical. “And to be completely honest I think that goes for everyone here. We’re police officers and we’re used to hearing excuses — each more outlandish than the last.”
“I thought this one was pretty decent,” said Tuvesson.
“Definitely, especially that bit about the importance of a change of scenery. If she hadn’t looked away at that very moment I would have given her a ten out of ten for sure. But she’ll have to settle for a seven.”
The others laughed.
“Okay, okay, okay!” Sonja broke in. Fabian could tell she was drunk. “Do you want to hear the truth?”
“Yes!” the others cried.
“Here’s the thing: my relationship with Fabian started to seem more and more like a long-distance relationship these past few years, even though we share a bed.” Sonja’s eyes scanned the others as they sat quietly and waited for her to go on. “But since we still love each other more than anything else, we decided to make some major changes. Start over and try to find our way back... Cheers!” She raised her glass and was met by applause and cheering.
“That’s what I’d call a fifteen,” said Lilja.
Fabian felt how right Sonja had been about one thing: how much he loved her.
*
BY THE TIME FABIAN’S phone rang, he had completely forgotten that he was in the midst of a complicated investigation, so his first impulse was not to answer it. Then he noticed it was a Danish number and immediately picked up.
“Hi, this is Mette Louise Risgaard... from the gas station,” explained the voice on the other end of the line. “The man is here right now,” she said, and the line abruptly went dead.