“ARE YOU SURE?” TUVESSON looked at the Polaroids showing the battered face that were spread out on the table.
“Yes,” Fabian said confidently. It had come to him the instant he saw the pictures up in the attic in Lund — Claes Mällvik and Rune Schmeckel were the same person. “We’ve got a clear motive and a link to both the car and the murders of Jörgen and Glenn. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”
It was just the two of them in the meeting. Tuvesson would tell the others the news as soon as they were done going over the details.
“Why would Claes Mällvik change his name to Rune Schmeckel?” Tuvesson looked up from the photos and met Fabian’s gaze.
“I would assume to escape his tormentors once and for all, so he wouldn’t have to go through it again. He was brought to Helsingborg Hospital in 1993 more dead than alive, according to the records. It took thirty-six operations to save him, and that isn’t even counting the cosmetic surgeries.”
“And by tormentors, you mean Jörgen and Glenn.”
Fabian nodded and walked over to the two photos on the whiteboard that depicted Claes Mällvik and Rune Schmeckel. Now he could tell that they were the same person. Sure, Schmeckel had had plastic surgery and looked different, but once you knew, it was impossible to miss.
“He didn’t even report it to the police?” Tuvesson asked.
“No. Instead of alerting the authorities, he went underground and changed his identity so that he could plot his revenge undisturbed.”
“It certainly is a strong motive,” said Tuvesson. “But is he finished? Or could more classmates be in danger?”
“Are you asking whether more people bullied him?”
Tuvesson nodded. Fabian thought about it, looking at the enlarged class photo with Jörgen and Glenn crossed out. Fabian had never done a thing to him, besides look away and pretend nothing was going on. He told Tuvesson that he couldn’t think of anyone else who had messed with Claes.
Tuvesson looked out at Helsingborg through the panorama window. “I’m going to call a press conference. We’ll put out an alert for the suspect.”
*
FABIAN SAT DOWN AT Elvin’s desk with his ninth-grade yearbook, looking through the old class pictures for the umpteenth time to ensure that he hadn’t missed anything. Were Jörgen and Glenn really the only ones who had bullied Claes? The whole class, not to mention the teachers, shared the blame in some way since they’d let it keep happening.
Lina caught his eye in one of the photos. She still hadn’t called him and probably wasn’t going to. He thought back to when they both lived on Dalhemsvägen — he at 143C and she 141B, the apartment just across the courtyard.
He remembered meeting her for the first time. It was the summer before they’d started first grade. He was standing in the parking lot with his tennis trainer, trying to bounce the ball on top of his racquet as many times as he could. He hadn’t noticed Lina show up, but she was sitting on the curb watching him. She looked like a vision, with long blonde braids, a green skirt, and knee socks. She even had a tennis racket with her.
Neither of them said anything to each other. He tried not to look; he wanted to make it seem like he didn’t know she was there. It didn’t even occur to Fabian to let Lina play with the ball. His attempt at setting a record suddenly seemed absolutely trivial, and all he wanted to do was try to hit as hard as possible to show off his strength.
He went to bash the ball, but the blue rubber string he’d tied together in several places broke and the ball flew in a great arc, landing far out in the street. They both stayed put for quite some time, neither of them saying a word. He could remember how silly he’d felt, just quietly standing there. He was still pretending she wasn’t there, so he had no idea how to get himself out of the situation.
“Do you want me to help you find the ball?” she said.
He still remembered each word as if it was one of a string of lottery numbers that had made him a millionaire. The silence was broken.
“No. I was going to buy a new one anyway,” he replied, turning his back on both her and the tennis trainer and walking away. He waited several hours to sneak back and grab the ball, but by then it was gone.
His phone rang, giving Fabian a start. He accidentally tipped over his glass of water. A small flood spilled across the desk and he was quick to shove the yearbook and his stacks of documents aside as he answered the call.
“Risk speaking.”
A Danish voice responded. “My name is Dunja Hougaard and I’m calling from the Copenhagen police’s murder squad. It’s about the murder of Mette Louise Risgaard and the attempted murder of Morten Steenstrup. As I understand it, the two of us are looking for the same guy.”
“Dunja, I appreciate your call, but I think it would be best if you spoke to my boss, Astrid Tuvesson.”
“That is exactly what I’m hoping to avoid.”
By this time, Fabian had managed to rescue most of his documents from the flood, which was turning into a small waterfall at the edge of the desk.
“And why is that?” He crawled under the desk and rescued the day’s edition of Helsingborgs Dagblad.
“Don’t ask me why, but my boss, Kim Sleizner, has given clear orders to my unit not to contact you all.”
“So, in other words, this is an informal conversation.” Fabian watched the blurry image of the rearing forklift at Åstorp Construction Supply darken as the moisture from the water spread out over the newspaper.
“Exactly. I was hoping we could help each other out.”
“How are things going with the car? Have you found anything in it?” Fabian was just about to get up again when he caught sight of a key taped to the underside of the desk.
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. It would be better if we could meet.”
“I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”
“Of course. You know where to find me.”
Fabian ended the call and contemplated what Dunja had said. He needed to carefully consider the consequences of going over Tuvesson’s head again. She had given him a second chance, and made it crystal clear that it was his last one.
He gently loosened the tape, took the key, and weighed it in his hand. He stood up, checking to make sure no one was watching, and stuck the key in the lock of the drawer he hadn’t been able to open. The key slid in easily. He looked around again and cautiously pulled out the drawer. It was full to the brim.
On the top of the heap, there was a calendar beside a pencil box. He lifted up the box to see what lay underneath, and was surprised by its heavy weight. He wondered if he should give in to his curiosity and open the box, but decided against it. He closed and locked the drawer and taped the key back in its spot under the desk.