IT WAS FAR TOO late by the time he realized how badly he had underestimated Fabian Risk. The incident in Glenn’s yard had cost him a day and given Risk enough time to find the car in Denmark. He went over the events again and again in his mind, scrutinizing every detail, but he still had no idea how it happened. It was a complete surprise to discover that Risk had removed one of the tires. He was turning out to be a much greater threat than he ever could have expected. He had to admit that deep, deep down, he was impressed.
He had failed to move the car. He’d been forced to give up, to run off and leave it behind. It was now in the hands of the Danish police, which was at least better than if the Swedes had it. The Danes wouldn’t find much of interest. The only question was how long it would remain with them.
He had seriously considered aborting his plan and leaving on the boat that was fuelled up, well stocked, and waiting for him in Råås harbour. But instead he decided to look into changing parts of it. He would be delayed by at least another whole day, which he had to accept. Quitting would be such a monumental defeat that he wasn’t even certain he could live with it.
Risk had only played a small role in the original plan; he was practically just an extra body. However, once he had discovered that Risk was moving back with his family, he had been given a slightly more active role. Things had gotten out of control and now Risk was taking up much more space than he was meant to. Risk needed to be put in his place before the plan derailed entirely. He still didn’t know exactly how he could do it, but he had turned weaknesses into strengths before, and he had no reason to doubt that he would be successful this time too.
Most of the events of the last few hours had played right into his hands. His guest appearance as a Danish journalist had succeeded beyond his hopes. It had made Risk the centre of everyone’s attention, which would hinder and probably also delay the entire police investigation. As an added bonus, the Danes had set up obstacles for both themselves and the Swedes, for which he was grateful. The fact that a car was pulling out in front of him, leaving an empty parking space right in front of Risk’s row house, was just the cherry on top.
He fastened a little web camera to the inside of the side window with a suction cup, screwed on the antenna, and coupled the power cord to the cable he had run from the car battery. He turned it on and the diode started blinking like a car alarm. He took out his phone and sent a six-digit code to a specific number via text message. About ten seconds later, the video came to life on his phone. He aimed the camera at Risk’s front door and adjusted the focus.
He got out of the rental car and locked the door. He had worn his gloves the entire time he was in the car; he wasn’t about to make that mistake again. He headed left on the sidewalk and counted four doorways before he turned right onto Brommagatan at the corner. Just after he passed the illuminated shop window of Skandia Realtors, which was full of properties not even people moving from Stockholm could afford. He took a right onto a gravel path and walked past a number of waste containers and a sign informing him that the area was for residents only.
The small yards crowded each other behind the row houses, each one fancier than the next. He counted his way to Risk’s and noticed that the previous owners had chosen to stay out of the great yard-furnishing race. He climbed over the half-rotten fence and hid behind a tool shed. From there he could see straight into the house.
*
FABIAN WAS HAVING TROUBLE keeping his eyes open, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. His thoughts wouldn’t grant him any reprieve, and he couldn’t shake the sense that everything he was trying to accomplish was about to crack and collapse into pieces. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, clicking around Mette Louise Risgaard’s blog. At first he’d thought it wasn’t about anything in particular, since it mostly consisted of a lot of short, uninteresting entries about Mette Louise’s daily experiences. Very occasionally she might offer a thought or reflection.
But the more entries he read about going to work at the gas station, meeting friends, thinking about getting new tattoos, and watching DVDs, the more wrapped up in her life he got. A picture of an intelligent young girl developed, someone who was full of thoughts and ideas but couldn’t do anything with them in the backwoods town where she had grown up. Mette Louise Risgaard hated Lellinge more than anything else, and would rather have killed herself than grow old there.
Fabian couldn’t tell if she had a boyfriend from the blog, but he did get to read about himself: the Swede who had left her with a tire. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to her that week. Only two more posts followed: one about a broken coffeemaker and one about a neighbour who bought porn videos. If you weren’t aware of what had happened, it might take a few days to realize the blog was abandoned. She was dead.
Fabian went to another website, which informed him that the funeral would be held in two days’ time, at one o’clock in the afternoon at Lellinge Church. He decided to attend, whether or not Tuvesson thought he should keep working on the case. It was the least he could do.
He closed the computer and was brushing his teeth in the guest bathroom when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch — it was just past midnight — and turned off the water. Maybe he was hearing things. He had just rinsed out his mouth when it rang again. It was impossible to miss this time. Someone was standing at his door, ringing the bell.
Fabian dried his face and went to open the door. On his way there, he wondered who it could be, but he couldn’t think of anyone who would visit at this hour. He made a mental note to put in a peephole as soon as he had time. Then he unlocked the door and opened it.