FABIAN WAS SITTING alone in the conference room, attempting to adopt an air of calm before the others arrived, which was easier said than done. The battery-powered tracker Stubbs had found under his car had very effectively brought home the imminent threat against him.
There was no longer any doubt Molander was aware of his investigation and was coming for him. The question had instead become what his colleague’s next move was going to be, when and how he was planning to strike and whether there would be enough time for them to secure binding evidence against him.
His immediate inclination upon seeing the small black tracker had been to throw it on the ground and stomp it to pieces. But Stubbs had stopped him, insisting that was the worst thing he could do. Not only would Molander know his cover had been blown, he would also be able to see exactly where the signal had been interrupted, which might motivate him to investigate that location.
Listing one argument after another, she’d eventually succeeded in persuading him that the best thing he could do would be to replace the tracker and keep using the car like nothing had happened. Their only advantage right now was that Molander thought they didn’t know he was on to them.
In case he was also triangulating the location of Fabian’s mobile, they’d agreed to purchase new, pay-as-you-go phones as soon as possible. They also had to move Elvin’s boat, and since Stubbs drove a big Jeep equipped with a tow bar, she’d offered to drive it over to her friend Mona-Jill in Harlösa, east of Lund.
‘Blimey, you’re early!’ Astrid Tuvesson exclaimed as she entered the room with sunglasses in her hair and a coffee in her hand. She looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, particularly considering she’d fallen off the wagon and been well and truly inebriated when he called her late the night before to inform her about Molander.
‘Yes, I wanted to make sure I was on time. Since I have to leave around three.’
‘Right, what was that about, again?’
‘Theodor and I are going over to see the Danish prosecutor, remember?’
‘Quite right. I hope it goes well. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word. Okay?’
Fabian nodded.
‘Lilja’s off today, too, so we’ll see how this goes.’ She took a sip of her coffee and put the cup down. ‘From what I’m told, this murder in Klippan is unlike anything we’ve seen.’ She shook her head. ‘And here I was, thinking we were finally going to have some peace and quiet. Had I known this was coming, I wouldn’t have given you or Lilja time off. By the way, on a completely different note, since we’re the only ones here.’ She closed the door and turned to him. ‘Did we speak on the phone last night? Because I have a vague memory of you calling and waking me up.’
Fabian considered how to respond before realizing he was already shaking his head. ‘Not that I recall,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Why would I have called you?’
‘That’s what I was wondering.’
‘Maybe it was a dream.’
‘Dream?’
‘You said I woke you up. Maybe it was just a dream.’
‘Sure, maybe.’ Tuvesson gave him a very sceptical look. ‘Or maybe there’s a different explanation. One in which you actually—’
She was cut short by the door opening to admit Klippan and Ingvar Molander.
‘Crikey, you’re both early.’ Klippan set his laptop down on the table. ‘We might even have time for my run-through of the CCTV footage from Ica.’
‘Let’s start with the murder in Klippan, and then we’ll see where we are when that’s done. Fabian has to leave around three, so we may have to push Ica to tomorrow.’
Klippan sighed and shook his head.
‘Sigh all you want,’ Tuvesson said. ‘But tomorrow’s actually better, because Lilja will be back, too.’
‘What’s the rush?’ Molander’s question was almost inaudible, and to Tuvesson and Klippan, who knew nothing, apparently completely innocent.
In truth, it was a poison barb, fired across the room.
‘I’m going to a meeting with my son,’ Fabian replied, and was unable to stop himself adding: ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh dear, aren’t we in a good mood today.’ Molander put on a big smile.
‘Ingvar, maybe it’s none of your business,’ Tuvesson interjected.
‘No, maybe not,’ Molander said, without taking his eyes off Fabian.
‘So let’s get going instead.’ Tuvesson waited for Klippan and Molander to take a seat before continuing. ‘As you all know, we have another murder on our hands. One that doesn’t look like any of the others. I’ve just been in touch with Flätan, who tells me Evert Jonsson died approximately four weeks ago from asphyxiation caused by the hermetically sealed environment inside the cocoon, or whatever you want to call it.’
‘Was that all he had?’ Klippan asked. ‘That just confirms what we already knew.’
‘You’ve seen the body. According to Flätan, the decomposition is so advanced he was unable to perform a number of standard tests. But a severely fractured skull indicates the victim was knocked unconscious before being tied to that contraption and woke up only after it was sealed. There are also clear signs that he tried to get out and fought hard for his life. One of his shoulders had been pulled out of its socket, for example, and some of the straps around his wrists had cut all the way through to the bone. If Flätan is to be believed, it should have been close to three hours before he passed out permanently.’
‘A fairly unpleasant way to go, in other words,’ Molander put in.
‘That’s putting it mildly. But let’s start with the victim. What do we know about him?’
‘At the moment, not much beyond the fact that his name was Evert Jonsson and he worked as a taxi driver in Ängelholm until about a year ago, when he retired,’ Klippan replied. ‘His wife, Rita Jonsson, passed away from breast cancer in 2008.’
‘No other relatives?’
‘No, he had neither children nor siblings and his parents have been dead for over twenty years.’
‘That explains how he went undiscovered for so long.’ Tuvesson walked over to the whiteboard wall, put up a picture of Evert Jonsson and wrote no relatives. ‘And speaking of which. That handwritten message his neighbour received.’
‘You mean this?’ Klippan held up an evidence bag containing the envelope from Sydkraft.
‘Exactly. What do we have on that?’
‘Ingvar has managed to secure some prints that I ran through the database and, would you believe it, we found a match. This is our guy.’
Klippan passed around a police photograph of the man who had broken into Jonsson’s flat, holding up a sign with his name on it. ‘His name is Leo Hansi and he’s been arrested for burglary more times than he can count, I’d wager.’
‘You’re not seriously saying it’s him, though, are you?’ Tuvesson took the evidence bag and studied the handwritten message on the envelope. ‘Why would a simple burglar put someone through something like that and then return several weeks later to put a handwritten message through the neighbour’s letter box?’
Klippan shrugged. ‘According to him, it was sheer happenstance. The door was unlocked, and he went in.’
‘What, you’ve already interviewed him?’
‘I figured it was a better use of my time than sitting on my hands. As you know, I’ve finished going through the CCTV footage from Ica.’ Klippan smiled to take the edge off his remark. ‘Regardless, I find it hard to believe it’s him, unless he’s the world’s most talented undiscovered actor. He was still deeply shaken and assured me again and again that he was never breaking in anywhere ever again. He’s starting a new life.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Molander said, shaking his head.
‘Did he take anything? From the flat, I mean,’ Tuvesson said.
‘According to him, there was nothing of value in it, and from what little I’ve seen, I’m inclined to believe him. But maybe Ingvar will spot something missing.’ Klippan shrugged.
Tuvesson nodded. ‘All right. So the question we now have to ask ourselves is what makes someone want to do this to another human being.’ Next to the picture of Evert Jonsson she put up a picture of his decomposing body in the cocoon. ‘Because hard as it may be to wrap our heads around, there has to have been a motive. If we can just find it, we’ll also find—’
‘But what if there isn’t one?’
Tuvesson and the others turned to Fabian. ‘If there isn’t a what?’
‘A motive,’ he said, despite it still being little more than a theory based on a confused dream he’d had. ‘Why does there have to be a motive?’
‘Because there always is,’ Klippan said. ‘Behind every action there’s a motive.’
‘And if we can find it, we’ll find the perpetrator,’ Tuvesson added.
‘Yes, I’ve heard that old truism a number of times,’ Fabian said. ‘But what if that’s not the case here? Then what do we do?’
Silence fell.
‘Look, I’m not sure I follow,’ Tuvesson said finally. ‘Are you seriously saying there’s no motive?’
‘I don’t know. There might be, but I’m not convinced it’s one that’s going to help us move this investigation forward. So I suggest we drop the motive talk for a while.’ Fabian got up and walked over to the whiteboard wall. ‘It seems to me we’ve been so focused on a thousand different motives we can’t see the wood for the trees any more. Take the laundry room murder, for instance, or the poisoning of—’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Klippan broke in. ‘As you are very well aware, we have motives for the murders of both Moonif Ganem and Molly Wessman.’
‘We do? How can you be so sure?’
‘Fabian, come on, we’ve arrested the perpetrators,’ Tuvesson said. ‘Högsell is preparing charges as we speak.’
‘I know, but I’m no longer convinced we have the right people. Take Assar Skanås. He’s a paedophile and clearly into little girls. How does that explain why he’d shove a Syrian boy into a washing machine?’
‘He was there, Fabian,’ Molander said. ‘His fingerprints were on the washing machine door.’
‘Sure, but fingerprints and motive are two different things. Fingerprints are forensic evidence that could have ended up there some other way. From what I understand, he knew someone in the building. The bloke with all the dolls, right? Maybe he was just there to visit and noticed that the basement door was open and popped down to have a look.’ Fabian shrugged. ‘Same story with Eric Jacobsén. He has confessed to installing hidden cameras in a number of women’s homes. He has also engaged in quite a lot of rough sex. But that’s neither illegal nor a plausible motive for killing Wessman. Especially in view of the fact she was poisoned with ricin. I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t hold up.’
‘So according to you, we’re back to square one,’ Tuvesson said. ‘With both Moonif Ganem and Molly Wessman.’
‘Not entirely.’ Fabian swallowed and chose his words carefully. ‘Because I think everything’s actually connected.’
‘What do you mean, everything?’
‘All the murders, all our cases from the past few weeks. Everything we’ve been working on.’ Fabian nodded at the cluttered whiteboard wall.
The others looked, but no one spoke until Tuvesson turned to Klippan and Molander. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure how to put this.’ Klippan sighed. ‘Fabian, sometimes I feel like you just blurt out theories without any substantiation. Don’t get me wrong. I hear what you’re saying, but—’
‘I would go so far as to say there’s nothing to suggest a connection as things stand,’ Molander broke in. ‘First of all, the cases are completely different. Take the method, for instance. We have everything from knives and poisoning to a washing machine. And now a hermetically sealed cocoon, to boot. And the same goes for the victims.’
‘That’s my thinking, too,’ Tuvesson said. ‘And besides, this is hardly a new notion. We’ve already considered whether everything might be connected, but we haven’t been able to find a common denominator.’
‘That’s true, and that’s the point. I think the reason they’re all so different is, in fact, the common denominator.’