Trapped, page 9
‘Cool. How long have you been waiting to drop that pun in?’ said Mina with a smile in her eyes.
‘A bit too long, apparently.’
‘And the box? What do you make of the box itself? Does it take expert knowledge to build something like this?’
He crouched in front of the box again and stuck his head back in.
‘The box is a better piece of evidence, I’d say. How many people would even know what it is?’
‘Do you think it’s home-made? Or can you order these from a manufacturer?’
His knees creaked as he stood back up.
‘Could be either or,’ he said. ‘If you order one from a manufacturer then it still has to be customized to fit the person who is going inside the box. There are also designs available to purchase if you want to build your own. You only need to know where to look.’
‘It’d be interesting to see what these designs look like,’ she said.
‘Whoever built this has at least used something to guide them, which means he or she must have been in contact with someone in the industry. It may even have been commissioned. I can start by checking out the manufacturers I know, if you like. It’s not a long list. I’m off to see my agent next, but after that I can get started.’
‘Please,’ said Mina, nodding and making her ponytail swing about. ‘We need all the help we can get.’
They began to walk towards the door.
‘I hope I was right – that this gave you a bit more material for your profile,’ she said.
He stopped and turned to face her.
‘It takes time to build a box,’ he said. ‘So this is someone who has planned every detail. At the same time, it feels too aggressive not to be a crime of passion. There’s a conflict in how it was executed that leaves me confused. I daren’t say anything yet in case I come out with a false diagnosis of the murderer’s state of mind. I need to digest it all for a bit. By the way, have you got any further with the lines? The number carved into the body?’
‘No. Not yet. But I asked the pathologist to check her records to see whether there were any other cases like it. Although we don’t yet know whether it is a number. At the moment that’s just a hypothesis. Your hypothesis.’
‘Still, it’s worth checking. I’ve been giving it some more thought and I’m convinced a number is the most likely explanation. Even if Julia doesn’t agree. Perhaps that’s all you need to find your murderer, rather than a profile from me.’
The door opened before they’d made it all the way across the room and they had to step aside to avoid it hitting them in the face. Standing in the doorway was Ruben, looking like thunder at the sight of Vincent and Mina.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he demanded, glowering at Vincent.
‘Julia’s orders,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders as nonchalantly as she could. ‘Where have you been?’
‘There are some … nice lady lab technicians that I always get a coffee with,’ said Ruben, sweeping past them.
When Vincent and Mina emerged into the corridor and the door closed behind them, he scrutinized her profile.
‘Why did I sense a degree of tension there?’ he said.
‘Let me put it like this,’ she said. ‘Julia did ask you to compile a profile. But to avoid creating conflict and unrest within the team, she asked me to “handle you” and … well, that’s a direct quote. We’re also bringing in Jan Bergsvik, our usual criminal psychologist. Sooner or later.’
Mina grimaced before continuing.
‘Julia gave me the OK to bring you in, but she’s only half-convinced. And the others … As far as they’re concerned, you’re not part of the team. Vincent, I really want your help, but I’m worried they won’t listen to us. Ruben especially. You and I are going to have to sort this out by ourselves.’
‘Perhaps I should try and charm them with my suave personality?’ he said.
‘Yes, because that went so well last time,’ she said drily.
Vincent didn’t take it badly. The social graces didn’t come to him as naturally as they did to others. He’d had to learn them consciously – that was why he’d got so good at controlling people on stage. He’d had to find out exactly what you needed to do. And yet it still only worked there – on stage. His family life was proof of that.
In a way, it was good that Mina knew. It made things easier.
‘That profile,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve not worked up my analysis yet; there are still too many variables. As I said previously, there are aspects both of organization and disorganization. In one and the same person. That’s unusual. Not impossible, but unusual.’
Mina furrowed her brow.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to explain that better. First though, I need to gather my thoughts a little. But thanks for showing me the box. That suggested a lot to me. As regards analysis, you know that Ruben wants to sleep with you, right? His body language when he leaned in towards you, the way his pupils dilated—’
Mina interrupted him.
‘Good God, Vincent. It doesn’t take a mentalist to know that. Ruben wants to sleep with everyone.’
‘And if he’d been a medieval LARPer he would have got to as well. Unless he was one of the guys with a foam sword. Is he a guy with a foam sword?’
Mina’s laughter echoed down the corridor. It was a good sound – a sound to make anyone happy. Vincent didn’t even count the number of laughs.
14
Practically impossible. He knew it. Christer Bengtsson sighed as he sat there at the computer. Going through all the missing persons reports was slow and monotonous. People would be surprised if they knew how many people went missing in Sweden every year. Albeit most of them did so of their own volition.
They had estimated the victim’s age to be between twenty and thirty. But it was hard to judge a person’s age in life, and even harder in death. Christer looked at the photo he’d been given by the pathologist to compare to photos of missing people, then shifted his gaze back to the screen and continued scrolling. Sweden was full of blue-eyed blondes, many of them with shoulder-length hair, but there were none that he felt really matched the photo on his desk.
Christer had never dated a blonde. The few relationships he’d had were with dark-haired women. There was doubtless something Freudian about it, connected to his blessed mother’s raven-black hair. But none of them had stuck around. Eventually they’d move on and he’d find himself living alone again. It came as no surprise to him. Right from the beginning of a relationship, he always expected it to end sooner or later. It never felt right. Love wasn’t forever. Nothing was forever. Only the weather. Well, actually, not even that was forever if bloody Greta Thunberg was to be believed.
He returned to the display, absent-mindedly reaching for his coffee cup and drinking a mouthful before spitting it back into the cup with a grimace. Jesus, cold coffee was the worst. Face after face passed by on his screen. They looked young and hopeful. But it would only be a matter of time before life would squeeze the hopefulness out of them. Christer was glad that his mother had taught him from an early age that life offered nothing but disappointment and despondency. If more people realized that earlier on, then life would be easier for them. All these depressed people suffering from burnout – he was convinced that their problems derived from excessive expectations of what life had to offer and the inevitable disappointment that followed.
The faces continued to pass by on his screen. He raised the coffee cup to his lips again without thinking, took another gulp and swore when he realized yet again that the coffee was cold. Christer spat it out and stared glumly down into the cup. Life. Fucking hell. Life.
15
Vincent adjusted the biscuits on the plate so that there were two rows with four biscuits in each. He was visiting the agency who represented him, ShowLife Productions, in their office on Strandvägen. Ever since leaving the National Forensic Centre, he’d been unable to shake off thoughts of the box with its creepy holes. He could see it now in his mind’s eye. And Mina standing beside it. With her glossy ponytail.
Pull yourself together.
In the early days of his partnership with ShowLife, they’d laid on fancy cakes, pistachio biscotti and squares of dark chocolate at every meeting. But the longer they had worked together, the less need the agency felt to impress Vincent – at least, in such superficial ways. The fact that the plate in front of him was piled with biscuits from the Tösse bakery was an ominous sign. Not that biscuits from Tösse were to be sneered at. But it meant that Umberto had something on his mind.
Umberto had come to Sweden fifteen years ago, but his Italian accent was still pronounced. Vincent suspected that Umberto thought – without any justification – that it made him sound sophisticated. If they needed to have biscuits at all, a regular pack of Ballerinas from the supermarket would have been Vincent’s preference. Artisan was obviously tastier, but Ballerinas were made in a factory, which meant they were all exactly the same size. No biscuit differed from any other, none of them stood out, they were all the same. It was also easier to line them up.
‘Has she turned up again?’
Vincent shook his head. ‘No, not for two shows. But it’s only a matter of time.’
‘I still think we should consider hiring a couple of security guards.’
‘No, no. It’s an unnecessary cost. I think the theatres can handle it. It’ll be fine.’
‘I expect that’s what John Lennon said about Mark Chapman,’ Umberto muttered.
‘That’s enough of that,’ said Vincent dismissively. He picked up a biscuit. White chocolate and walnut. It really was delicious despite its asymmetry.
‘Vincent, we’ve had some complaints,’ said Umberto in a troubled tone, stroking his meticulously trimmed beard. ‘Last week you were at the Linköping Konsert & Kongress and at Slagthuset in Malmö.’
‘One thousand one hundred and ninety-six seats in Linköping and nine hundred in Malmö,’ Vincent said with a nod. ‘Fully booked. Standing ovations. Someone’s complained about the show?’
Umberto sighed.
‘No, not about the show. But, Vincent … you can’t lie flat out on the floor in your dressing room after shows. The cleaner almost had a heart attack. At both venues.’
Vincent helped himself to another biscuit. To even up the rows.
Umberto put his hand into a paper bag to lay out more biscuits. Vincent stopped him with a look. The rows would end up all wrong.
‘Umberto, how long have we been working together?’ he said. ‘Ten years? I pay a price for these shows. It’s not as easy as I make it look. My brain needs to recover afterwards. And the best way to do that is to lie down. You already know this.’
‘But for an hour? Also, the techies in Karlstad got very worked up about the fact that you sorted their cables according to colour.’
‘OK,’ said Vincent. ‘Tell them sorry from me. I’ll try to be more considerate. In Karlstad I had some problems with the nail number. I almost put my hand through it. So I needed something to distract myself afterwards.’
Umberto screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. Then he opened them again and looked out of the window. Vincent followed his gaze. Still a week to go until Easter, yet the sun was making the water in Nybroviken bay glitter like it was summer.
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t do numbers like that,’ said Umberto, without looking at Vincent. ‘What happens to the tour if you injure yourself? What would Maria say?’
‘She’d say it was the best thing that could have happened,’ he said. ‘Because then I’d be able to come with her to the party.’
‘Party,’ echoed Umberto, without really listening.
Instead, he was looking at two young women in short yellow skirts who had just appeared on the other side of the street and were now pointing out across the water. Presumably they were tourists who had overestimated the Stockholm spring climate.
‘You know what, I’m not going to let you have your own way this time. I’m going to hire a guard for the next show.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Vincent. ‘I’m hardly Benjamin Ingrosso. Or John Lennon, come to that. But I know it’s not worth arguing with you once your mind is made up. So thanks.’
Umberto turned back to face Vincent.
‘Are you still signing the nail, by the way?’ he said.
‘The nail, photos people have brought, their T-shirts …’ said Vincent, running a hand over his face. ‘If only you knew what people want me to autograph.’
‘An artist always signs all his works,’ said Umberto with a laugh. ‘You dug a hole for yourself with that one.’
‘Yes, yes. But if we’re talking about the show, could you ask the venues to stop putting fizzy water in the dressing rooms?’
‘They just want you to feel welcome,’ said Umberto, whose gaze was once again glued on the window. ‘As per your instructions, there’s no contract rider on what has to be in the dressing room. If they’ve supplied fruit or sweets or water, then it’s on the theatre’s own initiative. We’ve discussed this already.’
‘Yes, but they should know that it’s impossible to drink carbonated water before a performance. I use my diaphragm to project my voice. Fizzy water in my stomach makes me burp. Tap water is better.’
The women across the street moved on and Umberto looked at Vincent with a slightly worn-out expression.
‘Vincent. It’s a gesture on their part. Let them do it. You can always drink the water after the performance.’
‘But I can’t deal with—’
Umberto held up his hand in a gesture of impatience.
‘I can’t believe we’re even discussing this,’ he said. ‘Adesso basta! Sometimes you’re like a child. Drink the water. Or don’t. No one cares. OK?’
Vincent shrugged his shoulders. He just thought it was unnecessary for the venues to throw money away. Plus more bottles meant more labels on the bottles to set in order.
‘Do you remember the magician you used to work with?’ he said, changing tack. ‘The one with all the boxes. The sawn-in-half woman. Zigzag lady. Water torture cell. All very old school. Do you know what happened to his props?’
Umberto picked up a biscuit and thought about it.
‘Do you mean Tom Presto? Now that was quite a production: eight dancers, three trucks for the rig, one massive ego – cost a fortune to keep that guy on the road. Why do you ask?’
‘I was wondering whether his stuff was accessible, should someone want to buy something from him. A sword casket, for example.’
Umberto inserted the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, wiped the crumbs from his beard and shook his head.
‘We sold the lot when the show ended,’ he said. ‘To a French collector. As far as I know, it’s all locked up in a warehouse in Nice. Except for that water thing you mentioned, actually. The collector wouldn’t touch that with a bargepole. I don’t know if you ever saw Tom Presto’s show, but he liked taking risks.’
‘He struck me as someone who needed to be in complete control.’
‘I thought so too. I assumed the act wasn’t as dangerous as it appeared, until that collector explained how the magic works. Apparently, that giant fish tank Tom would climb into and be locked inside—’
‘Houdini called it a water torture cell,’ Vincent interjected, but Umberto waved him away.
‘—it’s meant to have a secret lever on the outside. A panic lever. So if the trick goes wrong and the magician can’t get out, then the assistant can pull the handle and drain all the water in a few seconds to ensure the magician doesn’t drown.’
‘Seems a smart addition.’
‘You’d think so, but Tom Presto’s tank didn’t have one of those. I guess he considered it a sign of weakness. The Frenchman refused to have something that dangerous in his collection. C’est trop extrême were his exact words. I don’t know where that tank is gathering dust now – but if you’re interested I can try to find out.’
Umberto suddenly slapped his forehead.
‘On the subject of things gathering dust,’ he said, ‘you received a Christmas present! Just a second.’
He vanished out of the room before Vincent could say a word. After thirty seconds or so he returned with a large object in his arms.
‘Christmas was months ago,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s almost Easter, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Umberto handed over the item. It was a thick book with a red ribbon artfully tied around it. There was a card hanging from the ribbon.
Dear Vincent, it said on the card. Perhaps not really your field, but it may be more interesting than you think. From an admirer. Old-fashioned, ornate handwriting. Beautiful. Feminine. He thought he vaguely recognized it, but he couldn’t place where from. Then again, it might just have been his imagination.
The book, which was called Mammals of Mexico and had a photograph of a leopard baring its teeth on the cover, appeared to be at least a thousand pages long.
‘Thanks,’ said Vincent. ‘Exactly what I want to drag around all day.’
Umberto laughed.
‘They’re your crazy fans,’ he said, ‘not mine. I put it to one side because it was too big to send over with the rest of your mail, then forgot all about it. Anyway, never mind that – what are we going to do about your show? You can’t keep giving the crew heart attacks.’
‘There’s no need for you to worry,’ said Vincent. ‘The rest of the tour is going to be free of complaints. I promise. Provided you promise to keep the cleaners away for an hour every night.’
Umberto laughed and proffered his hand.
‘Deal, amico mio.’
‘Deal,’ said Vincent, shaking his hand.
Then he stood up, tucked the heavy book under his arm and grabbed the bag of biscuits on his way out.
16
Mina had her work phone pressed to her ear. It was lucky she’d cleaned the receiver thoroughly with sanitizer right before she picked up. She was listening quietly while feverishly taking notes on the back of a bill, the nearest piece of paper she’d been able to find on her desk. She asked a few quick questions in return. Thirty seconds later, she checked the time and hurried to the canteen.
