The voice message containing the nursery rhyme about rabbits was sent from an unregistered mobile phone that is no longer in use.
Saga returns, and puts a cup of coffee down on the floor next to him.
‘Did you find anything?’
Joona leafs past the list of phone numbers, the IP addresses and the timeline. He sips some coffee and reads about Absalon’s attempts to get a student loan.
‘It looks like one of the children ran a finger through the blood,’ Saga says, pointing at the photographs from Absalon’s kitchen.
‘Yes,’ Joona says without looking up.
He scans the list of addresses of the various asylum centres and homes where Absalon lived, comparing them with those of the Foreign Minister and US politician. Both of them were from wealthy families, and when they first left home it was to go to boarding school.
That was roughly the same time Absalon left a communal residence in Huddinge.
A year later his name cropped up in a report to the Environmental Health Board.
Joona feels a shiver run up his spine.
When Absalon was eighteen years old, an advisor at the Employment Office gave him a chance. The advisor’s son worked as a groundskeeper at a boarding school south of Stockholm, but had been having problems with drugs. Absalon was secretly offered half the son’s salary if he would take on the groundskeeper’s duties until the advisor’s son got back from rehab.
Before the story was uncovered he had been living in the groundskeeper’s flat for almost a year, driving without a licence, and handling machinery he wasn’t qualified to use.
Joona gets up and goes over to the window, takes his phone out and calls Anja.
He’s sure that he’s uncovered the link between the three victims.
‘I need to know who made a complaint to the Environmental Health Board twenty-two years ago.’
‘Do you want to talk about it over dinner?’ she says with her mouth too close to the receiver.
‘I’d be happy to.’
He hears her humming ‘Let’s talk about sex’ as her fingernails tap on the keyboard of her computer.
‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘The name of the school and the person who filed the complaint.’
‘Simon Lee Olsson … headmaster of Ludviksberg School at the time.’
When Joona ends the call Saga drops her cup in the bin and looks him in the eye.
‘You found the connection,’ she says.
‘Absalon did some casual work as a groundskeeper at Ludviksberg School during William and Teddy’s senior year.’
‘So it’s about the school?’
‘One way or another.’
Joona goes over to a thirty-year-old school photograph and sees that the two future politicians were not only classmates, but were also on the same rowing team: eight boys dressed in white, with big shoulders and bulging biceps.
‘Someone else who went to that school has already cropped up in the investigation,’ Saga points out.
‘Who?’
‘Rex Müller.’
‘I recognise the name.’
‘Yes, he’s a TV chef … I know he’s hiding something, but he has an alibi for all of the murders,’ she replies quickly. ‘We spoke to him because he was caught on camera when he was drunk, taking a piss in the Foreign Minister’s pool.’
‘There’s nothing about that in here.’
‘Janus has taken over that part.’
‘The truth is always etched in the details,’ Joona says.
‘I know.’
‘Why was he pissing in the pool?’
‘A stupid provocative prank when he was drunk.’
‘First it looks like a stupid prank … then another piece of the puzzle falls into place and suddenly Rex Müller ends up the centre of attention,’ Joona says.
68
Rex and Sammy are alone in the large kitchen of Smak restaurant. The wide stainless steel counters have been washed and wiped down. Saucepans, sauté pans, ladles, whisks and knives are all hanging on their hooks.
Sammy is wearing a baggy sweater. He’s coloured his eyebrows black and is wearing a lot of eyeliner. Rex is wearing a pink rose in his buttonhole, picked from a bouquet that Edith, the pretty journalist, sent him yesterday.
The restaurant will be changing its menu in two weeks, and Rex has been coming in to test each new element of it before the restaurant opens.
Absolute precision under extreme time constraints only works if the prep cooks, line cooks and head chef all do their part perfectly. When the kitchen closes for the night, cooks finally discover the bruises, small burns and cuts that they’ve suffered during those hours of intense work.
Today Rex is preparing a mushroom consommé with pan-fried rye bread, pickled chanterelles and herb oil; asparagus with béarnaise sauce; and medallion steak from the S?by estate. Just before he left the flat, Sammy asked him out of the blue if he could come along.
While the meat is cooking sous vide, Rex shows Sammy how to slice the small tarragon leaves and whisk together the egg-yolks, veal stock, mustard and tarragon vinegar.
With a look of concentration, the boy tips an egg-yolk from one half of the shell to the other.
‘I didn’t know you were interested in cooking,’ Rex says weakly. ‘I’d have brought you here earlier if I’d known.’
‘No worries, Dad.’
Sammy looks up at him shyly through his long, bleached fringe. He’s drawn a tear at the corner of his eye with eyeliner.
‘Well, you’re very good at it,’ Rex says. ‘I wish …’
He trails off, the words catching in his throat, and remembers that it’s his own fault he knows next to nothing about his own child.
While Sammy is chopping shallots, Rex makes a consommé of chanterelles, shiitake, celeriac and thyme.
‘Some people only filter the stock through layers of cheesecloth,’ he says, looking at his son. ‘But I always use egg-white to pick up any impurities.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be going away soon?’ Sammy asks, putting the knife down.
‘I’m meeting a group of investors up in Norrland this weekend … just a bit of schmoozing really, to make them feel special.’
‘Does that mean you can’t let them see that your son is gay?’
‘I just assumed … if even I’m balking at the idea of a bunch of old men talking shop and hunting reindeer, then I thought that you’d …’
Rex mimes throwing up over the stove, sink and his shirt.
‘OK, I get the idea,’ Sammy smiles.
‘But as far as I’m concerned …’
He breaks off when he hears the swing-door squeak. He thinks his sous-chef is early, but when the kitchen door opens he sees the beautiful Security Police officer, Saga Bauer, with Janus Mickelsen.
‘Hello,’ she says, then gestures towards the man by her side. ‘This is my colleague, Janus Mickelsen.’
‘We’ve met,’ Rex says.
‘Old orders from Verner,’ Janus explains to Saga.
‘This is my son, Sammy,’ Rex says.
‘Hi,’ Sammy says, holding out his hand.
‘Are you a chef too?’ Saga asks in a friendly voice.
‘No, it’s … I’m nothing,’ he says, blushing.
‘We’d like to talk to your dad for a few minutes,’ Janus says, poking at a lime on the counter.
‘Should I go into the restaurant?’ Sammy asks.
‘You can stay,’ Rex says.
‘Up to you,’ Saga says.
‘I’m trying not to have as many secrets,’ Rex says.
He gently removes the egg-white from the consommé and lowers the heat.
‘I saw you talking about the Foreign Minister on television,’ Saga says, leaning against the counter. ‘It was good, very touching …’
‘Thanks, it …’
‘Even if it was all lies,’ she concludes.
‘What do you mean?’ Rex says.
‘You pissed on his deck chairs, and—’
‘I know,’ he chuckles. ‘That was a little over the top, but we—’
‘Just be quiet,’ she says tiredly.
‘That was just our way—’
‘Shut up.’
Rex falls silent and looks at her. A tiny muscle below his eye starts to twitch. Sammy can’t help smiling as he looks down at the floor.
‘You were going to say that it was just part of your friendship,’ she says quietly. ‘That you shared a wacky sense of humour, played lots of practical jokes … but that isn’t true. You weren’t friends.’
‘He was my oldest friend,’ Rex tries, even though he realises there’s no point.
‘I know you haven’t seen each other for thirty years.’