‘What?’
‘If he’s being filmed from the side, and we can see his face head on, then he can’t be looking at himself.’
‘Because he’s looking straight at the camera,’ Johan says, tugging at his beard again.
‘So what he’s looking at must be somewhere just below camera six.’
The analyst switches cameras and pans past the large living-room windows to the edge of the image, towards camera six which is mounted on the far corner of the building, with a grove of dark trees behind it.
‘Closer, under that weeping willow,’ Joona says.
The long branches reach almost to the grass, and are swaying in the gentle breeze.
Joona feels a shiver run down his spine at the first glimpse of the murderer.
The shadows of the leaves move across a masked face, and then it’s gone.
88
With his hands trembling, Johan rewinds the footage and halves the speed, and they see the branches of the willow part to reveal the face, then hide it again.
‘A little more,’ Joona whispers.
The leaves sway slowly and then they see the murderer once more, just as he turns away and vanishes into the shadows.
‘Again, from the beginning,’ Joona says.
This time he can clearly see the rabbits’ ears hanging in front of the masked face.
‘Stop … go back slightly.’
The screen is almost completely black, but something grey moves across the murderer’s head and there’s a flicker in the window next to him.
‘What the hell’s he doing?’
‘Zoom in on the darkness,’ Joona says.
‘What’s that?’ Johan asks, pointing at the screen.
‘Must be the back of his ear.’
‘He’s taken off the mask?’
‘The opposite, I’d say … this is where he puts it on, under cover of the shadows.’
The murderer must have figured out that there was a camera shadow in line with the grove of trees, and made his way into the garden using that blind spot before stopping under the willow tree to pull his balaclava over his head.
‘Quite the fucking professional,’ Johan says breathlessly.
‘Try number eight again … there was a glimmer of something in the window.’
The picture goes black and the grey movements sweep across the screen as the murderer pulls on his mask with his back to the camera. There’s a flicker of something in the window before he turns around, the rabbits’ ears swaying in front of his face.
‘What’s that, glinting off the kitchen window?’ Johan asks.
‘It’s a vase. I saw it before, on camera seven,’ Joona says. ‘It’s on the windowsill, next to a bowl of lemons.’
‘A vase.’
‘Zoom in on it.’
Johan makes the vase fill the screen, just as Rex’s face did a short while before. The curved, shiny metal reflects the window and the garden outside. Along one edge of the vase is a trace of movement, no more than a fleeting shift in the light.
‘Back,’ Joona says.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ Johan mutters as he rewinds the footage.
The movement along the edge of the vase forms a curved line, the colour of yellowing paper.
‘That could be his face before he puts the mask on,’ Joona says.
‘Shit me sideways,’ Johan whispers, taking a high-resolution screenshot of the convex reflection.
They both stare at the curved reflection in the vase, a pale arc running vertically down the screen.
‘What do we do? We need to see his face.’
Johan drums his fingers on his thigh and mutters something to himself.
‘What did you say?’ Joona asks.
‘In an almost spherical mirror, the image is so distorted because the rays from the edges and centre of the surface don’t meet at the same point.’
‘Can that be corrected?’
‘I just need to try to find a concave distortion that corresponds exactly with the convex surface, and align that with the main axis …’
‘Sounds like it would take a long time.’
‘Months … if Photoshop didn’t already exist,’ Johan smiles.
He opens the program and starts to flatten the image, little by little.
The only sound is the tapping of keys.
The glare of the reflection is sucked into the white arc, leaving the surrounding space darker. It looks like a peculiar meteorological phenomenon.
‘I’ve got goose-bumps,’ Johan whispers.
The pale face slowly widens and finally crystallises in its original form.
Joona takes a deep breath and stands up from his chair. For the first time, he can clearly see the murderer.
89
As Rex puts his suitcase down in the hall he can hear Sammy playing his guitar. He recognises the chord, and tries to remember what song it is as he heads towards the living room.
Rex gave Sammy a steel-stringed Taylor guitar when he got confirmed, but he didn’t know that he still played it. As he enters the room he remembers the song: Led Zeppelin’s ‘Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You’.
Sammy has dirt under his nails and he’s written something on his hand. His blond fringe hangs in front of his face as he concentrates.
He plucks nimbly at the strings and sings along quietly, just to hear the tune in his head.
Rex sits down on the amplifier and listens. Sammy keeps playing until he reaches the long instrumental section, then holds his hand over the strings to silence them and looks up.
‘You’re good!’ Rex exclaims.
‘No, I’m not,’ Sammy says, embarrassed.
Rex picks up his semi-acoustic Gibson and adjusts the amp. There’s a buzz as the cables warm up.
‘Do you know any Bowie tracks?’
‘“Ziggy Stardust” was the first song I taught myself. I felt really cool. Mum must have heard it a million times,’ Sammy says, smiling as he starts to play.
Rex sings along, trying to keep pace with his son on his guitar.
Grey clouds are racing across the sky outside the large windows, and it looks like there might be a storm brewing.
As they sing together, Rex looks at Sammy’s face and remembers when Veronica told him she was thinking of keeping the baby. He had already said he didn’t feel mature enough, and was unable to contain his feelings of powerlessness and frustration. He stood up, tucked his chair in and walked out on her.
‘Solo, Dad! Solo!’ Sammy cries.
With a look of horror on his face, Rex starts playing the only blues scale he knows, but it sounds all wrong.
‘Sorry,’ he groans.
‘Try E-flat instead,’ Sammy says.
Rex changes position and tries again, and this time it does sound a little better, almost like a real guitar solo.
‘Bravo!’ Sammy says with a smile, looking at him happily.
Rex laughs and they start to play H?kan Hellstr?m’s ‘It’ll Never Be Over For Me’, when suddenly the doorbell rings.
‘I’ll get it,’ Rex says, and puts his guitar down on the floor, making the amplifier rumble.
He hurries out to the hall and opens the door.
A young woman with pierced cheeks looks at him groggily. She’s wearing black jeans, a Pussy Riot T-shirt, and a black hat, and her skinny left arm is in a cast from the elbow all the way to her fingertips. In her other hand she’s carrying a crumpled plastic bag from H&M.
Behind her stands a man in his thirties. His eyes are warm and his face is boyishly attractive, albeit rather haggard, like a rock star. Rex recognises him. It’s the man Sammy was at the party with when he took an overdose.
‘Come in,’ Sammy says behind Rex.
The young woman stumbles over the doormat and hands the bag to Sammy.
‘Your stuff,’ Nico says, stepping into the hall.
‘OK,’ Sammy replies.
The woman wraps her arms around Nico and smiles up at his face.
‘Is this the gay guy who paid for your car?’ she asks.
‘He’s my Salaì. I love him,’ Nico says, stroking her back.
‘I thought you loved me,’ she complains.
Sammy looks in the bag.
‘Where’s the camera?’
‘Shit, forgot it,’ Nico says, and taps his head.
‘How are things?’ Sammy asks in a subdued voice.
‘The court case is in November … but I’ve rented a house in Marseilles, so I’m going to spend the autumn there.’