He’d read somewhere that, contrary to popular belief, floors and sometimes even toilets were among the cleanest things in people’s homes. The dirtiest and most germ-laden were apparently mobile phones, remotes and computer keyboards, closely followed by, that’s right, skirting boards.
Last night’s task had been a type of clean-up, too. Everything had gone according to plan, and he felt several pounds lighter. The task had been completed and the earlier debacle, or whatever you wanted to call it, was no longer an open, inflamed wound. It had been disinfected and cleaned and would in time become a beautiful scar.
He was going again tomorrow, but he didn’t feel stressed about it. It was under control for the most part. He’d done his laps in the pool that morning and for the first time come in under two hours. He’d also reserved a rubber dinghy with an outboard engine, purchased provisions and packed most of the equipment.
Just then, as though it was a law of nature that there had to be a fly in every ointment, the doorbell started ringing. This time, he didn’t even flinch. That detective had been by so many times now it would almost be more surprising if she didn’t keep disturbing him.
But she was becoming a problem. The harmony and focus he needed in order to proceed was being shredded by that grating noise. If he’d been able to ignore it, he could have just let her keep at it indefinitely. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t finish his thoughts. He couldn’t even finish scrubbing the goddam skirting board.
Maybe it would be as well to get it over with. Let her in, hear what she had to say and then do away with her using whatever method the dice chose.
There wasn’t much time, so he started with a simple yes or no question to determine if he should take care of it now or leave it be. He pulled off his rubber gloves, took out one of the six-sided dice he always carried with him, shook it and let it roll onto the floor.
A three.
Along with the one and two, three represented yes, which meant the dice was with him again. Now it just had to decide how he was supposed to do it and then he’d be ready to open the door. He rolled the dice again to find out which category he was dealing with. As usual, uneven numbers meant murder weapons and even ones ways to die.
A five.
He knew the list of weapons numbered one to twelve by heart, so he could go straight to the pre-roll to decide whether the choice of weapon should be determined by one or two dice.
A three.
That meant proceeding with one dice. Accompanied by the shrill sound of the doorbell, he picked up and shook the dice before releasing it back down onto the floor and watching it until it stopped.
A two.
The dice had spoken, and its decision was undoubtedly prudent. He was supposed to use a rope, which, since he was at home, had to be considered the perfect weapon. She wouldn’t be able to scream or make much of a racket. And there would be no blood or mess to ruin his cleaning. And what’s more, he’d already bought rope and packed it with the rest of the equipment he was taking tonight.
He knew exactly in which pocket he’d put it and so it took him only seconds to find it before going out into the hallway.
She looked more muscular through the peephole than he remembered from the interview. In other words, there was no point waiting for her to act first; he should just pull her into the flat as quickly as possible and kick her legs out from under her before she realized what was happening.
He put the rope down on the floor so he could reach it easily when the time came. Then he turned the many locks and opened the door. But before he could take more than half a step into the stairwell or do more than start to raise his hand to grab hold of her jacket, his brain managed to process the visual stimuli relayed by his eyes enough to tell him something wasn’t right.
‘Wow. So you are home,’ exclaimed the woman standing in front of him. ‘I was just about to give up.’ She was the same height and had the same haircut as the lady detective. But this woman was from the post office, not the police. She smiled and held out a large package.
‘Good thing you didn’t, I’ve been looking forward to getting this.’ He took the long package, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
‘And a signature here, please.’
‘Of course. No problem. No problem at all.’ He shot her a smile and signed.
‘Have a good day.’
‘I’m sure I will. Especially now that this has been delivered.’ He held up the package, shot her one more smile and retreated into his flat.
After securing all the locks, he opened the package and the box it contained. Then he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, slowly pulled out the sword and studied the polished blade.
21
THEIR WALLETS, MOBILES, keys. They’d even been forced to hand over the bag Sonja had filled with Theodor’s favourite sweets to get through security at the Danish prison. What were they worried about? That they’d stuffed the sweets full of drugs and skeleton keys?
The moment they rolled off the ferry in Helsingør harbour, they’d been overcome with a sinking feeling. A feeling that everyone and everything was against them. The contemptuous looks the guards – who refused to understand Swedish – gave them when Fabian asked whether it was really necessary for them to be strip-searched. The increasingly loud bangs of gates closing behind them as they moved further into the building. The cold blue glare from the light overhead coupled with the echo of their shoes against the floor as they were led down one corridor after another.
That their son had spent a full twenty-four hours in here was almost impossible to take in. The fear he must have felt lying on the hard cot in his cell, which was probably no more than a third of the size of his room at home.
What was worse was the prosecutor’s unexpected decision to remand him in custody until the trial was over. A decision that had been delivered without any explanation beyond that they had reasons to keep him detained.
He’d been so certain. So sure he was right. That the truth was the only way forward and that nothing else mattered. Now, he didn’t know. Whether all of this was wrong. His fault. Whether he should have listened to Sonja’s initial protests, before she gave in and sided with him. Or to Theodor, who had been prepared to go so far as to take his own life just to get out of this. He had no idea. All he could do was hope for the best. Hope that everything would somehow come out right.
The visiting room they were taken to was sparsely furnished with a sofa and armchair in a speckled shade of light blue, a round table with four chairs and a bed with a plastic-covered mattress. The fluorescent lights did nothing to help the cheerless impression. No pictures on the wall. No mirror. Not even a rug on the ugly linoleum floor.
Six minutes past the agreed time, the door opened and Theodor entered, flanked on either side by a guard. His eyes were on the floor and his grey prison overalls were too small. Yet another thing to make them feel bad. But the handcuffs were the worst. Fabian knew the rules and using handcuffs on Theodor was a clear breach of them.
‘Why have you handcuffed him?’
One of the guards turned to the other and said in Danish. ‘Do you understand what he’s saying?’
The other guard shook his head.
Fabian switched to English. ‘The handcuffs. What are they for? He’s not a murderer.’
‘That’s yet to be determined.’
‘Honey, there’s no point.’ Sonja put her hand on his knee to keep him seated. ‘You’re only making it worse.’
‘Smart lady,’ the first guard said and undid the handcuffs.
‘And nice-looking, too,’ the other muttered under his breath.
Fabian both heard and understood every word, but since Sonja seemed not to, he took her advice and let the grinning guards leave the room.
Theodor sat down across from them and stared at the table. Fabian wanted to get up, to go over and hug him. Show him how much he loved him and give him all the warmth, energy and affection he could muster. But instead he just sat there,
contributing to the silence.
‘Hi, Theodor,’ Sonja said at length. She leaned forward. ‘How are you doing?’ She waited for a response that didn’t come. ‘Theodor, it’s not that I don’t understand that you’re feeling awful and like this whole situation is incredibly unfair. I feel the same way. It hurts me that you’re locked up here with guards that handcuff you when you’re coming to see us. And it’s obviously so, so much worse for you. But please, talk to us. What was last night like? Did you get any sleep?’ She waited, but there was no reaction.
‘The way they’re treating you, us, this whole situation is just terrible,’ Fabian said. ‘But we’re going to get through it. I promise. I’m going to make sure you have the best lawyer there is and we’re going to do everything we can to get you home as soon as possible. Do you hear me? Whatever happens, we’re always here for you.’
‘And another thing,’ Sonja said. ‘When you get back and all of this is behind us, Dad and I have decided we’re going to buy a yacht like you and Matilda wanted.’ She turned to Fabian and smiled. ‘It’ll be fun, right?’
Fabian nodded and felt his energy returning. ‘What we’re trying to say is that you’re not alone.’ He got up and went over to Theodor. ‘Understand? We’re in this together.’ He bent down and hugged him. ‘You, me and Mum.’ But it felt wrong, all wrong. ‘And in just a few weeks, this will be behind us and we’ll be setting sail together.’ Theodor’s cold rigidity made him break off the hug out of sheer self-preservation.
Then there was finally a reaction. Theodor straightened up. ‘I think we’re done here,’ he said. ‘You’re just going to keep saying the same things over and over.’
‘What do you mean, done?’ Sonja said. ‘We only just got here, there’s more than forty minutes left. What? You want us to leave?’
Theodor nodded. ‘And I would appreciate it if you left me alone and didn’t come back.’ He stood up, turned away from them, walked over to the closed steel door and pressed a button.
‘But, Theodor, what are you saying?’ Fabian followed him. ‘We’ve come to see you, you can’t just leave?’
‘Leaving is one of the few things I can do, actually.’
The door opened and one of the guards entered.
‘We’re done,’ Theodor said.
The guard nodded and put the handcuffs back on. The only thing Fabian could do was put his arms around Sonja as Theodor was led out of the visiting room.
22
CALLING IT A phobia would be overstating it, but Lilja had never liked lifts. Especially not the old, cramped kind that might give up when you least expected it. But the decision had been made. She was taking the lift and the others were climbing the stairs, so the only thing she could do now was pray the rickety thing held together all the way up to the third floor.
Her new flat with the temporary strip of tape with her name on it lay straight ahead when she stepped out of the lift. But she wasn’t going home. Not any time soon. In fact, it would probably be hours before she was ready to go home.
Instead, she walked over to the door marked P. Milwokh, took a few deep breaths to compose herself and pushed the grey button next to the door, triggering an angry ringing on the other side.
It was absurd, really, that he was the one they were after, her own neighbour. But thanks to the unusual name, identifying him had been a cinch and even though he’d had a beard in his passport photo, they’d all agreed he’d been the one scoping out Ica Maxi in Hyllinge.
According to the Swedish Migration Agency, he was a Chinese citizen who had been granted asylum on 9 August 2010. Unusual enough in itself. But as a member of the political, qigong-inspired movement Falun Gong, he’d been able to claim political refugee status.
The harrowing story he’d told about being apprehended by the Chinese authorities on Sunday 15 September 2002 and placed in the Masanjia labour camp in the Yuhong district outside Shenyang in north-east China had apparently been enough to convince the Migration Agency.
The camp was one of several live organ factories in China, and he and thousands of other Falun Gong members had been imprisoned and forced to perform what could only be described as slave labour under horrifying conditions.
High-paying customers on the illegal organ market could, via Chinese websites, order organs that were then harvested from the inmates. During the seven years Milwokh had spent in the camp, he had lost his left kidney. When the decision to sell his heart and the rest of his organs was announced, he’d managed to stage a violent jailbreak and flee the country, all the way to Sweden, where he’d finally been granted citizenship under the assumed and slightly peculiar name Pontus Milwokh.
Lilja took her finger off the doorbell and studied the circular indentation on her fingertip while the ringing inside the flat subsided. ‘As expected,’ she said and turned around. ‘He’s not going to open the door.’
‘All right, then we’re going in,’ Klippan replied, emerging from the dark stairwell together with a locksmith and a three-officer arrest team.
Lilja nodded to the locksmith, who immediately started to drill through the top lock. While they waited, Lilja and Klippan donned bulletproof vests, checked their weapons and prepared to follow the uniformed officers into the flat.
Before long, the first lock was unlocked, then the second, at which point the locksmith stepped aside to make way for the head of the arrest team, who grabbed the door handle and pushed it down to let the other two in. But the door didn’t budge. It still appeared to be locked.
‘What’s going on?’ Lilja turned to the locksmith, who shrugged and went back to the door. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. This was the time to apprehend him. Now, before he could barricade himself in there with all his weapons, blow himself up or whatever else he might have in mind.
‘Odd. Really odd,’ the locksmith mumbled as he opened his toolkit and pulled out an extendable stick with a small rectangular mirror, which he inserted into the letter box. ‘Well, well, what do you know. Interesting. Very interesting.’
‘Could you get to it? We don’t have all day.’
The locksmith retracted his mirror and turned to Lilja. ‘There are espagnolettes.’
‘And what does that mean? That the door is barred from the inside?’
‘That’s another way of putting it.’ The locksmith nodded.
‘Okay.’ Klippan turned to the arrest team. ‘At least we know he’s in there then.’
‘Does this mean we have to destroy the door?’ Lilja asked.
‘Not entirely, but it’s going to need replacing, and I don’t know who’s paying for—’
‘Never mind that,’ Lilja cut him off. ‘We’ll take care of it. Just do what you have to do. And quickly, if you don’t mind.’
‘At least it’s not a security door,’ the locksmith said as he changed the bit on his drill with a practised motion and started drilling into the middle of the door. ‘Be grateful for that.’ Then he took out a reciprocating saw, inserted the blade into the drilled hole and enlarged it until it was big enough for him to push his hand through so he could open the espagnolettes from the inside.
The whole thing took just over a minute and then he stepped aside and let the uniformed officers throw open the door and storm the flat, closely followed by Lilja and Klippan.
Lilja didn’t know what she had expected. An ambush. A jumble of barricaded furniture. A hostage situation that gave them no choice but to let him get away. But the only thing that greeted them was silence. A silence that, together with the lack of furniture, the black ceiling and completely bare walls in the hallway, made it clear nothing was going to be as expected.
The uniformed officers seemed overcome with the same unsettled feeling and so continued into the flat at a considerably slower pace, making sure to cover one another. All communication was conducted in sign language as they secured each room in turn.
The ceiling, walls and floor had been painted black in the bathroom, too, as well as the bath, basin and to
ilet. Everything was bare and clean; the only thing sitting out was a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Same thing in the kitchen. Everything was black, nothing was sitting out and the countertop, cupboard doors and handles were all spotless.
Lilja walked over to the balcony door, which was locked from inside, opened it and stepped out onto the black concrete floor of the balcony. Other than a stool and a small table, it was empty. She went back inside and joined Klippan in the living room, which, despite its size and extremely sparse furniture, felt completely claustrophobic with its black ceiling, black walls and black floor. Even the sofa, the curtains and the dining table and chairs were black.
‘There’s no one here,’ said the head of the arrest team, coming out of the bedroom. ‘The place is empty.’
‘But? I don’t understand.’ Lilja looked around. ‘The door was locked from the inside. As was the balcony door. He has to be in here.’
The officer shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But he’s not here. We’ve secured the whole flat. So unless there was something else you needed, we’ll be on our way.’
‘Hold on a minute.’ Lilja held up her hand. ‘Did you really check everywhere?’ She went back into the kitchen and opened one cupboard after another. ‘Like here, or here. Or why not here?’ She opened the fridge, which was black even on the inside.
‘Irene, seriously,’ Klippan sighed. ‘Do you actually think he’d hide in the fridge?’
‘If you ask me, this guy’s capable of anything. Like going to the trouble of painting the inside of his fridge black. Who the fuck does that?’
‘Irene, I don’t know.’
‘Me neither. What I do know is he has to be in here.’
‘But apparently he’s not.’ Klippan turned to the head of the arrest team. ‘It’s okay. You can go.’
He nodded and left the flat with his two team members.
‘Would it be okay if I left, too?’ said the locksmith, popping his head in diffidently. ‘I put in new locks, so you can lock the door while you wait for it to be replaced.’
X Ways to Die Page 11