X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  Or was he not cutting her? She was unsure now. No, that was a compress covering her wound. ‘Why?’ she slurred.

  ‘You’re not the one who’s supposed to die,’ he replied, as he wrapped a bandage around her waist to stop the bleeding.

  ‘Thank you…’ It wasn’t over. ‘Thank you so much…’ She was going to survive, and she could already feel her strength returning and the fog clearing.

  ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said, tying off the bandage. ‘You’re just a pawn in a game. One that’s not being sacrificed.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. What do you want? Why are you—’

  ‘Your job is not to understand, but to obey.’

  ‘Okay.’ She nodded. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  He smiled, pulled her arm around his shoulders and helped her up. ‘I want you to get back to work.’

  37

  FABIAN HAD TO fight his way out of sleep, and once he opened his eyes he didn’t understand where he was, other than that it was outside and he was lying on something hard. Slabs. Square concrete slabs underneath him. A pavement. He sat up, turned towards the nearest house and realized it was his own.

  His balance was far from restored, and his legs still felt like they belonged to someone else when he grabbed hold of the porch rail and heaved himself up. It was hard work, and the dull pain in his thigh from being stabbed with the tweezers made itself known as he climbed the six steps to the front door.

  How had he ended up on the pavement outside his own house, how long had he been gone and what had Molander done to him? The last thing he could remember was a sudden prick on the side of his neck, then everything had gone dark.

  At least he still had his phone, and it claimed it was twenty past six in the morning, almost three hours since he walked into Molander’s trap. Three hours that were completely erased from his memory.

  His gun was back in its holster, too, its magazine full. Molander had had every opportunity to kill him in that bathroom but had instead opted to let him live. For how long remained to be seen.

  The whole affair told him two things. One, that Molander was confident he wouldn’t reveal what he knew to anyone else in their team while the Pontus Milwokh investigation was ongoing. Two, that he’d meant it when he said he didn’t think they could bring the case home without his help.

  Whether he in turn could trust Molander was far from clear. And that he would uphold his end of the bargain and voluntarily turn himself in once Milwokh was under arrest sounded too good to be true.

  The door was locked, but his keys were in his pocket, so he unlocked it and entered.

  As far as he could recall, Molander hadn’t mentioned Stubbs’s name once during their conversation, but there could be several reasons for that. Perhaps he didn’t want to reveal how much he knew. Perhaps he had a completely different plan for how to deal with her. But the best-case scenario was that he didn’t know she was involved at all, and that he didn’t know anything about Elvin’s boat.

  Either way, he was going to have to call Stubbs to tell her what had happened and together they were going to have to analyse this new situation and agree on what steps to take. Should they move Elvin’s boat again? Could they keep using their pay-as-you-go phones or did they have to come up with some other way of communicating?

  They also needed a plan for how to discover where Molander was hiding the forensic evidence. Without it, Milwokh couldn’t be convicted. The question was if he would even be charged, since they’d be unable to point to any connection between him and the murders, other than chance in the form of a dice. Sure, there was circumstantial evidence. But everything hinged on the forensic evidence. Without it, they were nowhere.

  The house was asleep and the only sound the soft humming of the ventilation. To avoid waking Sonja and Matilda, he got undressed by the front door. Pulling his shirt off, he discovered a small drop of blood in the middle of the back of it. Seeing that, he also realized he had an itch in a very specific spot between his shoulder blades, and the more he thought about it, the more it itched.

  Maybe it was the needle prick from the epidural getting more noticeable now that the anaesthetic was wearing off. But that wasn’t where Molander had injected him; it had been a lot further down. At least, to the best of his recollection, to the extent that could be trusted. It might just be a bug bite, of course. He had, after all, slept outside.

  He tried to scratch the spot, but couldn’t reach it, and after giving up, he sat down on a stool so he wouldn’t fall over taking off his shoes and trousers. Then he continued further into the house and up the stairs with the phone in his hand.

  He still needed to hold on to the banister, though his balance was returning. The flip side was that the pain from the wound in his thigh was also gradually intensifying, and the thing between his shoulder blades was itching worse and worse. Much as he would prefer not to, he was going to have to wake Sonja to have her take a look at it.

  He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the room, kept dark by the blackout blind. ‘Sonja,’ he whispered the moment he’d closed the door behind him. ‘Sonja, it’s me. You have to wake up.’ He fumbled along the edge of the bed, but it wasn’t until he sat down to stroke her that he realized the bed was empty.

  Fear washed over him, making his stomach churn. He unlocked his phone with trembling hands, found her number and dialled it, only to notice her phone lighting up among the clothes piled in the armchair.

  Was it Molander? Had he kidnapped them to force him to keep his word? Sure, he’d threatened to do all kinds of things to his family if he didn’t uphold his end of the bargain. But this took it to a whole new level.

  On his way back out onto the landing, he called Molander.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake. I hope you didn’t mind waking up in the street. I was going to put you in the back garden. But your neighbour was already sitting out on his terrace, reading the paper, so I’m afraid I had no other choice.’

  ‘What have you done?’ he hissed as he opened the door to Matilda’s room. ‘What the fuck have you done?’

  ‘This and that,’ Molander laughed. ‘But nothing you should be wasting your energy on right now.’

  The room had completely changed since he’d last been in it.

  ‘Why don’t you make sure you get some more sleep, instead?’

  Gone were the brightly coloured curtains with animals on them, the drawings she’d made. Not to mention the collection of teddy bears on her bed.

  ‘After all, you have a few hours before our morning meeting.’

  Fabian stared at the neatly made bed, trying to understand what had happened.

  ‘No offence, but you looked a bit worse for wear when I left you, and considering the kind of work we have waiting for us, I can’t emphasize enough the importance of being well rested.’

  ‘So you seriously think we can still work together?’ Fabian turned back to the landing and hurried over to Theodor’s closed door.

  ‘Of course. Especially now the cards are on the table.’

  Fabian opened the door and stepped into Theodor’s room, which was as tidy and untouched as the last time he’d been in it.

  ‘We can finally focus on what’s important, like the crack team we actually are,’ Molander went on.

  But Fabian wasn’t listening. A mark on the wall some way up the stairs to the studio had caught his eye. He was far from certain, but he thought it was new.

  The mark was about three feet from the corner where the stairs turned at a right angle, and when he went closer he realized that not only was the mark in fact a deep dent in the wall, but there was another one further up, too.

  At the top of the stairs, he opened the door to Sonja’s studio and his eyes immediately fell on her piece The Hanging Box. The rectangular wooden box was sitting in the middle of the floor. The artwork, which was meant to be suspended from the ceiling, should have been her big breakthrough, but had instead nearly become her coffin.


  Since then, she hadn’t wanted anything to do with it and she would have preferred for it to be destroyed once the forensic investigation was complete.

  And yet, here it was, and it was the first time he saw the blond wooden box with its lid slightly askew, leaving a gap at the far end.

  ‘Was it you?’ he said into his phone as he stepped over the threshold to walk over for a closer look. ‘Did you bring the coffin here?’

  ‘You mean The Hanging Box. An incredible piece, if you ask me. And wasn’t it lucky she decided to keep it after all?’

  Fabian only had to take a few steps into the room to realize everything was over and nothing mattered any more. There were no words to explain or alter this. Everything had already been said.

  Matilda had been right. And Greta. They’d both known someone in their family was going to die and they’d tried to warn him. Wake him up. But he’d dismissed it as nonsense, and now here he was, looking at the consequences.

  He ended the call and let his phone fall to the floor as he crossed the room to the open box. He kneeled down and carefully pulled the lid aside so he could see as much as possible of Sonja, who was lying naked on her back with her arms by her sides.

  He gently laid a hand over her closed eyes, and even though it was obvious from the moment his skin touched hers, it took him a while to realize she was still warm.

  38

  FRANK KÄPP RAISED his binoculars and let them sweep west along the horizon. Apart from two freight ships, it was uninterrupted. That’s how he liked it. Unencumbered with anything irrelevant, an unbroken line where sea met sky all the way around him. It made him feel calm.

  But calm was the last thing he felt right now. He was still in shock and couldn’t even hold his hands out without them trembling. Images from the night before kept flashing before his eyes, like water torture that slowly but surely breaks its victim down drop by drop. The scene in the aft cabin where Vincent had lain petrified with a sword pressed against his throat would haunt him forever, no matter how surreal and incomprehensible it was.

  Klara had taken a sleeping pill and Vincent had been given a half, and now they were both asleep in the forepeak. Nothing could have knocked him out. But then, he was in charge. This entire trip had been his initiative, and he’d sworn on everything sacred that it would go well and that he, no matter what happened, would look after them.

  Talk about promising too much.

  He sighed, and in yet another attempt to distract himself he once again turned his binoculars towards the horizon and looked at the two freight ships, one of which, the one with the blue hull, looked like it was a lot closer now. But the images of the attacking frogman and his sword soon distracted him once more.

  There was no escaping the fact that he was to blame. He’d forced them out on that night sail. Overridden their objections, in fact, and for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out, he’d even forced Vincent to sleep in the aft cabin.

  In hindsight, that was almost as inexplicable as Vincent’s fear of monsters in the middle of the sea. What were the odds of that happening just then? Was it just an unfortunate coincidence or was there something else behind it? A higher power, who wanted to put them in their place. Demonstrate that it didn’t matter how far he sailed. That he could never escape his demons.

  With a mirthless chuckle, he dismissed that as a positively Bergmanesque fancy, and instead turned his attention to the freighter, which must have changed its course, because it looked both shorter and bigger. The only explanation was that it was heading straight for them.

  It was probably destined for Halmstad as well. There was a big commercial port next to the marina. It was a bit odd, though, for such a large ship to change course so abruptly.

  He could change his course, too, and skip the detour to Halmstad. Klara and Vincent wouldn’t know the difference, and he wouldn’t mind pushing on towards Gothenburg like they’d originally planned.

  But he was going to keep his promise to the detective and put in at Halmstad to make sure they received any necessary care. They probably needed more than he was ready to admit. It was so like him to want to rush on, away from anything that was hard. As though it would disappear if he just ran fast enough. To some extent, that was exactly what this round-the-world trip was about.

  He’d never tried therapy. Klara had wanted them to go together back when things were at their worst, and each time he’d dismissed it, throwing up an argument weaker than the last.

  But maybe therapy was exactly what they needed, even notwithstanding the events of last night. To calmly discuss what had been and what they expected from what lay ahead. To clear the air, simply put; to make sure this was the fresh start they so badly needed. If he had to point out a silver lining to this horror, it was that he’d realized how wrong he’d been.

  There was still a fair distance between them and the freighter, but there was no longer any doubt they were on a collision course. So Frank turned east and slowed down. It would cost them half an hour, but they were in no hurry.

  He could turn the engine off and raise the sails. The wind was perfect for running slowly on a broad reach into Laholm Bay. But if he did, Klara and Vincent would wake up immediately.

  Rest and therapy were on the agenda now, and for as long as there was need. When they all felt ready, they’d take their time sailing up to Gothenburg and then spend a whole day at Liseberg.

  A lot of people had been through a lot worse, so there was no question they would be all right in the end. It was mostly a matter of giving it time and slowly but surely this would turn into an anecdote no one ever believed when they told it. Maybe one day, they themselves would start doubting it.

  But what was with that ship? Just thirty minutes ago, it had been a dot on the horizon. Now it was once again clearly on a collision course and so close he could read the name on the hull. MS Vinterland. He had both changed course and reduced his speed. There was nothing for it but to turn and slow down even further.

  ‘What’s going on?’ A drowsy Klara poked her head out of the cabin.

  ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine. I just have to get out of that ship’s way.’

  Klara climbed into the cockpit and looked over at the freighter.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he went on and Klara nodded.

  ‘When will we get there?’ she said in the middle of a yawn and a stretch.

  ‘At least an hour later than planned if that ship keeps pestering us.’ He nodded in the direction of the freighter and gave her a hug. ‘Good thing we’re not in a hurry.’

  Klara smiled and shook her head while he held her tighter.

  ‘It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be good again. I promise.’

  She nodded and gave him a peck on the lips that quickly deepened into a kiss.

  Neither of them noticed that the MS Vinterland changed its course again and slowed down by throwing its engines in reverse.

  39

  FABIAN WAS STANDING in the shower, looking down at his feet, which were almost entirely submerged in water. A sign that it was high time to snake the drain before it overflowed and flooded the bathroom. But it would have to wait until a different lifetime, after all of this was over.

  He’d fallen asleep on the studio floor, next to Sonja in her coffin. The piece that had made her question herself and her art. Her whole life. Now she’d done a one-eighty, brought it home and climbed into it. Naked and exposed, into the dark.

  When he’d woken up, the box had been empty, apart from a small handwritten note that explained that she was at an important meeting and Matilda had spent the night at Esmaralda’s. He’d dragged himself down to the bathroom and stepped into the shower.

  He’d stayed under the hot jet for almost an hour. Time, important as it may be, was secondary right now. The drugs Molander had pumped him full of had to leave his system, and with each droplet of water that hit his skin, he felt a fraction cleaner.

  After drying off and getting his circulation going
, he realized the pain in the wound in his thigh was almost gone. But the itch between his shoulder blades was still there, possibly even worse than before. He could no longer hope it was a regular bug bite. This was different. If it were some kind of insect, it felt more like a parasite burrowing underneath his skin.

  He made another attempt at reaching it, but was forever half an inch short. He could scratch it with his toothbrush, but that left him none the wiser, so he took a picture over his shoulder with his phone. It clearly showed there was something between his shoulder blades. He zoomed in and realized it was a few strips of surgical tape covering a small protrusion.

  It had to be Molander’s handiwork. He opened the bathroom cabinet in search of a more effective poking tool than the toothbrush. The best he could find was Sonja’s foot file. With that, he could rub away the tape, however slowly and laboriously, until he could take a new picture.

  This one showed a small wound across the little bump, a half-inch-long cut closed with three simple stitches. Molander must have cut him while he was sedated. But why? What kind of surgery had been performed on him? And why was it so bloody itchy?

  He should go to a doctor, but Molander’s head start was already too big for him to sit around an A&E. Instead, he took the longest tweezers he could find, disinfected them with rubbing alcohol and carefully reached between his shoulder blades. After a few attempts, he managed to push the tip in under the top stitch and rip it out.

  He felt blood stream down his back. The pain was considerable and normally he would have been unable to continue. But he was so focused on finding out what Molander had done to him that he could barely feel the tweezers digging around the wound in search of the next stitch.

  Just then, his phone vibrated on the basin in front of him, and he saw it was a text from Molander himself.

  Reply and say you overslept, but you’re on your way.