X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  ‘So this is where you’re hiding.’

  Tuvesson whipped around to discover Klippan standing in the doorway. ‘Oh my God, you gave me a fright.’ She closed her handbag and stood up. ‘I just talked to Högsell. Apparently, the Danes are insisting on taking over the case and holding the trial there. But the last word hasn’t been said yet.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right,’ Klippan said, and he closed the balcony door behind him to muffle the racket from the bedroom. ‘Astrid. Are you okay?’

  ‘No.’ Tuvesson sighed and shook her head. ‘How could I be after a day like today?’ She wiped the moisture from her eyes. ‘A day with so many innocent victims and Molander, who… So no, I’m far from okay, since you ask, and yes, I’ve had a drink, but just to clear my head a little. How about you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Klippan shrugged. ‘What I do know is that you’re not the only one who needs to get their head together.’

  Without a word, Tuvesson opened her handbag, pulled out the flask and handed it to Klippan, who unscrewed the cap and took a few deep gulps.

  ‘When you called to tell me,’ he continued after a long pause, ‘I couldn’t comprehend it. I heard what you were saying. Every word of it, but I didn’t understand. The words just sort of ran through me like they didn’t mean anything.’ He took another sip and handed the flask back to Tuvesson. ‘It wasn’t until I saw Gertrud lying there at the bottom of the root cellar. Until then, I didn’t fully get it.’ He shook his head, fighting back tears. ‘Eighteen years we’ve worked together, him and me. Eighteen long years, sharing everything. At least I thought so. I don’t know what it was like for you, but for my part, I considered him not just a colleague but a friend as well. Maybe not my best friend. But still, a friend that I—’ He trailed off and shook his head, lost for words.

  As Tuvesson walked over and put her arms around him, the balcony door behind them was opened by a uniformed officer.

  ‘We’re almost through.’

  Tuvesson nodded and she and Klippan followed him into the black-painted kitchen, through the equally black living room and into the bedroom, where the bed had been turned on its side and two more uniformed officers were working on making a hole in the wall big enough for a person to get through.

  Tuvesson stepped through the hole with Klippan right behind her and spotted Lilja lying on a narrow cot. ‘Hi, Irene. How are you doing?’ she said. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around, trying to imagine what Lilja had been through.

  At the computer and all the dice. At the cloth wrapped around Lilja’s hands, which was stained dark red, at the tinned food and all the ravioli on the floor. At the extension lead that disappeared through a hole in the wall.

  ‘Tell me you got him,’ Lilja said finally. ‘Tell me I was right. Tell me everything worked out, that you caught him before he killed more people.’

  ‘You were right,’ Tuvesson said, and swallowed. ‘You were completely right. Wasn’t she, Klippan? Tell her.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Klippan said, nodding his agreement.

  ‘And yes, we did catch him in the end, Irene. Fabian caught him,’ Tuvesson said. ‘He’s sorry he couldn’t be here, and he asked me to tell you that if it weren’t for you and what you did, many more people would have lost their lives.’

  Lilja said nothing, as though she needed time to digest the significance of what Tuvesson had just said.

  ‘But there’s one more thing we have to tell you,’ Tuvesson went on, and she turned to Klippan for help.

  84

  IT WAS, WITHOUT a doubt, one of the finest albums ever made. Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love. On his list of personal favourites, it was up there with Abbey Road, Computer World, Nevermind, Hunky Dory and a few more.

  ‘Running Up That Hill’ was not only one of the best songs in the world, it was an epic masterpiece clocking in at just under five minutes, and every time he heard her sing Tell me, we both matter, don’t we? in a voice as fragile as a butterfly’s wing, he welled up. He couldn’t explain why; for some reason the line just got to him.

  But that wasn’t the song he picked now; he went straight to the second-to-last song on the album, ‘Hello Earth’. It was Sonja’s favourite, and when he turned up the volume, her reaction was instantaneous in the form of a smile from the kitchen where she was putting together a simple dinner.

  ‘How about a glass of wine?’ she said, holding up a bottle of red.

  He nodded and she immediately set to opening it and getting glasses out. She couldn’t have been more right about her performance at Dunkers earlier that evening. Once the audience had left the venue and the staff had let the box back down and opened it, a new Sonja had climbed out and walked over to him.

  Gone was the insecurity and the introverted darkness. The coldness. Instead, there was a strength in her now that reminded him of their first few years together. Before the children, when it was just the two of them. When life was an open door and nothing was impossible.

  She filled both glasses and he wheeled himself over to the kitchen island, took one and raised it in a toast. She picked up the other, clinked it against his and kissed him. Gently, so as not to inflict any more pain on his battered face.

  It still hurt. But he didn’t care. The intimacy was back and that was all that mattered. The intimacy and tenderness that said so clearly that if there had ever been any doubt about it being the two of them, it was now banished forever.

  At the same time, the anaesthesia from his surgery at Copenhagen’s main hospital was wearing off, and he could feel the pain from the gunshot wound in his thigh returning. But it was nothing compared to what his body had endured earlier in the day, and since no vital organs had been damaged, the doctor had reluctantly agreed not to keep him in overnight for observation and had instead arranged for him to be transported to the Dunkers Culture Centre in Helsingborg.

  Now they were finally home, and Fabian didn’t want to be anywhere else, and even though they both had so many things to tell each other and so many questions, the past hour had been virtually silent. They had all the time in the world, and right now, all the questions, answers and explanations felt like unnecessary ballast they’d do best to jettison.

  ‘Dad…’

  Fabian turned and saw Matilda looking at him from the hallway. ‘Hi, Matilda,’ he said and smiled, even though it hurt.

  For the first time in weeks, he recognized her, his own daughter. It really was Matilda, standing there staring at him, his Matilda. True, her eyes were wide with shock and concern, but they were her eyes. Hers and no one else’s.

  ‘Dad, what happened?’ She hurried over to him. ‘What did they do to you? You look… awful.’

  ‘Matilda, I promise I will tell you. I promise I’ll tell you all about it. But not right now. Right now, I just want to have a nice dinner and enjoy us being together. Okay?’

  Matilda nodded, bent down and hugged him as gently as she could. He hugged her back and Sonja joined in as well. Only Theodor was missing.

  Epilogue

  28 June–1 July 2012

  LATER THAT NIGHT, the official casualty count of what would become known as the worst terror attack in Danish history stood at eleven dead and five injured. The debate about the lack of cooperation between the Swedish and Danish police authorities that followed was fierce and protracted.

  Of the six people who were poisoned with ricin, only the young boy survived. He had his parents to thank for it. Particularly his mother, who insisted on taking him to the A&E in Malmö the second she realized something wasn’t right. The other five died of severe stomach pains over the course of the next few days.

  Kim Sleizner used the press conference held in the wake of the attack to explain that his colleague Jan Hesk and the entire Danish police had, under his leadership, demonstrated an ability to act decisively, coupled with an efficiency few countries could rival. According to him, there could be no doubt the Swedish serial killer would still have been on the loose
if not for them.

  Fabian Risk was not mentioned once during the almost two-hour-long live press conference. Not a word was said about the role he played during the attack. He did figure in the description of the arrest itself as another Swede accompanying Milwokh, who was shot in the leg when he refused to obey the Danish police’s orders to get on the ground. Later, however, Jan Hesk would clarify that the Swede had turned out to be an officer of the law and was doing well under the circumstances.

  In which country Milwokh will be facing trial is still unclear. The forensic evidence against him is, however, so overwhelming there can be no doubt he’s looking at a lifetime sentence.

  The extensive work of collecting forensic evidence against Ingvar Molander is well under way. It will be supplemented with interviews with a large number of witnesses, such as Conny Öhman and Fabian himself.

  Most signs point to a lifetime sentence for him as well, though it is still not known whether key witness Gertrud Molander will be able to testify. Having been declared dead at the scene, she is now being treated in the intensive care unit at Helsingborg Hospital, where doctors are cautiously optimistic that she will make a full recovery.

  The same is unfortunately not true of Irene Lilja’s left hand. After countless complex surgeries, mobility could only be achieved in her thumb and fore and middle fingers. The surgical fusing of her pinkie and ring fingers will forever serve as a reminder of what she endured.

  Within days of Sonja’s performance at Dunkers, word had spread in art circles far beyond Sweden’s borders. Art shows, galleries and museums lined up to host a repeat performance.

  But even though she’d finally managed to create something meaningful, not just to herself but to everyone who had attended, The Hanging Box was a closed chapter for Sonja. She had emerged from it a new person, more whole and stronger than ever, and she was never climbing back in.

  Over the next few days, Fabian, Sonja and Matilda travelled to Helsingør as often as they could to meet with Jadwiga Komorovski and support Theodor while they waited for the trial to resume after the weekend. But that Monday, they received the unexpected news that the trial had been postponed again. This time for reasons unknown.

  MIKAEL RØNNING SIPPED his mineral water, in which the ice cubes had long since dissolved and the pips from the lemon slices were bobbing about like tiny olive pits gnawed clean. It was his second glass, and even though he was sweating in the evening sun, he made sure not to drink so much he’d have to go to the bathroom and risk missing her.

  Café Diamanten was, apart from its convenient distance from the police station, an odd choice for a meeting. Especially the kind of meeting they were going to have. With an outdoor seating area overlooking the canal along Gammel Strand, it was anything but secluded. Even worse, the place was so crowded you couldn’t help overhearing the conversations at the tables around you.

  If she ever deigned to show up. It had been over an hour since their agreed meeting time, and so far there was no sign of her. And he’d studied every single guest that had come and gone.

  But then again, she had never been one of his more punctual friends. For her, being half an hour late was the rule rather than the exception, and back when they’d hung out regularly, he’d often told her the film, concert or whatever they were going to started half an hour before it actually did, which had worked great until she figured it out.

  But it had been months since he’d last seen her, and they weren’t going to the cinema. This was a very different kind of rendezvous, one he’d been very hesitant to agree to. The only reason he had was that it was her, and now she wasn’t even here.

  Had something happened, or was it just that her casual approach to timekeeping had got even worse? Regardless, he didn’t feel good about this. Especially since he didn’t even have a number he could reach her on.

  He made eye contact with the waiter and signalled that he wanted to pay. Given how crowded the café was, it would probably be a while before the bill was on the table.

  It was odd to think that the world just kept on turning, even though it had only been hours since that Pontus Milwokh guy had attacked Tivoli. Sure, people expressed their sympathy by adding the Danish flag to their Facebook profile pictures, and it was bound to dominate the news around the world for days to come. But right here, everything was the same as it always was, even though he could still hear the occasional police siren and the streets just a few blocks away had been cordoned off.

  The waiter came by with his bill but disappeared before he could get his wallet out and find the right card. When he looked up again, a woman had sat down across from him. He’d seen her sitting two tables down, together with two foreign-looking men, and decided to make it plain to her he wasn’t interested.

  ‘Hi, Michael,’ she said, putting her hand out on the table. ‘It’s great to see you again.’

  Until he heard her voice, he didn’t realize it was Dunja Hougaard, the person he’d been waiting for all this time. She looked completely different with her short, silvery bleached hair, big earrings and bright red lips. But that wasn’t why he hadn’t recognized her.

  ‘You too,’ he said, and took her hand. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.’

  Nor was it her svelte body, denim shorts or heavy boots.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

  It was because of her eyes. They were what had changed.

  ‘And I’d love to hold your hand,’ she went on. ‘But it’s going to have to be some other day. We don’t have much time.’

  ‘I’m not the one who’s been wasting it.’ He took out Sleizner’s phone and the Post-it note with the pin code and placed it in her hand. She furtively passed it to one of the men who had been sitting at her table and was now sidling past them.

  ‘I had to make sure you weren’t followed.’

  He nodded and looked over at the table where the two men were already busy deconstructing the phone and hooking it up to a laptop.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said after one of them nodded an okay and signalled with his fingers that they would be done in three minutes.

  ‘It was nothing,’ he lied. ‘When can I see you again? You’re my favourite straight person, you know.’

  ‘And you’re my favourite gay.’ She smiled and chuckled, apparently unable to answer his question.

  But he already had the answers he’d been looking for.

  That she didn’t know.

  That this might be the last time he ever saw her.

  That she no longer had anything to lose.

  Author’s thanks

  THIS WAS SUPPOSED to be an easy book to write. If such books exist. All I had to do was follow up on and wrap up what I’d started in Motive X, I figured. But as the book was read by more and more people around the world and expectations mounted, for a while I felt there was no way I could live up to them. Despite the praise lavished on the first four books about Risk and their success, insecurity is always lurking around the corner.

  That’s when you need a good team around you. A team that believes in you, builds you up and gives you strength. A team that slaps you about until you wake up and realize you have the best job in the world. A team that makes you push through and find the fun again.

  Mi, you’re one of them. Thank you for being there for me and putting up with my brooding when I’m mulling over a plot problem. Thank you for reading, commenting and sulking when I don’t do exactly what you want. Thank you for possessing the ability to remember every single chapter I’ve written so you can point out when I’m being repetitive. I don’t think anyone knows Risk’s universe as well as you do.

  Except maybe my editor, Andreas. We’ve made five books together, and I feel like you are as deep into Risk’s world as I am. A big thank you for that.

  Tor at Salomonsson Agency is another rock. Together with Julia and Marie, you steer this ship with a firm hand, despite my whims and insistence on going my own way, which is not always the straightest. Big thanks f
or bearing with me.

  I tip my hat to Adam and everyone else at Sveavägen. You have done and are doing a wonderful job getting the books published. Since day one, I’ve felt well cared for and now, five years in, Sveavägen is like a home away from home when I’m in Stockholm. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Reidar Jönsson, it’s been forever since we worked on various film scripts together. For that reason, I’m incredibly grateful that you, with your substantial experience as a sailor, agreed to read, fact-check and answer all my questions. A big thank you for that.

  Nils, considering how many book covers you design every year, it’s nothing short of a miracle that you manage to outdo yourself every time with mine. A big thank you for never letting the smallest detail escape your loupe.

  Filipa and Kasper, thank you for your support, questions and care.

  Noomi and Sander, you are still too young to read my books, though you’ve figured out that Daddy writes about scary things. But thank you for existing and thank you for bursting into my office and hugging me every day when you get home from school.

  Finally, I want to give all my publishers around the world a big thank you. Some of you I’ve met in my travels, others I will hopefully meet before long. In case I forget to say it then, I’m saying it now. You are amazing! A big thank you for all the work you put into getting my books to readers in countries I never dared to dream I’d reach.

  About the author

  STEFAN AHNHEM grew up in Helsingborg, Sweden, and now lives in Denmark. He began his career as a screenwriter, and among his credits is the adaptation of Henning Mankell’s Wallander series for TV. His first novel, Victim Without a Face, won Crimetime’s Novel of the Year, and became a top-ten bestseller in Germany, Sweden and Ireland. Eighteen Below was a top-three bestseller in Germany, Sweden and Norway. Stefan Ahnhem has been named Swedish Crime Writer of the Year, and has been published in thirty countries. The Fabian Risk novels have sold more than 1.8 million copies worldwide.