by Mark, David
Where were the police?
They were here. They were on their own. He heard his pulse in his ears, straining to see more, taking another pace towards the window. Then he heard it. It was faint, like the sound of a mouse. Movement, soft, faint movement. He took another pace, feeling his hands tremble with pent-up adrenalin, feeling a brief surge of something overpowering his fear. He took another step, barely believing his eyes. So indistinct, that he wondered if there had to be some explanation, something explaining why he could...
The shadows lifted and what he saw made him lurch. A hand.
It was like a movie extracted from a Munch nightmare seeing a hand. Lit by the weak silver light of a half moon, indistinct in the dark, it had entered through a missing pane of glass. It groped along the edge of the sill. It moved to one side, then the other, probing. He watched in disbelief, the hand appearing to exist without an owner. For a moment, he almost believed Almquist’s tale, imagined beasts laying in the darkness. The hand moved back again, the owner kneeling low outside. They were searching for the latch, the latch that opened the window, the hand moving back and forth, as if possessing a life of its own.
Ash stood for a moment, the first heavy thumps in his chest pumping him awake. His survival mechanisms kicked into motion, followed by a clarity of thinking without any thought, leaving only focus. Three paces, four, then he was in motion, running forward. He grasped the axe with both hands, fingers tightening around its shaft, tensing, gauging weight as the hand found the catch holding the window closed. The hand paused, then moved towards the edge of the open pane, ready to...
Ash rushed forwards, raising the axe and swung it. It fell once, fast and heavy, embedding itself deeply into the fragile antique window sill, followed instantly by the howl of anguish from the outside, the shadow backing away then disappearing, receding into the blackness from whence it came.
Ash stood there, transfixed, breathing heavily. There was nothing to see, nothing more to do. It had happened. If he ran outside, whoever it was would no longer be there. He stayed like that as Ulrika entered the room, one foot passing slowly after the next.
Ulrika entered behind him, eyes wide in conviction. Ash was standing to the side of the window, staring down at the place where the axe was still embedded in wood. Taking the axe by the end of the handle, he pulled the shaft rapidly upwards, removing the blade out of the woodwork. He turned to look at her. There was something about his face, a look that told her he was prepared for more. She followed the direction of his attention and stopped, eyes transfixed upon two dismembered fingers. Most of a thumb and half a forefinger lying beside splintered wood in a growing pool of black ink.
Almquist was exhausted, arriving back at a dark and lonely apartment that felt less and less like home. He poured himself a nightcap, having eaten a simple dinner of scrambled eggs, appetite less than he was used to. As he swirled the amber liquid, he couldn’t help but see Thomas Denisen. He placed the whiskey on the side table, the world slowing. He saw his ruined face before him, the mess that had been his eyes so carelessly discarded. In all the other crimes, they had been ritually placed on the victim’s stomach. No one ever did figure out why, thinking of all the different assistants he had worked with, one coming, another going, all turning to...
He saw his body laying within a car in the middle of a motorway... a wall of flame, spreading, slowly. Women, an old woman, she was picking daisies. After so much carnage, why had she been picking flowers? She was in shock. She had seen them, the dead ones. The fire was coming.
But, that was long ago. The painting, fire. Gustav Kron, with a hole in the side of his head, caught within a fog... Gustav Kron, the voice he recalled, the interviews, trying to, details evading him, swirling around him like a cloud, all too fast to see the moving particles in the air he need to reach up and grasp.
What was he supposed to care about?
What was he worrying about? He had to assemble, assimilate, follow the rope leading to the solution, put together all those pieces evident in the absence of being. Do all those things a cop had to do...
They had treated him like an outsider from the start. Sturla, the people he drew to him, they had frozen him out. They were told to do so. He was supposed to be the law. The pictures, too many pictures from the past. There were too many threads, too many people and too many places... a kaleidoscope of color in his black and white world and it filled his head, hurting him. This was supposed to be a murder case. He needed someone to show the way, he wasn’t good enough. He needed help, except help wasn’t going to come...
Why now? Just when the end was in sight.
Chapter 6
INVESTIGATION DEEPENING
Then the Lord God said to the woman,
‘What is this you have done?’
The woman said, ‘The serpent tricked me, and I ate.’
Then the Lord God said to the serpent:
‘Because you have done this you are accursed
More than all cattle and all wild creatures.
On your belly you shall crawl,
And dirt you shall eat
Genesis 3, 13-14
‘But you didn’t see anybody?’
She was still shaken, shaking her head without really being aware of it. The voices came at her from across a distance she still had trouble navigating. ‘I thought I did. It was dark.’ She placed a trembling hand over her face.
Daniel got up and sat next to her, placing a friendly arm on her shoulder. ‘I’m just happy you heard something.’ He looked around as the kitchen door opened from the back, Conrad wiping his boots on the inside mat.
‘Nothing. Whoever it was, or they were, they’re long gone.’ Conrad said, entering the room, Ash following after him taking his seat at the table.
‘Fixed the pane. It was still in one piece, nothing a little bit of mud can’t handle,’ Ash added without humor.
‘You’re something Ash.’ Justin glanced at the axe resting against the wall, its blade shining dully in the candlelight of the kitchen, one of its double edges stained with dark traces of a little blood.
‘There are tracks, hard to follow.’ Conrad said. ‘There might have been more than one. Some of the other window beads look like they could have been tampered with; they’re completely rotten.’
Justin looked down the length of the table to Ulrika and tried to make eye contact. She was elsewhere, eyes fixed on the two fingers. Ash had placed them in a jar stumps downwards so they sat in a sticky pool of blood, fingertips touching the inside of the glass. The axe had passed cleanly through them.
She noticed how Conrad looked more haggard, pacing the room back and forth with hands behind his back. He stopped in mid-stride and turned to stare at Daniel. ‘We call the police tomorrow.’ He raised a hand, sliding his fingers through his thick wiry hair. ‘You say you think there’s a connection?’
Justin nodded, looking towards to Ulrika. He maintained his distance, leaving Daniel to comfort her. ‘Yes. I think Almquist was trying to tell us something.’
‘He did insinuate something,’ Conrad muttered. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered again, walking across the room rubbing his brow. ‘Fuck!’ He stopped and turned, looking at the fingers. ‘Whoever tried to break in will be licking their wounds right now.’
‘Something’s going on here,’ she turned around, to look at them all, ending on the fingers in the jar. ‘What’s going on?’
No one spoke.
‘Christ, I could have been killed in there,’ she shouted, pointing a finger to the living room on the far side of the corridor. ‘What the hell is this all about?’
Justin was looking at Conrad.
‘I’m not in the habit of keeping anyone against their will...’ he settled his attention on Ash. ‘Something is going on around here, but not something that we’re a part of.’ He looked in Ulrika’s direction then turned to Justin. He looked at Daniel, than Ash. Finally, he turned back to Justin again. ‘Go on,’ he said softly. ‘Go and get it. Tell
her.’
Justin looked at him inquisitively.
‘Go on...’ he motioned with his head to the ceiling.
Confused, Ulrika watched Justin hesitate, then leave the room and listened to him ascend the stairs. A moment later, his feet descended again, Justin reappearing clutching a painting to his chest. She lurched when she saw... the painting. What shocked her more than the painting was the wonderful carved frame that shone like solid gold.
‘Tell her why we’re here.’ Ignoring the look on her face, Conrad turned from the painting to look at Daniel this time.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the frame, seeing now the fine neatly inscribed symbols running down the middle of each side.
‘What is it?’ She asked. ‘Are those runes?’
Justin nodded.
‘Go through them again,’ Conrad said.
Daniel obliged. ‘All right,’ Daniel glanced at Ulrika. ‘Ash and me; we’ve been looking into old practices of pagan sacrifice.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Ash said, sending a knowing look at Daniel.
‘The figure, we think is Odin,’ Daniel continued. ‘This shows him sacrificing himself.’
‘In ancient times this involved hanging the victims from trees,’ Ash added.
‘People were often run through with spears,’ Daniel said. ‘It was an old custom used before, hanging them from trees beside sacred lakes, places of offering.’
‘I would say it was identical,’ Ulrika said, eyes fixed like large round magnets on the painting and frame.
‘It is identical.’ Justin replied. ‘We didn’t know what Thomas had done until the police pitched up.’
Ulrika nodded, taking in the detail. The ornate gilt frame with the runic inscriptions cared into the frame was as beautiful as it was mysterious. ‘You dare to keep this from Almquist?’
Ash shrugged. ‘We didn’t want him seeing it.’
‘He doesn’t need to know.’ Conrad said. ‘So. Now you know.’
Ulrika nodded. Yes, she certainly did... what the hell was going on here?
‘Someone else out there obviously needs to know as well.’ Daniel said shaking his head.
‘This is why we had our little attempted break-in,’ Ash said in a low voice.
So they were all in it together, she saw that now. ‘Where does Anna fit in?’
Justin shrugged. ‘We don’t know.’ He looked at Conrad.
Conrad didn’t say anything.
Daniel stood up, his chair scraping the floor and walked over, taking hold of the painting carefully at each side from Justin.
She watched the way he walked back and place it in the middle of the table, leaning it against a coffee mug, candles above sending shifting shadows of gold across the runes, bringing them alive. It meant something to them. It meant something to Thomas too, so he left it in his car for safekeeping.
‘Why?’ Was all she said.
‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Why were you on the road?’ Conrad asked.
‘I...’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘I got lost.’
‘Bullshit,’ Conrad countered. ‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’
She inhaled deeply, feeling herself tremble. She swallowed. ‘I never...’ She shook her head. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘I got caught in the rain. I’ve never seen this before. Now please,’ she looked at the fingers again and shuddered.
‘Come on,’ Justin urged, ‘give her a break.’
Conrad was still staring at her. Finally, he nodded for Daniel to continue.
‘We think they might have something to do with deification,’ he said, pointing to the inscription at the bottom of the frame.
‘What do they say?’
‘Váfa virgilná at gengr ok mælir við mik. It’s a quote.’ He leaned forwards. ‘The runes are attributed with the power to bring that which is dead to life. This translates as a dangling corpse in a noose, that walks and talks with me. It’s a quote taken from an old book, called the Hávámál.’
‘I’ve heard of it. It’s an old Viking book.’
Daniel eyed Conrad. ‘Apart from the runic inscriptions that are related to the elder Futhark, the old runic alphabet.
‘There were also other things discovered in the second half of the fifth century which couldn’t be interpreted or translated,’ Ash added.
Daniel was the expert on inscriptions, Ash on history. That was why they were here. They were a team.
‘Shafts of spears with inscriptions that gave little meaning, confounding scholars to this day.’
‘In what way?’ Ulrika asked, mesmerized, fascinated and totally curious.
Daniel sat down, pulling his chair closer to the table and looked at her. ‘A cry of magic if you like. In the field of battle, runes represented such cries,’ he added in his American drawl.
‘Or curses on a warrior’s weaponry,’ Ash said in his London accent.
‘They believed rendering them with magical properties meant the Gods would help them kill their enemies.’ Daniel turned back to the painting in front of him. ‘We think something similar could be intended with this frame. We think it belonged to a group with certain,’ he glanced at Conrad as he sat back down in the rocking chair, ‘esoteric interests.’ He pointed to the top set of runes. ‘The short sequence at the top for some reason is written backwards, in the opposite direction. Helvegr is the first word. It’s obvious. Helvegr is the name of the underworld in Nordic Mythology. Think of it as chant, a ritual, or some meaning lost a long time ago.’
‘So... you’re here, because of this frame...’
‘And the painting,’ Ash said.
‘So the one Almquist took...’
‘Is a fake. Thomas forged it, we believe. And they’re here,’ Conrad added, ‘because I needed some help. So,’ he leaned back so the rocking chair moved backwards and upwards, ‘there you have it.’
‘And the inscription at the bottom of the frame?’ She asked.
Daniel ran his fingers over the name at the bottom. ‘Also written backwards.’ He sat back, looking down. ‘It refers to a name, Hörgrlund, or Horgerlund.’
‘That will mean sacrifice place.’
‘You know it?’
‘I know Swedish.’
‘Hörgrlund is the name of a place, one where we believe certain rituals were performed. Near here,’ Daniel continued.
‘How do you know all this?’ She marveled at their enthusiasm in all this chaos.
‘All we know, is what we have,’ Justin replied. ‘And the old name for what was later called Æsahult,’ Justin said. ‘Is Hörgrlund. We found that out the day we found you on the road.’
Ulrika looked searchingly around at the four men, fearful Conrad would pursue his inquiry again. She kept Æsahult the church to herself.
‘We keep this all to ourselves until tomorrow; give us time to think,’ Conrad said from his chair.
Ash nodded to Conrad, then stood up and left the room without saying another word.
‘Ulrika, come and look at this,’ he shouted out from the corridor.
She rose, unsure, then followed until she was standing next to him by the entrance door, by the old photographs on the wall. Ash looked at her. ‘Here,’ he nodded to the wall, pulling her eyes in the direction of his attention.
She looked at the photographs. ‘What is it?’
He looked back at the empty doorway. No one else had followed to join them. Standing no more than an arm’s length away, he turned to look at the photographs again, regarding unknown faces. When he turned to her again, there was a different look on his face. ‘Don’t you recognize anyone?’
She looked at the photographs, to where he was pointing higher up the wall. There, a face she did recognize. It was young face of a young police officer in uniform. Almquist. It was a picture of Almquist surrounded by unfriendly faces.
Örrebro District Police Station
In the middle of the operations room was a co
nference table, the leftovers from an office relocation from the 70’s: fake wood, scratched and chipped along the edges. For an office it was an embarrassment. For a regional crimes investigation department on a strictly limited budget, it was indispensable: a place to sit and talk, review documents, compare notes and brainstorm. Elin Vikland had taken care of the photographic evidence, the rolls of film from Ulrika Strömberg’s two Nikon cameras processed into shiny new photographs that caught and reflected glowing lines, breaking the images into fragments by the strip lights ordered down the centre of the white gridded ceiling.
Almquist removed his hand from his beard as he returned to the pile, taking and pinning a fourth of Ulrika’s photographs onto the beginning of what was the operations board: three large pin boards mounted on stands, all lined up in a slightly uneven row to form a moveable wall. In front of the boards a row of chairs where a disheveled, tired-looking Elin Vikland sat in one of them. Officer Lindgren in another, eyes focused on a report in his hand. Neither spoke, Vikland sitting with her back to the conference table, the surface reflective, lit by the same cold light illuminating shots of the national park from Ulrika’s camera. They were arranged together with other photographs, each showing four different bodies in stark, naked detail. All close-ups, mutilated heads. Each head had eyes missing; each photograph showing in graphic detail the remains of the face that once had eyes, some with optical nerve hanging loosely from empty, bloodied sockets, others vacant and empty, blackened. All of them consumed by fire, taking with it life as well as sight. Under each photograph were the names of four women, noted together with their ages ranging from early thirties to late forties. Four more photographs showing close-ups of feet, some barely burned, others turned to charcoal, each arranged under the respective close-ups of the heads in the row above. Four pairs of burned feet, each one hammered through with six inch carpenter’s nails, the ends penetrating the surface of the upper foot. Upwards.