Also in the Fabian Risk series
The Ninth Grave
Victim Without a Face
A Fabian Risk Novel
Stefan Ahnhem
Translated by Rachel Willson-Broyles
Copyright © 2018 Stefan Ahnhem
English translation copyright © 2018 Rachel Willson-Broyles
First published in Sweden in 2016 by Bokförlaget Forum
Published in Canada in 2018 by House of Anansi Press Inc.
www.houseofanansi.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Distribution of this electronic edition via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted material; purchase only authorized electronic editions. We appreciate your support of the author’s rights.
All of the events and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ahnhem, Stefan, 1966–
[Arton grader minus. English]
Eighteen below / Stefan Ahnhem ; Rachel Willson-Broyles, translator.
(A Fabian Risk novel)
Translation of: Arton grader minus.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77089-919-3 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-77089-920-9 (EPUB).
—ISBN 978-1-77089-921-6 (Kindle)
I. Willson-Broyles, Rachel, translator II. Title. III. Title: 18 below. IV. Title: Arton grader minus. English. V. Series: Anhem, Stefan, 1966– . Fabian Risk novel.
PT9877.1.H64A7813 2018 839.73'8 C2017-901303-3
C2017-901304-1
Cover and text design: Alysia Shewchuk
Cover image: © Viktoria Haack / Trevillion Images
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program
the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Prologue
October 28, 2010
It was just past midnight when the taxi coasted to a stop outside the house. Two five-hundred kronor bills changed hands, and the man stepped out of the car without waiting for his change. The biting, ice-cold wind blew in from the pitch-black waters of the Kattegatt, the gale so stiff that he could feel the spray of salt from the waves crashing onto the pier, forty metres away in the dark.
The thin layer of ice on the ground suggested that the temperature had dropped below freezing, so he rounded the taxi, opened the rear door on the opposite side, and helped his companion out so she wouldn’t slip in her dangerously high heels.
Just thirty metres left now, he thought, closing the door behind her. Thirty metres in which he had to put up a front of kindness, and radiate safety without seeming too pushy. Make her feel like the decision to come home with him was hers and hers alone.
She shivered and clasped her little fur capelet tight with her right hand, and allowed him to take the left as they walked up to the house. That was a good sign. Especially considering what an uphill battle dinner had been. He’d had to use all his tricks to keep her from seeing right through him, discovering the cracks in his smile, and leaving the table.
They had met at Grand Hôtel Mölle, just as planned. She had been waiting for him on a leather sofa in the lobby, a drink in her hand and her long, thin legs crossed. Right away he had been struck by the fact that she looked just like her picture. Her dark hair in its boyish cut, her dark red lips, and her high cheekbones looked just as he’d imagined. Even her skin, which he’d assumed had been retouched by a photo editor, looked as if it had never been exposed to the destructive rays of the sun.
This almost never happened. Nearly every time, in fact, reality turned out to be a disappointment. The question was just how much of one. Rougher skin, unplucked eyebrows, and muffin tops that refused to be concealed despite loose clothing. At times, reality had been so different from the picture that he had simply turned on his heel before they could even say hello.
But this evening he’d had to work hard, and on the way up the path with its Höganäs pavers and automatic lights, he decided that he deserved a bit of fun — so much fun that she wouldn’t be able to walk for at least a week. He just needed some insurance first. So he stopped where the outdoor lighting was brightest and the surveillance camera had a good angle, and turned to her.
She met his gaze and he responded by pressing his lips to hers. She didn’t need to return the kiss. It would be enough for her to accept it. As long as she didn’t push him away or slap him, he would have the proof he needed to maintain that it had been consensual, that the accusations against him were nothing more than hollow excuses made up after the fact to get at his money. In other words, he would soon be able to do whatever he wanted to her.
He showed her into the house and helped her off with the fur capelet. Just like most of the women who had made it this far, she could barely conceal how impressed she was with the inviting floor plan, the fire already burning in the fireplace, and the custom furniture. And the artwork, which made any exhibition at Dunker Culture House down in Helsingborg seem like it had been created by a bunch of preschoolers.
He offered her something to drink from the bar, claiming that his mojitos were unbeatable. Her face lit up and she moved to follow him down the stairs. He stopped to allow her to walk ahead of him into the whitewashed hallway and past the in-home spa, then instructed her to head for the doorway to the left of the built-in bookcase at the end of the hall.
She did as she was told. But as she entered the windowless room, she turned to him with a confused expression, just as each one before her had. They all wondered about the bar they had been promised.
Instead, there was a large bed as well as four substantial metal rings with straps fastened to cables, which, in turn, ran along the walls and floors and through a series of block and tackles. Everything was painted a plain white to avoid drawing the eye.
The blow turned out to be a little harder than he’d imagined. He didn’t want to ruin her lovely face. Not yet, at least. She fell backward onto the bed, and from the corner of his eye, as he quickly strapped the first cable around her wrist, he could see that her nose was bleeding. She was too dazed to react or resist until he had secured both her arms and her legs, at which point he calmly winched her into position.
He had expected that she would spend her energy trying to get loose. Just like all the others. Instead she just lay there looking at him with her arms extended and her legs spread. It was as if she were asking him to be extra rough with her, and who was he to disappoint?
He opened the wardrobe with all the toys and tools he had collected throughout the years, and took out the trauma shears and the brand-new ball gag, which he shoved into her mouth and strapped into place. Still no resistance. It was almost too good to be true. But then, he’d found that some resistance made the experience better.
Once he had cut off her clothing, he sat on the bed and studied her naked body. It was thin and fit; a little too thin for his liking. Her hips, like her hair, bordered on boyish, and he could see the muscles outlined on her belly, rising and falling, as she breathed. A gym addict. Her breasts would be at least two sizes larger if she didn’t exercise them out of existence. But he liked her arms. They were nearly perfect with their well-defined biceps and triceps. And her
cunt. He liked them shaved, and this one was so smooth that it seemed like it had never known a single hair.
He let his gaze wander up her body until it met her own. It bewildered him. She was completely under his power, with no idea what awaited her. And yet he saw nothing in her eyes but absolute calm. She wanted this. There was no other explanation. He let loose a glob of spittle, which hit her in the cheek and ran down along her throat. Still no reaction. He sat on top of her pinching her right nipple between his thumb and index finger until his thumbnail turned white.
There. He could finally see a hint of pain and a flicker of fear in her gaze. Pleased, and certain that he would be able to crack her, he left the room and went to the home spa, where he took off his clothes, relieved himself, and took a shower. He soaped up his whole body and turned the water on so hot that it burned his skin.
After he had dried off and brushed his teeth, he placed a sponge in a bowl, filled it with warm water and shower gel, and returned to the windowless room. A press of a button on a remote caused the door to close silently behind him. He could see her eyes following the dripping sponge in his hand as he climbed onto the bed and began to wash her. This part always turned him on, and he used his free hand to help his erection along until the blood was pounding in his veins.
When he was satisfied that she was clean, he tossed the sponge on the floor and bent forward to taste her. The blow struck him before he even had time to stick out his tongue.
The pain and the loud, prolonged noise that roared in his right ear made his head go numb; it felt like it might come loose and fall to the floor at any moment.
He was baffled. What had happened? Had she hit him? No, that was impossible. She was tied up. His hand fumbled at his injured ear and the hairline just above it. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but he could definitely feel a throbbing lump rising there.
He noticed now that one of the cables was severed. But how in the hell…There was no way those pliers could be in her hand, but there they were. Where had she gotten hold of them? In her other hand she was holding a rubber mallet. Were those his tools? He mentally catalogued the contents of the wardrobe, but he got no further than the whip collection before she hit him again with the mallet. This time so hard that he no longer felt any pain and was blissfully unaware of collapsing on top of her.
Part 1
May 9–16, 2012
The Theseus Paradox
According to Greek mythology, the warrior Theseus saved fourteen young men and women from being sacrificed to the bull-headed Minotaur on the island of Crete. The ship on which he returned to Athens was preserved in remembrance of his heroic actions. It quickly became a symbol, a reminder that even the seemingly impossible is possible.
But the forces of nature took a toll on the ship, which became more and more worn down as the years went by. As individual planks rotted away, a decision was made to replace the worst of them. Eventually all the parts of the ship had been replaced with new ones. The question was: Was this truly the same ship as the original? Was it still Theseus’s ship?
1
Astrid Tuvesson, chief of the Helsingborg crime squad, regretted her decision the minute she left her house. Inside, the blinds had kept the bright springtime sun in check, but out here the glare was considerably stronger than she’d expected. If she didn’t find the sunglasses in her bag soon, this headache would cause her skull to explode. She could already picture how Ingvar Molander and his men would come over to cordon off the scene and pick up all the pieces of her. Ah, there they were — her sunglasses, scratched and covered in fingerprints.
Oh, for Christ’s sake…She suddenly needed to pee. Sometimes she got so fed up with herself. Typical Astrid, forgetting to go before she stepped out the door and threw her keys in her bag, where they would of course be impossible to find by now. That bag was better at making things disappear than David Copperfield. She decided there was no point in looking for the keys — they were gone, probably forever — so she pulled down her pants and underwear and squatted in the flowerbed.
This was her own yard, so why not do whatever struck her fancy? If people didn’t like it they could always call the police. She laughed at the thought and the stream between her legs came in bursts like a fancy water fountain.
She wasn’t quite sure why she wasn’t just staying home as she’d planned; why she instead felt the urge to get behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. After all, she had only taken three sick days since last Monday, which was nothing compared to some people on the team.
In some ways, this was all that idiot Gunnar’s fault. If not for him, none of this would have happened. She would have been at the station, spending time with everyone else, not lying around at home and —
Something slammed into her car and she stood on the brakes. What on earth? She adjusted her rear-view mirror and realized that it had to be the mailbox. The one the idiot himself had insisted on shoring up and sinking into such a giant clump of cement under the ground that it would undoubtedly survive World War III. That was all she needed. She didn’t even want to think of what the back of the car looked like now.
Astrid pulled forward and backward a few times before she drove onto Singögatan and took off as fast as possible, before any of the neighbours had time to come out and gape at her. That was exactly what she meant. Everything — absolutely everything — that was wrong with her life was the fault of that idiot Gunnar.
She took a left onto the entrance ramp of the northbound E20, pushed in the car’s lighter, and took the last cigarette from the pack jammed into the door handle. The glow spread into the outermost layer of tobacco and she inhaled the smoke as deeply as her lungs would allow as she accelerated onto the highway.
Just a few years ago, she was the one who wanted to leave. But he had clung to her, and her fading love had slowly turned into contempt. She had soon transformed into a hateful monster, and once he finally made up his mind to leave her, nothing turned out the way she had imagined. Nothing.
At first she didn’t understand what was happening — there was a sudden crunch as the driver’s side mirror tore loose and ended up hanging by its spindly wires, banging against the body of the car like an overeager woodpecker. Then she saw the red BMW right in front of her. She laid on the horn but there was no reaction; the car just sped off. No way in hell was he getting off that easy. She hit the gas and soon caught up with him.
There was nothing she disliked more than newly rich little men with expensive cars, and she was convinced that this was a man and that he was little, in all measurable ways. She passed him on the left, swerved back into the right lane with her hazard lights on, and slowed down as she held up her police badge. As if he could see it. But fuck it. He was going to stop, and when he did she would teach him a thing or two.
Instead the BMW moved into the left lane and flew past her like it was the easiest thing in the world. What the hell? This meant war. Dammit, this meant war for real. She stuck her left arm out the window and pulled the side mirror off as she chased after the red BMW, with the gas pedal pressed tight against the dirty floor mat.
A minute later, she was well over the speed limit. Her Toyota Corolla shook, all signs indicating that it no longer wanted to take part in this chase. But Astrid was in full control, driving like a god — if she did say so herself — and by the time they passed the Helsingborg Södra exit she had caught up with him again, flashing her high beams.
But the BMW didn’t slow down. It went faster. The driver obviously had no idea who he was dealing with. Astrid stuck her hand into the bag on the passenger seat. Her phone was in there somewhere, she was sure of it. Oh, there, she could feel her keys. Of course they would show up now.
Astrid fished out her phone and cast a quick glance at it, searching for the camera app. Wherever it was. Fucking Samsung piece of shit. She hated it. Not to mention the downy-faced salesman, who had gone on like a st
ubborn parrot about how much better Android was than iOS. In the end she’d given in just to shut him up. But, okay, apparently it was working now. How she had managed that, she had no idea.
Astrid held up the phone, its camera aimed at the car ahead of her, only to find that she was about to drive off the shoulder. She hit the brakes as hard as she could, causing the car to skid sideways, and within a second there was a cacophony of honking cars and bellowing trucks.
This was the end — that was all she could think. It was over, and maybe that was just as well. After all, she was nothing but a big, menopausal loser and a disgrace to the whole force.
But her hands refused to give up; they worked to correct the skid and downshift at the same time. Same for her right foot, which put the pedal to the metal. Miraculously, she regained control of the car. Astrid gave a shout of joy, and then a few seconds later tried to calm herself with a mantra about everything being under control.
By now the red BMW was about fifty metres ahead of her, and Astrid could see it slowing down to take the exit for Elineberg and Råå. She picked up her phone from the footwell and began filming again. She would soon catch up to him, and then — dammit — she would show him.
Whether it was due to her presence or the line of cars all the way to the roundabout, the driver changed his mind and accelerated back onto the highway, showing no signs of slowing down even though they were headed straight for central Helsingborg.
He didn’t slow down at all until they reached Malmöleden, near the old police station, where the red lights at Trädgårdsgatan didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Astrid wasn’t about to be outdone, so she blared the horn through the intersection just as she heard sirens. The uniforms had woken up. About time.
A glance at her rear-view mirror showed the marked car right on her tail. Astrid waved at them to calm down. No way in hell was she about to let them waltz in and take over just like that. This waste of space was hers.
Eighteen Below Page 1