Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  “I don’t know what theories you’re working with, or if you even have any,” Dunja said as she saw from the corner of her eye that it was twelve past the hour, at which point she decided to get going without the prosecutor and Sveistrup. “Personally, I’m convinced that this is a case of so-called happy slapping.”

  “No need to worry.” Jensen leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced behind her head. “We have a number of theories. The difference between us and you is we don’t make them public until we’re absolutely certain.”

  “I haven’t made anything public; I’ve only shared this with you. Nor do I see a reason to release this until after the suspects have been apprehended.”

  “I’m sorry, but what is ‘happy slapping’?” Magnus asked, his hand in the air as if he were in a classroom.

  “Teenagers who assault random innocent people while filming it on their phones so they can put it online.”

  “It started in England, among unemployed youth,” Ussing added. “But so far there is no indication that it has spread here.”

  “As a matter of fact there is, as you’re about to see.” Dunja pressed the space bar to wake up the projector, which began to show an image on the screen as she lowered the lights. “I found this video on YouTube. It’s a little over a year old, and as you will see it was filmed in broad daylight right here in Helsingør.”

  She started the video, which showed a man in a dark green hoodie with a stocking over his face approach the camera and bow as if before a performance, all to a soundtrack of classical strings. On the stocking was a round, yellow smiley that covered most of the man’s face; he pulled up his hood and started down the street.

  “What’s that music?” Jensen asked.

  “Isn’t it Beethoven, like in A Clockwork Orange?” Ussing said.

  “Actually it isn’t, although I’m sure that was an inspiration,” Dunja said. “This is Mozart. The third movement of his Thirty-ninth Symphony in E flat major.” Now they would finally grasp that she had done her homework. That they couldn’t just slap her on the wrist however they pleased. “Which emphasizes the action,” she continued, just because she could. “Aside from The Marriage of Figaro, this is considered to be one of his happiest and most hopeful works.”

  The camera followed the man as he moved quickly down the street, his steps light as a feather, until he caught up to a woman who was talking on her phone. One punch was all it took, from behind, straight into her right ear, and the woman collapsed on the sidewalk. The camera operator hurried to the woman, who was lying motionless on the ground, and showed a pair of ratty Reeboks delivering five hard kicks — almost in time with the music — to her head.

  An instant later, the masked man was back in the frame, still moving forward, his steps light, as if he were dancing along the street. He turned to face the camera without stopping, showing the yellow smiley that covered his face, and waved at the viewer to come along. Farther on, he yanked a man off his bike like it was nothing. A car behind them had to brake hard and stop, but the masked man didn’t seem bothered in the least; he just kept throwing punches and kicking until the cyclist gave up trying to protect himself and lay motionless in the middle of the street. Only then did the man jog calmly past the car.

  “I found three more videos like this one.” Dunja brought up the lights and saw that Sveistrup had finally arrived. But there was still no Julie Hvitfeldt. “All of them include music by Mozart, and were filmed here in Helsingør and posted online about a year ago. There are three perpetrators in the last one, and all of them have those same disguises, stockings with smileys over their faces.”

  “And what makes you believe this has anything to do with our investigation?” Ussing asked, treating himself to a Danish.

  This was the very question Dunja had been hoping for, and it was difficult to keep herself from answering too quickly. “For one thing,” she began, “who said ‘believe’? For another, we have a witness. Sannie Lemke.”

  “You mean the woman who shot up a room full of homeless people with your gun?” Jensen said.

  “Exactly.”

  “How can you be so sure that she wasn’t the one who killed her brother? We just got word back that the blood we found in the building on Stengade was his, which links her to the scene of the crime.”

  “Yes, but if you had read through the entire post-mortem report, you would have seen that Oscar Pedersen maintains that the attacker or attackers crushed the victim to death by jumping on him, a theory supported by the several bloody footprints found at the scene.”

  “But that doesn’t prove one way or the other —”

  “My point is,” Dunja broke in, “that Sannie’s sneakers had no blood on them.”

  “She probably washed it off, or changed into a clean pair.” Jensen shrugged.

  “We’re talking about a homeless drug addict here —”

  “And how do you explain the blood on her hands and shirt?” Ussing interrupted.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I would guess that she tried to wake him up as soon as his attackers fled the scene.”

  “Guessing isn’t really what we do around here,” Jensen said.

  “What’s more, she repeated several times that they were ‘yellow and happy’ and were acting as though it was all a game.”

  “Yellow and happy?” Ussing burst into laughter. “Don’t tell me that’s your big news. That’s why we’re sitting around doing nothing but getting older?”

  “Søren, she was there, she saw it with her own eyes.”

  “Maybe that’s what she said. But she’s just a junkie whore who would kill her own brother for another couple grams without batting an eye.”

  “I believe you’re dead wrong about that.”

  “Believe? I thought you didn’t ‘believe’ anything.”

  “Yes, but…” Dunja lost her train of thought. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. Criticism could be useful. If nothing else, it forced everyone on the team to put forth their best effort and helped strengthen the investigation. But that’s not what these two were doing. They were out to sink her ship. And if they could take her down while they were at it, so much the better. Who cared if she was right? “Listen, I was the one who talked to her, and my impression is that she was definitely telling the truth, so —”

  “Hold on, can I just say something?” Jensen said, and Dunja nodded. “You said the videos were a year old. Doesn’t that suggest they quit making them?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, I’d say it’s a —” This was as far as she got before Jensen continued.

  “Or perhaps you also found the video of this murder, and you just wanted to save it for last? Because if your theory is correct, surely they must have filmed this one too.”

  “I’m glad you brought up this particular question,” she said, ignoring the fact that it wasn’t a question at all, just another cheap shot. “That’s true. And no, I haven’t found it. At least not yet. But I’m convinced that the incident was captured on film. Maybe they haven’t uploaded it yet, or maybe they’ve grown more cautious and only share their videos with like-minded people, the way they do in pedophile rings.” She threw up her hands to emphasize the fact that this was about teamwork, despite their differences in opinion. “Whatever the reason, we should put all our efforts into trying to find it.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is pointless.” Ussing shook his head. “We’re dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, not some masked teenagers with too much time on their hands.” He stood up. “Thanks for the information. It was interesting, but we’re going to keep working on our own theories.”

  “What theory is that? That Sannie Lemke is the killer?” She had raised her voice, despite promising herself she would remain calm no matter what happened. Dunja’s desperation cut through and ripped all the lines she’d practised to shreds. But it couldn’
t be helped. She couldn’t just stand there and take his dismissive attitude. She had to get Ussing to sit back down; it was now or never. “Both of the victims you just saw in the video have filed police reports. Those are two out of several investigations that are on your desks in your office, gathering dust for no reason. And just so you know, I’m going to make sure that changes.”

  Ussing looked at Dunja like he’d just encountered a new animal at the zoo. Then he snorted and turned to Jensen. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

  Jensen stood up, took two Danishes, and made to leave.

  “Hold on.” Dunja turned to Sveistrup, who had hung back without speaking up to now. “Ib, did you inform them that I’m now in charge of the investigation?”

  Silence. It was so quiet that everyone could hear Sveistrup’s grumbling stomach.

  “I mean, I know we talked about it yesterday, and you suggested it,” Ib said. “I remember that very well. Just as I remember how I promised to seriously consider it.”

  “What do you mean, consider it? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “After some additional thought, I have arrived at the conclusion that it might not be such a good idea. For one thing, it would create chaos in the work schedule, and just as Søren and Bettina were saying, all their time is devoted to following up on their existing theories. But you’ve had a chance to float your ideas, and we’ll see if there’s anything the team can look into further.” Sveistrup ended with a smile and nodded as if to emphasize how correct and well-thought-out his decision was.

  This couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Sure, her boss was a master flip-flopper, always trimming his sails to whichever wind prevailed at the moment. But this took the cake.

  What did it matter? Dunja had been caught with her pants down. A year ago, she would have started crying. But now she was nowhere near tears. All she felt was her rage taking shape, growing increasingly firm as the seconds ticked by and the situation became clearer. There could be only one explanation for Sveistrup’s change of heart.

  Kim fucking Sleizner.

  38

  After his Sunday visit to Rickard Jansson, Fabian had tried to get hold of Tuvesson to call a meeting so they could discuss what to do next. Once again, he only got her voicemail. So Fabian went to her house and rang the doorbell for over a minute, but in the end he was forced to give up.

  On the way home, he had a conference call with Cliff and Lilja to discuss bringing in the Malmö task force to raid Chris Dawn’s house that evening. After a lengthy discussion, they’d concluded that they couldn’t make such a big decision without Tuvesson’s approval, since there was a definite risk they would scare the perpetrator off instead of apprehending him. They agreed to wait until the morning, in the hopes that Tuvesson would resurface by then.

  Fabian woke just before 5 a.m. to find that Sonja still wasn’t home. All attempts to go back to sleep proved fruitless, so instead he had an early breakfast with the morning paper and Radio P1 as his only company. He left a note for the kids to say that he and Sonja had already left for work and that they could microwave the oatmeal in the fridge for breakfast.

  It was just past seven when he stepped out of the elevator on the top floor of the station. To his surprise, Lilja was already there, and he learned as they shared a cup of coffee that she was feeling just as impatient as he was, so they took the elevator down to his car and programmed Chris Dawn’s address into the GPS. The idea was to get a sense of what awaited them. To see without being seen.

  Dawn lived at Norra Vallåkravägen 925, which was out in the countryside about fifteen kilometres east of Helsingborg. There were fields in all directions, and only the occasional farmhouse. After a few kilometres, there were more tractors than cars on the road.

  “Did you hear anything from Elvin over the weekend?” Fabian asked. “I tried to call him several times yesterday, but I just got his voicemail.”

  “He probably wanted to have an actual weekend,” Lilja said, gazing out the window at the landscape. “You know how anal he can be about that stuff. Take his chair, for instance. Woe to anyone who accidentally sits in it.”

  Fabian could only nod. Although almost two years had passed since he borrowed Elvin’s desk chair and committed the deadly sin of adjusting all its settings, it still felt like yesterday. The rage he’d encountered when Elvin returned from vacation knew no bounds. Tuvesson had called a crisis meeting, and it took almost six months for Elvin to calm down enough to speak to him again.

  “But still, he should be at least as interested as the rest of us in making sure this investigation doesn’t lose momentum. He was the one who figured out what was going on, after all.”

  “Yes, but not everyone is as impatient as you,” Lilja said with a laugh. “Like Molander, he wasn’t around this weekend either. To be honest I haven’t the foggiest idea how Elvin’s brain works.” Her gaze flickered back to the scenery. “That sounds strange, considering how many years we’ve been working together. Yet all I know about him is what I see at work, and you can’t deny he’s one of the sharpest people on the force. But if you want to know what he gets up to when he goes home, don’t ask me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s as likely to be absorbed in building ships in bottles as he is watching porn. Or maybe he has the largest collection of Kinder Eggs in Sweden? Who knows?” She shrugged.

  “But he and Molander know each other pretty well, don’t they?” Fabian asked.

  Lilja nodded. “Although recently they’ve hardly been speaking.”

  “Really?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?” Lilja turned to Fabian. “They get really grumpy and brusque as soon as they’re in the same room.”

  “In one hundred metres, your destination will be on the right,” the synthetic voice broke in. Fabian slowed down and parked the car on the left-hand side of the road, in front of a small transformer station.

  He had noticed that his two colleagues seemed unusually annoyed with each other in recent weeks, but he hadn’t thought much of it. In any case, Molander was always annoyed with someone.

  Fabian left the key in the ignition, got out of the car, and looked over at the driveway that began on the other side of the road. To avoid any surveillance cameras that might be in the trees, they kept to the tall grass on the right. After about a hundred metres, they came to a whitewashed wall.

  “There’s one.” Lilja pointed at a camera to the left of a closed iron gate.

  Fabian nodded and began to follow the wall in the other direction. The whitewashing was still so blindingly bright against the natural colours around it. Maybe that was why Fabian noticed the smudges that went up and over the edge of the wall.

  “What’s that?” Lilja moved in for a closer look at the white-painted climbing holds that were attached to the wall. “Look, someone went to the trouble of mounting these things instead of just bringing a ladder.”

  “That suggests someone has been here more than once,” Fabian said. “Possibly to do recon and take notes; to learn all of Dawn’s habits and routines before it was time to strike.”

  He tested the lowest hold with one boot and grabbed one of the higher ones, surprised at how simple it was to climb them even though they stood out only a few centimetres from the wall. Once he was at the top, Fabian realized that their placement had been chosen with care. A grove of birch trees blocked the line of sight to the house, which meant anyone could climb down easily on the other side, without the risk of being spotted.

  The house was about fifty metres on, and was divided into two wings. It was too far off to tell whether anyone was inside, but Lilja was able to zoom in with her camera, and everything appeared calm on the surface, aside from one surveillance camera panning back and forth.

  She gave Fabian her phone and he aimed it at the camera, which was mounted on the gable. Sure enough, it was sweeping the lawn, which seemed as fresh and new as the wa
ll. The even movements and regular intervals suggested the camera was on autopilot. Which was not to say that it couldn’t react to motion and activate an alarm.

  But there was only one way to know for sure, thought Fabian as he nodded at Lilja to follow in his tracks before the camera started to move away from them. They didn’t get very far before Tuvesson called.

  “Where are you? We started fifteen minutes ago.”

  Fabian looked at his watch and realized it was already past nine. “Outside Chris Dawn’s house.” There was silence on the other end, and he could just about hear Tuvesson biting her tongue.

  “Okay, I don’t know what you were thinking, but —”

  “I tried to call you yesterday,” he interrupted. “I talked to Brise’s banker, and —”

  “Fabian, I know. Cliff already told me, and the recon team is on its way. The important thing right now is that you get back here as fast as you can. And for God’s sake, make sure no one sees you.”

  “Hold on, shouldn’t we —”

  “Christ, can you just do as I say for once? We just spoke to Mattias Ryborn, Dawn’s new banker at Handelsbanken on Stortorget. Apparently they’re supposed to meet for the first time this afternoon, and that will be our chance to apprehend him. Provided he hasn’t already figured out that we’re on his trail.”

  39

  Hi Mikael, hope all is well with you. Check out the link below. I’m convinced these are the people behind the murder, but I can’t find a video.

  Thought you might know where to look.

  Hugs,

  Dunja

  Mikael Rønning sat in his windowless office deep inside the IT department of the Copenhagen police station, staring at the email as though it had been sent from another planet. He’d already gone through it three times, but he had to read it a fourth. Not because he didn’t understand it. He understood exactly what Dunja was saying, and that was what was bothering him. That he was so transparent and predictable — boring, in fact — that she assumed he was always up-to-date on everything she was doing. Like a friendly puppy dog, wagging his tail as soon as his owner turned up.