Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  “Have you heard anything from Two-fer?”

  Fabian shook his head. He had tried to reach her on his way to the station, on both her home and cell phones.

  “We’ve been calling all morning, and I just talked to Braids, who was also trying to get hold of her,” Cliff went on. “Incidentally, he’s done with the autopsy of Hugo.”

  “And?”

  “You know how he can be. He’ll only talk to Two-fer. But as far as I could tell there’s no doubt Hugo committed suicide, in case anyone was getting any ideas to the contrary.”

  Suicide…Fabian considered the word. The conclusion belonged to Braids, who had made it his trademark never to be wrong. But he had been wrong about Halén’s death. How great was the risk that he was wrong again? “Has anyone heard when the funeral will take place?” he asked, trying to get out of his dead end. The others shook their heads. “Then I suggest we get started without Tuvesson.”

  “Okay,” Lilja said. “This is what Cliff and I have come up with. Molander is down at the hospital right now, searching high and low for clues.”

  “Which he probably won’t find, since our lady perpetrator, or whatever we should call her, seems to be at least as well-prepared and shrewd as our man,” Cliff said.

  “Theoretically, there’s a chance Jeanette Dawn’s death will be determined a suicide.”

  “That depends on what the two boys tell us once we get a chance to talk to them. It’s not out of the question that they might have seen something and could give us a description.”

  “Have you looked at the surveillance tapes?”

  “We should receive them sometime today. But our chances of finding anything there are minimal. These two.” Lilja walked over and pointed at the pictures of the perpetrators. “They know exactly what they’re doing and how to make sure we have nothing to go on.”

  “Just take the man,” Cliff went on. “We’ve had him in custody for two whole days now, but we’re still no closer to identifying him. His face, fingerprints, dental records, you name it. None of it is in any registry. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  “We suspect the same will be true of her,” Lilja said. “So instead of putting all our effort into finding her on this last day, we should look back in time.” She turned to the timeline that extended across the whiteboard. “All the way back to where everything began. When they hopefully weren’t as clever about covering all their tracks.”

  Fabian agreed. “Okay, let’s see what these might lead us to,” he said, approaching the images of the recently unearthed bodies.

  The count was up to six. Seven if you counted the German shepherd.

  They had dug up two women and one man from Halén’s yard. Three people who, on the surface, didn’t seem to be connected in any way, but shared the same fate because of what they had seen, just like Soni Wikholm, Per Krans, and Gunnar Frelin from the grave at Dawn’s place. “Did any of them have ID?”

  “No, but just as you suspected, this one seems to be Diana Davidsson.” Cliff rested his finger on the picture of the girl with colourful clothing and long dreads. “She lost her whole family in the tsunami in 2004, and since then she seems to have cut herself off from the world. In other words, the perfect identity to steal, if you’re looking for a cover.”

  “Did Braids say anything about time of death?”

  “I don’t think he’s started on her yet. But I’d guess the grave was dug about a year and a half ago. Which is pretty surprising since they only used her identity recently, in connection with Chris Dawn. But let’s move to this woman, because Braids is already finished with her.” Cliff put his finger on the red-headed woman in jogging gear, who was missing one leg. “Her name is Marianne Wester and she vanished while she was out for a run on November 23, 2010. Get this: she worked as a personal banker at SE-Banken in Höganäs, which is the very same branch Johan Halén used.”

  So that’s the connection, Fabian thought. Like Halén’s personal banker, she must have realized that something wasn’t right. Maybe she’d discovered that the person on the new driver’s licence wasn’t Halén and spoke up. And to avoid making the same mistake with Peter Brise, the perpetrators started by changing branches. “Did she have family?”

  “Husband and daughter,” Lilja said. “Their desperate search for her was all over the newspapers. We should contact them and let them know.”

  “We should?” Cliff said. “Isn’t that up to the Höganäs police? They were in charge of the investigation, after all.”

  “I’d like to meet them,” Fabian said. “Maybe they have a few pieces that will fit into our puzzle.”

  Lilja nodded and made a note in her notebook.

  “Are we ready to move on?” Cliff said, awaiting a nod from Fabian before placing his finger on the two female victims. “Now, I’m far from an expert, but I would say these two look to be in about the same stage of decomposition. Thoughts?”

  Fabian took a closer look and nodded.

  “But this guy.” Cliff pointed at the man, who was wearing brown corduroy pants, a shirt, and a jacket. “He looks like he’s been dead for at least six months longer.”

  Cliff was right. The right hand, sticking out of the jacket sleeve, was missing not only the ring finger but large portions of skin. The same went for his thin-haired skull and parts of his face, where the maggots had managed to chew all the way down to the bone in several spots.

  “My point is, in one way or another, he’s different from the other two.”

  “You mean, besides having been dead longer.”

  Cliff nodded. “Just like the paper courier Soni Wikholm, he was packed in two body bags, so maybe it’s the same with him.”

  “The same as what?”

  Cliff sighed. “Soni Wikholm was in the wrong grave, right? She had nothing to do with Chris Dawn, but we found her at his place. And it’s possible that she wasn’t in the Halén grave because they had already finished filling in the hole and were leaving by the time she came across them.”

  “So they kept her in double body bags until they could dig a fresh grave,” said Fabian, who was beginning to understand what Cliff was thinking. “And you think this man has nothing to do with Johan Halén but some other victim entirely?”

  Cliff nodded. “But like I said, it’s just a theory.”

  Fabian agreed with Cliff. “How close are we to an identification?”

  “Not much further than assuming this must be his finger.” Cliff pointed at a close-up shot that showed the severed finger with its gold signet ring.

  “Where’s the ring?” Fabian asked.

  “Molander has it. But I’m sure he hasn’t had time to look at it yet, given last night’s murder.”

  Fabian bent forward and took a closer look at the dirty signet ring. He noticed some sort of family crest: a noble coat of arms with two lions standing on their hind legs, their jaws gaping, on either side of a bisected shield, the antlers of a stag on one side and a sword on the other.

  76

  Dunja let the warm spray of the shower wash the last bits of sleep from her eyes, and the conditioner — which she’d taken the time to let sit and do its work — out of her hair. She finally felt rested. She’d collapsed into bed at nine thirty the night before. She hadn’t even had the energy to open one of the new bags of Djungelvrål she’d bought before she conked out.

  She’d gotten twelve hours of sleep so deep and healing that, at the moment, she felt like she was living proof that it was possible to make up for lost sleep. She’d even had the energy to shave her legs and pluck her eyebrows before returning to her bedroom, where she put on clean underwear and decided to change the sheets even though that was one of her least favourite things to do.

  Magnus would be stopping by in half an hour, and together they would go through the names that troll of a receptionist at the Helsingborg police station had he
lped them come up with. As soon as Fabian left them, of course, he’d started obstructing them again, putting all his energy into explaining why he couldn’t give them what they needed.

  If not for Magnus, the situation likely would have spiralled out of control.

  In his naturally calm manner, Magnus pleaded with Dunja and the troll to take it down a notch. To her great astonishment, he’d succeeded. It turned out to be as simple as contacting the national registrar’s office at the Swedish Tax Authority and asking them to look up the information.

  Yes, Magnus had certainly surprised her; he’d proven to be a much greater asset than she’d thought. Not only had he stuck by her through thick and thin, he possessed social skills that she sorely lacked. While Dunja, for some incomprehensible reason, often seemed to end up in arguments, Magnus avoided the landmines and moved forward unscathed.

  Thanks to him, they now had both names and personal ID numbers for everyone who lived within the search radius Fareed had narrowed it down to for the location of the phone. They were dealing with one hundred and twenty-eight people in about fifty houses. After striking anyone under eleven and over twenty-nine from the list, the number came down to thirty-three. Nineteen men, fourteen women.

  Theodor Risk wasn’t one of them, as Fabian’s row house was just outside the radius, and nor was there any other Theodor on the list. Of course, there could be thousands of reasons for the name engraved on the necklace she’d found on the highway. But if another potential candidate didn’t pop up soon, she would have no choice but to contact Fabian again.

  She might have to go so far as to ask him to fingerprint his own son.

  Fifteen minutes before the appointed time, the entry phone went off like it was a matter of life and death, and as soon as she’d poured the boiling water into the teapot she went to the hall to buzz Magnus in. She just had time to put on a pair of jeans and a sweater before he rang the doorbell.

  “You’re early,” she said as she unlocked the door and opened it. But it wasn’t Magnus — it was Fareed Cherukuri from TDC. “Uh…hi…it’s you?” she said as her mind fumbled for an explanation.

  “Yes, unless you know another Indian guy from TDC,” Fareed said, crossing his arms with a fake smile, as if he were waiting for something from her.

  Dunja had no idea what was going on, but she definitely didn’t appreciate the way he was looking down on her even though he was two heads shorter. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m a little busy —”

  “Busy getting me a job, I hope.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You promised to get me a job if I helped you, and I did. Have you forgotten your promise already?” he said, looking, if possible, even more arrogant than usual.

  “Come in,” she said at last, with no idea what to do next.

  Fareed stepped into the hall and she closed the door behind him.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Because I’m Indian?”

  “What?”

  “Is that why you’re assuming I want tea? Because I’m from India? Do you know how many people there are in India?”

  Dunja shook her head. It was almost ten thirty, but it was still way too early for this.

  “One point two billion. Do you really think everyone has the exact same taste?”

  “No,” she said, already beginning to feel fatigued.

  “Well then. What if I assumed you wanted remoulade with everything just because you’re from Denmark?”

  “Remoulade?”

  “Exactly. See how it feels? You’re being racist. But then again, you’re just a Dane, you probably don’t know any better.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Everyone knows that all Danes are racist.”

  “And what was that statement?”

  “Not racist, anyway,” the Indian said, shaking his head. “You’re a nation, not a race.”

  Dunja sighed. She couldn’t deal with this anymore. “Whatever. All I meant was that I’m going to have a cup of tea and I wondered if you wanted one too. I’m sorry if you took it as a racist attack. I can make you a cup of coffee instead, unless you’d prefer some Coke or a glass of juice. Or maybe a little milk. And there’s water, sparkling and regular.”

  “No thanks, tea’s good.”

  “Okay,” Dunja said, biting her tongue as she went to the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit in the living room; I’ll be right there.”

  With the teapot in one hand and two teacups in the other, Dunja entered the living room, where Fareed had settled in on the sofa. “Look, this job you claim I promised you.” She set the cups down on the coffee table and began to fill them. “I remember it more like I promised to keep my eyes peeled and put in a good word. The thing is, I don’t even know if I’m still going to have a job when this —”

  “What’s that?” Fareed pointed at a printout that was on the table next to the bowl of Djungelvrål.

  “Those are the names of everyone who lives in the area you triangulated yesterday.”

  “What were you planning to do with them?”

  “Check them out.” She shrugged and took a sip of tea. “See if I can find anything suspicious.”

  “There are so many.” Fareed picked up the list and glanced through it as he took three Djungelvrål and stuck them in his mouth, only to spit them right back out as if they were poison. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Not between the ages of eleven and twenty-nine,” Dunja said, almost unable to contain her laughter. “There are only thirty-three of those.”

  “I’d start with Facebook.” Fareed took a small tablet with an attachable keyboard from his inner pocket. “Of course, Facebook is more like a coffee klatsch for retirees than a youth centre, but most people have an account. Plus it’s easier to hack than a loogie. But you probably won’t need to go that far. Most people that age don’t give a second thought to baring it all to every Tom, Dick, and Harry,” he went on, already typing the first name into the search field. “After this we should try blogs and Instagram.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Dunja put down her teacup. “You didn’t quit TDC, did you?”

  “You told me you would get me a job.”

  “Yes, but, I mean, you can’t just…” This guy really took the cake. “What the hell did you expect to happen? Do you think I can just crap out a new job like —”

  “You Danes have no sense of humour.” Fareed shook his head. “It was a joke. My shift doesn’t start until this afternoon. Come on, let’s get to work.”

  Dunja found herself nodding, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. Five minutes later, she was up to speed and could only marvel at how much they could find without needing a single password. Just as Fareed had said, it was like most of them wanted the entire world to come in and take a look at their lives.

  Together they crossed off name after name, and although it was a thoroughly arbitrary way to do things, she divided them into two groups: totally uninteresting and possible. So far, the vast majority had ended up in totally uninteresting.

  But seventeen minutes later, they reached one of the largest houses in the neighbourhood and she remembered standing outside and ringing the bell with a feeling that something was off. Maybe she’d been wrong, but when she peered through the patio doors she thought she saw something moving inside. Of course, it could have been a cat or maybe a Roomba, but she wasn’t about to dismiss it and plow through to the rest of the list.

  From Alexandra af Geijerstam’s half-public Facebook page, they learned that she listened to Lykke Li, liked Bruce Lee movies, and participated in martial arts herself. Maybe that was the connection. That punch, or possibly kick, that had come out of nowhere and knocked her out.

  “Do a search of her name along with martial arts clubs in Helsingborg.”

  Fareed typed the words into the search field
and immediately got some hits for a club called Fenix Martial Arts at Kadettgatan 2, a few kilometres from Alexandra’s home.

  “Go to their website,” she said, although he had already clicked the link. Suddenly they couldn’t move fast enough. “There. Click there.” She pointed at the Photos tab, and as soon as all the pixels assembled themselves, she knew they had found what they were looking for.

  77

  Fabian parked on the street outside Astrid Tuvesson’s house in Rydebäck, stepped out of the car, and immediately noticed that both the retired neighbour out washing his car and the mom with the stroller were following his every step like they were the first ones taken on the moon. He heard a lawnmower’s engine cut out somewhere, and the sudsy sponge in the old man’s hand stopped moving.

  They knew, of course. Neighbours always knew, and they’d probably been gossiping about it for a long time already. The sounds of a nasty divorce in its darkest moments, echoing out through the windows or an open door, floating across the lawn to the lot next door, taking on a life of its own. He’d had enough of her drinking. She was a chief of police. But no one took the step to knock on her door and offer help. No one wanted to get involved. They were satisfied keeping to themselves, with a front-row seat to a couple’s downfall.

  Fabian hadn’t told anyone else on the team that he was planning to drop by, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He didn’t care how upset it made her. The investigation was in its most critical phase. Now, more than ever, they needed a strong leader, and no one was more suited to the task than Tuvesson. As long as she was sober, that is.

  The front door was locked, but it wasn’t much trouble to get in through an open window. Once inside the house, the thick air enveloped him. Fabian gagged as the smell took him back to his days as a street cop. The gnawing stench of old garbage and months without a proper cleaning, mixed with sour bile and unflushed toilets. Back then, he had been dealing with alcoholics in temporary housing. Now it was his own boss.

  He found her on the living room floor, unconscious next to the sofa with half her face in her own stomach contents. A small table with three skinny legs was overturned next to her, and he counted at least four different liquor labels among the shards of glass. Thankfully, she had a pulse and her chest was moving with shallow but fairly regular breaths.