Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  The only point against their almost supernatural perfection was Malin’s discovery up near Stockholm. They hadn’t been able to safeguard against that. The same went for the pictures she’d sent. There were no supernatural powers at play there. Just two small children made of flesh and blood. Two siblings with faults and shortcomings like anyone else, but with a childhood so peculiar and full of abuse that it couldn’t be called anything but sheer hell.

  The task force is in place. Green light to enter.

  The message from Cliff dinged on his phone. Fabian checked the clip of his handgun before he stepped out of the car and crossed Sofierovägen.

  Tågaborg, the neighbourhood he lived in, was charming, but this area was on a completely different level. With its uninterrupted view of the Sound, it was one of the best locations Helsingborg had to offer. The house itself wasn’t that impressive. It was like a slightly overlarge white villa with four Dallas-style pillars flanking the entrance.

  Fabian pressed his index finger to the doorbell and heard an electronic imitation of a carillon somewhere inside. Would he see it in her eyes or hear it in her voice? Or would a pair of blue-tinted contacts and a different dialect be enough to do him in?

  His phone rang. He took it out and saw it was Sonja. He had expected Cliff, but hoped for Theodor. He hadn’t even considered Sonja. Had she changed her mind? Or did she just want to make sure he wasn’t home when she came to pack up her things? Whatever the case, it would have to wait until he was finished here, he thought, rejecting the call as the door handle turned and the door opened.

  “Good evening, my name is Irene Lilja with the Helsingborg police.” Lilja held up her badge as she noted that Elisabeth Piil’s hairstyle was completely different from those in the two licence photos.

  “O…kay?” The woman’s gaze flicked back and forth between Lilja and her badge.

  “May I come in?”

  “I’m sorry, but what’s going on…is something wrong?” The woman adjusted her shirt; its neckline was so wide that one shoulder was completely bare.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out…it’s why I’m here.”

  “Can’t you tell me what this is regarding?”

  “Yes, but it would be best if we talk about it inside.” Lilja looked the woman in the eye. There was still uncertainty in her gaze. But there was also something more. Uneasiness, or was it fear? “Do you have any problem with that?”

  “No. Why would I?” The woman stepped aside and swallowed as if she were trying to chew an overlarge piece of meat.

  Lilja stepped into the home, which was smaller than she’d expected. Especially considering how many millions the woman had in the bank. Without asking permission, she walked toward the living room.

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “That depends.” Lilja took a seat on one of the two sofas before the fireplace. “Identity theft has become increasingly common among the more well-off in Sweden. We are currently making routine visits to everyone who has recently applied for a new driver’s licence, which you did even though your old one was only two years old.”

  “What? Why would I have done that?” The woman sat on the sofa across from her, looking genuinely bewildered.

  “That’s exactly what we’d like to find out,” Lilja said, reminding herself that she must not take anything for granted right now. “So this isn’t something you were aware of?” She presented a printout of the two licences and studied the woman’s reaction.

  Her surprise seemed authentic. The trembling hand that held the document, the wide eyes, and the other hand moving up to her mouth. But in fact, it didn’t mean a thing. If Nova Meyer was as talented as everyone claimed, she would surely be able to act out any emotion she wished.

  On the other hand, if the woman on the sofa really was acting, shouldn’t she have put her energy into thinking of a good explanation for the sudden licence renewal instead? Or would that just have made them even more suspicious?

  “Well, look at that. Do we have a visitor?”

  Lilja turned around and realized immediately that she would have no chance against the man who was headed straight for her.

  Astrid Tuvesson had never liked horses. Not that they’d ever done her any harm. But their size, along with their hard hooves, demanded a respect that caused her to feel sheer terror. And here she was, forced to stand not half a metre from this snorting monster that was still steaming from its evening gallop.

  “Of course,” Sandra Gullström said, handing the picture of the two driver’s licences back to Tuvesson before dismounting. “Who else would it be?”

  “So why did you get a new licence?” Tuvesson asked, making sure to keep a safe distance from the horse as they walked into the stables. “The old one was good for another three years, and we can’t find any police report to suggest it was stolen.”

  “No, I just lost it.” The woman guided the horse into its stall.

  “Lost it?” Tuvesson disliked the pungent smell of the stables as strongly as she disliked horses.

  “Well, that’s what I wrote on the application. But if I’m being honest, it was really just vanity, pure and simple.” She chuckled and began unsaddling the horse. “I have a new hairstyle now.”

  “So you switched out the licence you’d had for over seven years because you weren’t happy with your hair?”

  “Not just my hair. You can see for yourself how awful I looked. Bloated and disgusting. Even though I was seven years younger. But back then I weighed five kilos more, which might not sound like much, but it’s not so fun when it all goes to your face.” She shook her head and walked out of the stall with the saddle and bridle in her arms. “I don’t understand how I kept that picture on my licence for seven whole years. You know, it was actually my therapist who suggested I should just bite the bullet and get a new one.” She hung the tack on its rack and turned to Tuvesson. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or are you the type that can’t handle caffeine after eight o’clock?”

  “I’d love a cup,” Tuvesson said, relieved to be able to leave this place at last.

  “Just so you know, I have to be at the concert hall in forty-five minutes,” Lydia Klewenhielm said as she allowed Fabian — reluctantly — into the entryway. “What is this all about?”

  Fabian scanned the room and forced himself to drag it out before turning to her at last. “Are you aware that your driver’s licence was recently reissued?” He had to bring the tempo down and resist being dragged along into her stress.

  “Yes, of course. It was almost ten years old and about to expire.”

  He couldn’t see any similarities to the woman who claimed to be Dina Dee. Yet there was something about the woman that gave him pause.

  “I didn’t know that the police had resources enough to pay a home visit every time someone got a new licence.”

  “Recently we’ve had some problems with identity theft,” Fabian said as he tried figure out if she really was this upset or just overacting.

  “What, so you suspect I might be one of the victims?”

  “We don’t suspect anything. This is just routine.”

  “Then I can assure you, Officer, that I was the one who applied for the new licence. So if we’re done here…like I said, I don’t have all night.”

  “Where were you this morning between nine and eleven?” Fabian walked into the living room, which had a fantastic view of the Sound. It seemed like the house extended right over the water.

  “I did my morning yoga out on the terrace, and then I settled in to do some work.”

  “Here at home?”

  “Yes. What does that have to do with my new licence?”

  “Is there anyone who can substantiate that?”

  “No, I’ve been alone all day. But if I had known it was criminal, I would have made sure to have a witness sitting here on t
he sofa.”

  “No one is accusing you of anything.”

  “Oh no? Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain what’s really going on here. Why do I suddenly need an alibi? Am I supposed to have stolen my own identity or something?”

  Well, if you really are you, Fabian thought as he headed for the bookcase, where he began to page through one of the photo albums. “Like I said, we’ve seen an increase in identity theft.” Most of the pictures seemed to be of the days before she had children and was still with her husband. As far as he could tell, they’d lived in the house he was standing in right now, and the photos seemed to portray a happy marriage.

  “Yes, and I’ve explained that I renewed my own licence.”

  “You and your husband. Why did you get divorced?”

  The woman was surprisingly unbothered by the question; she shrugged. “The usual reasons. One affair too many on his part, when I was at my heaviest.”

  In other words, the husband had paid dearly and let her keep the house. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Everything seemed to be on the up and up. Everything except the fact that the woman in front of him looked nothing like the woman in the photos.

  98

  Matilda remembered that, just a few years ago, she’d had an imaginary friend. A friend who was hers alone, a friend she didn’t talk about with anyone. She’d called him Eriksson. But she hadn’t come up with the name herself. That was just his name. Eriksson — no more, no less. Sometimes she had spoken out loud to him when she was alone, like he was sitting right across from her at the table or lying next to her in bed just before she fell asleep.

  But as soon as anyone was in the room with her, he would crawl back inside her head so she didn’t have to use her mouth. He could still understand her, like they could read each other’s minds. For a while she had decided he was one of her many teddy bears, although deep down she suspected that he might not exist in real life.

  That was exactly how she felt about Greta now. It was like she both existed and didn’t at the same time. Matilda believed in her, even though she knew it couldn’t be real. The only difference was that this time there were two of them with a secret friend — Matilda and Esmaralda.

  They’d held several séances behind the curtains in the basement. So many that it was starting to feel perfectly normal to talk to Greta. There was almost nothing left of the fear Matilda had felt that first time. Just like a real person, Greta might sometimes be in a bad mood, and sometimes she didn’t want to talk at all, but for the most part she seemed happy and willing to talk about anything except herself.

  As soon as their questions approached who she was and how she had died, Greta became angry and the pointer froze on the Ouija board. One time, the silence had lasted for so long that they were nervous she might not speak to them ever again. Only once they promised never to ask that question did she agree to talk.

  They had also avoided the topic of Sonja’s infidelity. Although she was curious and had so many questions, Matilda didn’t want to bring it up again. The feeling of uneasiness from their first séance was still with her. Like that accident she had been too small to really remember, when she pulled the pot of boiling water down on herself and burned half her upper body.

  Esmaralda said that even if you had a key that could unlock the doors to many different rooms, there were some best left untouched. Maybe she was right. But that didn’t change the fact that Matilda’s mom had been gone for two whole days now.

  She’d tried to ask Theodor if he knew anything, but he just looked at her with eyes that said he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. And once she explained, he just shrugged, said he didn’t care, and closed himself in his room.

  There had been no answers from her dad, either. She hadn’t even found a chance to ask. As usual, something super-mega-important had happened at work, and he’d had to cancel dinner and their weekend surprise. Dinner and the surprise. She’d been happy when he first mentioned them, ready to burst with excitement. A few minutes later she’d realized that they just screamed “divorce.”

  Whatever was going on, she’d decided to just ask Greta flat out. Esmaralda could say whatever she wanted; Matilda needed to know.

  “Are there any friendly spirits in this room?” Esmaralda said as soon as they had taken their seats, lit the candles, and placed an index finger each on the planchette in the middle of the old Ouija board.

  Almost immediately, the pointer moved under their fingers, aiming for the left-hand corner.

  YES…

  “Is it Greta?”

  The planchette moved a touch without leaving the corner. So it is Greta, Matilda thought, exchanging a glance with Esmaralda, who was waiting for her to ask a question.

  “My mom. Who is she cheating with?”

  “Are you really sure you want to open that door?” Esmaralda looked worried.

  Matilda nodded and waited for the pointer to start moving. Nothing happened, and after a while her shoulder began to hurt from keeping her arm extended.

  “It doesn’t seem like Greta wants us to go there,” continued Esmaralda.

  “I want to know. Do you hear me, Greta? I don’t care if it sucks. I need to know what’s going on!”

  “You don’t have to shout at her. She can hear —” Esmaralda was interrupted as the pointer jerked down toward the top row of letters and stopped so they could see a D through the hole. Then it sped to the E, the A, only to return to the D. It stopped there.

  “Dead,” Matilda said stupidly.

  “Dead?” Esmaralda said. “Is that right?”

  As if on command, the pointer headed for the left corner.

  YES…

  “Dead? What’s that supposed to mean?” Matilda was annoyed. “I asked who my mom was cheating with.”

  DEAD…

  “Do you get what she’s doing?” Matilda asked, and Esmaralda shook her head. “Did someone die?” she went on, feeling her anger replaced by an increasing dread. Had something happened?

  DEAD…

  “Is it my mom? Do you mean her?” she asked as she began to cry. “Is she the one who died?” A moment went by before the pointer moved toward the moon in the top-right corner, and she let out her breath.

  NO…

  “Maybe we should stop,” said Esmaralda.

  “No, I want to know. You hear me, Greta? I’m not going to stop until I get some answers!” she cried.

  DEAD…

  “Who’s dead? Do you know what she’s trying to say?”

  “No,” Esmaralda said. “But I really think it’s best if we leave this alone for now and try again another time.”

  “What if it’s something that hasn’t happened yet?”

  Esmaralda shrugged. “Greta, we want to thank you for talking to us today, and we’re going to say goodbye —”

  “No we’re not,” Matilda cut her off. “We’re not done here. Greta, is someone going to die? Is that what you mean?”

  “Matilda, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Esmaralda said as the pointer headed for the YES in the left-hand corner. “Believe me, this isn’t —”

  “Who’s going to die? Greta, I want to know who!”

  “Matilda,” Esmaralda tried.

  “Who?”

  The pointer was moving so swiftly across the board and the two rows of letters that it was hard to keep up. But Matilda had no trouble registering each letter that appeared in the little hole as the pointer stopped for a brief moment. The name they formed was far too familiar for her to absorb it.

  RISK…

  99

  “Come in, and for God’s sake keep your boots on.” Sandra Gullström showed Tuvesson into the old farmhouse, which had been renovated into a delightful luxury home with an open floorplan and vaulted ceilings. “I have a pair just like that, and once they’re on you never want to
take them off again.”

  Tuvesson followed the woman through the living room, which was full of generous sofas and easy chairs — perfect for sitting up all night with a whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. It took two years to do the renovations.” The woman shook her head and rounded the kitchen island. “Two years of hell, if you ask me. We tore out pretty much everything. Now we have underfloor heating and triple-paned windows and the whole package.” She soaped up her hands and rinsed them in the kitchen sink. “My husband likes to complain that it would have cost half as much if we’d just built a new place somewhere else. But then we never would have had this atmosphere.”

  “Yes, it’s really lovely,” Tuvesson said. “But I think I’d find it a little lonely to live out here, with no neighbours.”

  “You’re not the first one to say so. But you know, I’ve got the horses, and they’re all the neighbours I need. And my husband, of course, although he’s usually off travelling.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Tokyo. By the way, are you one of those latte moms, or will plain old coffee do?”

  “Anything is fine.” Tuvesson began to look around.

  “A year ago, I couldn’t drink anything but espresso. Then suddenly, don’t ask me why, I had enough. Since then all I want is regular brewed coffee. But it has to be freshly ground. That’s the secret. Those packaged little bags that have spent months on the shelf shouldn’t even be called coffee.”

  Tuvesson couldn’t find anything that disrupted the image of perfect harmony. Even the way the woman poured beans into the grinder and let it do its job as she filled the carafe with water and put in the filter indicated that she had performed this same procedure thousands of times.

  “Yesterday between nine and eleven a.m., what were you doing?”

  “Talking to my husband.”

  “The whole time?”

  “No, but I’m sure it was at least an hour and a half. That’s often the only contact we have, considering all his trips, so it’s something I insist we do.”