The Ninth Grave

by Stefan Ahnhem

  The condemned apartment had clearly been prepared for something. The question was what. Torture? Surgery? Dismemberment?

  Could it simply be a macabre set-up to hold someone in confinement? Who was behind it? And who was supposed to be strapped down? If it was intended for the Minister for Justice, why wasn’t he here? His secret cell phone had evidently been in the building. But where was it at this point? And above all: where was the minister now? The questions kept piling up on top of each other and then collapsing into a shapeless heap.

  Fabian sighed. ‘Malin, what do you say about having an early lunch? My treat.’ He needed a break to clear his thoughts before he could continue.

  ‘Already?’ Malin called out from the hall. ‘Can’t we finish in here first?’

  ‘Okay.’ Fabian went into the room adjacent to the pantry. It was the only thing left to go through before he completed his search.

  Like the rest of the apartment, it looked more or less cleaned out. There was an unplugged electric kettle, an upside-down glass and a coffee cup on the counter. Someone had been there for a few hours, at most a full day.

  He turned on the tap, which coughed out some air, before unleashing a steady stream of clean water. No brown clumps came out. There was air, but no rust. Someone had been here between a week or two ago, probably to prepare. If someone had been there during the past twenty-four hours they definitely hadn’t run the water. He turned off the tap and opened the refrigerator. To his surprise, it was turned on and contained some loaves of rye bread, a package of liver sausage and a glass jar with Hayward’s pickled onions, which was almost empty.

  There were two frosted resealable bags in the freezer. He took out one of them, squeezed it, and wiped off the ice. He initially thought it was a tapeworm coiled up in a white pile. He’d actually never seen one before, but knew that they could be up to twenty metres long. Then he saw sausage casings written on the label and realized that it was hog intestines to stuff your own sausage. The other bag looked like it contained the inner organs from a hog, or maybe some chickens.

  Fabian had never been particularly fond of offal, even though he had a cookbook from the 1930s that contained a number of recipes for the inner organs of animals, including grilled cow brains, a South American delicacy. But who ate that sort of thing these days? And above all, what did it have to do with the disappearance of the minister of justice?

  ‘Fabian! Come here. Look at this!’ Malin called.

  Fabian went back out into the larger room and was on his way to the hall when he noticed it. He hadn’t spotted it before, presumably because he’d been standing with his back turned, focusing on the rectangular table. He might have reacted because he’d already seen something similar on top of the refrigerator in the other room. Here was another porcelain doll with blonde curls and blue eyes looking right at him from the top of the fuse box.

  He took it down and inspected it. He’d never liked dolls, especially not the porcelain kind. Even though they were generally quite small, their faces were so uncomfortably realistic. When he was young, he’d got one as a Christmas present from his grandmother. He still shuddered when he thought about the doll sitting on the shelf among the other toys, staring at him all night long. It didn’t take long before he started having nightmares and sleeping badly. He hid it in a cupboard and covered it with a blanket. He even threw it away once. But his mother kept putting it back on the shelf, emphasizing how nice and expensive it was.

  One afternoon, when he was home alone, he mustered up the courage to put it into his backpack and went to the cement factory behind Kojak, the high hill on Dalhem that was north of Helsingborg. Like so many times before, he climbed over the fence with the many Prohibited for unauthorized persons signs and threw the doll down into one of the big mixing tanks. He stood there for quite a while, watching the doll slowly sink into the viscous cement mixture and disappear – out of his life, anyway. Perhaps it was encased in a wall somewhere, still staring at someone.

  ‘Fabian! What are you doing?’

  He went into the bathroom, where Malin was now standing in the bathtub shining a flashlight into a hole in the wall. ‘Check this out.’ She stepped to the side and handed the flashlight over to him.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’

  Fabian nodded. A broad-brimmed hat and a black coat with a fur collar had got stuck a metre or so down the narrow service duct.

  ‘Aren’t those Grimås’ clothes?’

  ‘Sure, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can’t put the pieces together.’ He turned toward Malin. ‘To be honest, I don’t understand a thing.’

  ‘What don’t you understand? Grimås was here and—’

  ‘But why? Was he here of his own accord, or was he brought here by someone else?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for the torture table in there, I would have guessed he came here on his own. Maybe he knows the owner of the building and knew he could change here undisturbed, before heading off elsewhere.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m now leaning more towards the idea that someone brought him.’

  ‘Then why isn’t there anyone here still?’

  ‘I think they brought him here and undressed him, but don’t ask me why. Maybe they needed him to change clothes? And then, in the middle of everything, they found his secret cell phone and realized that it was only a matter of time before we arrived, so they left as quickly as possible and – voilà.’

  ‘So you think he left the parliament building alone, and was then abducted by the quay?’

  ‘Maybe he got an ultimatum before he left – after all he was twenty minutes late. I don’t know.’ She sighed and held out a mop to Fabian. ‘I’m just trying to get it to fit together.’

  Fabian took the mop, guided it down into the duct and pulled up the clothes and the minister’s briefcase, which had got stuck crosswise.

  They both stepped out of the bath. Fabian took care of the briefcase, while Malin went through the clothes. The briefcase contained a half-empty tin of Läkerol, three ballpoint pens, a Filofax personal organizer and a folder with a document, which, after a quick review, seemed to concern a number of reports and studies about the outcome of last year’s law changes. The Filofax proved to be even more interesting. Most people had switched to electronic calendars, but not Grimås. He belonged to the old school, where every address and phone number was handwritten and could be read without passwords. The pages were also filled with scheduled meetings and handwritten reminders, such as, When will it occur to the Green Party members that there actually is a reason to wear deodorant?… That socialist bitch still doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Maybe good in bed?… Don’t forget to schedule appointment at IA. And so forth.

  It wasn’t the content that made Fabian’s pulse rise, but the handwriting itself. It was so unusual to find these kinds of items as evidence; Fabian could count the occasions on one hand. But the reward was usually big enough that it was worth the struggle to get it, like a tidy goal in soccer after one frustrating drawn-out match after the other. An impossible puzzle piece was about to find its place.

  ‘And here we have it. Just as I said.’ Malin held out the cell phone. ‘Hello? Earth to Fabian.’

  Fabian looked up and met her gaze.

  ‘What is it? Did you find something?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think he’s been here.’

  ‘Who? Grimås? Of course he’s been here. Lookie lookie.’ She waved Grimås’ phone in front of him.

  ‘I’ll have to see the surveillance video from yesterday again, before I’m completely sure.’

  ‘Wait, I don’t understand. How can you—’ She realized that there was no point and gave up.

  Fabian had already left the bathroom and was on his way out of the apartment.

  20

  SOFIE LEANDER REALIZED THAT she must have slept soundly for once. She usually woke up immediately when she heard steps or voices approaching. Every muscle in
her body tensed to breaking point, and she kept repeatedly visualizing, in excruciating detail, what was going to happen to her, like a scene in a horror movie.

  But every time the steps walked past her, she knew she had a bit more time – until now.

  This time everything was different. She wasn’t wakened by steps or a voice, but by the sound of the electric motor and the creaking gate. Her body now stayed calm and relaxed, as if it had been on tenterhooks so long that it could no longer be afraid.

  But Sofie was scared – scared to death.

  She could hear the louvre gate lower once again and the clasps on a hard case clicked up. Then there was a clink on the metal table right behind her. It was probably the scalpels and the tongs, she thought, trying to stop the scene of her being opened up from playing over and over again in her head.

  She tried to twist her head to see if it was the doctor who had brought her there, but gave up when the strap around her throat cut too deep into the wound. It didn’t matter any more – the waiting was over and it was time to end it.

  The devices around her were turned on and she could hear them emit different sounds. The strap around her left wrist was loosened and she could feel cold scissors press against her lower arm while the sleeve on her blouse was cut open. She felt a prick in the crook of her arm and started to lose consciousness.

  The wait felt almost like eternity. She’d hoped that the tape would be released from over her mouth, so that she could at least express how sorry she was and try to explain how she’d been aware of how wrong it had been all along, but didn’t feel she had any choice. She wanted the chance to say that even though she was afraid, she accepted her punishment, and in a way felt that it was appropriate. But she didn’t get that opportunity.

  21

  ‘FIVE MINUTES, THEN YOU have to go,’ the security guard said, double-clicking on the video file. ‘Okay?’

  Fabian and Malin nodded. While they waited for the uniformed man to leave them alone, they took a look outside, where a SePo team was dragging for Grimås’ body in the bay right outside Kanslikajen.

  They were in the small staff room behind the guard box in the parliament building. It had been quite a struggle to get access to the surveillance video that showed the Minister for Justice leaving the building. Not only had SePo classified the video as top secret, they had also alerted the security supervisor that someone from the National Bureau might come and ask questions.

  What they hadn’t counted on was Malin and her mood swings, which, when she didn’t get her way, were enough to make anyone give in.

  Fabian started the video, which showed the empty entranceway with its double glass security doors. The same sequence of Carl-Eric Grimås entering the frame had been played for him the night before. The minister walked alone with the briefcase in his left hand, pulled his pass card through the reader with his right, pushed the first door open, then the second and disappeared out into the snowstorm.

  The solution had been right before his eyes the whole time – just as Fabian had suspected. They simply hadn’t known what to look for. Only a right-handed person would carry his briefcase in his left hand and pull the pass card through with the other.

  But the incline of the handwriting in his Filofax revealed that, like his own wife, Sonja, Carl-Eric Grimås was left-handed.

  Fabian turned towards Malin. ‘Do you notice anything? This guy is right-handed.’

  ‘So that isn’t the Minister for Justice, but someone who’s dressed like him.’

  Fabian nodded. ‘It’s probably the perpetrator.’ He played the video again from the beginning and walked through it frame by frame. ‘Look closely, he knows exactly where the camera is located and how he should move to avoid showing his face.’

  ‘But even if that is the perpetrator, where is the minister?’

  Fabian looked Malin right in the eye. ‘I don’t know. But if he hasn’t left the building through any of the other doors, we can’t rule out that he’s still here.’

  22

  Nanna Madsen, age 21, 5 December 2005, dumpster in Herlev

  Heavy bleeding from bite marks across large portions of her back and chest as well as genitalia. Analysis of teeth impressions show bites from both perpetrator and dog, probably Doberman Pinscher. Secured traces from perpetrator lacking.

  Kimie Colding, age 17, 23 April 2007, Peblinge Lake

  Injuries around genitalia after rough penetration. Both rows of teeth broken and several open fractures in the skull indicate forceful battery to the head, probably from a blow with a hammer. Water in lungs indicates she was alive when she was dumped in the lake. Secured traces from perpetrator lacking.

  Mette Bruun, age 37, 7 September 2008, Amager Fælled

  Mutilated anal opening and large intestine. Severe internal injuries from the genitalia all the way to the stomach, which probably occurred after penetration with thick branch or spiked club. Secured traces from perpetrator lacking.

  Dunja Hougaard dropped the folder on the table, leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She needed a break from all the images of penetrated female bodies that begged and pleaded for redress but would never get it.

  Instead Kim Sleizner appeared in her thoughts. She had hardly sat down at her desk before he came to say hello and asked her to stop by his office after work. The penny finally dropped. A cold shiver went through her body as she finally realized what he was really after. The last thing this was about was her competence.

  In retrospect, she couldn’t understand how she could have missed it, given that it was evidently obvious to everyone else. It felt like a bad practical joke, and the only thing she could do was prove everyone wrong.

  She was working at home on the couch, even though the workday was officially over. She had brought all the very roughest unsolved rape cases from recent years with her. Mikael Rønning at the IT department had helped her filter the cases, even though he didn’t have police authorization. But she needed an ally, someone who didn’t have the slightest connection to her department.

  Like a steer in a pasture, he threw himself into the search with full energy. But his mood declined as the printer spat out case after case, each worse than the last. He finally declared that his faith in humanity had been depleted.

  Dunja hadn’t been the least bit surprised by the brutal violence or the fact that the perpetrator in almost all cases was a man and the victim a woman. The only thing that surprised her was how many investigations in Copenhagen remained unsolved, and how simple the decision seemed to be to choke off resources and let the cases fizzle out.

  The list of dormant rape investigations seemed to go on and on. Even though she’d asked Rønning to only include those with a fatal outcome, she’d taken away over a dozen investigations from the past four years – and those were just from the coastal strip from Køge up to Helsingør.

  There were three cases per year where innocent women had been forced to suffer pain so severe that death must have felt like the final rescue; three investigations per year that had routinely been shut down, even though the perpetrator was still at large.

  Dunja looked out the window at the dark-grey clouds moving across the sky. They looked as if they were forming into yet another storm and carrying away what little daylight was left. The images of Karen Neuman’s hacked-up body would not leave her in peace. In several ways it was the same insane but also studied violence as the older cases, and just as she’d said at the meeting, this was not the work of a beginner. Whoever it was, he’d done it before. Karen Neuman was not just another random victim.

  But as she went through the files, she couldn’t find connections to any of the older investigations. She’d tried everything. She sorted them according to various criteria, read the detailed injury descriptions more than once, and studied every image of the tortured bodies under a magnifying glass. But nothing stood out as a possible link.

  She’d been able to put seven of the cases aside right away. Four of them had so many simila
rities that they formed a group of their own. There had also been a strong suspect for those crimes, but unfortunately he managed to kill himself before he was convicted.

  Three of them also belonged together without a doubt. In those cases, the perpetrator had taken part of each victim’s scalp as a trophy. According to Oscar Pedersen’s report, the profuse flow of blood from the severed scalps indicated that the all the victims were still alive during the process. And whoever was behind these bestial acts was still free.

  But he wasn’t the person she was searching for now, even if she promised herself that she would breathe life into the investigation as soon as she had time and capture that bastard.

  Five investigations were still on the table; five cases that were still officially open, but in reality had gone cold.

  All showed such brutal, studied violence, evident in what happened to Karen Neuman, that it couldn’t possibly be the work of a beginner. At the same time, all five differed markedly from each other. There was nothing that seemed to connect them. The victims not only had different ages and appearances, but the crime scenes were widely dispersed and the killer used various methods to kill his victims.

  Each case seemed unique. A perpetrator who, on a single occasion, crossed the line and raped and tortured his victim to death in the most hideous of ways, only to return to his normal life, without leaving any traces or binding evidence behind. It was impossible. There had to be a common denominator somewhere – she was sure of that.

  Her cell phone ring interrupted her thoughts. It was Kjeld Richter, so she tried to sound as professional as she could, even though she was actually relieved that he was calling her instead of Hesk. According to Scandlines, which ran the ferry between Helsingør–Helsingborg, two cars had run down a gate when they were leaving the harbour’s terminal area last night, which was what Richter had been sent to investigate.

  ‘Hi, Kjeld. Are you still in Helsingør?’