The Ninth Grave

by Stefan Ahnhem

  Malin turned towards Fabian. ‘Are you thinking the same thing I am?’

  Fabian didn’t understand what she was talking about, and a moment later Malin was on her way out of the interview room.

  *

  THE VIDEO ON MALIN’S computer screen was divided into four squares of equal size. The top two panels showed different angles of various cars approaching a lowered peppermint-striped boom, which went up after the driver stuck a hand out and took a ticket from the machine. The two lower panels showed cars driving out in a steady stream.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Fabian over Malin’s shoulder.

  ‘This is what you missed because you were in such a hurry to leave the morning meeting yesterday.’

  Fabian thought back to the meeting and remembered Tomas Persson and Jarmo Päivinen describing their breakthrough in the investigation of Adam Fischer, which after eight days had been categorized as a kidnapping. ‘Is that the Slussen car park?’

  ‘You guessed right,’ said Malin, nodding. ‘Adam Fischer, who lives up by Mosebacke, rents a parking space there.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with Carl-Eric Grimås?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Malin, trying to pinpoint the right spot on the timeline at the very bottom of the screen. ‘Here he is.’ She paused the video.

  Fabian saw the licence plate number of the SUV in the upper-left square, and Adam Fischer sitting alone behind the steering wheel in the right-hand one. ‘I get that this is the last time he was seen before he disappeared, but I still don’t understand the connection—’

  ‘His facial expression seems completely relaxed.’ Malin interrupted, pointing towards the screen. ‘Just like Grimås. He doesn’t have a clue about what’s coming,’ she continued, dragging along the time marker. ‘A little more than eleven minutes later his SUV left the garage. And here is what I wanted to show you.’ She froze the frame just as the boom went up and the car was about to drive out.

  The two lower squares showed the SUV leaving the garage. But Adam Fischer was no longer sitting behind the steering wheel.

  The driver was wearing dark, heavy clothing with a gas mask covering the face.

  31

  THE SNOW HAD POURED down all through the night, burying major portions of Copenhagen. News reporters were talking about a record-breaking winter and people were warned not to go out on the roads unless it was absolutely necessary. Dunja Hougaard’s first thought when she woke up on the couch and looked out the window had been to work from home. But when Carsten called to her from the bedroom, saying that they should continue where they left off, she decided to drive in to the station.

  When she stepped outside Blågårdsgade 4 an hour later, she quickly realized that the reports had grossly understated the conditions. Her bicycle wasn’t visible under the huge mass of snow and her car would take an hour to dig out. Instead, she decided to walk the whole way, which seemed to be the only way to get anywhere. All public transport had stopped more or less, and not even the subway was operating.

  But the state of emergency put Dunja in a good mood. The otherwise busy streets were free of cars for once. Pedestrians, who had abandoned the sidewalk, ignored the traffic lights, and it felt as if they’d all taken back the city and never intended to return it.

  She was cutting across Peblinge Lake, which had frozen over, when the security supervisor at Scandlines called her to confirm that Aksel Neuman’s BMW had crossed to Helsingborg on the ferry that left Helsingør Harbour at 1:00 a.m. Wednesday night. Unfortunately, they only registered licence plates, and didn’t use security cameras, so they couldn’t confirm whether it was Aksel Neuman, Benny Willumsen, or someone else entirely behind the wheel.

  She attempted to contact the criminal investigation department in Helsingborg as she walked past Rådhuspladsen on H. C. Andersens Boulevard. Astrid Tuvesson, the head of the department, had already left for the Christmas holidays, so she was transferred to Sverker Holm, who naturally didn’t answer. Wasn’t there anybody working on the Swedish side? she asked herself. She left him a voicemail introducing herself and explained that she needed help locating a BMW X3 with Danish plates that belonged to TV host Aksel Neuman.

  When she finally got to the department at the police station neither Jan Hesk nor Kjeld Richter was there. She didn’t know whether it was due to the inclement weather or if they’d called in sick in protest. Even if part of her wanted to call and demand a doctor’s note, she thought it was satisfying to be able to work in peace and quiet.

  She barely had time to set her coffee down on the desk, turn on the lamp and start up the computer, before her cell phone started vibrating.

  ‘Yes, this is Dunja Hougaard.’

  ‘Hi. How’s it going? This is Klippan. I heard you needed a little help.’

  ‘Excuse me? Do you work for the Helsingborg police?’

  ‘Sverker Holm’s the name, but people call me Klippan – you know, like the Rock, but don’t ask me why. I just got your message.’

  ‘My call concerned a Danish BMW—’

  ‘Yes, I heard that in your message. I’ve already searched for it and managed to locate a photo for you.’

  ‘Really? Can you see who’s driving?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. It was from a traffic camera on E6 south, and they don’t include any faces.’

  ‘What time was the photo taken?’

  ‘Wednesday night at 1:33 a.m.’

  Dunja repeated the time again in her mind. It tallied fairly well with the ferry that left Helsingør Harbour at one o’clock and took twenty minutes to get to Helsingborg. If the car proceeded on E6 south it was, in all likelihood, en route to Malmö and perhaps all the way home to her suspect Benny Willumsen at Konsultgatan 29. ‘Thanks a lot. That was exactly what I needed.’

  ‘Sorry, there was one more thing, out of pure curiosity.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I assume that this concerns the brutal murder of Karen Neuman in Tibberup.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But unfortunately I have to—’

  ‘You can’t miss it in the papers. We worked on a similar case here in Rydebäck just over two years ago that showed the same loathsome brutality.’

  ‘You have to wonder where all this evil comes from. It was really nice talking with you and have a nice weekend.’

  ‘It turned out that the Rydebäck perpetrator was actually Danish.’

  Dunja, who was just about to hang up, brought the phone back to her ear again.

  ‘He actually lives here in Sweden. In Malmö to be exact,’ Klippan continued.

  ‘Is his name Benny Willumsen?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘But how can he still be at large? Did you ever arrest him?’

  ‘Yes, we arrested him, and it went all the way to trial. We had witnesses, circumstantial evidence – the whole nine yards. The case fell apart when he was accused of the brutal murder of a woman who was found after her body floated up on the Ven shoreline. I don’t know if there was anything about that in the Danish newspapers.’

  ‘Why did the case fall apart?’

  ‘The thing was he had a watertight alibi, so everything collapsed like a house of cards. Personally, I didn’t really believe he committed that particular murder, but we weren’t really in agreement here at the station. I’ll never forget when the verdict was announced and he was released. It was like a blow to the face.’

  ‘And you worked on it?’

  ‘Yes, along with the rest of the team here. It’s the biggest investigation we’ve ever done. So what I’m trying to say is that if there’s anything I can do to help out, anything at all, just speak up.’

  ‘It would be really helpful if you could send me all the material you have on the case.’

  ‘Absolutely. No problem, and remember, I’m just a call away.’

  ‘Okay, thanks a million.’ Dunja ended the call, leaned back and put her feet up on the desk.

  She now had even more ammo supporting her theory t
hat Benny Willumsen was behind the murder of Karen Neuman. Unfortunately, she lacked exactly what her Swedish colleagues had: technical evidence strong enough to connect him to the case. Circumstantial evidence, witnesses and any similarities with previous cases wouldn’t be enough to convict.

  She raised her coffee cup to take a sip when a hand gripped her shoulder.

  ‘You’re working all alone.’

  She jerked forward and managed to spill most of the coffee on her jeans.

  ‘Goodness. I hope that wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘No. I just didn’t hear you come in.’ She turned around towards Kim Sleizner, who stood smiling right behind her.

  ‘You never stopped by my office yesterday.’

  32

  ‘IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, YOU think there could be a connection between the murder of the Minister for Justice and the kidnapping of Adam Fischer?’ Herman Edelman poured a few drops of cream in his coffee.

  ‘Yes,’ said Malin, casting a quick glance over to Fabian as if to reassure herself that he was with her. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

  ‘Malin, for one thing—’

  ‘Who’s the person who’s always telling us about the importance of having an open mind and thinking outside the box?’ Malin interrupted him, crossing her arms over her protruding belly.

  ‘Agreed, but in this case I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m blind, but I honestly see nothing that connects these two cases.’ Edelman put a lump of sugar in his mouth and raised his cup.

  ‘If you would let me finish what I’m saying, maybe you would get your vision back and see that there’s not only a connection, but that it actually seems to be the same perpetrator.’

  Edelman set his cup down again, the lump of sugar still between his teeth. It’s lucky she’s pregnant, thought Fabian. Neither he nor any of the others would have got away with that tone, especially not after a press conference, which, nine times out of ten, made Edelman extra touchy.

  ‘What do you think, Fabian?’ Malin gave him a look that suggested his very survival depended on his agreement.

  Fabian nodded, even if he really didn’t know what to think. As Malin was saying, there certainly were things that suggested they were dealing with the same perpetrator, but he couldn’t understand how, and in a way he felt just as blind as Edelman. He’d tried getting in touch with Hillevi Stubbs to see if she’d discovered any technical leads that might reinforce their theory, but she had her phone turned off, which she often did when there was a lot going on,

  ‘Here’s an image from the surveillance video at the Slussen car park,’ Malin continued, holding up the image of the kidnapper driving out of the car park in Adam Fischer’s car with a gas mask on their face. ‘Fischer is probably drugged in the car, which explains the gas mask.’

  ‘Isn’t it conceivable that he didn’t want to be identified?’ asked Tomas Persson.

  ‘Uh… Yes, but?’ Malin turned towards Fabian and gave him a look begging him to step in.

  ‘Sure, it could be,’ said Fabian. ‘But there are considerably easier ways to disguise yourself other than by wearing a gas mask.’

  ‘The point is that the exact same thing happened to Joakim Holmberg, one of the guards in the parliament buildings, in his own home.’ Malin held up a picture of the guard and fastened it to the whiteboard. ‘On Tuesday night, he heard a sound out in the hall. He went out to investigate and could see only white.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘White smoke,’ said Fabian. ‘Our theory is that the perpetrator dropped some form of gas vial through the mail slot. If you study the image from the Slussen car park more thoroughly, you’ll see that there are also traces of smoke inside the car.’

  ‘And the last thing Holmberg heard, before he woke up in his own bathtub without his uniform or pass card, was someone breathing through a gas mask,’ said Malin.

  ‘Not to be the party-pooper here,’ said Tomas Persson, setting aside his protein shake. ‘But just so we’re clear: your guy didn’t see anything, but he just heard something that reminded him of a gas mask, something that could just have been a draught through the mail slot or tinnitus.’

  ‘True,’ said Malin. ‘But—’

  ‘Wait, I’m not done. Just because there’s a gas mask or some other similarity doesn’t mean it’s the same perpetrator. It might just be a coincidence.’

  Malin sighed and rolled her eyes. Fabian could tell that she was trying her best to stay calm. ‘Sure, it may be an unfortunate coincidence, but let’s investigate it first before we start shouting too loud.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Edelman threw back some more coffee.

  ‘I think we should combine the investigations into one led by me and Fabian.’

  ‘Uh, excuse me here,’ said Tomas, holding up one hand. ‘Was that a joke? Jarmo, have you heard a single argument for why they should take over our investigation?’

  Jarmo Päivinen shook his head.

  ‘Does it look like I’m joking?’

  ‘Wow, she’s really on fire today.’ Tomas grinned, thrusting forward his chest muscles that were clearly outlined under his overly tight T-shirt.

  ‘For your sake, I’ll choose to ignore that. Herman, you’re always talking about the importance of cross-fertilizing investigations.’

  ‘Absolutely. But in this case I have to agree with Tomas. A sound that is reminiscent of someone breathing through a gas mask isn’t much to write home about. Other than that, is there anything that suggests the cases belong together?’ said Edelman.

  ‘Not that we know right now,’ said Fabian.

  ‘What do we have to lose by giving this a chance?’ Malin turned towards Tomas and Jarmo. ‘And if we’re going to be completely honest, your investigation is not exactly rushing ahead.’

  ‘Listen, we’ve actually—’

  ‘Seen the car on a surveillance video. Tomas, I know. But what has that amounted to, other than a picture of the perpetrator in a gas mask? Why not try throwing ideas out and seeing what sticks? The perpetrator’s motive, for one. Maybe he’s not in it for the money. After all, the Fischer family has offered a reward and he hasn’t taken it. Maybe he’s after something else entirely.’

  ‘Such as what?’ said Jarmo.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Malin shrugged as she took a Danish cookie. ‘Grimås lost both his eyes and his guts.’

  ‘Maybe he was just hungry?’ Tomas said with a laugh.

  Malin rolled her eyes and gave Fabian a meaningful look indicating it was his turn to take over. But he was too busy trying to understand the significance of what Tomas had just said.

  Suddenly the door opened and Hillevi Stubbs came marching in with a metal case in one hand. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. It gave the impression that she was at least four inches taller than the five feet it said on her passport, according to rumour. Her nostrils were flared, which meant she was in an extremely bad mood. The best thing to do was to keep as far away from the line of fire as possible.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I actually don’t have all day.’ Stubbs set the case on the table. ‘And to be quite frank, I don’t understand what you’re doing.’

  Fabian saw that Malin was just as perplexed as he was.

  ‘Yes, I’m talking to the two of you,’ she continued. ‘What happened to we find a crime scene, then we investigate and then we move on to another scene? How can you find three crime scenes at more or less the same time? The condemned apartment in Östgötagatan on its own would have been quite enough, let alone the nap room in the ministry and the filthy apartment of that disgusting guard. Do you think I can clone myself?’

  ‘Hillevi,’ said Edelman. ‘I understand if it’s too much. But—’

  ‘“Too much” isn’t even the start of it. This afternoon was my only chance to do any Christmas shopping. Do you think my grandchildren will accept a hollowed-out government minister as an explanation for no presents this year?’

  ‘If you
want I can look into borrowing some resources from the Stockholm—’

  ‘You mean Petrén and his guys. Thanks, but no thanks. With that man on the scene you can forget about this being wrapped up any time before Christmas.’

  ‘We don’t have all the time in the world either, so could you stick to the essentials instead, such as why you’re here. Have you found anything?’ asked Malin, whose irritated tone matched Hillevi’s.

  Fabian was sure that Stubbs would have cut him to shreds if he’d come even close to giving that kind of attitude.

  She turned her gaze toward Malin. ‘Absolutely.’ She clicked open the clasps on the case, opened the lid, pulled on a pair of white gloves and picked up a black cloth bag. She set it down on the table, loosened the knot and took out a glass jar. ‘This was in the refrigerator in the condemned apartment on Östgötagatan.’

  ‘What do you mean, “condemned apartment”?’ said Jarmo.

  ‘The last known location of Carl-Eric Grimås’ second cell phone,’ said Malin, showing a picture of the plastic-covered table. ‘As you see it’s clearly prepared for—’

  ‘Maybe you can deal with that after I’m done,’ Stubbs interrupted with a stiff smile. ‘I thought this might be of interest.’ She held up the jar in the air so that everyone could see.

  Fabian immediately recognized it as the Haywards jar. And, just as he’d suspected since they found the minister, it didn’t contain pickled onions at all. Four eyeballs bobbed around in the dark fluid.

  ‘This must be sent to Thåström at forensics as soon as possible. But no one should be surprised if two of them turn out to belong to the Minister for Justice,’ Stubbs continued.

  ‘And the other two?’ said Malin.

  ‘That’s where the two of you come in to the picture. You might be of some use after all.’

  Fabian wondered why Malin had even bothered asking. He couldn’t tell if she was really curious or if she just wanted to be nice. He had no doubt whatsoever about where the eyes had come from.

  ‘Can I see?’ said Tomas.