MOTIVE X
THE FABIAN RISK THRILLERS
The Ninth Grave (Prequel)
Victim Without a Face
Eighteen Below
Motive X
MOTIVE X
Stefan Ahnhem
www.headofzeus.com
First published in Sweden as Motiv X in 2018 by Forum
First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Stefan Ahnhem, 2018
Translation copyright © Agnes Broomé, 2019
The moral right of Stefan Ahnhem to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Mint Julep
Cover Images: Arcangel
Author Photo: ThronUllberg
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781786694607
ISBN (XTPB): 9781786694614
ISBN (E): 9781786694591
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London ec1r 4rg
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
The Fabian Risk Thrillers
Welcome Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part II
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Acknowledgements
About Stefan Ahnhem
An Invitation from the Publisher
Prologue
24 August 2007
Inga Dahlberg tried to push her thoughts in a different direction. If only for a few minutes. Towards the cloudless August sky or the music in her headphones. Towards the fact that she didn’t feel tired at all, even though she was on her third lap around the blue trail. Or towards Ramlösa Brunn Park, which was so lush and verdant it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.
But like ants that inevitably find their way into the kitchen, her thoughts stubbornly kept returning to the plan she’d spent most of her waking time rehearsing these past few weeks. The plan that in less than three hours would be put into motion and change her whole life.
This time, nothing could be allowed to go wrong. The tiniest glint of uncertainty in her eyes or quiver in her voice and the game would be over. After all these years, she knew Reidar all too well. He would instantly exploit any crack in her façade, reclaim control and subjugate her until she obeyed him like a well-trained dog once more.
But whatever happened and no matter how he reacted, she knew how to act to make him pick up a pen and sign. And as soon as that was done, she would grab her prepacked bag and head for the door.
She almost didn’t dare to believe that in just a few hours, they would have left. And be on their way to Paris, of all places. The most romantic of cities. Finally, it was goodbye to all the sneaking and hiding. To all the coded text messages, to worrying about being caught red-handed any moment. Not to mention the stress of having to go to bed with the wrong man every night.
Tonight, they would be able to move about freely in public. If they felt like it, they would be able to sit down on a bench and just hold each other. She would be able to put her head in his lap and see both him and the stars at once.
She and her lover.
She tasted the word. Lover. She liked it. It sounded both tender and sinful. And how they had sinned. Both at his house and hers, in the shower and in the car. Not to mention on the secluded strip of beach by the Rå River, where they’d done things she hadn’t even thought possible.
And now, that chapter was coming to an end. Soon, he would go from being her lover to her beloved. They were going to leave Copenhagen Airport behind, drink champagne toasts and enjoy that their dream had finally become reality.
But it hadn’t come easy. At first, he’d been reluctant and refused to listen, and she had felt a bit like a whiny child. It was only after she presented him with an ultimatum, threatening to reveal their little affair to any and all interested parties, that he had come to his senses.
Threats and hysterics were not normally her style, but she couldn’t go on living a lie indefinitely. And now, in hindsight, it was clear he was in exactly the same boat. Suddenly, he stepped in and took charge, making plans for how they were to proceed.
She’d picked Paris as their destination, but he had bought the tickets, splurging on business class even, and when she thought about how in just a few hours they would be sitting there, holding hands, enjoying their extra legroom, she had to pinch herself to make sure she was awake.
But there were still things left to be done. As soon as she got back, she would shower and tidy up. She’d already cleaned the windows and watered the plants. The sheets were freshly laundered; they just needed to be pressed, then she could make the bed. The boeuf bourguignon, Reidar’s favourite stew, was simmering on the hob, awaiting final tasting and seasoning.
Since it was Friday, he would be having a pint after work and just before seven he
would come home in his stinking work clothes, which she would put in the hamper for the last time while he took a shower. Then she would serve dinner and wait for him to join her at the table.
And somewhere around there, he would, if all went to plan, react to something being different and ask her why she wasn’t sitting down and eating with him. Sooner or later, he would taunt her about her failed diets and how they only ever made her bigger, when the truth was that she had in fact lost twenty-six pounds since she’d started running.
But this time, she wasn’t going to let him rant uninterrupted. In her calmest and most controlled voice, she was going to tell him that she was leaving him.
True, it would have been easier to simply leave a handwritten note on the table for him to find when he got home. But if she wanted him to sign the papers, she had no choice but to look him in the eyes and make him understand that her mind was made up and that they were never going to have dinner together again.
Depending on how his day had been, there was a risk that he might jump up from his chair and become physical. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not then and there. But he was not above throwing his plate and maybe even overturning the table. A more likely outcome, however, was that he would let his fury pump into the outermost arteries of his face while he asked her, calm as a pressure cooker, where the hell she was planning to go. How she could be naïve enough to think for even a second that she could get by without him.
Then he would paint himself into a corner even more by reminding her of their prenuptial agreement and asking her if her dippy little brain had managed to forget that the house, the car and most of the furniture de facto belonged to him.
Reidar loved saying de facto. It was as if he felt it made him two feet taller and his statement unequivocally true and irrevocable. It was at that point, when he was at his most cocksure and adrenaline-filled, she would put the divorce papers down on the table.
At first, she couldn’t understand why her earphones, which were connected to her tiny iPod, were suddenly yanked out of her ears. Even less what it was that pushed, almost cut, into both her breasts and in the next moment her collarbones and throat. It was only when she fell helplessly backwards that she saw the fishing line glint in the sunshine.
*
The sky was beautiful, as blue and cloudless as it had been all summer. Apart from her own pulse, she could hear the tweeting of all the thousands of birds hiding somewhere just out of sight. But wait, hadn’t she been listening to music? And why was she lying flat on her back in the middle of the trail?
She grabbed her aching throat and sat up. The back of her head was pounding. She probably hadn’t been out for more than a minute or two, so she should still have plenty of time to get everything done before Reidar got home.
She was mustering the strength to stand up when she heard twigs snapping behind her. She turned around and saw the dense foliage next to the trail swaying.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’ she called out, even though there could be no doubt of that. ‘Did you put up this fishing line? Hello!’ She was angry now and was not going to just let it slide, even though she didn’t really have time for this.
But when a man materialized from the wall of leaves, her anger vanished and she realized she should get on her feet right now and run. But she couldn’t. It was as though gravity was extra strong where she lay. The same thing seemed to be true of her gaze, which was inexorably drawn to him as he stepped out on to the trail, a shovel in his hand.
Despite the cloudless summer sky, he was dressed in a dark grey raincoat and wellies so high they went well past his knees, blending with his trousers. Under the pulled-up hood of his raincoat, he wore a ski mask that hid every part of his face except his staring eyes.
She filled her lungs to scream for help, but never got that far because she spotted the wristwatch on his arm as he raised the shovel above his head. It was an Omega Speedmaster, just like the one that had cost her almost a whole month’s salary.
*
She could see nothing except darkness. The tape covering her mouth was so tight she was afraid her lips would be torn off if she tried to scream, while the rest of her face felt battered and swollen. Oh God, he must have hit her with the shovel.
She still couldn’t believe he was the one who had put up those tripwires, knocked her unconscious and now stripped her naked. If not for the Omega watch. Or had she been mistaken? Maybe the salesperson had lied about how rare that particular Apollo edition was, to push up the price? Yes, that was clearly it. It had to be.
What difference did it make anyway? Whoever he was, she was lying here, curled up, naked, her eyes and mouth taped shut, with no idea what was coming. Or was it already over? Had he had his way with her and left her here?
She was still outside, that much she could tell. But she wasn’t by the jogging trail in Ramlösa Brunn Park; through the tape covering her ears, she could hear the sound of running water.
She wasn’t really lying down, but rather sitting slumped over on her knees with her feet behind her as if in some yoga pose, with both arms stretched out in front of her. It was an awkward position, especially given the hard, uneven ground.
She tried to understand what it all meant. Why he had left her naked in this particular position.
She felt almost no pain. In her face or her body. It was as though every part of her was numb. As though her body no longer belonged to her. He must have drugged her; there was no other explanation. Did that mean she had been unconscious for a long time? Maybe hours.
Regardless, she now had to get away and get home as quickly as she could and shower so she could have everything in order before Reidar got back. Hopefully, she wasn’t too far from home, and with luck her facial injuries might not look too bad.
He would obviously want to know what had happened. But it made no difference. Under no circumstances was she going to allow this to derail the plan. The first step was to try to take off the tape without making her injuries worse.
But when she tried to lift her arm, pain immediately jolted through her. A pain so overwhelming she screamed straight into the tape. It radiated out from the back of her hand, spreading like lightning through her fingers and wrist and up her arm. Also, her hand seemed to be stuck. What had he done? She tried to move her other hand, but it was the same there. It hurt so badly her stomach turned inside out. She tried to move her legs, but the pain emanating from her calves was possibly even worse.
She was stuck. How had he… She couldn’t even take it in. What kind of monster was this?
‘Well, well, well. She’s awake,’ a voice said suddenly. ‘About time.’
He was back. Or had he been there all along? And didn’t it sound just like him?
‘Come on. Get up. Up on all fours.’
She braved the pain and did as she was told.
‘Excellent. See, you can do it if you put your mind to it.’
It sounded like him, it did. But it couldn’t be him. Maybe it was just the tape over her ears that made it hard to distinguish details.
She could feel his gloved hand patting her on the hip, as though she were a horse being inspected. Then it started caressing her lower back and in between her legs.
‘Now just make sure you don’t collapse again. If you do, you’re done, for real.’
It was him. There was no longer any doubt.
It was Ingvar. Ingvar Molander, the man she loved more than anything, who had finally agreed to take her to Paris in just a few hours.
Pain shot up from her hands and calves when whatever it was she was stuck to started to move. She screamed as loudly as she could, but all that came out was inarticulate mumbling.
A moment later, she started tilting this way and that and suddenly had to strain every muscle in her body to stay on all fours. Then she felt the cold water wash over her hands and her fate slowly began to dawn on her.
PART I
13–16 June 2012
Wherever you dig, it doesn’t matte
r.
Get deep enough and eventually, it’ll smell bad.
1
At first, Molly Wessman could only just make out the faint melody. But as the volume increased, she became ever more aware of the dulcet harp tones that meant she had five minutes to wake up and switch her brain on before it was time to get out of bed. Five minutes during which she could still keep her eyes closed and stretch.
She felt rested and hadn’t woken up once during the night, which was incredible, considering the presentation she was giving to the board this afternoon. Normally, she would have tossed and turned all night and come to work a wreck. Now, by contrast, she was convinced the board was going to approve her proposal and give her permission to implement the last round of absolutely crucial cost-cutting measures needed to turn things around.
And she had her new sleep app to thank for it. Before, she had never slept more than four hours a night. She had been constantly exhausted and taken sick leave so often even those of her colleagues who had young children had started to wonder what she was up to.
In the end, her then manager had called her into his office and told her what she herself had been unable to see. That she was heading straight for burnout. Then he’d given her the number of a therapist and told her about an app that used sounds and different kinds of white noise to help the human brain to relax, thus improving sleep.
It had made all the difference and, what’s more, only cost a fraction of what the therapist charged for a handful of pointless conversations. It had even given her enough energy to go back to the gym.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs like she’d learned in yoga class, and reached out for the phone on her bedside table. But when she turned the alarm off, she noticed something strange the second before the screen went black.
She didn’t actually allow herself to check her phone in bed. Turning her alarm on and off was the only exception to the rule. In her new life, her bed was a screen-free zone, along with the bathroom and the dinner table. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from tapping in her PIN and unlocking it.
She looked at the screen again, uncomprehending.
Motive X Page 1