X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  ‘I said I suspect it. Not that I’m sure,’ Klippan retorted. ‘But the fact is that everything about him is suspicious. Just look at this.’

  The man on the screen walked over to the pickled herring fridge.

  ‘He’s just been down the Tex-Mex aisle to pick up taco shells and guacamole. I don’t know what you like in your tacos, but I doubt it’s pickled herring.’

  ‘What’s to say those things are for the same meal?’ Lilja objected. ‘The tacos might be for that night and the herring for—’

  ‘The thing is, he doesn’t actually buy anything,’ Klippan cut in. ‘There’s no direction to his movements and no plan for what he puts in his basket. In a while, he’s going to take vegetarian patties out of a freezer, only to then pick up a pound of mince.’

  ‘Maybe his girlfriend’s a vegetarian.’

  ‘Maybe. But how do you explain that he’s already been to the fruit and veg section, where he picked up super-expensive organic tomatoes, but later on, he’s going to go back there and grab a regular, pesticide-infused cucumber even though the organic cucumbers were only two kronor more?’

  ‘Fine.’ Tuvesson nodded. ‘So he’s not there to shop.’

  ‘If he is our perpetrator, he might be scoping the place out,’ Fabian put in to try to make it look like he was participating.

  ‘That’s what I assumed,’ Klippan said. ‘But if that were the case, he should be looking for the cameras, and during the twenty-two minutes he spends in the shop, he doesn’t look up once. He also never pulls out his phone to take pictures or pays any attention to the escape route behind the meat counter that he ended up using.’

  ‘So what is he doing?’ said Lilja, who was starting to look impatient.

  ‘Thanks for asking. That’s exactly what I’ve been pondering. And after studying this sequence I don’t know how many times, I’ve concluded that he’s searching.’

  ‘What do you mean, searching? For what?’ said Tuvesson.

  ‘We’ll get to that.’ Klippan held up his hand to stop any further interruptions. ‘But first I want to ask if any of you noticed that a while back, he stood over by the new potatoes staring at another customer? An older lady dressed all in blue, who was manhandling every last mango in the shop.’

  ‘Yes, I saw her,’ Lilja said. ‘Even her glasses were blue. But I didn’t notice what the guy was doing.’

  ‘But I did, and right now, he’s doing the same thing again.’ Klippan pointed at the wall where their suspect was standing by the herring fridge, watching a man who was hurrying away from a mountain of strawberries towards the meat counter.

  ‘And what is that?’ Tuvesson said. ‘Other than staring at people.’

  ‘Like I said, I think he’s searching.’

  ‘Right, you did say. The question is what he—’

  ‘His victim,’ Klippan said, cutting her off. ‘He’s searching for his next victim.’

  The mood changed instantly. None of them spoke and the silence was almost palpable as Fabian and the others recalled what they’d seen and tried to digest the realization that Klippan’s theory might have merit.

  ‘But hold on,’ Tuvesson said at length. ‘Why would he be searching for a victim?’

  ‘Fine, maybe selecting is a better word.’

  ‘Searching or selecting.’ Tuvesson shrugged. ‘Lennart Andersson is over by the meat counter. All you have to do to find him is go over there.’

  ‘My point is that he doesn’t seem aware of that at this time. I think he simply hadn’t decided yet who it was going to be.’ Klippan extracted the last few drops of coffee from the urn. ‘Besides, Lennart’s shift doesn’t start for another three and a half minutes. But watch this.’ He nodded at the video, where the man was still hovering next to the herring. ‘At first, I thought he was choosing among the different flavours. But he’s not. He’s not even looking at the fish, he’s watching the man in the white shorts and boat shoes standing over there with his son.’

  ‘Hold on, isn’t that Eric Jacobsén?’ Tuvesson turned to Fabian, who nodded.

  It certainly was Eric Jacobsén and his son, Rutger, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were in danger of becoming the killer’s next victims. Their paths had, in other words, crossed both here and in relation to Molly Wessman.

  ‘If it’s true what you say, that he’s there to select a victim,’ Tuvesson said, ‘then what makes him finally settle on Lennart Andersson at the meat counter and not someone else?’

  ‘That’s a good question. And I honestly haven’t the faintest idea. For all I know, he just goes for whoever happens to bother him.’

  ‘I’d wager he has a plan for how the murder itself is supposed to go,’ Molander said as the suspect pulled something out of his right pocket. Something that flashed before he closed his hand around it. ‘And what he’s doing here is walking around, looking for the most suitable victim.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t he be looking by the meat counter instead of all over the shop?’ Tuvesson said.

  ‘Or maybe he’s just looking for a person who’s as different as possible from the other victims,’ Klippan suggested.

  Tuvesson nodded. ‘Fabian, what do you reckon?’

  Fabian stopped pondering what it was the suspect had pulled out of his pocket and was turning to Tuvesson when Lilja cut in.

  ‘I’m sorry, but are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ She pointed to the suspect, whose right arm was moving slightly back and forth. ‘It almost looks like he’s… playing pocket ping-pong.’

  ‘Sadly for him, that’s not it,’ Klippan said. ‘My best guess is that it’s some kind of tic to keep calm. He actually does the same thing several times, and at other times his hand is clearly not inside his trousers.’

  ‘So, Klippan, I just want to make sure I’m getting this right,’ said Tuvesson. ‘You’re telling us he’s walking around selecting his victim completely at random.’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, it looks that way.’ Klippan turned to Fabian. ‘And isn’t that exactly what you were talking about? That there might not be a motive?’

  Fabian nodded, even though it sounded strange to his ears, too. But he couldn’t see any other explanation.

  ‘I just don’t understand why a person would run around killing strangers for no reason,’ Tuvesson said.

  ‘Maybe because he thinks it’s fun and gets a kick out of it. At least, that’s what you said.’ Fabian turned to Molander.

  ‘Me? No, when would I have said that?’ Molander shook his head.

  ‘Okay, but the selection has to be based on something,’ said Tuvesson. ‘Whether or not there’s a motive. I mean, it can’t be pure chance.’

  ‘Except. Why can’t it be?’ Molander said.

  ‘Because something apparently makes him pick one victim over another, and if we can figure out why, we might even be able to predict who’s next. Or what do you think, Fabian? You’re unusually quiet today.’

  ‘I am?’ Fabian said, his thoughts once again firmly on what the suspect was holding in his hand in the video. Could that be the key?

  ‘And you, too.’ Tuvesson turned to Lilja, who was sitting with her mouth open, staring into space. ‘You haven’t said anything in a while, either.’ She leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Lilja’s face. ‘Hello, I’m talking to you.’

  Lilja reacted, but when she spoke it was to Klippan, not Tuvesson. ‘Could you play the video again?’

  ‘Sure. All the way from the start, or—?’

  ‘No, from when he’s standing over by the herring and turns to that man with the beard.’

  ‘Absolutely. No problem.’ Klippan dragged the time marker back and the video played from just before the suspect looked over his shoulder at the man behind him.

  ‘Pause it and zoom in on his face.’

  ‘Irene, I know what you’re getting at. But it’s pointless. I already tried.’ He leaned closer to his open laptop and zoomed in on the suspect’s face, which was half-hidden under the visor of
his baseball cap. ‘Granted, we get a glimpse of part of his face, which, if I had to guess, I’d say is Asian, but other than that—’

  ‘It’s him.’ Lilja stood up. ‘It’s him. I recognize him.’

  ‘Who?’ Tuvesson said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I interviewed that guy in my office a week and a half ago.’

  17

  SLEIZNER HAD JUST pulled out his lock pick and was about to slide it into the lock of the flat in Valby, just outside Copenhagen, when his phone let him know he had mail.

  From: michael.ronning@politi.dk

  To: kim.sleizner@politi.dk

  Subject: Security update of mobile phone

  As you will be aware from previous emails, we are in the process of installing a series of security updates on the mobile phones of certain key members of the Copenhagen Police. Since you are one of the people affected, I have set aside time this Wednesday at 1 p.m. Unless I hear from you, I will count on seeing you in my office at that time. The update will take approximately 120 minutes to complete.

  Sincerely,

  Mikael Rønning, IT Manager

  As you will be aware. He was getting too big for his boots, that IT bloke. I have set aside time. True, he had received a number of emails about that damned security update, and true, he had ignored them like the spam they were. But that didn’t give this loser licence to be insubordinate. Count on seeing you in my office. Who the fuck did he think he was?

  He was going to let them install that update, all right. But it was going to happen when it suited him, not some bloody IT minion. Not that he could see that there would ever be time when he could be without his phone for two hours. Besides, he had to back up the contents to his computer, so he could delete all the things that were for his eyes only.

  Sleizner shoved the phone back into his pocket and started working the lock pick. It had been at least forty years since he’d last used it. And yet, it felt like only yesterday that he’d emptied his piggy banks and converted every penny he owned into German marks before their road trip.

  The plan had been to secretly buy a stiletto. Not because he was planning to use it. He was just going to carry it around in his pocket and pull it out from time to time to make sure it worked. In Karlsruhe, he had finally managed to slip away from his parents and had found a shop that carried the largest selection of knives he’d ever seen. Not just stilettos, but throwing knives and machetes. They’d even had karambits, his favourite knife of all time.

  But instead, a lock pick had caught his eye, and once they were back from their holiday, it had felt like walking around with a magic wand in his pocket. Most of his childhood, he’d been able to get through any door he pleased. He’d break into his neighbours’ house, where there were always sweets and sometimes even cash. His girlfriend’s, when he’d had one, to go through her things. Or the teacher’s lounge at night, to copy down the questions that were going to be on the next day’s test.

  Then suddenly one day, his neighbour had lain in wait and caught him red-handed, literally rummaging through the box at the back of the closet where they kept their savings.

  After a number of hard slaps, he’d been given a choice. They could either go over and tell his father everything the moment he got home from work, or he could unzip his trousers and pull them down right then. It had been an easy decision, though he’d felt dirty for months afterwards.

  He hadn’t used a lock pick since. Not until now. But it was like riding a bike. Once you knew how to use it, you apparently never forgot.

  The lock clicked and he was able to quietly pull open the door, step into the little flat and shut it again behind him.

  The door said Thor Rindflygt, but he could tell from the smell the moment he stepped into the narrow, dark hallway that he was in the right place. This was elephant Chink Qiang Who’s real address. Or Qiang-Wei Hitomu Oisin, as the Population Registry had it, which explained why he’d been so hard to find.

  But everything had turned out all right. In fact, most things had gone his way, and even though he still experienced faint rumblings of worry about what Dunja was up to, they were relatively easy to dismiss. He had seized control and was once again a player to be reckoned with after spending too much time on the bench.

  As he had suspected, the Chinaman was an overweight little IT slave in the basement of the TDC bunker. His good friend Stig Paulsen had been happy to give him a list of his employees. An hour and a half later, he’d found the unmistakeably ugly mug, whose real address wasn’t Blågårdsgade but rather a flat out in Valby, on Sylviavej 22, fourth floor.

  He continued into the small but pleasant kitchen and noted that there must be no bathroom in the flat since there was a shower enclosure next to the sink. Dorm-like and charming if you were twenty and believed in peace on Earth. Pathetic if you were an overweight gook riding around on an electric unicycle.

  He’d hoped this might be where Dunja was hiding. That they’d swapped flats temporarily, she and the Chinaman. Then this protracted story would finally get the end it deserved. But there was no trace of her. No piles of clothes on the floor, no dirty dishes or smelly bins. Instead, everything was neat and tidy. Like the many types of tea that were not only perfectly stacked against the wall on one of the kitchen counters, but alphabetized as well.

  He couldn’t explain why, but for some reason swapping the Ginger Guru Chai and the Ginger Lemongrass made him feel a bit better. Then he continued further into the flat, which even though the Chinaman no longer lived in it was still crammed full of elephant crap. Like the rug in the hallway or the ceiling light in the living room, which consisted of five elephant trunks that ended in light bulbs.

  Plates with burnt incense sticks were scattered about the room, which had to count as another sign Dunja wasn’t the one living here. Granted, he couldn’t be sure, but he would have been surprised to find out incense was her bag.

  He’d hit a dead end. No point denying it. He’d decided to give up and leave the flat when, on his way out of the living room, he spotted a neon backpack in an armchair in the furthest corner.

  It was one of the most hideous backpacks he’d ever seen, which was why he clearly remembered seeing it once before, in the CCTV footage from the Danske Bank branch in Malmö where Dunja had withdrawn all her money. It had been carried at the time by the skinny Indian man helping her. So he was the one who lived here.

  The pieces were finally starting to fall into place and he could feel his good mood returning. The Chinaman was in contact with the Indian, who was in contact with Dunja, which meant he was one step closer to her.

  One step closer to ending this.

  He went through the contents of the backpack but was forced to conclude that there was no money in it, only a long, narrow box of incense and a folder, which he pulled out and opened. In it were a stack of grainy and in some cases completely blurred pictures, all showing the same flat.

  His flat.

  18

  LILJA WAS FRANTICALLY searching her folders and binders and the loose documents stacked on the floor when Klippan entered her office together with Tuvesson and Molander, all three with cups of freshly brewed coffee in their hands.

  ‘Where did Fabian go?’ Klippan turned around and popped his head through the door.

  ‘He had to leave and won’t be back until tomorrow,’ Tuvesson said, and closed the door.

  ‘Leave? He can’t just take off when we’re in the middle of a—’

  ‘He has his reasons.’ Tuvesson cut him off and turned to Lilja. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘It’s in here somewhere.’ Lilja pulled a folder from a pile with one hand, using the other to make sure the rest of the pile didn’t topple over. ‘I know it’s in here.’

  ‘I’m assuming he’s gone to visit his son, who’s behind bars in Helsingør,’ Molander said.

  ‘Theodor? Arrested? Are you serious?’ Klippan turned to Molander. ‘What for?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? He was arr
ested in connection with the Smiley Gang trial—’

  ‘He was there to give testimony, that’s all we know,’ Tuvesson broke in. ‘Irene, would you mind telling the rest of us what you’re looking for?’

  Without replying, Lilja quickly scanned the first few documents in the folder before letting it fall to the floor and starting to smack her forehead repeatedly.

  ‘Irene, we’re all very busy.’

  ‘Right.’ Lilja hurried over to the equally messy desk. ‘Here. This is him.’ She handed over a folder marked (un)interesting interviews.

  Tuvesson opened the folder and studied the printout of a scanned driving licence. ‘Pontus Holmwik. And who’s he?’

  ‘I brought him in for questioning. His car was caught on CCTV in Bjuv, parked just a stone’s throw from the laundry room where Moonif Ganem was murdered. I even think you can see the car drive away about half an hour after the murder.’

  ‘Is he Asian?’

  Lilja nodded and turned to Klippan. ‘You don’t remember him?’

  Klippan shook his head.

  ‘Really? Well, you’re the one who insisted I bring him in.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes, when Astrid was in rehab and you were in charge. You even barged in here in the middle of the interview. I don’t understand how you can have forgotten that. You’d just managed to identify Assar Skanås.’

  ‘Right, that does ring a bell.’ Klippan brightened. ‘I wanted to bring in anyone who had behaved even slightly suspiciously. And you were grumpy and against the whole idea, to put it mildly.’

  ‘You were right. I was wrong. Can we drop it and move on?’

  Molander came up to join them. ‘Not that it’s that important at all, but I was actually the one who happened to notice that car, and unless I misremember, I checked the plates and noticed it was a rental, which made it extra interesting.’

  ‘Right. From Hertz on Gustav Adolfsgatan.’

  ‘Gustav Adolfsgatan.’ Tuvesson turned to Molander. ‘Isn’t that close to Carl Krooksgatan, where you located Skanås’s mobile phone?’