X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  ‘All right, maybe I misunderstood.’

  ‘Probably.’ Molander gave her a curt smile.

  ‘Because from what I was told, that’s exactly what you did,’ Lilja replied with an even more curt smile.

  Fabian realized too late where this was going. This was not how he wanted it to happen. He was still waiting for Stubbs to tell him they had enough proof to arrest Molander. Once she gave the all-clear, he was going to inform Tuvesson so they could come up with a plan for how to make the arrest together.

  ‘What?’ Molander turned to Fabian and Klippan and suddenly looked confused. ‘Do you know what she’s talking about?’

  ‘I suggest we drop this and try to get on with the investigation instead,’ Fabian said. ‘Because it seems he’s rented a—’

  ‘No, I want to know what the fuck’s going on,’ Lilja broke in. ‘What do you mean, you wouldn’t leave a crime scene? According to Fabian, you left the Landgrens’ flat hours ago.’

  It was three against one. Plan or no plan, maybe he should just get it over with.

  ‘And so my question is, where have you been all day?’ Lilja went on. ‘And what are you so bloody busy doing when you’re not answering your phone?’

  Molander turned to Fabian. ‘I’m sorry, but how is it that you—’

  ‘I went over there.’ Fabian felt his body getting ready. ‘As soon as Sonja and Matilda were asleep, I went to see if you’d found anything of interest. But you weren’t there and according to your assistants you left immediately after you arrived.’

  Molander turned to Fabian without speaking.

  ‘And just like Irene, I tried to call you,’ he went on. ‘Not just once, several times.’

  Molander still didn’t say anything, just stood there, breathing heavily through his nostrils. For the first time, he seemed shaken. His face had gone pale and his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down as, increasingly desperately, he tried to swallow his anxiety.

  Maybe Fabian was mistaken. No, he wasn’t. Molander’s eyes were wet, filling with tears; if he didn’t wipe them soon, his tear ducts were going to overflow.

  ‘Ingvar.’ Klippan walked over and put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Molander’s bottom lip began to tremble as the first tear trickled down his cheek.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Ingvar. Tell us.’ Lilja pulled up a chair and helped Molander sit down.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Molander finally managed to squeeze out, still trying to hold back the tears. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Maybe I can help you,’ Fabian said.

  ‘What? She’s spoken to you?’ Molander looked up at Fabian.

  ‘Who?’ Fabian didn’t understand.

  ‘Gertrud. She hasn’t told me anything. After thirty-four years—’

  ‘Ingvar.’ Klippan squatted down in front of Molander. ‘Tell us what’s happened.’

  ‘She’s left me.’ Molander burst out sobbing. ‘Gertrud has left me.’

  ‘What? Hold on. Are you saying Gertrud wants a divorce?’

  Molander nodded and pulled out a handkerchief to blow his nose. ‘Yesterday, when I got home from work, the house was empty. I didn’t know what was going on. All her things were gone. Clothes, shoes, everything. Her wardrobe was empty. I tried to call her to ask what it was all about, but she didn’t pick up. Then I found a letter in my workshop. Can you imagine? After thirty-four years of marriage, she leaves me and the only explanation is a cryptic note.’ He shook his head and dried his eyes. ‘So if you’re wondering why I’ve been a bit absent today, it’s because I needed some time to myself to digest it. I thought I was going to be able to work and just carry on like usual, but—’ Molander broke off and shook his head.

  Behind him, the door opened to admit Tuvesson, who was in the process of popping a piece of gum into her mouth. ‘So this is where you’re hiding. I’m glad you’re all here, because…’ Tuvesson faltered when she noticed Molander. ‘Ingvar, what—?’

  ‘Gertrud left him.’ Klippan stood up.

  ‘What? Really?’

  Molander nodded and looked like he was struggling to keep his emotions under control.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Tuvesson bent down and gave him a hug. ‘I went through the same thing a few years ago, as you know, and if you want, I’d be happy to tell you what it was like for me and how much better I feel now.’

  Molander attempted a smile and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief.

  ‘But before I do, I want to ask you to do something,’ Tuvesson went on. ‘And I’m really sorry to do this, but if you think you’re able, I’d like you to put your feelings aside for a while.’

  ‘Astrid,’ Lilja said. ‘They were married for thirty-four years, and he’s just been—’

  ‘I know. I’m not deaf. And Ingvar, I completely understand if you can’t handle it, and if so, we’ll find another way. But if you—’

  ‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ Molander cut her off.

  Tuvesson stopped chewing and turned to look at each of them.

  ‘What has happened is another murder. Another incomprehensible, meaningless murder.’

  27

  WHILE TOM CRUISE struggled with making ends meet and trying to convince one of his players, Frank Käpp picked up his wine glass by the stem and swirled it around a few times before holding it up to study the beautiful red colour in the light from the kerosene lamp. It was a newly opened Domaine du Vieux Lazaret, served at the perfect drinking temperature.

  He brought the glass to his face, stuck his nose in as far as it would go and breathed in the bouquet. That alone was divine. Even better was tasting the wine, sucking in some air before swallowing. The balance between the four grapes – Grenache noir, Syrah, Mourvèdre and Cinsault – was impeccable.

  Klara had, as expected, dozed off thirty minutes into the film and had therefore only had the Rioja that had been open since yesterday and was already so oxidized it would barely do for cooking wine. But at least they’d made up after their fight about where Vincent should sleep.

  There was nothing worse than fighting with Klara. He was convinced it was carcinogenic and couldn’t understand why it happened so often. It was as though frustration was always simmering somewhere deep inside them, and if they didn’t vent it from time to time, they ran the risk of an all-out explosion.

  And yet they fundamentally agreed on most things. Fine, so maybe he’d been the one pushing for the idea of sailing around the world. He supposed it was more his dream than Klara and Vincent’s. But someone had to take the initiative, or nothing would ever happen. They would be trapped in their offices in Kalmar forever, bitter about never seizing the moment.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the sound. Even so, he jumped and almost spilled wine on Klara. It sounded like something was pressing against the hull of the boat. Until now, he’d assumed it was a large wave that had set the boat rolling, which could give rise to all kinds of noises.

  But this time he didn’t notice much of a roll. Besides, the alarm on the radar hadn’t warned him about a ship passing close enough to generate waves.

  Maybe it was the film. Like the sudden clanging that had alarmed him until he realized it was just one of Jerry Maguire’s players banging a locker door in the changing room. That must be it. What else could it be? He took another sip of wine, put his glass down on the table and reached for the TV remote. He had mostly turned on the film for Klara’s sake anyway.

  The silence that followed was far from silent. He could hear the sound of the wind in the sails and of the water as the bow cut through it. And the faint creaking of the hull when a sudden gust made the boat lurch a little. And yet Frank perceived it as silence. A peaceful, harmonious silence that proved the sound he’d heard must have come from the screen.

  He should go up and make sure everything was okay, and he was going to. He shouldn’t really be below decks at all until they were out on the open sea. But he wanted to avoid s
tomping around on deck and risk waking Klara and Vincent, who had finally fallen asleep.

  Instead, he took a moment to enjoy how perfectly everything was working. Like the TV and the PlayStation console, the digital receiver and the Apple TV unit, when they had Internet reception. Or the custom-built storage space for wine bottles down in the bilge. The aft cabin, the sound system, the galley. Not to mention the autopilot, which, like a fourth crew member, was currently maintaining a straight course out of Öresund towards Kattegat.

  In about a month, it was going to be put to work maintaining a course for days at a time, maybe even weeks, and at that point he would even dare to sleep and trust that everything was working right.

  Then he heard that sound again. He couldn’t figure out what it could be. It was different from all other sounds, and this time it came through louder, if anything. There was no longer a film to blame, and it definitely wasn’t a wave.

  In a way, this was exactly why he had pushed for a night sail in Swedish waters, where they were always relatively close to land. But even so, it was with a growing sense of unease that he moved Klara’s head from his lap to a pillow and started up the ladder.

  Once he reached the cockpit, he raised his binoculars and did a 360-degree sweep. Everything looked normal. Both Helsingborg and Helsingør were where they were supposed to be and every freight ship in sight seemed to be keeping its distance.

  Maybe he’d left a fender out after leaving Humlebæk and now it was dragging and somehow getting squeezed against the hull? Motorboat owners chugging around with their fenders flopping about was the rule rather than the exception. But for a sailor, it was a mortal sin.

  He turned on his torch, stepped up on deck and leaned across the lifeline on the leeward side so he could inspect the hull. But he couldn’t see any dragging fenders. He crossed the boat and repeated the procedure on the windward side.

  He found nothing there, either, and it would have been odd if he had, considering that the angle of the boat would have prevented any overlooked fender from touching the water. But he did notice something else.

  A black rope was tied around one of the lifeline stanchions and disappeared down into the dark water. He didn’t recognize it. Their own ropes were all white, to match the hull. Besides, he would never tie anything around a stanchion; they weren’t built for it.

  Maybe Vincent had woken up and done something while they were watching the film. That would explain the strange sound, and in a way it would be like him to get it in his head that one of the many stuffed animals he’d insisted on bringing wanted to go for a swim. But where had he found the black rope?

  He started to pull on it and instantly realized it couldn’t be one of Vincent’s teddy bears being keelhauled. In order to make the rope budge at all, he had to use both hands and brace so hard with his legs that he broke a sweat within seconds.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that they were moving at a rate of six and a half knots, he would have assumed it was an anchor. Now he could only guess what it might be, while part of him dismissed his first thought as impossible and completely improbable.

  But apparently, it wasn’t.

  As though materializing from out of the darkness, the contours of a large rubber boat grew clearer as he pulled the rope. The black colour was so effective at camouflaging it against the mottled surface of the water that, for a second, he doubted his own eyes. He immediately started working on the knot around the lifeline stanchion. It was as though panic had seized his hands before the rest of him, and before he had time to give any thought as to whether or not it was a good idea, he had released the boat into the night.

  It had been equipped with an outboard motor, a red petrol can, a heated blanket and two dark, stuffed bags, that much he’d noted. But it was only now he realized there was no passenger on board, and as this dawned on him, the panic exploded through the rest of his body.

  His attempts to scream at the top of his lungs came out as faint whimpers that dissolved in the wind. Fuck, he repeated to himself. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

  He hurried back across the deck but tripped over the sheet and hit his head on the main halyard winch. He might be bleeding. Or not. All he cared about was getting back on his feet as quickly as he could and going down into the cabin. Nothing else mattered.

  Only Vincent.

  He grabbed the handle of the aft cabin door and threw it open, and the sight that greeted him was one he knew would haunt him forever. Until the end of his days, it would be tattooed on his cornea, reminding him every time he closed his eyes of the greatest horror he’d ever experienced.

  If only he could have climbed down the ladder and swapped places with his son. If only he could have crawled into his child-sized sleeping bag and taken his place. But his role was to stand up there and look down at Vincent in the aft cabin. Down into the claustrophobic space into which he’d forced him. His own son.

  Vincent’s eyes were petrified. As though they were staring straight into his worst nightmare. Or as though he’d woken up and realized reality was infinitely worse.

  A man in dark clothes blocked most of the scene, but the sword in his right hand, which he held pressed against Vincent’s throat, was unmistakeable. Harder to understand was what he was doing with his left hand, which was shaking back and forth. But understanding required thought, and right now, thought didn’t exist. Only instinct. Pure, unadulterated instinct.

  He grabbed hold of something that looked like a sheath across the man’s back and pulled him backwards, away from Vincent. In the same fraction of a second, he glimpsed a dice out of the corner of his eye. As though time were standing still, the dice fell out of the man’s hand and landed on the sleeping bag.

  Frank let out a scream he didn’t know was inside him, and maybe the force of it helped him drag the man out of the aft cabin.

  As he did, the man turned around and swung his sword straight at him. Frank threw himself to the side, landed hard on the cockpit sole and saw the blade sever the rubber cord connecting the wheel to the autopilot.

  The next moment, the blade flashed high above him as the man grabbed the hilt with both hands to drive it down into him. Just then, the boat lurched, as though the waves were suddenly coming from a different direction, which allowed Frank to twist far enough to the side to hear the point of the sword hit the teak sole a few inches behind him.

  Without even the semblance of a plan, he army-crawled away as fast as he could, around the table and over to the other side of the steering pulpit, where the wheel was spinning as though it had come to life. The winch handle was in its holder, and he finally had an idea. He reached for the metal handle, lifted it out of its pocket and was just about to stand up when a black boot on his back pushed him back down.

  ‘You might as well give up,’ came the man’s voice from somewhere above him. ‘The dice has spoken, and neither one of us can change that.’

  He didn’t know what the man was talking about; all he knew was that in a few seconds, it would probably be too late. But he wasn’t going to just lie around and wait to feel the sword sink in between his shoulder blades. Without knowing how, he managed to summon enough strength to turn around and hurl the winch handle at the man, who was raising the sword with both hands.

  His aim couldn’t have been truer. Even so, the man managed to dodge the handle, which continued along its trajectory before disappearing into the sea.

  ‘I told you. There’s no point.’ The man raised his arms above his head again, unaware that the boat had now turned just enough to make the mainsail gybe and swing over to the other side with full force.

  The boom hit the man in the temple and he collapsed across the lifeline with the sword still clutched in his hands. Frank instantly jumped to his feet and before the man could regain consciousness, he grabbed his legs and heaved them over the line, too. After that, things simply ran their natural course and in the blink of an eye, the man had fallen overboard and disappeared into the black sea.

 
Frank had no idea how long he stood there, staring out across the glittering water with questions queueing up in his head. Why them? What was the point? Why now, out here, in the dark? What had happened? Had it even happened? Or was he still down in the cabin, sleeping next to Klara?

  That was undeniably a tempting notion. To just close his eyes and carry on like nothing had happened. But the shock had chewed its way so deep into his body he was shaking. It didn’t matter how improbable or surreal it was. How many questions he had that would never be answered.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  When he finally dared to breathe again and relax, he stepped back down into the cockpit and went over to Vincent, who was shaking with terror in his sleeping bag. He sat down next to him on the berth and hugged him as hard as he could.

  Neither one of them spoke. Maybe there was nothing to say. No words that came close to describing what he felt. That would be apology enough. Instead, he cried for the first time in living memory.

  And yet despite the tears, the only thing he could feel was joy.

  28

  WERE YOU THE one who assaulted, tortured and raped your wife to death last night?

  Silence. Hesitation.

  I don’t recall. But I can’t say I didn’t.

  Stubbs continued to flip through the interview Irene Lilja had conducted with Conny Öhman the day after the murder of his wife on 5 April last spring. So far, she hadn’t been able to entirely comprehend the case, or, for that matter, figure out what had caused Hugo Elvin to take a particular interest in it, apart from the fact that Molander had been in an unusually good mood the next day.

  What was clear was that Öhman had had a truly terrible day at work, which had included being yelled at by his boss in front of all his co-workers. He had then gone to Harry’s in Ängelholm for a few drinks and when he got home approximately three hours later, he’d immediately become annoyed at the old bat, as he insisted on calling his wife. According to him, she’d been unsympathetic and rude about his work situation and, simply put, hadn’t known her place.