X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  She took out the old extra phone Fabian had insisted on and fired off a short text to say she was about to enter the property. They hadn’t been in touch in the past hour, and if he was holding up his end of the bargain, he was busy distracting Molander. That was probably why he wasn’t replying straight away. He couldn’t exactly pull out his old Nokia and wave it about in front of his colleague, he’d have to find a moment to step away.

  While she waited, she pulled out Elvin’s keys, selected the one marked with white tape and a drawing of a fish and tested it in the padlock. According to Fabian, it was the last key left to identify. Fishing ponds, an old fishing boat and a picture of a fish. Why not?

  Sadly, it didn’t fit. She couldn’t even get it to go in all the way. She tried the rest of the keys. Mostly so no one would ask her later why she hadn’t. But to no avail. None of them came close to fitting.

  After another minute of twiddling her thumbs, she was unable to stop herself from taking off her backpack, pulling out the pliers she’d brought and cutting a hole in the fence. She couldn’t just stand around wasting time, waiting for a text from Fabian that might never come. If she set off an alarm, well, so be it.

  Six minutes later, she was inside and she raced on with sweat pouring down her face inside the ski mask. She knew the layout from Google Maps and the map from Elvin’s boat: the three ponds on the left and the slightly larger one on the right. The many hours of staring herself blind at the screen the night before were finally paying off.

  The problem was that she had no idea where she was going. Time was too short and the property too large for her to wander about aimlessly. The forensic evidence could be hidden pretty much anywhere, if this was even where Molander kept it.

  Wherever it was, though, the evidence was likely still being kept frozen to ensure the samples remained intact and didn’t degrade. That suggested there was a freezer or some such in one of the buildings. She’d counted six cabin-like buildings on the map. In addition, she could now see a number of sheds, a large skip and an abandoned fishing boat next to a pile of fishing equipment.

  That alone would take all day to go through.

  Without any real plan, she walked on towards the end of the road and did a sweep out towards the three ponds on her left, looking for something, anything, to guide her search. But apart from a large outdoor scale, a bath and a pile of junk, she saw nothing to make her pulse quicken.

  Instead, she lowered her eyes and began to study the gravel. There were a number of tyre tracks, but none that continued past the end of the road into the foot-long grass. And she couldn’t make out any footprints.

  She continued down towards one of the sheds and climbed a ladder propped against the roof. From up there, she had a better view and was able to make out something in the tall grass. It was too early to say whether it was tracks. It could just be that the soil was less rich in that spot.

  Either way, it did look like the grass was flattened and slightly yellow. Kind of like a faint fairy ring, except that this was a relatively straight line that disappeared off between two of the ponds.

  She climbed down the ladder and followed the track through the grass, past the ponds towards a red wooden house, where she found her explanation in the form of a wheelbarrow, parked upright. Of course that was what had rolled through the tall grass, and judging from some sections of the track, it had been heavy.

  She walked over to the green door and studied the white enamel sign, which read Warhammer. A few older screw holes and a frame of green paint around it that looked slightly less faded than the rest of the door suggested the sign had been replaced at some point in the past few years. The same seemed to be true of the locks and the door handle.

  She pulled out Elvin’s keys while she pondered what Warhammer might signify, but didn’t get very far because the key with the fish on it slid smoothly into the lock.

  The house didn’t smell bad, exactly. A bit stuffy, perhaps, and dusty, but there was also a hint of coffee. The grimy curtains of the room’s only window were closed, but the thin fabric and the gap between them let in enough light for her to look around.

  Normally, people like Fabian and his colleagues were first on the scene. She was called in at a later stage, and she’d never had any trouble thinking of it as if it were any other job. She’d never been bothered by the blood or the maimed victims sprawled out in front of her. She’d always been able to compartmentalize and approach her task pragmatically.

  But this time was different. This time, she was first on the scene, and even though the room was neither soaked in blood nor littered with body parts, she had to fight back a growing sense of unease. Maybe it was because of all the things she couldn’t see, all the things that were hidden but that her subconscious had already taken note of and her brain was now putting together.

  She forced herself to move further into the room and suddenly heard a distant but increasingly loud high-frequency screeching from somewhere outside. She pulled open the curtains and peered out of the window but could see nothing to explain the sound.

  Instead, her eyes fell on the desk next to the window, on which were scattered a handful of paintbrushes and surgery pliers of various sizes, a hacksaw, a chisel, a number of syringes and several pairs of scissors. There were also bottles of various sizes, a couple of small jars of paint and ten or so painted plastic war figurines.

  Was that why Molander had named his company Warhammer? She vaguely recalled both Molander and Elvin having been obsessed with a game called Warhammer during their years at the police academy. Was that still a hobby of his, or was it just cover?

  The high-frequency screeching was now so loud it hurt her ears. Moments later, it was explained by the sudden roar of a train passing by just a few feet from the window, on the other side of the bushes. Everything on the desk shook and shifted and one of the tiny jars of paint slipped over the edge and fell to the floor.

  Moments later, silence returned as if it had never been broken, and she squatted down, pulled out her torch and looked under the table. Apart from several more jars of paint, there were a number of war figurines, in various stages of completion, a scalpel with what looked like dried blood on it and a few sheets of paper held together with a paper clip.

  Vaginal hysterectomy – a manual.

  She didn’t need to read on to know what the bed in the far corner had been used for, or what the two posts with some kind of leg supports on them were doing there. She didn’t even need to take a closer look at the patch of dried-in blood on the mattress to know that this was where Ingela Ploghed had been robbed of her uterus two years earlier.

  So this was where Molander had taken her so he could drug her and perform the surgery before dumping her in Ramlösa Park to bleed out. That explained why she’d reacted so strongly to the screeching rails and the roar of the trains, as mentioned in one of the reports in the case file.

  Stubbs turned to the door next to the bed, pushed it open with her foot and peeked into a small kitchen with a worn wooden floor, a grimy old rag rug, brown cabinet doors and peeling ceiling paint. In the far corner she spotted a blowtorch, and on a table next to the window stood a coffee cup, a chipped bowl full of sugar cubes and an opened packet of biscuits. On the kitchen counter sat an old coffee maker, a thermos and a packet of Zoegas coffee.

  She entered, picked up the thermos and shook it. It was half full, and after unscrewing the lid and noting that the coffee was cold but still smelled relatively fresh, she concluded that Molander had been here at some point during the past few days. But why? She looked over at the blowtorch in the corner but it didn’t offer any new ideas.

  A sudden noise made her jump. A sound so familiar she wouldn’t normally have even noticed it. But this wasn’t normally, so when the compressor hummed to life behind her, she turned to the old refrigerator and berated herself for being so distracted she’d overlooked it.

  She opened the fridge door and saw a number of ready-made soups with expiry dates in
July and several bottles of water. What she couldn’t see was any forensic evidence. Not until she opened the freezer compartment. There, in neat little containers, tagged and labelled, was what she was looking for.

  Relieved, she pulled out the Nokia to contact Fabian, but in her excitement, she dropped it on the rag rug she was standing on. Once again, it was the sound that caught her attention, because it was all wrong. She picked up her phone, pulled the rug aside and discovered a trapdoor in the floor.

  She grabbed hold of the flush hatch pull and heaved it open. The trapdoor led straight down into the crawlspace beneath the house, to another trapdoor a foot further down. That one was round and made of iron and looked like it led straight down into the ground.

  She grabbed the handle of the second trapdoor. It was so heavy she had to plant her feet on either side and use both hands to lift it.

  The stench hit her with such force she didn’t have time to duck out of the way – of it, or of the swarm of flies that shot out of the hole and got caught in her hair and lost in her nostrils. But the reek and the flies were nothing compared to what lay slumped in the dark below the sturdy grate welded to the rim of the hole.

  She couldn’t quite make it out. And yet she already knew – that this was the heavy load Molander had pushed through the tall grass in his wheelbarrow. That this was what he’d needed the blowtorch for. That they’d all been deceived, that she hadn’t finally seized the opportunity to leave him after all their years together.

  Which was why she wasn’t the least bit surprised when she could finally bring herself to turn on her flashlight and point the beam down into the dark root cellar that had been converted into a prison. Down at Gertrud, who was lying motionless on the hard dirt floor with her eyes closed.

  62

  THE LIGHT AT the intersection of Tågagatan and Drottninggatan turned red, as though it were completely out of sync with the rest of the intersections. But Fabian, who was already ten minutes late, accelerated, forcing the other drivers to slam on their brakes as he burned through the intersection and turned down Bogseraregatan in Helsingborg’s North Harbour.

  The moment he’d ended the call with Stubbs, he’d contacted Tuvesson to tell her he wasn’t going to be able to make the morning meeting. She’d wanted to know why and had, to his surprise, not accepted his explanation about needing to be with his family.

  Even when he’d insisted, she hadn’t let him take so much as a half day off. What’s more, she’d reprimanded him for being so absent lately, pointing out that he’d overslept as recently as the day before and was now asking to stay home even though the investigation was in a critical phase. That Lilja hadn’t showed up either and wasn’t answering her phone had done nothing to improve Tuvesson’s mood.

  The conversation had gone on for quite a while, and he’d come close to telling her. But with all the questions and explanations, there hadn’t been time. It would take hours, maybe days, to persuade her to consent to an arrest. In the end, he’d seen no other option than to lie to her face and promise to come to work just so he could get off the phone.

  By then, he’d already been late, and if he knew Stubbs, she wasn’t the type to hang around, so she’d likely already entered the property. He could only pray Molander was too busy with the Hallberg-Rassy to have time for anything else.

  Fabian parked his car and hurried out towards the piers and jetties of the North Harbour Marina on foot, past the restaurant where every table was occupied by holidaymakers in sleeveless shirts and pastel shorts.

  He spotted the Hallberg-Rassy about fifty yards further on, moored alongside a pier. Granted, only the mast was visible, but he instantly recognized the double set of spreaders and the radar and anemometer at the top. The rest of the boat was hidden behind crime scene barriers that blocked off parts of the pier.

  Fabian pulled out his police ID, pushed through the inevitable gaggle of rubberneckers standing around with their phones at the ready, stepped over the police tape and walked up to a uniformed officer, who led him in behind the privacy barriers.

  Close up, any similarity between the Hallberg-Rassy and the rest of the boats in the marina was gone. The once white hull was still smeared with dried blood. The mainsail had been taken down, but only hastily tied around the boom. The same was true of the blood-spattered genoa that lay loosely rolled up on the foredeck.

  It was a gloomy sight, and by rights the boat should be destroyed as soon as they were done with it. But that would never happen. It was too valuable and, at the right price, any number of buyers were bound to be willing to ignore its past.

  One of Molander’s two assistants was in the cockpit, dressed in full protective gear, picking up things from the floor with tweezers. The other, also wearing full protective gear, was taking pictures of the body parts lined up in a row on a folding table shaded by an umbrella before packing them into coolers.

  Molander was busy, too, but not with the yacht. Instead, he was standing next to the van with the top half of his protective suit tied around his waist and his eyes glued to his phone.

  ‘Ingvar,’ Fabian called out.

  Molander looked up from his phone and turned to him.

  ‘It’s only me,’ he continued, and he caught himself waving to his colleague, which he normally almost never did. He had to act natural. At least he wasn’t walking too fast.

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ Molander managed a smile. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you were tied up in the morning meeting with the others.’

  ‘We had to push that back. Apparently Tuvesson can’t get hold of Lilja.’ Fabian stopped in front of Molander and focused all his attention on returning his smile. ‘So I thought I’d stop by and make sure you’re not standing around playing Murder Snails during work hours.’

  Molander laughed and pocketed his phone. ‘I wish.’

  ‘I thought you loved this stuff.’ Fabian gestured towards the Hallberg-Rassy. ‘Shouldn’t this be right up your alley? And speaking of which, how are you getting on?’

  ‘Is that why you’re here? To ask how we’re getting on?’

  ‘Among other things.’ Fabian looked over at the assistant in the cockpit, who was disappearing into the aft cabin. He was playing for time. It didn’t matter how, but he had to keep Molander busy for as long as possible. ‘I would obviously be interested to know if you’ve secured any forensic evidence against Milwokh.’

  ‘No need to fret. I’m sure we will both secure and take care of the evidence.’

  ‘I couldn’t be further from fretting.’

  Molander chuckled. ‘That’s what you say. But it’s not what I see.’

  Did he already know Stubbs had gone in?

  ‘But I’d say it’s as expected,’ Molander went on.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You were asking how we’re getting on.’

  ‘So you haven’t found anything that stands out, something that could point us in the right direction?’

  Molander shook his head. ‘But who knows what might turn up. We’re far from done.’

  ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘How long is a piece of string? Speaking of which, maybe we should get back to doing our respective jobs. That is, after all, how we can be most useful.’

  ‘Right now, this is my job. I’d appreciate it if you could show me what you have so far.’

  ‘A person can appreciate many things in this world. I, for example, would appreciate an answer to the question of what that could possibly achieve, other than wasting precious time.’

  ‘It might be that I see something you don’t.’

  ‘I hardly think so. But if you have nothing better to do, who am I to stand in your way?’ Molander turned to the assistant on the pier. ‘Fredrik! Could you give Fabian a quick run-through of what we’ve found?’

  ‘Absolutely! I just have to get these sent off to Flätan!’

  ‘No rush. Fabian seems to have all the time in the world. See you.’ Molander
gave Fabian a curt nod before turning towards the van and reaching for the handle of the driver’s door.

  ‘Hold on, where are you off to?’

  ‘To Kjell & Company on Bruksgatan,’ Molander said without turning around. ‘I’m sorry it’s not somewhere more exciting.’ He opened the door. ‘The camera’s memory card is full, you see, and—’

  ‘Maybe Fredrik could do that instead?’

  Molander let go of the door handle and turned around. ‘And since when are you in charge of how my staff and I do our work?‘

  ‘Unless I’m misremembering, you were the one who went on and on about the importance of you and me working together if we were to have a shot at arresting Milwokh and having him convicted. Is it really so surprising that I would prefer to be shown your findings by you rather than your assistant?’

  Molander said nothing, just stood there, as though he could see right through Fabian and knew exactly what it was really all about. ‘Of course,’ he said finally, and nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s get it over with right now.’

  Fabian was just about to reply with a smile when his phone went off in his pocket.

  ‘Don’t you need to take that?’ Molander nodded towards his trousers.

  Luckily, it was his iPhone, which was why he decided to pull it out, and when he saw it was Stubbs, he put the phone to his ear as quickly as he could to block the screen from view. ‘Yes, this is Fabian.’

  ‘If you’re wondering why I’m not calling the other number, I can only say it’s because doing so is completely pointless, since you never pick up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, who am I talking to?’ He could feel Molander’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head and his only option was to turn to meet them and try to look genuinely confused.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ Stubbs said. ‘Is it because you—’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Hi,’ Fabian broke in. ‘Would you mind if I called you back later, in, say, an hour?’

  ‘Is it Molander? Are you with him right now?’

  ‘You might say that, yes. So, like I said, I would prefer if we could talk about this later, when I’m done here.’