by Kepler, Lars
When he made the adverts more specific and explained that he wanted to keep the girls in cages and exploit them sexually, he suddenly started to get responses. Many of them were provocative, and some tried to frighten him off. Others seemed serious, but when he made further enquiries they appeared to be connected to organised crime.
Stellan doesn’t know why he can’t stop thinking about keeping them in cages. Maybe it’s the idea that it might actually be achievable.
Ten years ago he inherited an old industrial unit that he had tried to rent out. While he was waiting for more responses on the Dark Web marketplaces, he built a sturdy inner wall towards the back of the long, narrow building. Without measuring the walls inside and out, it was impossible to tell that there was a hidden room containing five cages equipped with beds, a shower, toilet, and a small kitchen area with a fridge.
Stellan had almost finished work on it when he was contacted by Andersson.
He didn’t appreciate how dangerous he was – if only he had.
Andersson showed an interest in his plans, and was prepared to deliver five young girls from Romania.
The offer was perfect in every detail. It all sounded great – like getting an inside tip on the horses.
But at the same time, Andersson radiated a compromising seriousness that made Stellan shiver with fear.
He did more research into the Tor network.
Provided he was careful, he couldn’t be traced, because his information was relayed via countless nodes and was encrypted until it reached its recipient.
The deal was a bit too big for him.
But if he managed to build up a client base, he could earn a fortune.
Stellan couldn’t stop thinking about the imprisoned girls. Despite that, he didn’t actually know what he was going to do with them.
He didn’t want to rape them, he didn’t want to beat them. He fantasised about them becoming so demoralised that they would consent to anything without resistance.
Andersson got him to divulge details of his background, and asked complicated questions about loyalty.
He felt annoyed by that, and created a sort of Trojan horse in the form of a PDF document as a way of gaining the upper hand.
When the attachment was opened, Andersson revealed his exact location.
So now Andersson knew that he knew.
Stellan had his address.
Don’t fuck with me, that had been the thought in his mind.
Andersson’s response had been as rapid as it was unexpected.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he wrote. ‘The only way you can regain my trust is by filming yourself slicing through your Achilles tendons.’
That was eleven days ago.
Stellan pretended to believe it was all a joke, but deep down he knew Andersson was mad.
Without making a big deal of it, he tried to pull out of the arrangement, explaining that he’d run into difficulties and was going to have to put the whole thing on ice.
It’s too late for that, Andersson replied.
What do you mean?
I’ll be paying you a visit soon.
Andersson, I’m very sorry, Stellan wrote. I didn’t mean to—
He stopped when the fan on his computer started to run at top speed.
I own you, Andersson replied.
The next moment Stellan’s screen went black. The room went dark. The computer restarted, the hard-drive rattled, the screen flickered, then the connection came back up and suddenly Stellan saw himself on the screen.
Andersson was controlling his laptop remotely, and had activated the camera and seen him sitting at his desk without a top on, a coffee mug next to the keyboard.
With his heart pounding, Stellan left the Dark Web, went into his system settings, closed off the Internet connection and tried to remove the Tor browser from his computer.
Since then Stellan hasn’t ventured onto Darknet. The suffocating feelings of being watched and observed have grown worse with each passing day.
The gates of Herrestadsgatan 18 are open. Rollof raises his leg and pisses on the post, as usual. They pass Jeppsson Engineering and the blue canvas covering an old trolleybus.
Stellan and the dog leave the gravel drive and carry on across the wet grass, past a big, silver-coloured building, towards a long, narrow industrial yellow-brick unit with a flight of metal steps in front of it.
The sign announcing Ystad Tyre and Mechanical Workshop is still there, though the business is long gone.
Stellan ties the leash to a concrete block meant to support roadworks signs, kneels down, ruffles the loose skin on the back of Rollof’s neck and tells him that he’ll be back soon.
He switches the lights on and the fluorescent strip-lights flicker and buzz into life, spreading their harsh glare across dirty benches and heavy mountings. The cement floor is covered with oil stains and drill-holes where machinery once stood. There’s evidence of the defunct workshop everywhere. Anything that could be sold at the auction that followed the bankruptcy had been removed and taken away.
As he approaches the false wall, he hears Rollof start to growl outside. Stellan unlocks the door of the cleaning cupboard, pulls out the industrial vacuum cleaner, takes down the topless calendar, inserts the long key into the lock and pushes the hidden door open.
Inside the secret room he has constructed three cages out of heavy-duty wire mesh, firmly fixed to the concrete floor.
All that they contain at the moment is three plain, unmade beds from Ikea and three plastic bedpans.
The ceiling lamp is casting chequered shadows across the mattresses.
The little kitchen consists of an all-in-one unit containing a sink, hotplate, a hand-held shower to fit on the tap, a microwave oven and a small fridge.
He’s aware that the sensible thing to do would be to dismantle the cages before he sets light to the workshop. Stellan walks over to the furthest cage and inserts the crowbar between the brick wall and the mesh frame and pushes.
He’s planning on siphoning off the diesel from the bus outside Jeppsson’s once he’s destroyed the cages, drenching everything, then starting the fire in here using one of the radiators.
The workshop isn’t insured for its full value, but he can hardly call and ask to change the terms now.
Stellan wrenches one side of the frame out, pushing it away from him as it falls. His phone buzzes and he hooks the crowbar on the mesh as he takes it out and looks at the screen. He’s received a text message from a number he doesn’t recognise: Pour petrol over yourself and …
Stellan doesn’t finish reading the text, just throws his phone at the wall, unable to figure out how Andersson could have got hold of his phone number.
‘What’s going on?’ he whispers, stamping on the phone until it shatters.
He decides not to bother dismantling the cages. They’ll probably burn along with everything else, so he won’t be found out.
Suddenly the lights go out. The fuse must have blown. Stellan feels his way out, stumbling over the paper bag containing screws, angle irons and a random assortment of other spares. The heavy security door is closed and he pulls it open, goes into the cleaning cupboard, then the workshop. All the lights have gone out. Weak grey light is coming in through the windows that haven’t been covered with plywood. Stellan can see that the door to the fuse box with its old enamel fuses is already open.
Outside, Rollof starts barking. The dog is clearly agitated, he’s pulling at his leash, then starts growling and barking again.
A shadow passes one of the windows. Someone’s creeping round the building.
Stellan’s heart is beating so hard that his throat hurts.
He looks at the door in front of him, unsure what to do.
The chain from the broken winch is swinging behind him.
Stellan spins round but can’t see anyone.
He starts walking towards the door, hears quick footsteps behind him and then feels a flare of pain in his head.
His legs buckle and he collapses on the floor, and hears himself making guttural moaning sounds.
His back arches in cramp, his body tenses, then starts to jerk uncontrollably. Someone grabs him by one leg and starts to drag him across the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ he gasps, blinking the blood from his eyes.
The man shrieks something, then stamps on his mouth. Stellan feels him carry on stamping until he loses consciousness altogether.
When he comes round, his face feels wet and warm.
He’s lying on his side, and tries to raise his head as he sees the man overturn the old desk, then come back with a rusty saw in one hand and kick him in the stomach.
Stellan’s breathing rattles off the concrete floor.
He’s thinking that he has to crawl out and release Rollof.
The man stamps on the base of his spine several times, then walks round him.
Stellan feels the man take hold of the back of his head, put the jagged blade to his neck, then start to saw.
He hears the sound change, and just has time to think that the pain is utterly unbearable before everything fades away.
17
Joona and Nils Åhlén are standing in the lift in silence, not looking at each other. The floor is wet with melted snow. The only sound is the swishing of the cables in the lift-shaft as they head up to the conference room on the eighth floor.
Nathan Pollock from the National Murder Commission has already called the first meeting. Within the National Operations Unit, he’s responsible for the search for victims who might fit the pattern of the two known cases.
The look on Joona’s face is one of intense concentration, focus.
The collar of his coat is uneven, half up, half down.
Seeing as they agree that there’s a theoretical possibility that Jurek Walter survived Saga’s gunshots, Joona has to follow this to the end of the road.
The reason he can’t fend off a feeling of impending disaster is that the choice of victim doesn’t fit with Jurek’s sense of balance.
Neither the choice of victim nor the method makes sense.
Jurek isn’t interested in excessive violence, he simply does whatever is necessary to achieve the result he’s after.
The dead men in Germany and Norway both have a link to Joona, but there’s nothing to indicate any clear connection to Jurek Walter.
The fact that the victim at the campsite in Rostock had been whipped doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could have been a masochist, he could have self-harmed, or been assaulted by the other patients in the secure psychiatric unit.
It hasn’t even been established beyond reasonable doubt that he was beaten using a shaving strop. Maybe Joona is getting carried away by his imagination.
And the man in Oslo only had a few scars on his back. They could have been caused during the assault that caused his death.
Joona forces himself to pay attention as Nils tells him that his assistant Frippe has started playing golf with his wife.
Joona tries to smile, and thinks once more that he’s probably overreacting.
Jurek is dead.
The man in Oslo and the man at the campsite must have been killed by the same person, and there was a definite connection to him in both cases.
Joona has been trying to figure out how the murdered sex-offender could have got hold of his private telephone number.
Fabian Dissinger hasn’t cropped up in any Swedish investigation, at least not since Joona started working in the police.
Same thing with the grave-robber in Oslo.
The lift slows down, stops, and the doors slide open.
Anja is waiting for them. Without saying a word she hugs Joona tightly, then takes a step back.
She shows them into the conference room with a satisfied smile. Three smaller tables have been pushed together. On one of them there’s a closed laptop and two bundles of papers and folders. There’s an Advent candelabra with a dusty cable poking out of the bin.
The inner courtyard is visible through the low windows, the flat roofs covered with masts and satellite dishes, the exercise yard of the custody unit and the spire of the old police headquarters.
‘You were quick,’ Nathan says behind them.
As usual, his grey hair is tied in a ponytail and he’s wearing a black jacket, narrow trousers and shoes with Cuban heels.
‘How’s things?’ Joona asks, shaking his old friend’s hand.
‘Shit but OK, thanks,’ Nathan replies, as usual.
He walks over to the wall and pulls down a Christmas picture and a poster telling police officers to keep an eye on their teenage children.
‘Nathan thinks Christmas is bad for the room’s feng shui,’ Anja says.
‘What have you got?’ Joona says, sitting down on one of the chairs.
Nathan jerks his head slightly to get his ponytail in the right place, then opens the laptop and starts to tell them about his dealings with Europol.
‘We asked about victims in the past six months who were serious criminals or mentally ill … violent assaults, sexual offences.’
‘With particular emphasis on signs of beatings and whipping,’ Anja adds.
‘We asked them to discount terrorism, organised crime, the drug trade, and financial crimes,’ Nathan goes on.
‘Their response was that there aren’t any murders that fulfil those criteria,’ Anja says, filling four glasses from the carafe of water.
‘But there must be some, purely statistically,’ Nathan continues. ‘So we contacted the national police authorities, then moved on to separate districts and departments.’
‘I don’t want to say it’s been tough, but there are forty-five different nation states in Europe, so that means an awful lot of heads of department,’ Anja explains. ‘Some of them are suspicious and don’t want to reveal details, but the biggest problem is probably …’
She tails off and sighs.
‘This all gets a bit grubby,’ she goes on. ‘But in general the police don’t put a huge amount of effort into cases of one criminal killing another. And if any of their worst offenders dies, the usual reaction is relief. That isn’t the official attitude, of course, but it’s inevitable … no one becomes personally motivated when a paedophile dies, you don’t spend a lot of time calling other districts, other countries.’
‘I spoke to a Hungarian officer who said he didn’t want to sound like Duterte … but he explained that even if they wouldn’t go so far as to encourage murders of any sort, they really don’t have any objection to society being cleaned up,’ Nathan says.
‘And I spoke to an English superintendent who said he’d put our murderer on the payroll if he moved to Tottenham.’
Joona raises his glass, looks at the surface of the water and the round, translucent shadow on the table, and feels a degree of relief for the first time.
Jurek isn’t trying to make the world a better place, he would never feel any obligation to punish offenders – that isn’t how he works.
‘But I want to stress that we’re far from finished with our inquiries,’ Nathan says, taking an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table. ‘We just thought you’d want to see the three responses we’ve received so far that match the criteria.’
A roaring sound fills Joona’s head.
‘Match?’ he repeats, putting his fingertips to his left temple.
‘Let’s see,’ Nathan says, opening a file on the laptop. ‘This one took a lot of persuasion … at first they said they didn’t have any murders at all, then I was eventually put through to a superintendent in Gdansk … And without any hesitation he told me that they’d found a middle-aged man in the abandoned branch of the River Vistula known as “the Dead Vistula” … The man hadn’t drowned, he’d been beaten to death. His face had been bitten and his head was almost severed from his body.’
‘He’d been in prison for three murders and t
he desecration of a corpse,’ Anja says.
‘What else?’ Joona asks, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘I spoke to Salvatore Giani this morning – he sends his regards,’ Nathan says, and takes a bite of the apple.
‘Thanks,’ Joona whispers.
‘Salvatore had a murder in Segrate, on the outskirts of Milan … Last Thursday a woman by the name of Patrizia Tuttino was found with her neck broken in the boot of her own car, outside the Department of Reconstructive Surgery at the San Raffaele Hospital … During the search of her house they discovered that she had carried out at least five contract-killings before she embarked upon her gender realignment.’
Nathan frowns as he taps at the laptop, then turns it towards Joona to show him a picture.
The shadow of the hospital building’s cupola reaches across the pavement to a red Fiat Panda with a damaged front bumper. There’s a dead body lying in the open boot. The plastic bag over her head is smeared with lipstick on the inside. Her dress and fur coat are black with mud. She’s a tall woman, with full breasts, broad thighs, and thick knees.
‘And the third victim?’ Joona asks.
Nathan rubs his forehead.
‘There’s a popular national park outside Brest-Litovsk in Belarus, the Białowiez˙a Forest. Last week a man’s body was found in the undergrowth behind some rubbish bins at the new tourist attraction based around Ded Moroz, who’s a sort of eastern Slavic Father Christmas … The victim was a man who worked as a warden in the park. He’s been brutally assaulted, both his arms were broken and he’d been shot in the back of the neck. His name was Maksim Rios.’
‘I see,’ Joona says.
‘Our Belarusian colleague said the man had been whipped in the past year, “like some poor kid in an orphanage”, as he put it.’
‘I need to think,’ Joona says.
‘We’re still waiting for pictures, as well as responses from plenty more countries … As Anja says, the problem is that most of them don’t have any objection to some of their offenders disappearing.’
Joona sits with his hands over his face as he listens while Nathan relates the sarcastic response of the police in Marseille.
