Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  And then there was the cause of the injuries. If her theory turned out to be correct, it said quite a bit about the perpetrator. Or perpetrators, if the bloody woman — Sannie Lemke — was to be believed. As horrible as it was to think, anyone who jumped up and down on a victim wasn’t primarily out to kill. If taking a life was the goal, there were much easier and quicker ways. There must have been some other driving force to the attack, with death just an inevitable side effect.

  According to Sannie, the attackers had laughed and acted like it was a game. Perhaps that was the key? They’d been having fun, and it was all just for laughs. A game where the victim wasn’t the protagonist, just a necessary prop.

  Dunja’s thoughts turned to the “knock the cat out of the barrel” game that was so popular with Danish families around Lent. In olden days, men would compete to kill a cat that was trapped in a barrel. Nowadays the barrel was filled with candy, and it was the children’s job to whack it to bits with canes and sticks while dressed up in costumes, with their parents cheering them on.

  As a little girl, she’d thought the game was creepy and refused to participate. She couldn’t understand what the cat could have done that was so terrible it had to be beaten to death. Today she thought it was downright disgusting and had decided long ago that if she ever had kids they would be spared the activity.

  Dunja sank into Jensen’s desk chair. Even if her expectations hadn’t been that high, she’d still hoped for a few more clues and leads. More theories, even if they were faulty. More reasoning about who might be behind the crime and how they could move the investigation forward. But there was none of that. Did they even intend to apprehend the guilty party, or was the death of a homeless man so uninteresting that they planned to do only what was absolutely necessary, and then let the case go cold in the pile of unsolved crimes?

  She sat up and looked around the room. Unsolved crimes. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Who was to say that this was the first time? She wasn’t aware of any similar cases, but if Ussing and Jensen had always put this much hard work and dedication into their investigations, maybe that wasn’t so surprising.

  Dunja approached the filing cabinet and began going through the contents of a drawer labelled Ongoing Investigations. She found the usual auto thefts and housebreakings, crimes where the police report was no more than an administrative necessity to receive an insurance payout. There were property crimes and drug crimes, and a whole slew of hit-and-runs — cases where no one actually expected the police to do much of anything.

  The folder that got Dunja’s attention was marked Assaults (?). Assault cases on their own were nothing exceptional, but that parenthetical question mark spurred her to start sifting through the documents. As soon as she started reading, she knew exactly what the question mark was for.

  Lars Brøhm, 08-25-2011, Afternoon

  The victim was on bus 338 on his way to Humlebæk, reading a book. At Snekkersten Stationsvej, the passenger in the next seat turned to him and, unprovoked, punched him three times in the face, then grinned and got off the bus.

  Injuries: fractured nose accompanied by heavy bleeding, minor concussion.

  According to eyewitnesses, the perpetrator was accompanied by another passenger. Both were around twenty years of age and wearing dark jeans, athletic shoes, and hooded sweatshirts with the hoods pulled up.

  Trine Seeback, 11-20-2011, Morning

  The victim was walking past the apartment buildings on Blichersvej, listening to music through headphones, when a man approached from behind and grabbed her hair, pulled her to the ground, and kicked her in the face multiple times. Before the victim lost consciousness, she was able to see someone standing on the grass, holding a phone and laughing.

  Injuries: Fractures of the nose, cheekbone, and jaw. Severe concussion and intracranial bleeding.

  No known eyewitnesses.

  Michael Langby, 03-11-2012, Evening

  The victim was biking along Gamle Hellebækevej, north of Helsingør Golf Club, when Perpetrator 1 grabbed him and dragged him to the ground and, along with Perpetrator 2, began to assault him. The victim suffered heavy kicks and punches.

  Injuries: Fracture of the right side of the jaw, heavy bleeding from the right ear, and an injured spleen.

  According to one eyewitness, who was out walking a dog, there was a third perpetrator who filmed the event on a cell phone. All three were in their late teens, wearing Adidas track pants, athletic shoes, and dark red sweatshirts with the hoods up.

  This kind of thing was what frightened her more than anything else. Seemingly random acts of unprovoked violence. Impossible to protect yourself from, coming out of nowhere while you were on your way home from work, wondering what you should buy for dinner. And chance was the only factor that decided whether the victim would be you or someone else.

  Happy slapping.

  She’d heard the term before, had read about it in the newspaper and seen clips on YouTube. She knew exactly what it was. How it had started in England among working-class teens who had lost all hope for the future, how with the advent of smartphones they’d started going out in gangs, hunting down unsuspecting members of the general public.

  The goal: a good laugh, and likes.

  A “game” where one person filmed as the others attacked and assaulted the mark. Then they would post the abuse online, adding insult to injury. She hadn’t been aware of the fad spreading to Denmark. But it was all there in black-and-white, in the pile of cold cases. And the phenomenon was not only there, it had already claimed its first victim.

  30

  Fabian was in the midst of a storm; he felt like a helpless teenager about to drown in sky-high waves of conflicting emotions. What was Sonja doing, and what did that White guy want?

  He was both wounded and worried, and he could feel jealousy bubbling inside him like boiling tar. His pathetic attempts to keep himself afloat had carried him all the way to Arild, where he’d embarrassed himself to such a degree that he finally sank to the bottom like a rock.

  Now he didn’t know up from down. His emotions were still there, but he didn’t dare trust them. Had there been a grain of truth in White’s criticism? Was he the one who had turned his back on Sonja, or had they each played a part in that particular dance?

  Fabian could already picture the fight that lay before them. Neither of them would be able to listen and take in what the other said because they’d be far too busy screaming and hurling accusations. Their mutual promise never to argue in front of the children would suddenly seem unimportant. And a cold war would follow. A long, suffocating silence to accompany them as they dug themselves deeper and deeper into their trenches.

  There was no foreseeable way to avoid it. But Fabian still wanted to try, so he stopped by Ålgrändens seafood shop on the way home and bought a whole kilo of clams. Sonja loved pasta alle vongole, and no one could say he had spoiled her by making it too often. Once a year, max, and every time she would exclaim that no one could make it like he did. The secret was to precook the tomatoes in a good white wine and make sure the clams were extremely fresh.

  But tonight she probably wouldn’t exclaim anything at all. That is, if she even showed up. After his visit to White’s house, Fabian had tried to call her several times, finally sending a text message to ask if she was planning to be home for dinner. He even tried to tempt her by telling her what he was making.

  Fabian hadn’t expected an answer but she had seen the message. He was sure of it, because she still hadn’t learned to disable the automatic “read” notifications. He hoped she would turn up, and that in the best-case scenario, the clams would temper her mood enough to allow him a chance to explain himself.

  He put on Tom Waits’s Closing Time, which he knew she loved, lit some candles, and set the table extra carefully.

  “Did you have a fight?”

  Fabian turned around with the pa
sta pot in hand and saw Matilda, who had apparently read him like a book. She was doing that more often recently. It was as if she could see right through him and Sonja, which made him ignore his urge to brush her off with an indifferent snort.

  “No, but there’s a lot we need to talk about. Between us, I suspect she’s a little upset with me.”

  “You’re the one who should be mad at her.” Matilda turned around and headed for the living room.

  Fabian set the pot down on the table and followed her to ask what she meant, although deep down he suspected he knew. He just couldn’t understand how she had guessed. He and Sonja hadn’t fought in almost two years. They hadn’t even talked about it. But he made it no further than the sofa, where Matilda had lain down, before the front door opened and Sonja walked in.

  “Well, hello there,” he said, receiving no response. “Dinner’s ready, right this minute.”

  “Okay,” Sonja said curtly, hanging up her jacket.

  “Matilda, can you go up and tell Theo?”

  “You mean you want us to wait up there, or…?”

  “No, I mean it’s time to eat.”

  Dinner proceeded more or less as Fabian had expected. In silence. At least when it came to Sonja. Matilda, however, was in rare form.

  “Theo, someone in my class said you’re going out with his friend’s big sister. Are you?”

  “Oh, Matilda,” said Sonja.

  “What, am I not allowed to ask questions?”

  “Sure, but maybe Theodor doesn’t feel like answering.”

  “I am so not going out with anyone.”

  “Well, do you have a crush on her at least?”

  Theodor sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “Matilda, give it a rest,” Sonja said.

  “Why?”

  “People don’t always want to talk about everything.”

  “Oh, like you, right?”

  “Fabian, do you know what’s gotten into her?”

  Fabian shook his head.

  “Anyway, you don’t need to say anything. I can always ask Greta. After all, she knows everything.”

  “Great, you do that,” Theodor muttered.

  “And who is Greta, may I ask?” Fabian said, in the hopes that it might lead to a different topic of conversation.

  “No one. At least, no one you believe in.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start in on ghosts again.” Theodor refilled his plate.

  “They’re not ghosts, they’re spirits. And so far we’ve only made contact with one of them.”

  “Who is we?” Fabian tried to meet Sonja’s eyes. This was something she’d started, after all. But, like a server in an understaffed restaurant, she refused to look in his direction. “Matilda,” he went on, “I know Mom says the basement is haunted, but —”

  “Say whatever the fuck you want,” Matilda cut him off. “But it works, okay?”

  “We do not use that language at the dinner table. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “What, so you never swear?”

  “That’s not the point,” Fabian said, wondering when his sweet little daughter with braided hair who loved to sit in his lap and sing the alphabet song over and over had turned into this pain-in-the-ass teenager whose mood at any given moment was a total gamble.

  “Oh, okay, so what is the point then?”

  “Showing respect to others. Sonja, can you help me out here?”

  Sonja looked at him as if she didn’t speak the same language.

  “You’re the one who’s not showing any respect,” Matilda went on. “I believe in spirits, okay? And it so happens that we have freedom of religion in this country.”

  “Religion? I think I’d call it —”

  “Whatever. We contacted Greta, who knows a hell of a lot more than you do.” Matilda stood up, even though she’d only eaten half her food.

  “Oh, that’s interesting. Like what, for example?”

  “Like how Mom is being unfaithful.”

  The response hit him like a flick of the whip. In the next instant, Matilda had left the table, and a pregnant silence descended on them.

  “I think I’m done now. Thanks for dinner,” Theodor said at last, and he left the table as well.

  How could she have known? Had she sensed it and read between the lines, as he had? Of course — that was why she’d brought it up the night before. But having suspicions and guessing was one thing. The fact that she seemed dead certain — that was something else entirely.

  “Well…” he said, exhaling. “That was certainly a pleasant dinner.”

  “Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Sonja was looking at him with so much hatred in her eyes that he had trouble meeting her gaze.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How could you be so stupid that you would tell her? What the hell were you thinking?”

  “So it’s true,” he said, although it wasn’t what he actually wanted to say.

  “No, it’s not. But that’s not important. What is important is that for some reason you thought it was a good idea to drag your own daughter into this. That’s totally sick, you know that, right?”

  “Sonja. I didn’t say anything to Matilda.” Fabian struggled to remain calm. “I didn’t even know until now.”

  “Okay, so now you suddenly believe in her hocus pocus.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve had my own suspicions. The late nights and the fancy underwear. This equation is no more complicated than that.”

  “Fabian, we work together. Alex hired me to do an installation, and that’s all. But sure, if you want to know so badly, I do think he is considerably more attractive than you are right now.”

  He wanted to respond with fire of his own, to strike back with one argument after the next about how wrong she was. The problem was, he had no arguments. “Okay, well, if that’s how you feel, there’s not much else to discuss,” he said, hoping she would say something that brought them closer to the light at the end of the tunnel, but she remained silent. “But aside from that,” he went on, “I have to ask you to stop collaborating with him.”

  “What? Why would I —”

  “Sonja, just try and listen,” he interrupted, reaching across the table to take her hand. But she pulled away and crossed her arms instead. “We haven’t made this public, so it has to stay at this table. Do you remember Peter Brise?”

  “Yeah, the guy who drove into the harbour and drowned,” Sonja said reluctantly.

  “Right, except it turns out he had been dead for two months. Frozen.”

  She did her utmost not to show it, but he could tell she was interested.

  “The motive was to sell off all his assets and make it look like a suicide.”

  “What, and now Alex is supposed to be the next victim?”

  “Well, he was on the list of potential victims, and the very thought that you were nearby was enough to make me drive up there.”

  “Don’t try to turn this into something it’s not. You drove up there to spy on me, and this was just a convenient excuse. Is he even still on that list?”

  “That’s a little unclear at the moment. I spoke with Molander after I got back, and he was in the process of checking whether any of them have recently gotten new driver’s licences. Because Brise had, and you can clearly see that it’s not the same person in —”

  “But that has nothing to do with Alex, does it?” Sonja cut him off.

  “The problem in his case is that he’s not a Swedish citizen and he uses an American licence. We’ve requested information to find out whether it was recently issued, but that will take time. Several weeks, if worse comes to worst.”

  “So I’ll ask you again.” She looked him in the eye. “Is he even still on the list?”

  “No. For now there’s nothing to s
uggest that he’s in the danger zone. But I had no way of knowing that when I —”

  “Well, now you know. So do yourself and everyone else a favour and respect that.” She rose from the table.

  “Okay, so you’re just leaving now?”

  “I’m going to go work in my studio.” She took a black envelope from her purse and handed it to Fabian. “This has already gone out to pretty much every elite member of the art world in this country.”

  Fabian opened the envelope and pulled out the card. It, too, was totally black, and was folded in the middle. When he opened it, it read in large, gold letters: The Hanging Box by Sonja Risk.

  “If you think I’m going to throw all of this away, think again. This could be my big break, and no matter how jealous you are, I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers.”

  31

  It looked like it might turn into a beautiful day. The sunshine had already started to disperse the early morning fog that covered the ground and the two-by-three-metre hole in the lawn where the teeth of the excavator dug deep into the earth.

  Nearby, a bald man of around thirty-five, wrapped in the misty shroud, lay waiting. He was wearing a pair of beige chinos, and a white shirt that was surprisingly clean considering what he’d been through over the past few days. His bright blue right eye stared straight up at the cloudless sky. Where the left eye should have been, there was only a dark red, clotted pulp.

  The bucket of the excavator nudged the body across the rocky earth and rolled it over the edge, into the hole, which already contained one black body bag. The face struck a large stone in the fall, and the teeth of the bucket happened to tear a substantial hole through the shirt and deep into the belly as it was moving the body toward the middle. But a few loads of dirt and gravel later, both the body and the body bag were covered. The man with the tight-fitting gloves, cap, and coveralls turned off the digger and walked over to a large, silver-grey trailer that was parked next to a truck.

  Inside, he took off his clothes, folded them into a neat pile, and stepped into the shower. His naked, pale body wasn’t only surprisingly slender and boyish, it was also free of hair of any sort. He turned on the shower and rubbed himself with disinfectant. Once he was finished he turned off the water and filled one hand with shaving cream, distributing it over his face and head, and then he began to shave with slow passes of the razor.