Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  “And now you might be wondering why I came all the way out to the boondocks on a Sunday,” Sleizner went on. “Well, when she’s finished with you she’s going to turn her gaze back on me. Me and my chair.” He pointed at his own chest. “Because that is the only thing she’s after. She wants to shove people like us into the mud so she can climb on up and take over like the ‘good’ person she is.”

  Ib had never liked Sleizner, and God knows he still didn’t, but he couldn’t deny that there seemed to be some truth in what he was saying. There was something unpredictable about Dunja, something that kept him constantly on guard, made him feel a little uncertain and a little less worthy. It was as if she didn’t think he was good enough for the job, that he didn’t deserve his position.

  “Okay,” he said after careful consideration. “What do you want me to do?”

  36

  Jeanette Dawn wasn’t happy about tipping the taxi driver, but she had no choice. The last thing she wanted was for people to go around saying she was cheap. Maybe it wasn’t that likely, since the driver was Danish, but thanks to Chris’s success, she was sort of famous now. She’d appeared in the gossip magazine Hänt Extra a couple of times (they once named her the second-best dressed at a premiere gala), and just last spring Residence Magazine had run a feature on the manor house.

  So Jeanette gave the driver a generous tip even though he stank of sweat and showed signs of a lingering head cold. Bad breath was one of her pet peeves. It had felt like her life was shortened every time she took a breath of the stuffy air. But she couldn’t hold her breath all the way across the Øresund Bridge from Kastrup airport, so instead she’d cracked the window. She’d eventually given up on that plan too, as the gusting wind threatened to ruin her hair; she wanted to look good for her husband.

  Jeanette stepped out of the taxi, opened the back door, and unbuckled her sleeping boys. “Sune, Viktor, time to wake up. We’re home.”

  Sune opened his eyes and looked around like he had no idea where he was, only to break down a few seconds later when he realized his pacifier was gone. But Jeanette had already taken a clean one from her pocket and managed to stick it into his mouth before the screaming started.

  She lifted him out of the car seat and set him down on the gravel drive. “Stay there,” she said, walking around the car as she realized that the driver wasn’t going to help her with the bags. Christ, typical Dane, she thought as she helped Viktor out of the car. Denmark had the worst customer service. He was probably one of those Swede-haters who “kept Denmark clean” by driving Swedes across the bridge.

  “Viktor, take your brother’s hand and walk up to the house. I’ll get the bags.”

  Viktor did as he was told with no protest, even though he had just woken up. He really was a sweet boy, the sweetest she knew. She had this thought often — and, just as often, she shuddered at the thought of him starting school in the fall. The very idea of what that unfamiliar and tough environment would do to him made her seriously consider hiring a private tutor.

  But Chris wouldn’t hear of it; he thought the worst thing they could do to their kids was be overprotective. He was probably right.

  She’d missed Chris more than she expected, and now she was really looking forward to putting the kids to bed, setting out some cold cuts, and opening a bottle of wine. Chris would play her the songs he’d written and she would try to put her reactions into words. She was always his first set of ears, and he always took her opinions very seriously.

  Jeanette opened the trunk and got a speck of grime on her new white coat. There was no point in getting annoyed, she thought as she lifted out Sune’s stroller, unfolded it, and loaded the rest of their luggage onto it. She wasn’t about to close the trunk, though; he’d have to make some effort to earn that tip.

  “Mom, look!” Viktor pointed at the trailer that was parked nearby. “What is that doing here?”

  Jeanette had noticed it briefly as they drove up the gravel driveway. But she’d used up all her energy surviving the many odours of the driver, and only now, with fresh air in her lungs, did she react to the odd fact that there was a trailer on their property.

  “Dad is probably just up to something,” she said, although it wasn’t like Chris to make such a big purchase without consulting her first. But there had to be a good explanation, she thought, as she headed toward the front door where the boys were waiting; she heard the driver step out of the car and close the trunk with some Danish curse word.

  “Why didn’t you go inside?”

  “It’s locked, and Dad isn’t answering the bell,” Viktor said.

  “He’s probably in the studio.” Jeanette couldn’t keep her irritation from simmering up as she looked through her purse for her keys. He knew they were on their way home, and he’d had almost a whole week to himself.

  She unlocked the door and let the children run ahead before she started carrying in their bags. Then she hung up her coat, took off her shoes, and went straight to the guest bathroom, where she sat down and took out her phone. If she was being honest, this was what she had missed the most over the past few days. A good connection and time alone. Even if it was only for ten minutes. It was high time for Chris to take over.

  “Mom! Where are you?” she heard Viktor shouting just outside. “Mom!”

  “I’m in the bathroom, and I would like to be left alone,” she said, even though she didn’t want to say anything at all. “Go bother your father.”

  “I can’t find him.”

  “Did you look in the studio?”

  “No, we can’t go in when the door is closed and the red light is on.”

  What was Chris up to? Putting the finishing touches on a song when they were due to arrive home was one thing. But turning on the red light? Hell no, that was not okay.

  “Okay, calm down until Mom is done in here. Go play in your room for a minute.” She heard Viktor’s impatient sigh but was spared a loud protest. Jeanette opened Killer Slugs and made it through another level.

  Killer Slugs was her latest addiction, and although she’d only downloaded it a few months ago, she was already on level seventy-three. Her oath never to waste a single krona on buying extra lives or shortcuts had lasted until level eighteen, where she’d got stuck and had to buy her way out. After that it was a slippery slope. She didn’t want to think about how much she’d spent since then.

  Then again, it’s not like money was a problem. They had more than they would ever be able to spend, so why not enjoy it? She wasn’t about to feel guilty for buying the flamethrower for 289 kronor; after that, she’d made it through the level in just a few minutes.

  After that, Jeanette opened Facebook and glanced through her feed. It was the same old crap. Bad pictures of food, kids having birthdays, and bragging posts about how someone was finally at the gym or out for a run. She didn’t see anything from Chris, though, which was a good sign. It meant he had been absorbed in the studio; maybe he’d even come up with something really great.

  She put her phone aside, washed her hands, and sniffed under her arms. She discovered a musty if faint odour of sweat ruining the fresh citrus scent of her deodorant. But it wasn’t the end of the world. She’d just take a shower before they went to bed.

  Jeanette walked down the hall to the kitchen and found it looking almost exactly as it had when she left the house on Wednesday. There definitely hadn’t been any large meals prepared, and if she knew Chris —

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the large chest freezer standing in the middle of the room. Why had Chris bought another freezer? They already had two in the storeroom, and what was the point of putting this white monstrosity in the middle of the kitchen? It ruined the effect she and the interior decorator had worked so hard to create.

  Looking around, she realized some of the artwork was missing from the walls. That was Chris’s area, not hers, but she knew which pieces
were most valuable, and those were missing.

  Alarm bells began to sound in Jeanette’s head. She grabbed the freezer to keep from losing her balance and took a few deep breaths, her eyes closed, just as her therapist had taught her.

  Chris had threatened to leave her before, enough times that she had stopped paying attention. Was that what had happened here? Had he had taken his chance while she was away with the kids? Like a cowardly fucking dog, he had slunk off with his tail between his legs, taking the most valuable objects, assuming she wouldn’t figure it out. Was that why there was a trailer outside? It didn’t explain the hideous freezer in the kitchen, but that didn’t matter. She was convinced that he had turned his threats into reality.

  Or, hold on—it suddenly struck her. Why would the red light be on if he wasn’t in the studio? Maybe her paranoia was just spiralling out of control. With a fresh burst of energy, Jeanette hurried through the house and down to the studio, where, sure enough, the light was on. She wiped the sweat from her face with the shoulder of her dress, patted her hair, and pulled open the soundproof door.

  As soon as she spotted him, all was forgiven. It no longer mattered what he had done while she was gone or how he had apparently forgotten that they were due home. Because there he was, his back to her, twisting knobs on the mixing board. He appeared totally consumed by the music leaking out of his big headphones; he didn’t seem to notice her. But why was he wearing rubber gloves?

  She moved toward Chris and was just about to place a hand on his shoulder when he turned around with a smile.

  “Hi, honey,” he said, removing his headphones.

  “Hi,” she responded, not because she wanted to, mostly just to fill the silence.

  “What is it?” he went on with the same plastic smile. “Honey, you look awful. Did something happen?”

  He sounded like her husband, and she could see the thick silver skull ring around his thumb, the one she’d given him for his birthday. He even looked like Chris, but something was wrong.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she said in a voice that barely carried.

  “Honey, I thought we agreed not to swear in front of the kids.”

  “Where is Chris? What the fuck are you doing in my house?” She was about to lose it. She could feel her voice and her legs begin to quiver. All Jeanette wanted was to wake up from this sick nightmare.

  The man in front of her laughed with the same indulgent chuckle Chris used when he was at his most annoying. “I mean, not to be too nitpicky, but this happens to be my house,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m mixing my latest product. It’s hella good. Want to hear?”

  “Who are you? And what have you done with my husband?”

  “Mom, who is that?” It was Viktor, who was standing beside her, holding Sune by the hand.

  “Daddy!” Sune exclaimed. Before Jeanette could react, Sune ran over to the man, who bent down to lift him up.

  “Sune, come to Mommy.”

  “No. Daddy.” Sune crossed his arms and waited for the laughter that usually followed whenever he acted like such a little old man.

  But Jeanette didn’t laugh. She was about claw the man in the eyes if that was what it took to get her son back. Something was wrong, so terribly wrong that she couldn’t explain it. Jeanette struggled to remain calm to keep from scaring the boys.

  “Well, at least someone recognizes me.” The man patted Sune’s head. “Sune, did you have a good time? Did you miss Daddy?”

  “Daddy,” Sune repeated, looking at the man with an expression that said he knew deep down something wasn’t right.

  “Yes, that’s right. And listen — you, Viktor, and Mommy need to do exactly what Daddy says now.” The man fixed his eyes on Jeanette. “Or else Daddy will get really, really mad.”

  37

  Dunja had set an alarm for five o’clock and chosen the pinball ringtone — the most annoying one of all — to make sure she wouldn’t fall back asleep. She usually had to wait until ten o’clock before the blood made it all the way up to her brain, but today she felt more rested and energized than ever. Every cell in her body was so ready to go that she had trouble standing still in the shower as the water rinsed the conditioner from her hair.

  Everything was about to turn around. The moment she had been waiting for ever since Sleizner fired her almost two years ago was finally here. In just a few hours, she would be in charge of the investigation. Ussing and Jensen would protest, of course, but in the end they would realize they had no choice but to fall in line and obey orders.

  On Sunday, Sveistrup had listened to reason and given his approval over the phone. He had done his utmost to put off the decision. But Dunja had been adamant, convincing him that if he made any other choice it would come back to bite him. At the same time, a verbal confirmation from Sveistrup wasn’t concrete. She needed to make sure she got it carved in stone.

  After breakfast Dunja took her bike down to Nørreport and boarded the 6:55 train for Helsingør. Thirty-seven minutes later, she got off at Snekkersten and, after another short bike ride, she arrived at the station with more than an hour to prepare for the meeting.

  Dunja already knew what she would say. She had spent the better part of the previous evening practising in front of her phone’s camera, polishing her presentation until it was perfect. The extra time was needed for everything else, like making the coffee and setting out the Danishes. She also needed to move the potted plants so that the blackout curtains could come down all the way when she pressed the button on the remote. Not to mention the projector, which was unreliable when connected to a new computer. But after downloading and installing new drivers, Dunja had both the projector and the sound system in working order and felt completely ready.

  She had expected Sveistrup to be the first to show up, along with prosecutor Julie Hvitfeldt, who would already have been informed of the change in leadership. After that, Ussing and Jensen would saunter in a few minutes late, to prove they were above taking orders from just anyone.

  To Dunja’s surprise, Magnus arrived first, wearing his uniform and looking at her with confused puppy-dog eyes. She had forgotten to tell him. Her guilty conscience manifested as sweat trickling from her pores, and if she didn’t get control of it she would soon have dark circles under the arms of her burgundy blouse.

  “Hi, Magnus. How are you?” she said in an attempt to spackle over the bumps in their relationship.

  “Where’s your uniform?” He eyed her as if she wasn’t wearing a speck of clothing.

  “So, here’s the thing, Ib agreed to let me take over the investigation.”

  “Really? Wow. Congratulations.” He brightened. “Does that mean I get to —”

  “I’m sorry. Believe me, I tried everything,” she said, spurring on the sweat attack. “But it didn’t work. You know how Ib can be when he’s in that kind of mood. Every little change is evil. Like the time they renovated the locker rooms and we suggested painting the walls something other than white. Remember that?”

  Magnus nodded and forced himself to smile. But his eyes said he could see right through her. Dunja had said too much, offered too many details, revealing her lie. Why didn’t she just tell him the truth? That she didn’t have the time or desire to drag around a bunch of dead weight. That he was a decent enough guy, but he might as well give up hope.

  “Listen, let’s talk as soon as I’m done with this run-through. Maybe we can grab lunch, or that dinner?” she said as Søren Ussing and Bettina Jensen strolled in, each holding a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Okay,” Magnus said, nodding at them in greeting without receiving a response.

  “Great, I’ll call you,” Dunja said, trying to overlook the fact that Magnus took a seat instead of leaving the room.

  Meanwhile, neither Sveistrup nor the prosecutor had arrived, even though it was already after nine. “Hello and welcome,” she
said after another long minute of oppressive silence. “Just take a seat and help yourselves. The Danishes are fresh out of the oven. And the coffee’s fresh too, if you want a refill.” Why was she so freaking anxious? She had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “We don’t have all day.” Ussing looked at his watch.

  “We’ll have to see how long this takes.” Dunja pressed a button on the remote and the curtains began to come down without a sound. Everything began to feel better once Ussing made his contempt clear. Whatever his self-image told him, he was nothing but an incompetent bastard and ought to be treated as such. “As I’m sure you are aware, I have not been able to let this go, ever since the incident on Stengade.”

  “No, it’s not every day someone manages to lose not one but two service weapons to a strung-out junkie whore,” Jensen said with a sneer.