Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  “If only…” Tuvesson sighed and shook her head as if she were about to give up on everything.

  “Hold on. Surely they didn’t let her go?”

  “That’s exactly what they did. Ragnar wasn’t there himself, since he took today off. Apparently she claimed to be his attorney and threatened to sue them for unlawful imprisonment if they didn’t release her. This is the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. Although something similar apparently happened at the Kronoberg jail in Stockholm in 2004, if Ragnar Palm is to be believed. And you know what else he said? Besides putting the blame on being understaffed? That bastard had the gall to say that none of this would have happened if we’d just kept him up to date on the investigation. That they would have been ‘more on their guard.’ Isn’t that just about the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Fabian didn’t know what to say. The question didn’t even interest him. All that mattered now was that both suspects were on the loose once more. Whose fault it was didn’t change the fact that they were back to square one without even the slightest idea of what to do next.

  86

  Although it was typical of Sleizner to leap at the chance to hold a press conference, Dunja hadn’t thought him stupid enough to make Sannie Lemke’s identity public. But there she was. The photo splashed across the TV screen showed Sannie in the back seat of a police car, her terrified eyes looking straight at the camera. What the hell was he thinking?

  “This might come as a surprise to you.” Sleizner was back in the frame, and, true to form, he had applied powder to his forehead and nose, so they wouldn’t appear shiny in the warmth of the spotlights. “But not to those of us who have experience with this sort of thing.” He gestured at Ib Sveistrup, who was sitting to one side of him, and Søren Ussing, on the other. “Believe it or not, just because the papers aren’t reporting on something doesn’t mean we’re sitting around twiddling our thumbs.” A smattering of laughter among the journalists. “In any case, this is the result of intense but perfectly typical police work done behind the scenes.”

  Dunja held up the remote to turn off the TV. But even though the very sight of Sleizner made her feel physically ill and every impulse in her body was screaming at her to throw the appliance through the window, she couldn’t bring herself to press the red button.

  “Now that we have an eyewitness, the investigation into the brutal murders of Jens Lemke and Bjarke Friis has taken a big leap forward. I am, of course, proud and happy to have been able to lend a helping hand.” Sleizner fired off one of his patented smiles, which came right through the screen and sullied everything in its wake.

  Dunja had had enough and went to the bathroom to wash her face. She felt dirty. As if he were in her home again, getting her all sticky.

  “So the Copenhagen police have taken over the investigation?” asked one of the journalists.

  “No, and I want to emphasize this — we have not in any way taken over.”

  Dunja dried her face and caught sight of a green toothbrush in the mug, along with her own. It had to be Magnus’s, she thought, dropping it into the garbage.

  “But we are working together closely, and in this particular case my team and I were able to contribute an important piece of the puzzle. Furthermore, she happened to be in Copenhagen when she was apprehended.”

  Magnus had been so convinced that he would get to spend the night that he’d brought a toothbrush. She still couldn’t understand how he could have stooped so low as to sneak around behind her back. He had tried to come up with an excuse, of course — it was all for her sake and something about Sleizner putting the pressure on, more or less forcing him to do it.

  “Lemke is currently being interrogated here in Helsingør, under the supervision of my colleagues here. I’d like to hand over the rest of the questions to them.”

  But Dunja hadn’t caught more than just fragments. The rage inside her was thundering louder than road construction, and as soon as she had enough strength she’d asked him to leave.

  “She was your main suspect from the start. Is that still true?”

  Dunja returned to the living room and watched Sveistrup lean toward the microphone.

  “No, we brought her in primarily as a witness, and right now she’s co-operating and helping us produce a composite sketch.”

  “How are you handling the stolen service weapons and attempted shooting of a police officer?”

  “As it stands now, we are prioritizing her witness statement.”

  “Does that mean you will not be pursuing a —”

  “It means we are currently devoting all resources to identifying and apprehending the person or people who are guilty of these horrific murders.” Sveistrup leaned back, away from the microphone.

  “Let me clarify something.” Ussing cleared his throat. “Without getting into specific details, some of the actions from the police side of the equation were not entirely optimal, which was, without a doubt, a contributing factor to why things went as they did.”

  “Are you referring to Officer Dunja Hougaard?”

  “We’re not here to point fingers.”

  “But now that it’s come up,” Sleizner broke in, holding a finger in the air. “We also shouldn’t hide the fact that there are a few rotten eggs in our organization. Luckily, they are the exception rather than the rule, but Hougaard is definitely one of them. As some of you are aware, I’m speaking from personal experience, and I am absolutely convinced that both Ib and Søren will agree with me when I say that her days on the Danish police force are finally over.”

  She wasn’t surprised at all when Søren nodded. But Ib? Sure, he looked as if someone had programmed him to do it against his will, but still. He knew better! How could he just sit there and let them speak unchallenged? At least that finally gave her enough energy to press the red button.

  87

  “Come on in,” the half-deaf old man called to Malin as she followed him into the cottage. Its ceiling was so low that she had to stoop even though she was only five foot four. “Have a seat right here and I’ll fetch the coffee. It’s already on.” He set down the rifle, leaning it against the wall, and walked toward the stove. “The lady does drink boiled coffee, yes?”

  Malin nodded and sat at one of the two spots at the small kitchen table with its checked vinyl tablecloth and plastic flowers in a vase of water. She’d only ever had boiled coffee once before, on a horseback-riding trip in the wilderness of Norrland fifteen years ago. Although it had been the middle of a bitterly cold winter, she had declined the steaming hot coffee and only gave in after the rest of the group acted like it was a nearly divine experience.

  It had tasted just as bad as she’d imagined, and she was still convinced today that everyone else had agreed with her deep down, although they’d sat in the snow claiming it was the best they’d ever tasted.

  “I hope the lady likes jelly rolls,” the old man said, setting down a platter of jelly roll slices that appeared to contain enough preservatives to survive World War III alongside the cockroaches, no problem.

  “Like I said before, we’re in the midst of a homicide investigation,” she said in an attempt to move things along. “So if you know anything about these two children…”

  She took out the photo album that had been hidden in the wall and opened it.

  The man paid no attention to the pictures in the album; he just calmly poured the coffee and sat down across from her. “The lady should know that I have been the caretaker of this estate since I was seventeen, and I will tell her, back then there were no cellular phones or colour TVs, and a caramel only cost one öre if you bought five of them.”

  “Yes, I’m sure those were the days. Do you recognize these —”

  “What?”

  “I was just asking if you recognized these two children,” Malin said as loudly as she could without sounding too annoyed.
She was starting to understand why he hadn’t heard her when she’d called out back at the other cottage.

  “Why, back in those days a guy could pinch the girls’ bottoms and call a chocolate ball a Negro ball without getting arrested. Isn’t the lady going to try the coffee, by the way?”

  Malin nodded and forced herself to take a sip, which, to her surprise, didn’t taste bad at all.

  “Seventeen years old, Brylcreem in my hair. No, back then you could certainly get yourself a quickie here and there, when you least expected it. Why, I would go around to the cottages fixing this and that, and if you were as well-hung as I was, getting tail was no problem. Know what they called me? The ‘Negro.’ And you know why?”

  “Well, thanks for your time,” Malin said, standing up.

  “What?”

  “I said, I don’t have time to sit here listening to your male-chauvinist stories which I’m guessing are about to spiral into some sort of racist-as-shit Sweden Democrats propaganda. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going now. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “But not for the old count. Oh no, he had to force them, if he was going to get any,” the man went on, undaunted. “And then he got what was coming to him.”

  Malin turned around in the doorway. “The old count? Are you talking about Henning von Gyllenborg?”

  “He did exactly as he pleased. He would force himself on anyone he liked while the men were out working. The younger the better. Aren’t you going to taste the jelly roll? It might look dangerous, but I guarantee it doesn’t bite.” He held out the platter.

  Malin sat down again, took a piece, and tasted it. “So you’re saying that Henning von Gyllenborg went around assaulting women in the area?”

  “Everyone knew, but no one dared to say anything. He paid for everything.”

  “What about Vera Meyer? Did he rape her too?”

  “What?”

  “Vera! Meyer!” Malin shouted so forcefully that bits of jelly roll flew out of her mouth.

  “No need for the lady to shout. I’m not deaf yet, only half deaf. Vera, she was the big favorite there for a while. I remember one summer, I think it was 1978. He was there every afternoon until she got knocked up. After that, of course, it wasn’t as much fun anymore.” He shook his head, stuck a sugar cube between his front teeth, poured the coffee onto the saucer, and began to slurp at it. “But then again, Vera wasn’t the only one who swelled up. Far from it.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand. It wasn’t Vera’s blood they found on his penis.”

  “But she was the only one who dared to trick him and take his money without getting the abortion. And it wasn’t peanuts, that’s for sure.”

  “So that was when she got pregnant with Didrik and Nova?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, cursing herself for interrupting his prattle as she took another piece of jelly roll.

  “Even though she was knocked up with twins you could hardly tell,” the man went on. “She was a little big in the first place, so he probably didn’t suspect anything. Thought she had done as he’d told her. So she had them in secret, at home in her bedroom, and didn’t register them anywhere. Didn’t even let them out of the bedroom for the first couple of years. I suppose she was afraid that he would find out and maybe even hurt them, so she never let them out of her sight. They weren’t allowed to go to school or anything. Instead she taught them everything she knew at home. I think they were six or seven before he found out.” The man shook his head, put another sugar cube between his teeth, and slurped his coffee.

  “He was furious, of course, and he beat her with a piece of firewood in front of the little ones. After that she was never herself again. But he wasn’t done punishing them. Far from it. He started coming back every day, sometimes more than once. But this time it wasn’t Vera, it was the children. And it wasn’t just the little girl who had to get down on all fours. The boy, too. Sometimes he took them both at once and made them do things to each other. Things a lady shouldn’t think about. The kinds of things that get stuck up here and soil the brain forever.”

  Malin nodded. She understood.

  “But if there is a hell.” The man looked her in the eyes for the first time. “Then he is still burning, that’s for certain.”

  The children had finally had enough, taken their revenge with eighteen stab wounds, and then gone up in smoke.

  Until now.

  88

  Sonja had fantasized about this for years; the first time had been over a decade ago. The thought had occurred to her out of nowhere. The children had fallen asleep, and she and Fabian were lying head to foot on the couch watching an episode of Six Feet Under. It was something about the daughter and her lover — she couldn’t remember quite what. In any case, something had woken inside her, and if he’d only turned off the TV there and then he could have done whatever he wanted to her. Nothing had happened, of course, and she’d pushed the thought away, feeling that it was just as forbidden as cheating.

  But the thought kept coming back. Not at home on the sofa, but while she was alone in her studio, where she could let it wash through her system in peace and quiet. It happened far from every day, but as the years passed, the idea of someday getting to live out her fantasy grew stronger and stronger.

  She hadn’t mentioned it to Fabian. Not even on that late night five or six years ago when they’d opened another bottle of wine and he asked her if there was anything she wanted them to try. Anything at all, he’d said, emptying his glass.

  Although deep down she had been hoping that he would surprise her with this very question someday, she’d just shook her head and reminded him that the kids would be up in just a few hours. The idea of talking about it, putting words to her deepest desires, made her feel disgusted and turned off all at once.

  Only now did she realize that it was the wordless surprise she was after. Where he would read her mind and take the initiative without apologizing or asking permission, without thinking of the consequences. Not because she had asked him, but because he wanted to.

  The blindfold didn’t let in a single ray of light. Although it was midday, the darkness was so thick that it felt like she was floating around in weightlessness and would have risked drifting off into space if her hands weren’t tied to the headboard.

  In order to get everything ready for the party the next day, she had worked all night long. The Hanging Box would be the daring new addition to Alex White’s impressive collection, and she could already picture what it would do for her name. This wasn’t the first time she’d had an exhibition, but it was the first time she would meet the absolute crème de la crème of the Swedish art world.

  Best of all was that, in all her career, she had never come close to creating such a sterling piece of work. And given the limited time she’d had to make it, it was nothing short of a miracle. For once she had known exactly what she wanted to do.

  Sonja had just finished emptying the little plastic bag of seven diamonds she’d purchased for 140,000 kronor into the 1.98-metre-long wooden box and was screwing the lid in place when he’d suddenly turned up right behind her with the blindfold in hand. She hadn’t heard him come in; she had been so absorbed in her work that she hadn’t even thought to wonder when he would return from Los Angeles.

  Without a word, he tied the blindfold over her eyes, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. There he bound her hands with a velvety fabric and began to undress her with gentle, silent movements.

  First her shoes and her overalls, which were covered in so much dried paint that they could stand all on their own. After that he pulled up her T-shirt and bared her breasts, and finally he pulled off her panties. Up to this point he hadn’t even brushed against her skin, and now she lay there waiting for what would happen; she could hear him undressing as well.

  She was cold. Not too co
ld, just enough to be aware of every square millimetre of her body. How much it had been longing for this, and how it was realizing that it would finally happen. Her wait was finally over.

  He began with her breasts. Maybe not the most creative choice. But anything could happen when there was no plan, and something about the warm tip of his tongue on her right nipple seemed like nothing she had ever experienced before. The blindfold dialled all her other senses way up, causing the feather-light touch to spread throughout her body like rings in the water.

  His tongue danced its way to her other breast, and by now both of her nipples were so hard that they ached. She moaned and realized that this was far better than she could have dreamed. Meanwhile, his tongue played down across her stomach, leaving a damp line behind. And when he blew on it, it was as if her whole body turned into one big erogenous zone.

  She begged him to enter her. To stop dragging it out. But he paid no attention to her desires; he just kept moving down and down. She spread her legs to give him more room, and when his tongue finally found her clitoris, her body heaved as if it had never experienced such a feeling.

  Usually she couldn’t handle any contact for a few minutes after orgasm. For some reason, it always felt like a stab of the knife, and it often took at least half an hour before Fabian could touch her again, although by then he was usually asleep.

  This time her body screamed out for more. And more it got. First in the form of a tongue and a finger, which found its way like a heat-seeking missile to the very spot she had never discovered on her own. She screamed out loud as she came again, and it felt like she was falling helplessly down into something warm and soft.

  She had no idea how long she stayed there, how long he pressed his fingers into every hole, how long he tasted her as if he would never get enough. Time was moving in circles, or maybe it was standing still. She lost count of how many times she came, and she pushed her pelvis up so he could reach even deeper inside her.