The Ninth Grave

by Stefan Ahnhem

  ‘May I please have your cell phones,’ the woman said, stopping by a staircase that led up to one of the hut-like cubes. A thick door stood open at the top of the stairs, and, once closed, the cube would be hermetically sealed.

  They handed them over and went up the steps and into the cube, which was painted brown and had dark red wall-to-wall carpeting. Three men in suits, each wearing a different-coloured tie, were sitting around an oval walnut table that had some glasses and bottles of mineral water on top of it. Fabian immediately recognized the general director, Anders Furhage, who stood up and greeted them as the door closed behind them.

  ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice. As I’m sure you’ve understood, everything said during this meeting is completely confidential.’

  Fabian and Edelman nodded and sat down.

  ‘Let’s get right down to business,’ said Furhage, looking them both in the eyes. ‘Something, let’s call it a situation, has come up which may actually turn out to be a non-situation – an insignificant little trifle.’

  Fabian glanced at Edelman, who looked as perplexed as he felt.

  ‘Melvin Stenberg here is responsible for personal security and can tell us more,’ Furhage continued, before nodding towards the man with a blue tie.

  ‘At 3:24 p.m. today, about an hour after question time in parliament concluded, Carl-Eric Grimås walked out the west door of the parliament building, where a car was waiting for him. According to our driver, Grimås never showed up and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Wait a minute, do you mean that the Minister for Justice is missing?’ said Edelman.

  Stenberg adjusted his tie and nodded curtly.

  ‘We’ve searched through the areas around the government buildings and Rosenbad, and have been in contact with both his family and the chief of staff at the Ministry of Justice,’ said the man with the green tie. ‘But right now everyone is just as confused.’

  Silence descended on the room while everyone took in the fact that one of the country’s highest-ranking ministers, who was also ultimately responsible for their operation, had vanished without a trace.

  ‘And you’re calling this a trifle?’ Edelman shook his head.

  ‘Herman, that’s not what I said at all.’ Furhage smiled at Edelman. ‘Let’s not nitpick here. As you’re fully aware, at the present time we don’t know whether—’

  ‘He’s missing, dammit! How many politicians have to sacrifice their lives in this country before we wake up? I mean, doesn’t Grimås have personal protection twenty-four hours a day?’

  Furhage turned towards the man with the blue tie, who cleared his throat. ‘Well, everything is a matter of resources and priorities. We did a risk assessment that concluded there was no impending threat pattern as long as he was inside one of the parliament buildings.’

  Oh well, at least we have an eavesdropping-proof cube to sit and talk in, thought Fabian, as Furhage gave the green tie the go-ahead to press the button on the table’s built-in control panel.

  A screen lowered along one wall. ‘This sequence is taken from the surveillance cameras at the door in question,’ he said, starting the projector.

  The video, which was not much more than a minute long, showed Carl-Eric Grimås walking towards the double glass security doors with a briefcase in his left hand. Once he got there, he ran his pass card through the reader, opened one door, then the other, before disappearing out into the snowstorm.

  Fabian recognized his clothing from pictures in the newspaper: the winter coat with the big black fur collar and an unmistakable hat had become the minister’s trademark. The timestamp in the top left corner of the video showed 3:24 p.m.

  The projector turned off and the screen soundlessly crept back up into the ceiling.

  ‘And one of your cars was waiting outside to pick him up?’ Fabian said. It sounded incomprehensible to him.

  The green tie nodded. ‘I will add that it was snowing heavily and that the driver did not have a clear view of the whole door.’

  ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘If you’re referring to Grimås, then 11:43 a.m. through the main door of the west parliament building,’ the green tie said, looking satisfied with being able to provide a quick, precise answer.

  ‘At 11:38 a.m. he left Rosenbad and walked at a brisk pace along Strömgatan, but instead of taking Riksbron he took a detour over Vasabron to Kanslikajen – with personal protection,’ the blue tie said.

  ‘And when did question time start? At twelve?’

  ‘No, not until twelve thirty, but Grimås is never late.’

  ‘And the car that was waiting. What time was it supposed to be there?’

  ‘Three o’clock,’ the blue tie said, taking a sip of water.

  ‘So even though he’s known for always being on time, he doesn’t leave the parliament building until 3:24.’

  The men in ties exchanged glances, whereupon Furhage cleared his throat.

  ‘Let me clarify one thing. You’re not here to take over the investigation. On the contrary, you are only here to be informed. As long as we are unsure if any crime has been committed, we’re the ones who will control the investigation.’

  ‘And what could have happened, if not a crime?’ said Edelman, pulling on his beard.

  ‘The fact is, so far there’s actually nothing that points to foul play, and just as… excuse me, what was your name again?’ Furhage turned to Fabian.

  ‘Fabian Risk.’

  ‘Just as Risk suggests, there are a number of unanswered questions here; questions that we are working hard to get answers to right now. Jumping to a lot of conclusions is pointless in my opinion. Of course, we’ll give you real-time updates.’

  ‘I see. You’ve known about this since three thirty today and you’re only informing us now. Is that what you call “real-time updates”?’

  ‘Let me put it to you this way: at the present time we have neither a body nor an explicit threat. There is nothing that suggests this might be a terrorist act, or something along those lines. On the other hand, there are quite a few people who report that he has appeared both stressed and unfocused recently, which suggests that he has disappeared of his own free will and simply wants to be left alone.’

  Edelman snorted. ‘Have you thought about whether your so-called “threat analysis” is worthless? Maybe all you’re trying to do now is buy time for your team to sweep away all the traces of your failure?’

  ‘Herman, might I suggest that we keep this on a seemly level,’ Furhage said, clearly unperturbed by Edelman’s attack. ‘No one here is trying to sweep away anything. We wouldn’t be sitting here if that was the case. We’re after exactly the same thing as you – to find out what happened. And, sure, it’s very possible that we’ve made a wrong assessment in our threat analysis. But that doesn’t change the fact that the investigation stays with us until we can confirm a crime really has been committed.

  ‘I want to underscore that this is not about keeping you on the outside, but only about the benefit of being able to work quietly. Both you and I know the advantages of that, Herman. The moment you start up your machinery this will be out on the front page of every tabloid, and all we’ll be able to do is hold press conferences for days on end.’

  ‘And if I don’t go along with it?’

  ‘You will. And to save you unnecessary headaches, I’ve already cleared it with Crimson.’

  Fabian observed Edelman, who sat quietly without moving a muscle. The rug had just been pulled out from under him and he knew it. Without his knowledge Furhage had already contacted the police commissioner and got the green light to keep the National Bureau away from the investigation. In all probability, it was on Crimson’s orders that they were now here being informed. They’d been outmanoeuvred.

  His boss let the seconds tick by without revealing what he was thinking. He calmly took out his cigarillo case with one hand, while he fished out his old Ronson lighter with the other. Before anyone could say a word, the c
igarillo was glowing an angry red. Neither Furhage nor any of the ties said anything. Only after two long puffs did Edelman put it out in one of the glasses.

  ‘All right, but we’re done here. I look forward to getting ongoing information about how everything develops.’

  ‘Of course.’ Furhage extended his hand. ‘You’re at the top of my list. You know that.’

  Edelman ignored the outstretched hand and turned his gaze towards Fabian, who got up and left the cube, reminding himself to never, ever say yes to a management position.

  *

  EDELMAN WAS JUST AS taciturn on the way out through the labyrinth of corridors as he’d been when they’d arrived. It was impossible to know if that was because he was worried about being overheard or simply too angry to talk. Fabian kept quiet too, even though he was full of questions.

  It wasn’t until they were out in the snowstorm on Polhemsgatan that Edelman suggested they get into Fabian’s car, although a taxi was already waiting for Edelman. They crossed the street and Fabian unlocked the car, got in and started the engine to get the heat going. Edelman sat in the passenger seat with his eyes aimed straight ahead at the snow-covered windshield.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Grimås is—’ Edelman took a deep breath. ‘An old friend that I still care about.’

  Fabian nodded. Long before his time at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Grimås had been Edelman’s boss, before he left the police department to devote himself to politics. Everybody at the department had observed the fruitful collaboration between the two and Edelman never missed an opportunity to talk about what he and Grimås had done in their day. But that they still had contact came as a surprise to Fabian.

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have happened?’ asked Fabian.

  Edelman shook his head. ‘But I suspect the worst. So it’s of the utmost importance that we find out as much as possible before SePo’s cleaning patrols have gone too far.’

  ‘You believe that’s what they—’

  ‘I don’t believe anything. But the last person I trust is Furhage.’

  ‘So we should start an investigation, even though Bertil Crimson—’

  ‘Not we. You,’ Edelman interrupted, turning to Fabian. ‘Let me be completely clear: there’s no one else at the department who is even close to having what it takes. And both you and I know that.’

  ‘But how could I start a separate investigation when Bertil Crimson has explicitly—’

  ‘Let’s not call it an investigation. What I mean is that… if we don’t get to the truth, who will? SePo?’

  Fabian nodded. Edelman definitely had a point.

  ‘Make sure to keep yourself far enough below the radar. Until we know more, you won’t report to anyone other than directly to me.’ Edelman got out of the car and slammed the door so hard that most of the snow came loose from the windows. Fabian put on the windshield wipers, which removed the last of it, and turned out on to the street.

  He tried to concentrate on the traffic, but his thoughts took on a life of their own. He was so preoccupied with trying to understand what had really happened that he finally had to pull over in a parking lot on Norr Mälarstrand, lower the side window, and take a deep breath of cold night air.

  Not only had the Minister for Justice disappeared under mysterious circumstances, Edelman had also chosen him to lead a secret investigation. And he knew just where to start and who to contact.

  3

  MALIN REHNBERG WANTED NOTHING more than to have a full-bodied glass of red Zinfandel, which felt like the obvious pairing to the steak on her plate. At home in Stockholm she’d had no problem skipping alcohol the moment she got pregnant. The craving had disappeared all on its own. It was a different story here in the Danish capital where it had returned full force. Or maybe it was it because Dunja Hougaard – her new contact at the homicide unit in Copenhagen – didn’t seem to have any problem drinking a whole bottle alone.

  They had found each other after only a few hours at the conference, where homicide investigators from all over Europe had gathered for two intense days to network across borders. Right then and there they had decided to be each other’s respective contacts. It had been so pleasant that Malin suggested they go out to eat together.

  Now they were at the Barock restaurant in Nyhavn, and Malin was starting to appreciate why Danish children were the last in the world to learn to speak. After only one glass of wine Dunja Hougaard had left the safe harbour of English and switched to Danish, which got harder and harder to understand as her wine consumption increased. Malin had initially interrupted her and asked her to explain when there was something she didn’t understand, but she soon reverted to nodding and smiling, mostly trying to understand context.

  She couldn’t even manage that at this point. It was as if Dunja’s words were squeezed together into one long incomprehensible sludge, and more than once she caught herself thinking about something else entirely – including how envious she was of the Dane who wasn’t pregnant and could drink as much wine as she wanted. Or how jealous she was of her bright red jeans and her body, where everything still sat exactly where it should.

  Malin hated looking at herself. She had to wear ugly maternity clothes and would exchange her body for just about anyone else’s in the blink of an eye. She’d gained fifty-five pounds, and there was still over two months left – two months of hell.

  Even if she really tried she couldn’t think of a single place on her body that wasn’t swollen, aching or generally florid and sweaty. She felt like one big sticky minefield of cramps and complaints that risked blossoming out into something really painful at any moment. Take her belly, for instance. She rubbed it every morning and evening with a cream so expensive that she had lied to Anders about the price. But whenever she lowered her eyes, her stomach was so full of stretch marks that she looked like she’d been run over.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have a little wine?’

  Malin jolted back into the conversation. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Lit-tel wine,’ Dunja Hougaard said, attempting to speak Swedish as she held up the bottle.

  ‘Thanks, it’s okay. I promised myself not to drink a drop of alcohol as long as I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Why?’ Dunja looked sincerely confused, which made Malin wonder whether she was visiting another planet and not just a neighbouring country.

  ‘It’s just not good for the foetus. Alcohol enters the placenta and—’

  ‘That’s so typically Swedish.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have so many rules and prohibitions – you’re so scared, to be quite honest. How much damage can a simple little glass of wine do?’

  Malin took a deep breath to keep her irritation in check. ‘Maybe it hasn’t reached Denmark yet, but there is actually quite a bit of research that shows that when the mother drinks alcohol the foetus develops more poorly and the risk of ADHD increases. Besides—’

  ‘No, that’s just not true.’ Dunja took a gulp of wine and met Malin’s gaze. ‘Here in Denmark we’ve just completed a study with several thousand five-year-olds, and doctors could document no difference whatsoever in the children where the mother had two drinks a day while pregnant and the ones where the mother had completely abstained from drinking alcohol.’

  ‘I see, that sounds strange though. On the other hand, they can prove just about anything with those studies. The point is—’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Dunja held up an index finger. ‘I think the only risk of you having a little glass of wine tonight is that your children will have a happy mother.’

  ‘What do you mean “happy”? I’m happy, aren’t I?’ Malin could feel her irritation winning the battle and was now storming in.

  ‘Okay, Malin. You’ll have to excuse me, because I’m a bit drunk, but I just have to say it.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Malin, realizing that she suddenly understood every word.

  Dunja looked Malin in t
he eyes. ‘Unfortunately you don’t seem that happy.’

  Malin didn’t know what to say or how to react. She ought to get angry and leave, tell her newfound Danish friend that she could go to hell with her alcohol-glorifying bullshit, and find another contact in Stockholm. If Anders had so much as breathed anything that might resemble criticism she would have taken the pruning shears and clipped off his nose without batting an eye.

  But for some unfathomable reason she did not get the least bit angry. On the contrary.

  ‘Okay…’ She emptied the glass of mineral water. ‘Give me a little wine then, dammit.’ She held out the empty glass and Dunja filled it, laughing, as she signalled to the waiter that they wanted another bottle.

  They raised their glasses and toasted. Malin savoured the taste of the wine, and felt a wave of pleasure spread in her body.

  ‘Oh, God, that’s good.’ She had a little more. ‘But you do have one thing completely backwards here – not just you but all Danes. Sweden doesn’t have more prohibitions than Denmark. It’s the exact opposite.’ She took yet another sip. ‘Here, for example, you can’t live in your summer house as much as you want. Kan jang, an ordinary dietary supplement, is banned, and businesses can’t even be open on Sundays. Talk about a nanny state!’

  ‘Okay, okay. I see your point. But—’

  ‘And best of all, did you know that by law Danish contractors are forced to wear lip balm with sunscreen whenever they work outdoors?’

  ‘That’s a joke.’

  ‘No! It’s the truth!’

  They burst into laughter and Malin once again raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘You know what? I’m very misundelig of your pregnancy.’

  ‘Misundelig? If that means “envious”, then I’m more than happy to switch places.’