Fabian nodded, stood, and heaved an inward sigh of relief. He’d won, and now he could keep working with a free rein.
10
SOFIE LEANDER OPENED HER eyes and had to squint to avoid the lamp that was shining right down on her. She couldn’t do much more than open and close her eyes anyway. Straps were tightened so hard around her from her feet all the way to her hips, lower arms and torso that she’d lost feeling in a number of places. The strap across her neck was not pulled as tight, but prevented her from raising her head more than a millimetre or so.
In a way, she felt like she deserved it. Her attempts to alter reality were a sin so grave that punishment was unavoidable. What did she imagine would happen? That there was a statute of limitations on what she did because so many years had passed without repercussion?
True, she’d harboured a nagging worry that the truth would eventually catch up with her, but she hadn’t expected this. Not even her worst nightmares had come anywhere close to where she now found herself: lying strapped to a plastic-covered table with a hole for defecation, a lamp blinding her with its glow. The little stainless steel table beside her was still polished and covered with tools. The apparatus was still turned off, but it only needed a quick flip of the switch to do its job. A drip and feeding tube were fastened in her mouth. Everything suggested that it wasn’t a question of if but when it would happen.
She tried to count the days, but the strong, continuous light along with her irregular sleep pattern made it virtually impossible. If she was to guess, she’d been lying here between three and four days, which should mean the police weren’t far off. Her husband, surely, would have contacted them the evening she disappeared and given them all the information they needed to pick up a trail as soon as possible.
The question was whether they would get here in time.
She could hear the humming of the tube feeder starting up under the table and soon her mouth would be filled with that viscous batter that tasted of chemical strawberry. The mere smell of it gave her nausea. On one occasion she’d decided to see what would happen if she tried to spit it out, but the tape around her mouth was too tight and the effort almost choked her. Since then she forced the viscous fluid down in small, quick clumps and tried to think about something else so that she didn’t vomit.
This time the process was harder than usual, and she found herself counting the clumps. There were usually between thirty and forty of them. But now she was at twenty-two and couldn’t imagine getting one clump over forty.
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty— What was that? She lost track and listened. Had there been footsteps, or was it just her imagination? The batter filled her mouth, and she got rid of it all in one big vomit-inducing swallow. If her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her, it was the first time she’d heard anyone other than herself since she’d been here.
Once the tube feeder finally stopped and the artificial batter began swelling in her stomach, she determined that someone was definitely walking on the other side of the sheet-metal wall. The steps sounded distant, but they were getting closer.
What if help was on the way? But it was too quiet to be a big team of police. It sounded like a single person on their way right towards her. Was it time now? Maybe this was the end she’d done everything to suppress in her mind, but had actually been anticipating for several days. She heard the steps getting louder and realized now that, contrary to what she believed earlier, she wasn’t ready at all. Panic spread like a forest fire through her body. She would have screamed at the top of her lungs if she could.
This wasn’t how she intended to react. She broke down in silent tears and visualized the scalpel penetrating her skin. Soon the electric motor that raised the slatted louvre gate that led into her room would start and the truth she’d swept under the carpet for so long would laugh right in her face.
But the electric motor didn’t start, and instead of stopping the steps kept going. It was someone else. She tried to whistle and make a sound, any sound at all, but it was impossible and all she could do was lie there and listen as the steps grew fainter.
Apparently it wasn’t her time yet.
11
CONSIDERING WHAT HAD HAPPENED, and above all to whom it had happened, Dunja Hougaard shouldn’t have been the least bit surprised at the media circus that had taken over the area. All the major Danish newspapers were there – Berlingske, Politiken and Ekstra Bladet – and both DR and TV 2 were reporting live. Truth be told, she hadn’t expected anything at all – she’d had her hands full just getting through the morning.
She got out of her car an hour later than Jan Hesk and the rest of the team. She suppressed a sour belch and, as she forced her way through the horde of journalists, she promised herself she wouldn’t let this happen again. There was nothing worse than a hangover – or meltdown, which might be a more apt description of her current state
She actually had no problem with the headaches, which a few pills could always alleviate. It was the nausea that made her lose her lust for life. Her stomach was turning inside out and refused to keep anything down, terrorizing the rest of her body. She’d had to stop by the side of the road twice, and lost most of the breakfast she’d forced down in front of Carsten, so that he didn’t know how bad she was really feeling.
‘There you are. Where have you been hiding?’ asked Jan Hesk as soon as she stepped into the building.
‘There were a few complications on the way over,’ she said, noticing that Hesk, who’d always been slender, had now acquired a little belly under his shirt.
‘I see. What kind of—’
‘I promise. You don’t want to know. I’d be more interested in hearing about what you’ve been doing,’ she said, pulling on a pair of shoe protectors.
‘Well, I guess it’s pretty standard. We have a number of question marks, but none that we won’t figure out eventually – assuming we could just work in peace.’ Hesk showed her through the house. ‘The biggest problem right now is keeping the media at bay. I’ll be damned if they’re not worse than the mosquitoes at my country house in Sweden.’
Dunja looked around on the way in and realized immediately that her salary would never be enough to afford anything even close to this house, even if she became head of the whole homicide squad.
‘The guy was on Let’s Dance… what was it? Three or four years ago? And he couldn’t even dance.’
‘But have you found anything?’
‘It’s better if you see it with your own eyes.’ Hesk stopped outside the bedroom door and let Dunja go in first.
She came to an abrupt standstill after the first step and stared at the double bed in the middle of the room. The last time she’d seen Karen Neuman was in a gossip magazine at her dentist. There’d been pictures of her and Aksel from some film premiere, and she’d been struck by how in love they appeared to be, even though they’d been married for over twenty years.
Now she was lying alone in her bed, naked and drenched in her own blood, which had run out from her vagina and the wounds around her torso. When she moved closer she saw that the stabs were so deep that they must have come from something other than an ordinary knife, something bigger and heavier that could penetrate through all the layers of skin, and through the cartilage and bone in some places.
‘No, don’t turn away. Keep looking.’ Predictably, it was Oscar Pedersen from forensic medicine, who came out from the adjacent bathroom in a white coat. ‘Humans are creatures of habit. We often don’t even notice what’s bothering us. The same thing happens with battered human bodies, I promise you. I agree that it looks exciting.’
Pedersen was as exhilarated as a kid at Legoland, except there was a naked, mutilated woman in front of him.
‘Have you been able to identify the murder weapon?’ asked Dunja.
‘It’s definitely not a knife.’ Pedersen walked up to her. ‘If I were to bet my salary, I would say an axe. And I don’t mean the toy version.’ He measured with his hands. ‘We’re
talking real power that can cut wood in a single stroke. See for yourself how parts of the ribcage are completely shattered, not to mention the inner organs.’ He opened up one of the wounds in the abdomen to get a better look inside.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she said, feeling the rest of her breakfast on its way up.
‘No, come on and look inside.’
Hesk wouldn’t rescue her – he had his back turned over by the closet. And under no circumstances did she want to treat the medical examiner to a scene, so she leaned forward and looked down into the mutilated bowels. A sweet, heavy odour hit her and forced her to hold her breath.
‘You see? She’s completely mutilated, as if someone ran her through a threshing machine.’
Dunja nodded and looked a little longer, before she straightened up and met his gaze. ‘And the blood from the abdomen?’
‘I haven’t got that far yet, but if I were to make a guess he probably had a little fun with her before he went bananas.’
‘And by he, who are you referring to?’
Pedersen looked at Hesk, who had now joined them.
‘Most of the evidence suggests that it’s Aksel Neuman,’ said Hesk.
‘Aksel? Her husband?’ asked Dunja. Hesk nodded. ‘Are you sure? I can’t imagine he would ever subject his wife to something like this.’ She nodded toward the bloodbath in the bed and felt like she was starting to regain her energy.
‘And what do you base that on? The gossip in See & Hear? You’ve been here for, what, a whole minute?’
Dunja was about to say something, but stopped herself. This was Hesk’s investigation, not hers. Officially they had the same job title, but he had more years under his belt, which meant that such a high-profile and complex investigation automatically ended up on his desk. Her task was to assist and offer her thoughts and ideas – not take over. Besides, he’d hit the nail on the head as far as the tabloids were concerned.
‘Okay, this is how the scenario looks right now.’ Hesk placed himself in the middle of the room. ‘Neuman was reportedly seen at the Karriere Bar here in Copenhagen with Casper Christensen, one of the guests on his talk show last night. According to his associates at TV 2, he was supposed to spend the night in his apartment on Vesterbro, but decided to drive home instead. Richter has secured clear traces of his BMW X3.’
‘Are you talking about me?’ probed crime scene investigator Kjeld Richter on his way into the room.
‘I’m just explaining how the leads indicate that Aksel Neuman was here and then left in his car.’
Richter nodded as he scratched his stubble thoughtfully, which, along with his sideburns and eyebrows, was in major need of a trim. ‘But it so happens that we’ve found traces of a third car.’
‘What do you mean, a third car?’
‘There was another car besides Aksel’s and Karen’s that was here sometime after midnight.’
‘And how do we know it was after midnight?’ asked Hesk.
‘There was no new snow in the tracks and according to weather reports it stopped snowing around midnight.’
‘So there was a third person involved?’ said Dunja, and Richter nodded.
‘That strengthens my theory,’ said Hesk. ‘The woman brings someone home believing her husband is going to spend the night in the city, but the old man comes home and catches them in flagrante. Shit hits the fan and he runs out to get an axe, while Don Juan uses the opportunity to flee. We’ll have a witness as soon as we find him.’
Dunja shrugged.
‘You still don’t think it’s him?’ Hesk now sounded really irritated.
Dunja didn’t know what to say. Gossip or not, she was convinced Aksel Neuman wasn’t the killer.
‘Can you give me a single reason why it isn’t—’
‘Sorry, my cell phone is ringing,’ Dunja interrupted, looking down at the screen. ‘Uh-oh, it’s Sleizner. It’s probably best that I take it. Yes, hello, this is Dunja Hougaard.’
‘Now I’m actually a little hurt. Do you really not have my number programmed into your phone?’ asked Sleizner in a feigned pitiful voice.
‘Of course I saw that it was you,’ said Dunja, while she racked her brain to understand why he was calling her and not Hesk. ‘But I always answer that way during work hours.’
‘I see. Then I guess I’ll have to make sure to call a little more often after work hours. Tee hee.’
Dunja responded to Hesk’s perplexed look by throwing out one hand.
‘But that’s not what this is about. The press are all over me like leeches.’
‘It’s the same here. If your question concerns the investigation, I think it’s better that you speak with Jan.’
‘If I wanted to talk to Jan, I would’ve called him. Here’s how it is: I’ve called a press conference in an hour and I’ll need something to offer.’
‘But—’
‘Anything at all. Just so they calm down for a bit.’
‘It’s too soon. We don’t have a clear scenario yet, and Richter needs more—’
‘Dunja, it feels as if we’re getting off course here. You must have something? What have you been doing for all these hours?’
‘There are some indications that a third person may have been involved somehow, but we don’t know in what capacity or the role they may have played.’
‘So it could be a lover or the perpetrator?’
‘Or both,’ said Dunja, feeling that she was on such thin ice that it would be a minor miracle if she didn’t break through. ‘But so far these are only loose theories. If I were in your shoes I would be extremely careful about what I—’
‘But, as luck would have it, you’re not in my shoes. Tell the others that we’ll have a meeting as soon as you’re all back. See you.’ Then he hung up.
‘Excuse me, but what the hell was that?’ said Hesk. ‘Why does he call you when I’m the one leading the investigation?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering myself. I have no idea.’
‘And you’re quite sure of that?’
‘What are you trying to insinuate? That I had a secret meeting with Sleizner to take over the investigation?’
Hesk threw out his hands. ‘I’m not the one who got here a full hour after everyone else.’
Dunja felt like she needed to sit down. The nausea was back.
12
FABIAN RISK HAD A long list of things he wanted to investigate. He wanted to get in touch with whoever was responsible for security in the parliament building and request a copy of the surveillance video he’d seen at SePo. He wanted to study in detail Carl-Eric Grimås’ call traffic from the last hours before he disappeared, and he wanted to meet the chauffeur who’d been waiting in the car. But he couldn’t do anything other than pretend he had all the time in the world and sit down with the others around the table in the windowless meeting room.
With their coffee cups in hand everyone pulled out a chair, which after years of wear had become ‘theirs’, and sat down. Once, a few years ago, Fabian had decided to sit on one of his colleagues’ chairs, just to see his reaction, but he’d quickly rejected the idea as much too risky and moved before it was too late.
The thermos went around with coffee that had been sitting on the burner so long that it tasted more like tannic acid than coffee. As always, the tin of Danish cookies stopped with Markus Höglund, who insisted on picking out his favourites, which, Fabian noted, were becoming more numerous. He couldn’t understand where it all went. It certainly didn’t go to his waistline. Markus wasn’t even thirty-five yet, but that couldn’t be the only explanation. In Fabian’s case the shift in metabolism happened at twenty-five, and every extra calorie had stayed with him ever since.
Carl-Eric Grimås had introduced the cookie tin during his time at the Bureau, and the tradition had survived, like a stubborn cockroach that refused to die. Edelman never had any of the cookies and made a brave effort to end the tradition a number of years ago, but was met with such firm resistance that
he reintroduced it immediately. Fabian had been unsympathetic to the protests and was sure that no one really liked the buttery cookies with powdered sugar – no one but Höglund anyway.
‘We have quite a bit ahead of us so we might as well get started,’ said Edelman, turning toward Malin Rehnberg. ‘Malin, you’ve been in Copenhagen and from what I’ve understood, it was a huge success.’
Malin nodded as she emptied her glass of Coke. ‘Absolutely. I would recommend that everyone take the opportunity to go next time. I think they were talking about Berlin in the spring.’
‘Berlin sounds super,’ said Tomas Persson, running his hand over his military haircut. ‘What do you say, Jarmo?’
‘You know how I feel about travelling,’ Jarmo Päivinen muttered in his unmistakable Finnish-Swedish accent.
‘In any event, I now have a good contact in Copenhagen. She’s sitting in the exact same position as—’
‘Malin, I’m sure you have a number of interesting experiences to share. But I thought that could be the last item of the meeting, time permitting,’ Edelman interrupted, sending her a smile.
‘Sure.’ She took a cookie and tried to make eye contact with Fabian, who was busy pretending that his cell phone hadn’t just started vibrating in his pocket. He had to wait until the meeting had started before he could take it out under the table and look at the text message: Call as soon as you have a chance. Niva
There was no way he could leave immediately because everyone, not just Malin, would wonder what was going on. But waiting until the meeting was over was out of the question.
‘And we still have no news about Diego Arcas?’ Edelman asked.
‘No, unfortunately that scumbag is still destroying one girl after the other and laughing all the way to the bank. But what can I do? As long as Inger is on leave, I’m alone,’ said Markus Höglund, rinsing down a cookie with a gulp of coffee.
‘What should you do? Sorry, but I can’t just sit here and keep my mouth shut,’ said Tomas Persson, pushing a pinch of loose snus inside his upper lip. ‘Markus, can you explain to me why you can’t seem to do anything other than sit here and consume sugar? There must be any number of things you can take care of on your own.’
The Ninth Grave Page 7
