The Ninth Grave

by Stefan Ahnhem

  ‘Look, but don’t touch.’ Stubbs set the glass jar down on the table in front of Tomas, who leaned down and studied the four eyeballs swimming around with severed optic nerves as tails. Two of them had blue irises, the third was green, and the fourth brown.

  Tomas looked up, turned toward Jarmo with a tense expression and nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Jarmo.

  Tomas nodded again. ‘With one green and one brown, they must be Fischer’s.’

  33

  IT WAS TOMAS PERSSON’S joke about the perpetrator being hungry that gave him the idea. In a way it would have been easier to do a computer search, but Fabian didn’t want to tell anyone until he knew for sure – the theory was still too fragile. And it would definitely be shot down immediately, given the mood of the group now the two investigations had been combined. He left the meeting room first and made his way down to the archive on the ground floor of the police station. He searched back among the sliding walls to the second quarter of 1993.

  He’d been twenty-seven years old and was in his last year at the Police Academy. Summer had started early and most people in his class were looking forward to a nice vacation before they started work. But not Fabian. All he’d been able to think about was the homicide investigation that was splashed all over the tabloids and got almost daily features. It was somewhat of an anomaly: a serial killer was wreaking havoc in Stockholm. It was the kind of case you only read about, and which never really happened, especially not in a country like Sweden.

  But he still remembered how it had stirred up emotion all over the country, primarily because of the extreme, brutal nature of the crimes and the suffering experienced by the victims, but also because of the conviction: the perpetrator was sentenced to closed psychiatric care instead of life imprisonment.

  He couldn’t even remember the name of the assailant, only that it was something unusual. On the other hand, he did recall that seven victims had been found, all of whom had been confined to different places for several weeks before they’d been subjected to…

  He’d reached the files he was looking. He pulled out the first of the five bulging folders. Here it was: the investigation he wished he’d been able to work on. Once he opened it up, and saw the name in print, everything came flooding back as if it was yesterday: the images the police had released of the various victims, whose eyes had been poked out; the fear that anyone could be the next victim; the headlines that competed to reveal all the details about Ossian Kremph – Sweden’s first real cannibal.

  *

  ‘OKAY, THIS IS HOW I see it,’ said Tomas, keeping pace with Malin through the corridor.

  ‘Anyone see where Fabian went off to?’ asked Malin. Jarmo shrugged. ‘He’s not here either,’ she continued when she walked into their office.

  ‘Maybe he’s just in the john,’ said Jarmo.

  ‘Excuse me, but I was about to say something,’ said Tomas.

  ‘Just keep talking.’ Malin set her bag down on the desk and started rooting around in it.

  ‘Okay, Jarmo and me, we’ve worked on this for over—’

  ‘I can’t bear to hear your whining. Besides, I feel sick as a pig and I’m going to throw up soon if I don’t find… Who took my… Oh, wait, here they are.’ She tore open a packet of Marie biscuits and put two in her mouth at one time. She chewed and swallowed as fast as she could, before sitting down and exhaling. ‘Shit, that was close.’

  ‘Are you done?’ asked Tomas, walking towards Malin, who nodded and stuffed another biscuit into her mouth. ‘Good. Then maybe you can explain to me what you mean by “whining”. Dammit, we have to decide how we’re going to—’

  ‘No, the only thing we have to do is get to work,’ said Malin, swallowing. ‘And if you can’t manage that, I suggest you go and sulk elsewhere.’

  Tomas was about to argue, but Jarmo sent him a look that made him calm down and clench his teeth. ‘What the hell are you waiting for then?’

  ‘Good. Excellent! This is going to be really great, I promise.’ Malin stood up. ‘I suggest that we start by investigating whether Carl-Eric Grimås and Adam Fischer have anything in common. A motive could emerge in the connection.’

  Jarmo nodded, while Tomas stood still and didn’t speak.

  ‘We know quite a bit about the Minister for Justice,’ Malin continued. ‘But what do we know about Adam Fischer? And why do I seem to think I’ve seen him in the gossip magazines?’

  ‘Adam Fischer is thirty-three years old, the son of a diplomat, and his life goal seems to be to never grow up,’ said Jarmo. ‘He likes spending Daddy’s money, drives around in expensive cars and goes to gala premieres. You don’t need much more than that to get into the gossip magazines.’

  ‘And his father? Is he familiar to anyone?’

  ‘Yes, to Jarmo and me anyway,’ said Tomas. ‘His name is Rafael Fischer and he was the Israeli ambassador here in Stockholm for most of the nineties.’

  ‘Israeli ambassador?’ Malin repeated.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Jarmo, pointing at a black-and-white picture on the whiteboard.

  The picture looked like it was from a holiday celebration and showed an older man with chalk-white hair, wearing a dark suit and sitting at a decorated table along with two other men.

  ‘Is Adam the younger man to the left?’ said Malin.

  ‘Yes. We believe this was taken at his sister’s wedding. When was that again?’ Jarmo turned towards Tomas.

  ‘August of 1998,’ said Tomas. ‘The old man died three months later.’

  ‘Why is Adam holding the cane and not him?’ asked Malin. ‘Doesn’t Adam look a little pale and skinny?’

  Jarmo pulled the picture down to get a closer look. Sure enough, Adam was sitting with a cane in one hand, looking very feeble. ‘You’re definitely right about that. We had assumed he was just borrowing his father’s.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Tomas grabbed the picture.

  ‘Who’s the guy on the other side?’ Malin pointed to the man sitting to the right of the ambassador, leaning towards him as if he was about to say something in confidence.

  ‘Good question,’ said Jarmo. ‘We’ve tried to find out, but haven’t succeeded.’

  ‘Here he is again, but with the current ambassador.’ Tomas pointed at a colour photo taken years later of the same man getting out of a car with the current ambassador and another man.

  ‘And who’s the third guy?’ said Malin.

  ‘Israel’s ambassador in Copenhagen,’ said Jarmo.

  ‘So he knows everyone. Have you been in contact with people at the embassy and questioned them?’

  Jarmo and Tomas shook their heads.

  ‘I think we’ll start by… There you are. Where’ve you been hiding?’ Malin asked Fabian, who was walking in with the archive folders in his arms.

  ‘I was in the archive investigating a suspect.’ Fabian dropped the pile of folders on his desk.

  Tomas grabbed one of them and opened it. ‘Ossian Kremph? Who the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s funny you’re the one who’s asking because you were the person who made me think of him.’

  ‘Wasn’t he that cannibal?’ said Jarmo, and Fabian nodded. ‘It was before my time here at the bureau, but I was in a patrol car and there was a lot of talk about it.’

  ‘Does anyone feel like telling me what you two are talking about?’ said Malin.

  ‘This,’ Tomas said, laying out a double-page spread with pictures of mutilated victims with their eyes poked out.

  ‘Nice,’ said Malin. ‘Why just the eyes?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Fabian. ‘But from what I recall, he maintained that he was only obeying the voices that ordered him to collect various “chosen souls”.’

  ‘Oh, no, not another crazy. And he’s been released?’

  ‘He’s been out for three years and four months.’

  ‘So he’s been declared competent?’ asked Malin, shaking her head. ‘As if a little medicine and therapy
can help anyone who’s capable of these crimes.’

  ‘As if,’ said Tomas. ‘The rest of the medical world accepts that a paralysed lower body will always be paralysed, but psychology is different. Everyone can get healthy with a little treatment, regardless of how disabled they are.’

  Malin looked at Tomas with a surprised expression. ‘Did you think of that yourself, or did you read a newspaper for the first time?’

  Tomas answered her with a smile and reached for the package of Marie biscuits.

  ‘Help yourself. I’ve lost my appetite anyway,’ said Malin, browsing further into the old investigation. ‘Is there any connection between the victims, or were they simply chosen at random?’

  ‘From what I remember, the victims were both men and women. And I think one was somewhat of a celebrity,’ said Jarmo.

  ‘You’re thinking about that radio voice who read the sea reports,’ said Fabian.

  ‘Yes, exactly! And Fischer and Grimås are kind of semi-famous.’

  ‘Maybe he chooses people who get him worked up,’ said Tomas.

  ‘At any rate, we can definitely identify one person who almost certainly worked him up,’ said Malin, looking up from the folder. ‘Do you know who was head of this investigation?’

  The others shook their heads.

  ‘Carl-Eric Grimås.’

  34

  DUNJA HOUGAARD SAT IN Kim Sleizner’s visitor’s chair, trying to make herself as small as possible. She really should have been sitting proud and stretched with her legs spread, just like Jan Hesk surely would have done in her situation. Against all odds, she’d managed to identify a strong prime suspect in less than twenty-four hours. If everything worked out, Benny Willumsen would get the conviction he deserved, and three older investigations would finally be closed – four, if you counted the Swedish case.

  But the mere thought of being alone in a room with Sleizner was enough to make her want to jump up and run away. She forced herself to breathe calmly, lowered her eyes, and looked at the dried coffee stain on her jeans that made it look as if she’d peed her pants.

  It was so quiet she could hear the air running in and out of his congested nostrils from the other side of the desk while he skimmed through the old case files and her draft of a report. She wondered if he was dragging it out just to prolong her agony. She only looked up once she

  heard the document folder being closed. Sleizner was looking at her, smiling.

  ‘I knew you were the right man for the job,’ he said, removing his reading glasses. ‘And just so you know, I’ve had a good feeling about you since the first time I saw you.’

  Dunja didn’t know what to say, so she emitted an affected laugh.

  ‘It’s nothing to laugh about – it’s the truth. So enjoy it while it lasts. Tomorrow it may be over. No, I’m kidding. On a more serious note.’ He held the folder up. ‘This is completely brilliant. I don’t know how you made the connections between a dog-bitten girl found in a dumpster in 2005 and Karen Neuman being hacked to death in Tibberup, but the important thing is that this Benny Willumsen will be put away for life. It’s always fun to rap those Swedish bastards on their knuckles on their home turf. I dare say, Dunja, I’m going to live on this for a long time.’

  Dunja forced a smile and nodded.

  ‘First and foremost, I’d like to hold a press conference, where I intend to let you get all the attention you deserve.’

  ‘Press conference? When were you thinking about holding it? Shouldn’t we arrest—’

  ‘Relax – of course he’ll be arrested before we give out any information. But as you know, I like to be the first to the punch, and I want you to feel assured that I don’t intend to let anyone else take credit for your work. Do you understand me?’

  Dunja nodded.

  Sleizner sighed. ‘You look like you’ve just lost your best friend, and it’s all my fault.’

  ‘That’s not it at all. I feel as if there’s work left to do before we can declare victory. Just like our Swedish colleagues, we lack sufficient evidence to get him convicted. We should recover the car in Helsingør Harbour as soon as possible so we can prove that the perpetrator ditched his own car and took Aksel Neuman’s. Who knows, maybe Aksel is down at the bottom of the harbour too.’

  ‘You’re quite right, but everything has to be done in the right order. Naturally, we need to arrest him before anyone else is subjected to his ingenuity. With a little luck we’ll find enough technical evidence in his apartment to keep the dredging costs off our budget. You should be aware that scouring a harbour in the kind of winter we’re having is not exactly a cheap operation.’

  ‘Right, but did you read through the entire Swedish case file? They didn’t find anything of value in his—’

  Sleizner interrupted her with a laugh and shook his head. ‘I’ve read enough to know that I have more experience with this sort of thing than you do. Dunja, it will work out. If we don’t find anything in the apartment, we’ll definitely pull up the car.’ He got up, rounded the desk, and stood behind her. ‘I hope you understand what a boost this is going to be for your future career. Before you know it, you’ll be sitting in my chair. I promise you.’

  The moment his hands landed on her shoulders, she felt as if she was being penetrated by a cold poker. Was this what it felt like to be violated? The thought came from nowhere and was gone just as quickly.

  ‘Dunja, you can’t walk around with this much tension. You’re as hard as a rock.’ He started massaging her in calm, soft movements. ‘Try to relax. Not to brag, but if there’s anything I can do, it’s massage.’ He took hold of her shoulders and pulled them back so that her breasts stuck out. ‘You ought to think a little more about your posture. It doesn’t look professional to sit at a press conference looking like a sack of potatoes. If you don’t already have neck pain, you’ll get it in the future.’ He moved her hair to the side and started kneading the back of her neck. ‘It came out of nowhere as soon as I started here. If Henrik Hammersten hadn’t insisted I go for a massage session, I’d certainly be in a wheelchair today. I’ve gone twice a week ever since and haven’t had so much as a hint of a problem.’ His fingertips worked their way up and started massaging her scalp and behind her ears.

  ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention, I’ve arranged for you to sit at the management table at the Christmas party. Not only do we get served, so you don’t have to rub elbows with the others, we get unlimited schnapps. Nice, huh? We’ll get an opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’

  Dunja was no longer listening to what he was saying. Her racing heartbeat drowned out the sound of everything else. She wanted nothing more than to get up, turn around and slap him as hard as she could, but her body was paralysed. She couldn’t even ask him to take his hands off her. All she could do was sit there and feel every muscle in her body grow more and more tense.

  35

  WHEN BENNY WILLUMSEN WOKE up, he had no idea where he was. Was he even still in Sweden? The light from the lamp right above him made it hard to see anything. Only once he had managed to loosen the tape that stretched over his jaw and forehead could he twist his head and grasp his position. He was taped down naked on his own kitchen table in his Malmö apartment.

  The picture of his beloved Jessie, which he’d framed and hung the day she passed away, dispersed any doubt. She had died almost seventeen months ago, and every day still felt like an uphill battle. He’d thought about getting a new dog, but decided it would never be the same.

  Slowly and hesitantly, his memory finally started to come back to him. He’d taken his regular evening walk. Even though it had snowed heavily, he had chosen the long route, which took almost two hours. He’d felt calm, without the slightest sense of worry.

  It was the opposite of how he’d felt after his conquest in one of the houses down by Fortuna Beach in Rydebäck two years ago. The act of raping and stabbing the woman to death on the beach while her husband was just fifty metres away watching the late news had alwa
ys made him feel calm and warm. But the day after, worry had started to creep in. He realized he had committed a mortal sin by missing an insignificant little detail: the fucking unpaid parking tickets that had whirled out of his car when he had opened the door to drive away. He could have sworn he’d picked them all up, but he heard on the news that the police had found a lead that would take them to the killer. He had lain awake for a whole week before the Helsingborg police finally tracked him down and arrested him.

  If they hadn’t also mistakenly accused him of the murder of the bolted-down woman who landed at Ven, he would almost certainly have been convicted. Now he was out, he promised himself to never, ever again miss a detail, regardless of how small and insignificant it might appear. And so far he hadn’t done that either.

  After he returned from his walk, he relaxed by devoting the rest of the evening to exercise. He did three sets of dips, push-ups, double arm lifts, angled dumb-bell presses and Romanian Deadlifts. He’d hit his max and his chest was pounding when he finished.

  Then it happened.

  He’d heard something fall through the mail slot, but by the time he got to the kitchen to investigate, the room was already filled with white smoke.

  He’d tried to get out, but he couldn’t crawl or pull himself forward. The last thing he remembered was someone entering through the front door, walking up to him and leaning down; someone in dark, heavy clothes, wearing a gas mask over their face.

  And now he was taped down on his own kitchen table without any idea of what was coming. He had his suspicions. He’d immediately dismissed the police as being a complete improbability. And during the few minutes he’d been awake, he’d gone through every one of all his old conquests in detail.

  He’d initially been convinced it was one of his very first failures, someone who was still alive and was now out for revenge. But, on second thoughts, he decided that none of them had what it took to subject him to this manipulation. Instead, he wondered whether it might be one of the relatives of the Rydebäck victim, but finally rejected that idea.