The Ninth Grave

by Stefan Ahnhem

  He heard someone get up from the couch in the living room, which confirmed he wasn’t alone. He tried to twist his head to see who was walking into the kitchen, but he couldn’t move. Then he felt a blindfold being placed over his head, and for the first time in years, he was afraid. Not much, but enough to feel the unfamiliar tickling sensation creeping up from his toes. To be honest, he kind of liked it.

  Now it’s starting, he thought. Whatever was coming was about to begin.

  36

  FABIAN RISK GROPED ALONG the wall with one hand while the ring tone sounded in his headset. It was pitch black and he couldn’t see anything until he managed to find the switch and turn on the lights. He wondered what he would do if she didn’t answer, or if she would ever answer again. Maybe it would all be for the best, anyway.

  ‘I was just starting to wonder what happened to you.’ As usual Niva’s voice had a playful undertone that suggested everything was just a game. ‘I thought maybe you’d been told off at home and crawled back into your shell.’

  ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘I need to locate an address for a certain Ossian Kremph.’

  ‘Like I said. It depends.’

  ‘The thing is, he’s an ex-convict who doesn’t live at his registered address. We’re treating him as the prime suspect in the deaths and dismemberment of Adam Fischer and Carl-Eric Grimås. We’re sure he sublets elsewhere.’ Fabian waited for a reaction, but he didn’t get one. ‘Niva? Are you there?’ he continued, pretending that he didn’t hear her breathing.

  He understood exactly what this was about and couldn’t help thinking she was right. He had made a promise and just needed to get it over with. After all, it shouldn’t feel like anything more than a reunion with an old colleague. ‘How about tomorrow night?’

  The silence that followed was just long enough to make him regret it.

  ‘Let’s meet at nine at Lydmar. Do you have his personal identity number?’ she finally replied.

  Fabian read out loud from his notes. ‘540613–5532,’ and could hear her fingers immediately go to work on the keyboard.

  ‘He’s registered in Norsborg.’

  ‘Yes, but as I mentioned, we have information that he’s subletting elsewhere.’

  ‘Let’s see where he banks… He’s with Nordea and he has a regular debit card linked to his personal account.’

  ‘Is he working? What money is coming in?’

  ‘No, he’s not. He just has various subsidies and presumably has rental income from the place in Norsborg.’

  ‘Does he have any other accounts?’

  ‘He must, but this debit card has enough transactions that it ought to work.’ Fabian could hear her fingers working their way across the keys once again.

  He sat down on the toilet seat and wondered what he should say to Sonja – if anything at all. Maybe she didn’t even expect him to come home, and would assume that he would be working all night. She must have heard about what had happened on the news, and would likely anticipate that there would be a number of late nights. Was that why she didn’t react to his attempt at an explanation?

  ‘He uses three ATMs regularly: one in the Ringen shopping centre at Skanstull, one outside the Konsum store on Gotlandsgatan, and the last at the Nordea branch on Bondegatan. I would guess that he lives somewhere between Ringvägen and Bondegatan around Götgatan.’

  ‘That could be several thousand apartments. If he’s renting second- or maybe even third-hand, his name might not even be on the door at all.’

  ‘I wonder about his time in prison. Could he have met someone there?’ asked Niva. Fabian could already hear her steering new searches.

  ‘But he was in confined psychiatric care, so there wouldn’t have been many—’

  ‘I know, but in 1996, he was clearly considered healthy enough to be moved over to Kumla, where he served his final ten years with medication and regular therapy.’

  ‘Yes, and now he seems to be healthy as a squirrel,’ said Fabian, who, like the others on the team, couldn’t understand how you could declare someone healthy who had mutilated, tortured and poked out the eyes of his victims. ‘What about the prisoners? Are you getting any matches?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it. In any case not among the prisoners he spent six months or more with. One of them is registered on Lindvallsgatan at Hornstull and another on Tantogatan, but no one in this three-block radius.’

  ‘Try reducing six months to three.’

  ‘I’m doing it as we speak, but there are suddenly a lot of names to go through.’

  ‘Try the therapist instead,’ said Fabian.

  ‘The therapist?’

  ‘Yes, he must have seen one more or less daily.’

  Fabian could hear Niva working in front of the computer.

  ‘Unfortunately, he lives in Gamla Enskede, on the same street as your colleague Malin Rehnberg actually. Maybe she knows him and walks over in her crocs to borrow sugar, discuss noise levels and the need for more speed bumps.’

  ‘I don’t know if crocs are exactly her style,’ said Fabian. He could feel Niva’s bitterness at still being single run out of the phone like a yellow, viscous sludge.

  ‘I heard she went and got pregnant.’

  ‘With twins.’

  ‘How sweet.’

  ‘Not if you ask her. Right now she seems prepared to offer them to the lowest bidder.’

  ‘The daughter—’

  ‘I don’t know if they’ve found out the gender yet… Wait, actually it’s two boys.’

  ‘Not Malin’s. The therapist’s.’

  Fabian didn’t understand what she was talking about.

  ‘The therapist’s daughter is registered at an apartment at Blekingegatan 67B, but is studying down in Lund. We’re talking about a long shot, but it may be worth a try.’

  ‘Absolutely. I don’t know how I can thank you.’

  ‘You know how. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

  There was a click, and Fabian got up from the toilet and put the phone back in his pocket.

  If it turned out to be true, he wasn’t sure if the therapist had broken the law or if it violated their professional regulations. But regardless of the outcome, he had clearly crossed some ethical boundary.

  *

  ‘FABIAN, WHAT HAVE YOU been doing?’ Malin came walking straight towards him as soon as he unlocked and opened the bathroom door.

  The question was purely rhetorical. She had undoubtedly already figured it out, a talent she’d always had as far as he was concerned. You’re just as predictable as Donald Duck on Christmas Eve, she liked to say. He hadn’t managed to keep a single secret from her the entire time they’d been working together, yet he still went on the defensive like a stubborn mule. ‘What, a person can’t go to the bathroom?’

  She snorted and stuck her head into the bathroom. ‘I see you’ve started putting down the toilet seat after you. And you haven’t even bothered to get the sink wet. Is it Niva?’

  Fabian sighed and was about to confess, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  ‘Fabian, I know exactly what you’re thinking. But I can promise you, she’s bad news. Niva Ekenhielm is a living catastrophe who goes around on two skinny legs and sets her teeth into anything that doesn’t get enough on the home front.’

  Fabian tried to look as expressionless as possible.

  ‘Don’t stand there looking like a fool. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  ‘No, I really don’t.’ Fabian couldn’t believe how pathetic he sounded. Fortunately, he didn’t need to dig himself any deeper into humiliation because Tomas and Jarmo joined them.

  ‘There you are. Are you coming with us?’ asked Tomas, who had put on his shoulder holster.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Malin.

  ‘Cyber-Wojtan can’t pin down another address, so we thought we’d drive out to the apartment in Norsborg where he was last registered,’ said Jarmo, pulling on h
is leather jacket. ‘With a little luck, we’ll find a lead.’

  ‘Let’s go here instead.’ Fabian held open his notebook. ‘I have more confidence in this address.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Malin grabbed the book. ‘How did you get this? Let me rephrase: how did Niva find this?’

  ‘Niva?’ Tomas turned toward Fabian. ‘As in Niva Ekenhielm?’

  ‘It’s a long shot. But a number of factors indicate that Ossian Kremph sublets an apartment from the daughter of his therapist, who, by the way, lives on the same street as you out in Enskede,’ said Fabian, feeling like he was getting the boat on an even keel again.

  But Malin didn’t hear what he was saying. Instead she was just staring at the address. ‘Blekingegatan 67B. I may be wrong, but isn’t that…’ She looked up and met their gazes. ‘Isn’t that in the very same block as the condemned apartment on Östgötagatan?’

  37

  BENNY WILLUMSEN DIDN’T KNOW how he should react, his thoughts and emotions were swirling in all directions. On the one hand, he felt a growing anxiety about the almost probable imminent pain, but on the other, he had no doubt he deserved some form of punishment. Maybe it was one of his previous victims – or failures as he chose to see them – after all? Although he was surprised that it had taken so long for one them to take the law into their own hands.

  He was not ready to die. It hurt to think about how much more he wanted to accomplish. His notebook was filled with drawings of simple constructions that would take his actions a step further. Like the whip with razorblades, or the boiling-water shower. Every one of his designs shared one very simple goal: to make the victim suffer as much and as long as possible. Now he might never be able to try out his new inventions. Yet, despite this, he couldn’t help but enjoy the hands that weightlessly hovered over his bare skin, making him shudder with pleasure with every feather-light touch. They glided gently over his chest that was still hard and pumped-up after the latest workout session, and further across his six-pack abs – his great pride.

  Even though he was over forty, he was in the best shape of his life. His body was as close to perfect as it could be. Not only did he have muscles, he was perfectly proportioned and very flexible, thanks to a few years of yoga. In addition, his subcutaneous fat was as good as gone, so all his veins and tendons were exposed. If there was any time he should be observed and touched by a stranger, it was now.

  He’d never found himself in a similar situation – naked and taped down on his own table with eyes blindfolded – and never in his wildest fantasy would he have suspected that it was something that would give him any pleasure. But it did. Though he was scared, he was forced to admit that the uncertainty turned him on. Being powerless certainly contrasted to all the times when he’d been the active party, the person planning, acting and executing.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like being in charge – he loved it. He enjoyed holding the rudder alone. Having power over someone else’s life was a feeling that topped almost anything, even seeing the look of fear in their eyes when it occurred to them that they were stuck under his control. There was a possibility for enjoyment at every stage in the process. If you rushed, there was great risk that you would miss out on the small nuances, like when fear turned into terror as soon as they realized that he not only had the power but also intended to exercise it.

  Each stage was a new feeling and once they’d experienced it, they could no longer get their innocence back. Over the years, he’d got better at milking every last drop of fear from them, keeping them at a specific stage for as long as he wanted, before taking them further along the path that he led all his conquests down.

  He’d gone after terror in the first few years, but now hope had taken over as his favourite expectation. It always appeared after terror and made their gazes light up again. Sometimes he got a smile or even an almost natural laugh. At that moment, he liked nothing better than to lull them into a false sense of security and let their hope grow so big and strong that they believed it completely. He liked convincing them that if they simply obeyed and didn’t fight back, everything would be fine. Then, but only then, would they survive.

  The longer he could draw this out, the greater his reward. He loved watching them realize that there was no point holding out hope. No matter how much they begged and pleaded, there was only one way it could end. They still breathed in air and their hearts continued pumping blood as if nothing was happening, but their eyes knew better. They knew exactly what was coming. There was nothing more beautiful than when a gaze softened and gave up.

  The careful hands lightly grazed his groin and continued down along his legs. For the first time he could do nothing other than wait and receive. Even though he knew how it would end, he couldn’t help enjoying his final moments.

  His breathing got deeper and his member had also come to life. He could feel the blood pumping, making it bigger and harder as the light hands approached.

  He’d initially thought they were a woman’s hands, but now he wasn’t so sure. Unlike so many others, he’d never brooded over whether he might be homosexual, or bisexual for that matter. He’d been completely sure that he was hetero his whole life and would get turned off as soon as a man touched him.

  But apparently his body didn’t have a preference, because his erection had now risen to its full size and was so pumped-up and bursting with blood he could feel it moving in time with his pulse. He was sure that the person playing with him was impressed. With a length of twenty-nine centimetres and a circumference of eighteen-and-a-half, it was bigger than most.

  Then they finally touched it, with light, barely noticeable strokes, from the base along the underside all the way up to the tip. He couldn’t be certain, but he was pretty sure that the tip of a tongue was playing around his throbbing glans.

  He didn’t really know what he’d expected, but he definitely did not think that he would be kept alive for such a long time. He could only say thanks and enjoy it for as long as it lasted. At any moment it could be over. He could feel how his body was getting prepared to die. Every single muscle was tense, and he had started to sweat like a baby trapped in a hot car. One well-aimed slash with the sharpened meat cleaver he kept in the kitchen and he would bleed to death in fifteen minutes.

  Instead the hands grasped the rock-hard base and angled his member so that it pointed straight up. A warm, moist mouth worked its way deeper down the glans. He could still not tell whether it was a man or a woman, but the longer the hand and mouth worked in perfect interplay, the less he cared.

  Normally he masturbated at least twice a week because it helped him stay more or less calm. But during the past few weeks he hadn’t even touched himself, putting all of his focus into his workouts, letting the pressure build up. If he were to come now it would be a commanding bullet.

  He didn’t want it to end now, not before he was finished. They could do whatever they wanted with him later, anything at all. As long as he was just able to—

  He felt his balls contract and his rock-hard erection prepare itself. Right after the first load shot out, his member continued pumping the white semen as if it would never ever end.

  Only when he was completely drained did the hands release their grip and he could relax and let his body get heavy. He was about to fall asleep and could feel himself sinking down through the table, heading deeper and deeper towards the darkness.

  Whatever was coming, he was ready to take his punishment.

  38

  FABIAN COULDN’T UNDERSTAND HOW the others could seem so sure of themselves when they rang the apartment doorbell and stood with their guns drawn, as if they knew exactly what was waiting on the other side. Or maybe they were just more confident that their weapons would protect them. Despite his twenty years on the force, Fabian had still never fired his gun anywhere other than the shooting range. He couldn’t imagine putting a bullet through somebody, though he told himself that when the moment came, he would be ready. The question was whether this
was the moment. Whether they would run into a white fog, be anaesthetized, and have their eyes plucked out by Ossian Kremph. Or perhaps it would turn out that he wasn’t home, or didn’t even live there.

  After ringing the doorbell a number of times with no response, Tomas insisted on picking the lock with his skeleton key. Half an hour later they’d been forced to call in a real locksmith, who opened the door in ten minutes, which was considerably longer than the thirty seconds it normally took. They finally got in and discovered tons of extra locks on the inside of the door, explaining why it had taken so long to enter.

  A new text prevented Fabian from going in with the others. It was from Sonja, who wrote that she didn’t know when she would be getting home from the studio that evening. She’d made arrangements with their teenage neighbour, who could pick Matilda up from school and babysit until six thirty – she already had plans to see a movie. Fabian responded that he would be sure to be home before that and wished her good luck with the paintings.

  He didn’t need to take more than a step into the hall to see that Niva’s long shot had actually turned out to be true against all odds. There was no way a healthy person lived in this apartment.

  ‘Holy fucking shit,’ said Tomas, pushing his gun down into his shoulder holster.

  ‘And I thought it was messy at our house,’ said Malin, looking around the living room, which was crowded with so many gadgets and trash that it would take an eternity for Hillevi Stubbs and her men to go through it all.

  ‘This is roughly what it looks like at Jarmo’s since his divorce. Although you have a bigger stack of porn magazines,’ said Tomas with a sneer, patting the two-metre-high stack of free newspapers.

  ‘Shut up and make yourself useful instead,’ Jarmo muttered, continuing towards the bedroom.

  ‘I suggest we split up and each take a room,’ Tomas continued, taking one of the newspapers from the pile.

  ‘Isn’t that what we’re already doing?’ asked Malin, starting to go through the contents of a number of black garbage bags.