The Ninth Grave
Page 25
‘And why can’t you, may I ask?’
‘I have other plans.’
‘I see, what kind of plans?’
Theodor shrugged again. ‘Nothing special. Just going out and seeing some buddies.’
‘Which “buddies”?’ Fabian felt like a stuck record.
‘Nobody you know.’
‘And what are you and your “buddies” going to do?’ said Matilda, crossing her arms.
‘Matilda, you don’t need to play cop. I’m the parent here. Not—’
‘I was just asking.’
‘You don’t have a damn thing to do with this! Okay?’ shouted Theodor.
‘I actually do,’ said Fabian. ‘If you haven’t decided on anything other than wandering around town, why don’t you stay here and have crisps and watch a movie with us?’
Theodor rolled his eyes and got up from the chair. ‘You don’t understand a damn thing.’
‘Listen! We don’t use that kind of language here!’
‘Other than when you and Mum argue, you mean.’ Theodor turned his back on them and disappeared into his room.
He’d walked right into the jab and was down for the count, and the worst thing about it was that his son was correct. They were both fully aware that it was wrong to fight in front of the kids, but he and Sonja did it anyway, using cruder and cruder language each time.
‘Nice,’ said Matilda, putting on a stiff smile while she started drumming on the table with her fingers.
He didn’t know if it was Matilda’s sarcasm, or simply a pathetic attempt to set limits, but suddenly he was standing in the middle of Theodor’s room, pumping fury. ‘I don’t know what kind of attitude you think is appropriate around this house, but I’ve got just one thing to say to you: it’s not okay. So if I were in your shoes I would drop it right now. Do you get that?’
‘Whatever,’ said Theodor, who had already settled down in front of the computer.
‘No, it’s not at all “whatever”!’ Fabian went over and ripped out the cord to the computer, which turned off.
‘What the hell are you doing? You can’t just—’
‘Yes, don’t forget that I can! I’m the one who paid for it and I’m the one who pays the electric bill!’
‘You’re too fucking—’
‘Now, you listen to me! You’re only thirteen years old, and however hard it seems, it’s Mum and I who decide what’s best for you, which will continue to be the case for another five whole years. And right now, I’ve decided that you’re staying home tonight! Is that understood?’
‘Forget it.’ said Theodor, reaching for the cable.
‘Forget it? You know what you can forget? Huh? Look at me when I’m talking to you!’ Fabian was now so angry that his whole body was shaking.
Theodor sighed and met his gaze.
‘You can forget sitting here in front of the computer! As of now you’ll be out there with me and Matilda making this into a nice evening!’
‘Life is too short for this. Decide whatever the hell you want. I’m leaving now anyway.’ Theodor got up from the chair.
‘The hell you are!’ Fabian screamed, pressing him back on the chair.
‘You’re fucking sick in the head!’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that you were—’ He got no further.
The slap came out of nowhere and surprised Theodor as much as Fabian. He had never hit either of his kids before – had never even come close to it. But now he had crossed the line, and however hard he tried, he would never, ever be able to undo it.
Theodor held his cheek and looked down at the floor. Neither of them said anything for several minutes. He tried, but he couldn’t think of anything that would even remotely repair the damage he had just caused.
As a kid he sometimes used to get really angry, but he couldn’t remember it happening as an adult. Not until now, at least. Once it was wakened to life, the blind fury couldn’t be stopped. Was he really that stressed? After another few silent minutes he crouched down in front of his son. ‘Theo, I’m so sorry. I just got so angry. That’s no excuse, but… It was a really dumb thing to do and it’s unforgiveable in every way.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Theodor with his eyes nailed to the floor.
‘No, it’s not okay at all. What I did is actually criminal, so you can report me if you want.’
‘Knock it off. I said it’s fine.’
‘Listen, what do you say about starting this evening over again?’
‘Okay,’ said Theodor, nodding. ‘I think I’ll stay home.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Fabian, clinging firmly to the vague hope that perhaps the evening wasn’t lost completely.
Theodor raised his head and looked him in the eyes. ‘But I would really like you to leave my room now.’
‘Sure. Of course.’ Fabian got up, patted Theodor awkwardly on the head, and left.
60
BENNY WILLUMSEN GOT OFF the train at Central Station in Copenhagen, even though he could have stayed on for another two stops before Nørreport. He’d decided to change to the S train because the woman across from him was reading Ekstra Bladet. She had got on at Copenhagen Airport and would likely realize at any moment that his face adorned the cover.
‘Wanted – Now Being Hunted in Sweden.’
The picture under the headline had been taken at the trial, and he remembered how he’d tried to smile and look as friendly and innocent as possible.
Unfortunately, the S train was also full of people browsing Berlingske Tidende, Politiken, and Urban, the free newspaper: ‘Still No Traces of Katja Skov – Swedish Police Fear the Worst’.
They didn’t know shit, he thought as he got off at Vesterport Station. They think they understand, but they have no fucking idea. He pushed his hat down with one hand so that the wind wouldn’t blow it away, and then hurried up the stairs, before continuing along Kampmannsgade. Then he jumped down on the ice and crossed Sankt Jørgen Lake.
He shouldn’t be surprised. The fact that he was a suspect was no more sensational than his train initially being delayed in Malmö. Given the similarities between these crimes and his own activities it was only a matter of time before he would end up at the top of the suspect list. And, after his little adventure on the kitchen table, it was even more astonishing that he was still alive.
After having been drained of his orgasm, he’d been quite sure that his last hour was upon him. He’d almost felt ready. It would have been rather appropriate because the orgasm itself was almost worth dying for. But when he woke up on the kitchen table again to the sound of loud banging from outside, the tape that had held him in place was gone and he quickly realized the police were busy forcing open his door.
He had no time to consider what had just happened. His reptile brain leapt into action. He jumped down from the table and made his way out on to the balcony naked. He navigated the sleet and climbed over the railing, swinging down to the balcony below. Fortunately, the balcony door to the neighbour’s apartment was unlocked, and he’d been able to pull together a pair of underwear, socks, trousers with suspenders and an aged yellowed shirt without waking the sleeping old man.
Out in the hallway, where the walls were adorned with decorative plates, he’d found shoes, a coat and hat. Then he walked out through the stairwell and down the stairs, facing a stream of uniformed and plain-clothes officers who asked him to get out of the way.
He’d done exactly that ever since. The first few days he’d been in constant motion so that he didn’t attract attention, but when he found an unlocked yacht – a Maxi 95 – in its cradle up on land in Limhamn he was finally able to lie down in the cabin and relax.
And then, somewhere in the stage between sleeping and waking, he realized how everything fitted together: the striking similarities between Karen Neuman’s murder and his little exercise at Fortuna Beach in Rydebäck two years ago; why he was still alive; and what the erotic session in his apartment had really been about.
Now it was over.
He was a wanted man, likely far beyond both Sweden and Denmark. It was just a matter of time before that Danish policewoman, who the newspapers reported was now after him, would get him sentenced to life with technical evidence so strong that no defence lawyer in the world would be able to get past it. And he was not ready to get locked up, not by a long shot. He still had so many untested ideas left.
It was in that sense of frustration that the idea came to him, the little piece of candy that would stay behind in his memory long enough to gild all the years of imprisonment he had ahead of him. It was so simple that he couldn’t help but laugh as he walked across the last few metres of ice. Instead of hiding himself, he should try to find her first.
He climbed up on the edge of the pier, crossed Rosenørns Allé and continued past the Bethlehem Church. It had been several years since he’d been in Nørrebro, but it felt like yesterday. He would have no problems finding the way to Blågårdsgade 4.
61
HALF AN HOUR INTO Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince Fabian had stopped concentrating and struggled to keep his eyes open. One more Quidditch match and he would fall asleep for ever. If he’d been able to choose the film, they would have rented The Hangover instead. Malin said it was one of the funniest movies she’d seen in years, and she recommended he see it with Theodor. But Matilda had been unrelenting and insisted on Harry Potter, even though she’d already seen it twice at the cinema in the summer.
They’d still had a nice evening, managing to fit in some karaoke and a game of Monopoly, which Matilda won after only an hour and a half – she had been quick to put hotels on Centrum and Norrmalmstorg.
On the other hand, he’d heard nothing from Sonja, even though it had been several hours since he’d sent over the bag of treats. He’d tried not to let it bother him, but he couldn’t hold back the creeping sense of irritation as the evening went on. There was no doubt that they were both really busy, but he was at least trying to show that he cared. Sonja couldn’t even be bothered to send a short thank-you text.
‘I’ll go clean up,’ he said, getting up from the couch.
‘Should I pause it?’ Matilda reached for the remote control.
‘No, that’s okay. Just keep watching.’
On his way to the kitchen he stopped outside Theodor’s closed door and raised his hand to knock, but stopped himself. He couldn’t do more tonight. He could say I’m sorry and regret it any number of times, but it wouldn’t change a thing. Theodor would have to take the next step, and aside from grabbing food, he hadn’t set foot outside his room all evening. And if Fabian knew his son, it might continue this way for quite some time.
It was a trait he’d inherited from his mother. No one could utilize silence as effectively as Sonja. It was a corrosive silence that had, over the years, made his existence miserable and often forced him to apologize after a fight, even if she was the one who’d been in the wrong.
On one occasion, he’d fought fire with fire and refused to take the blame after a fight on a family holiday. For a two-week-long road trip in France and Italy, they hadn’t said more than what was absolutely necessary to each other. After a few days, the mood had rubbed off on the kids, who got restless and started squabbling. In a wordless agreement they’d each taken a child and went out on their own as soon as they had the chance. To this day it was still one of the worst things he’d ever experienced, even though he couldn’t remember what the fight had been about.
He tried to shake the memory while he took out his phone to check that he hadn’t missed a text or call. Then he walked to the kitchen and turned on the stereo. Broken Social Scene’s self-titled album started up as he cleared the table. For the past six months he hadn’t been able to play any other CD because the stereo’s output mechanism was broken. Fortunately, the album was so multifaceted that he still hadn’t got tired of listening to it.
The phone pinged in the middle of ‘Hotel’. Finally, he thought, opening the message. He was surprised how disappointed he was when he realized that it wasn’t from Sonja.
Just got out of the bath. I’ll be ready in an hour. Timing still good on your end? I’ll meet you at Lydmar. N
He’d completely forgotten that he’d promised to treat Niva to a drink this evening – or else he’d repressed it. He typed in a reply explaining that unfortunately he had to cancel because he was home alone with the kids.
Too bad. I had planned to bring you a little present. One I know you’d appreciate.
Two-and-a-half hours later Theodor had yet to emerge from his room, Matilda was asleep in her bed, and Sonja still hadn’t given any signs of life.
And Fabian was in a taxi on his way to Lydmar.
62
DUNJA HOUGAARD’S FIRST THOUGHT was that she couldn’t be the person staring back at her in the elevator mirror. There had to be someone who’d been rooting around in her closet and put on her black jeans and light beige blouse, which was actually too nice to wear for every day, but that she’d chosen anyway because she was going to meet her colleagues on the other side of the Sound.
Now it was torn and soiled with blood, just like her jeans.
Her hair had clumped together in thick, sticky tangles.
But most of all it was her face.
Even if she could admit to herself that she wasn’t looking at some other woman for a few seconds, her face made her doubtful. The blood and various other dried bodily fluids were one thing, but the scrapes across her forehead, not to mention the bruises and swelling, were much worse.
Whatever Benny Willumsen had done with her, he hadn’t been very careful.
The elevator doors opened and Dunja took her eyes off the mirror and limped out into the night. The ice-cold winds breezed through her, as if her body was perforated. A steady stream of taxis drove by, but she made no effort to try to stop one. Considering how she looked, she wouldn’t have even picked herself up.
She walked along a narrow, icy sidewalk for about thirty metres. Then she heard a booming rumble. When she looked up towards the starless night and saw navigation lights guiding a landing, she realized that she was right outside Copenhagen Airport.
Was he about to flee the country? Was that why he’d left the car there? she wondered as she boarded the driverless Metro train, ignoring the other travellers’ terrified looks. Willumsen was a fugitive and as long as he hadn’t changed his appearance and arranged a fake passport he would never make it through security.
At Nørreport Station she gave up trying to piece it all together, and got off. The thought of home gave her enough energy to defy the pain in her foot and hurry all the way along Frederiksborggade and across Dronning Louises Bridge. Once she got to her building, she pressed the button beside the illuminated little sign of her and Carsten’s surnames; but there was no crackling on the loudspeaker or buzzing in the lock.
In a way it was typical Carsten. As long as he wasn’t expecting a visit he never bothered to pick up the phone that was all the way in the hall. Either it’s a burglar or someone’s distributing flyers was his usual excuse. But it could also be someone who’d faced a serial killer and lost their keys and cell phone and was well on her way to getting frostbite.
She tried again, holding down the button long past the limit of what could be considered reasonable, even if she knew it wouldn’t work on Carsten. On the contrary, it just gave him yet another argument for why he shouldn’t get up. Why let someone in who’s already put me in a bad mood? But shouldn’t he have realized it was her by now? She’d been away at least twenty-four hours so he must be curious about her whereabouts. She took a few steps back out on to the street and looked up at the apartment. No lights were on. Wasn’t he at home? This was getting really stra
nge.
She returned to the door again and aggressively tried ringing all the other residents. She needed to get warm. Finally, a neighbour let her in, but she couldn’t help thinking that something didn’t add up. Without turning on the light in the stairwell she made her way up to the fourth floor, where she straightened the yucca plant that looked like it was about to fall over. She peeked into the mail slot and saw that the hallway lights were off. But the door was unlocked, which was even more puzzling. She went in and carefully closed the door behind her.
It was quiet, apart from a muffled Madonna song coming from the neighbour’s apartment. So Carsten wasn’t home. Yet the apartment had been unlocked. She walked in without turning on the lights, and groped her way along the walls to the bedroom.
The bed was made with the cover stretched just so, as only Carsten could. Normally that would irritate her because he always complained about how she made the bed, but this time it calmed her. Somehow it made him feel more present. There was probably a rational explanation for his absence anyway.
She continued to the kitchen, and found the explanation in the form of a handwritten note.
Hi honey,
I tried to reach you. I’ll miss the flight if I wait any longer. See you Tuesday evening.
Carsten
She had completely forgotten he was going to Stockholm for a seminar. He’d wondered where she was hiding and tried to get hold of her until he was about to miss his flight. She sighed at her own forgetfulness while she turned on the ceiling light and rinsed her hands and face under hot water. She was going to take a bath, but first she needed to get some food in her before she fainted.
Unfortunately, the kitchen was ‘Carsten-clean’. In other words, not a single thing was in the wrong place, and the kitchen counter was so shiny smooth it could also serve as a mirror. The fruit bowl was in the dish rack and the breadbasket was empty. He’d thrown out all the perishable food because he didn’t know when she would be coming home. The refrigerator had suffered the same fate. All she could find was a jar of orange marmalade, a few cans of herring they’d bought several years ago when they’d been in Malmö, and a tube of Kalle’s Caviar, which Carsten insisted on buying at IKEA and had refused to touch ever since.