Motive X

by Stefan Ahnhem

  11

  Seen from above, the area between Klippan and Kvidinge was nothing but an open wound in an otherwise beautiful landscape. Instead of a harmonious jigsaw puzzle of fertile fields in various shades of green and rapeseed yellow, the area looked like someone had deliberately attempted to destroy that idyll.

  Since Kvidinge Stone Crushers first broke ground there in 1963, the company had continued to dig deeper and deeper into what was now an area the size of fifty football fields. Voices had been raised to stop the devastation and replace the quarry with something else. But so far, none of the suggested fairgrounds, music festivals or shopping malls had been given the green light.

  For that reason, Kvidinge Municipality had, while waiting for a proposal everyone could get behind, opened a temporary refugee reception facility in one of the many pits the diggers had left in their wake.

  The facility, which consisted of a number of interlinked two-storey barracks whose first floors were served by external staircases, occupied only a fraction of the pit. Even so, it housed one hundred and eighteen asylum seekers, most of whom were on their way to bed when the four-wheel pickup slowly rolled down into the pit with its lights off.

  The three men wore dark clothes and their soft trainers made practically no sound in the gravel. They clearly knew exactly what they were doing; they fanned out and surrounded the facility, each carrying a jerry can.

  As though psychically linked, the three of them undid the caps of their cans almost simultaneously and started dousing the wooden façade, which had only received a simple primer coat. The glistening petrol ran down the wooden cladding and either dripped on to the gravel or was absorbed by the concrete plinths.

  The window sills were given an extra dousing, and with the help of nail guns equipped with silencers, the front door was bolted to the frame with seven-inch nails. Then the three men each took out a lighter.

  The entire operation took no more than three minutes.

  The rest was chemistry.

  12

  It was over two hundred years old, made of white marble in the shape of an icosahedron with a surface consisting of twenty equilateral triangles. Twenty sides, each with an engraved number, apart from the number ten, which had been inscribed with an X.

  Since the gilding of the numbers had long since worn off, a stranger would have to touch the grooves or hold the dice up to the light to see the result. He, by contrast, had long since learned to recognize the different sides from the patterns in the marble.

  It was by far his most valuable dice and as always when he picked it up from its bed of cotton wool, he was struck by how heavy it felt in his hand. But then, that seemed fitting for the dice he used for the first roll, which set everything else in motion. Without it, nothing.

  He cupped his hands around it and began to shake it.

  Two or higher. That was all he needed to be allowed to take on a new mission. Which of the nineteen sides ended up face-up determined the number of days, counting from today.

  The only number he mustn’t roll was one. If, against all odds, that side faced up, he would have to abort the whole thing and none of what he had prepared and looked forward to would happen. The fun would be over before it had really begun.

  The police hadn’t even found the body from his mission in Klippan yet, the first in what he hoped would be a long, beautiful string of missions.

  It had been several weeks already, and so far there had been no reports of the dead old man. Apparently, no one missed him. And then there was the fact that the body was in a long, hermetically sealed plastic tent and therefore didn’t emit the foul reek of death.

  The cocoon-like tent had been his response to the dice’s chosen cause of death: asphyxiation, and it had proved to be a trickier endeavour than he’d originally thought. After a number of failed attempts, he had settled on a construction consisting of two bicycle wheels fastened to either end of a six-and-a-half-foot-long steel pipe.

  The unconscious man lying on the living room floor hadn’t measured more than five feet ten inches, so he had fitted nicely between the wheels, and he had secured the man’s neck, arms and legs to the steel pipe with various straps.

  Then he had put a big, transparent plastic bag over one wheel and the man’s head and another one over his feet and lower half. He had taped the openings of the two bags together with duct tape. The bicycle wheels at either end had kept the plastic reasonably taut and after three layers, he felt satisfied it was airtight.

  Pleased, he’d sat down on the floor and waited. It wasn’t something the dice had ordered him to do. He had fulfilled its requirements and was mostly just curious how the man would react when he woke up from the blow to the back of his head, and how long it would take for the carbon dioxide to make him pass out again.

  The old man had woken up much sooner than he had expected and as soon as the first shock wore off, he’d tried to free himself, until he realized that was impossible. Then he had proceeded to writhe around instead, in a desperate attempt to punch a hole in the plastic cocoon.

  Luckily, he’d had the foresight to tape up the man’s mouth, so he wasn’t able to bite, though in all honesty the original purpose of the tape had simply been to spare him from having to listen to his screaming. Because scream is what he’d done, almost continuously, until he had passed out again, three and a half hours later.

  The whole thing had been a tremendous success. He’d been so fired up, he’d needed a twenty-kilometre run before being able to relax in a hot bath.

  The day after, he’d taken out his icosahedron, champing at the bit to get started on his next mission as soon as possible. But for some unfathomable reason, he had rolled an eighteen. It was the third highest number and meant he had to sit back for eighteen full days before striking again.

  But now, it was finally time again, and he had been shaking the icosahedron for so long the cold marble had warmed to the same temperature as his hands. This was a step he didn’t mind drawing out. It was like the seconds before an orgasm, and once the die was cast, there was no turning back.

  He closed his eyes, opened his hands and heard the dice land on the felt table cover with a light thud, roll a few inches and come to a stop.

  A two.

  He exhaled and immediately felt his pulse slowing. Once again, he had avoided rolling a one and being forced to abort the whole thing. Instead, he now had a new mission as early as Saturday and had to shake his head at the way the dice insisted on challenging him. But this was exactly what he wanted, and if he could just focus on the present and ignore everything else, he would probably be able to pull it off, even with such a tight deadline.

  The next roll was to determine the unlucky victim. For this, he brought out his collection of six-sided, anodized aluminium dice and shook one of them in his hands.

  This was a so-called pre-roll to determine how many dice he was going to use. In this particular case, the option was one or two, which meant one, two and three represented using one dice and four, five and six represented two.

  A five.

  He picked up another dice and shook both for a good long while before releasing them on to the felt.

  Two twos.

  He stood up and walked over to the map of western Skåne that was pinned to the wall. The map formed a perfect square, which in turn was divided into 144 equal, numbered smaller squares. Twelve along the horizontal axis and twelve along the vertical. In the top left corner was Mölle, where he used to take the bus as a child to swim in the sea.

  In the top right corner was Bjärnum, which he felt sure was as unexciting as it sounded. The bottom left corner was Copenhagen, which despite its peripheral position constituted the natural centre of the region. In the bottom right corner was Sjöbo; without knowing why, there was something inside him that wished the dice would take him there.

  But not this time, since column four lay much further west. He picked up one of the dice to perform another pre-roll.

  A three. />
  In other words, the number of squares going down was going to be decided by one dice. He picked the dice back up, shook it again and eventually rolled.

  A four.

  He put his finger on the square and instantly saw it was Hyllinge; when he zoomed in on the area in question on Google Maps, he realized the dice had chosen Hyllinge Mall. It was a location completely devoid of residential buildings, which meant he would have to go there and let the dice choose its victim at the scene.

  That was going to be a new experience; he would have liked to have had a bit more time. But he wasn’t worried. On the contrary, he was looking forward to it. Besides, he already had an idea for how to make his selection.

  13

  Twenty-six days, eight hours and twelve minutes.

  Tuvesson scratched underneath her watch strap and waited for Lilja, Klippan and Molander to take their seats around the conference table. ‘All right, let’s get cracking,’ she said, even though the coffee thermos was only just being passed around. ‘Since we all have our hands full and are one man short to boot, I figured we’d try to keep it to thirty minutes. So let’s keep it brief. Okay?’

  Lilja and Molander both nodded and shot Klippan a glance.

  ‘Why is everybody looking at me?’ Klippan exclaimed. ‘And speaking of one man short, shouldn’t we call Mr Risk and ask him to come in? After all, he’s been home for over a month now.’

  ‘I would really prefer not to.’

  ‘And given what he and his family have been through, he surely needs his time off more than ever,’ Lilja said, shaking her head.

  ‘So when’s he supposed to be coming back?’ Klippan sipped his coffee.

  ‘Sometime after the summer, end of August,’ Tuvesson said. ‘We’re just going to have to get by without him. And since we’re on the subject, I’d like to remind you that I’m checking into Tolvmannagården to start my twelve-step programme this afternoon. I’ll be gone for five weeks.’

  ‘Five weeks?’ Molander exchanged looks with the others.

  ‘I know, it’s an awfully long time, but what choice do I have?’

  ‘And if we need to get in touch with you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you can’t.’

  ‘Hold on just one minute,’ Lilja said. ‘What do you mean, we can’t? We’re in the middle of a—’

  ‘Look!’ Tuvesson held up her hands defensively. ‘I know the timing couldn’t be much worse. Believe me, I want nothing more than to stay here and work with you. But I have to take this seriously and put my health first. I hope you can understand that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lilja said, nodding along with the others.

  ‘Good. Then I think we should get going with—’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Lilja broke in. ‘Who’s in charge of the investigation while you’re gone?’

  ‘Me, of course,’ Klippan said. ‘Who else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lilja shrugged. ‘Maybe someone who’s a bit more—’

  ‘Klippan’s right,’ Tuvesson cut in. ‘He’s going to lead the investigation, and I assume you will all make sure there is as little friction as possible.’

  ‘A bit more what?’ Klippan turned to Lilja.

  ‘Nothing. Forget it. It’s going to be great.’

  ‘All right, let’s start with the missing Volvo. Any sign of it?’

  ‘Nothing yet, unfortunately,’ Lilja said.

  ‘My money’s on it being dumped somewhere outside Bjuv,’ Klippan said. ‘If he’d been driving around in it, we’d have nabbed him already.’

  ‘And the CCTV footage? Have you started going through it?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re still waiting for some of the tapes, but as soon as we’re done here, it’s next on the list. Hopefully one of them caught the Volvo.’

  Tuvesson nodded and reached for one of the coffee thermoses.

  ‘It’s empty. Try this one.’ Klippan handed her one of the others. ‘By the way, is there any new information about the fire at the refugee reception facility outside Kvidinge?’

  Tuvesson shook her head as she filled her cup. ‘Still only three dead. Which, regardless of how absurd it sounds, has to count as good news, considering how bad it could have been. The question is whether it’s safe to assume this is a direct response to the fire at the Sweden Democrats’ offices. Irene, what do you reckon? You were there when it happened.’

  ‘It has to be retaliation by a right-wing extremist.’

  ‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean the Sweden Democrats were involved,’ Klippan put in, one finger in the air.

  ‘That depends on how you define involved. They were definitely the ones who published the addresses of all the refugee reception facilities on their Facebook page. And either way, I’m not sure I’d call the fire at their offices a proper fire. The alarm didn’t even have time to go off.’

  ‘A fire’s still a fire, no matter who holds the match.’

  ‘Pardon me, but what the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just because you don’t agree with the Sweden Democrats politically and the arsonist potentially belongs to a Muslim minority doesn’t mean you get to pretend like nothing happened.’

  ‘Of course not, and I don’t.’

  ‘It’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to make light, making flippant comments about alarms not going off and whatever. But a fire is a fire regardless of your political affiliation.’

  ‘Of course it is. My point is simply that the attention given to the fire in the media is not even close to being in proportion to its size. That bloke Landertz has been on every front page and commanded a lot more column inches than the fire at the reception facility.’

  Klippan shrugged. ‘Whatever that has to do with our investigation.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stand for this any longer.’ Lilja got up as though she were too upset to stay seated. ‘You almost sound like you’re a Sweden Democrat yourself, which of course you have every right to be. But if we’re going to work together on this case, I need to know where the hell you stand.’

  ‘My political views have nothing to do with this. Yours, on the other hand, seem to both hobble you and blind you to how you approach the investigation.’

  ‘Who’s blind here? Do you seriously still think this has nothing to do with racism?’

  ‘Irene, you’re going to have to get a hold of yourself,’ Tuvesson said. ‘Klippan is right. Our political opinions have no place in this room. If you have a problem with that, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Lilja said nothing, just looked at each of them in turn as though she were in fact considering leaving the meeting. But then she gave a curt nod and sat back down.

  ‘All right,’ Tuvesson continued. ‘Back to the subject at hand: the fire at the Sweden Democrats’ offices. Do we have any suspects at all?’

  ‘The case is being handled by the Bjuv Police,’ Lilja replied.

  ‘Fine, would you mind getting in touch with them and checking what they have so far? A lot of signs point to it being a direct response to the murder of Moonif Ganem.’

  Lilja nodded almost imperceptibly and made a note in her papers.

  ‘Then I suggest we move on to the laundry room. Ingvar, how are you getting on? Have you found anything?’

  ‘So far nothing more than a bunch of fingerprints, bloodstains and lots of hair. Not entirely unexpected in a laundry room. But ask me again after lunch, we should be done by then.’

  ‘All right, then let’s move on. Klippan, have you had time to have a closer look at Samira and her family to see if this could be honour-related?’

  ‘I have, and there’s nothing in the criminal records. On the contrary, they seem to be model citizens. Both the mother and the father work in health care and speak fluent Swedish even though they’ve only been here for three years.’

  ‘What do you know,’ Lilja said, topping up her coffee. ‘There’s that kind of immigrant too.’

  ‘That said, I’m still far
from convinced the motive has to be racism.’ Klippan held up his hand pre-emptively to silence Lilja. ‘And before you throw your coffee in my face, I would appreciate it if you’d hear me out.’

  ‘No need to worry. I prefer to drink it.’

  ‘Klippan, tell us. What motive are you considering?’ Tuvesson said.

  ‘Paedophilia.’

  Tuvesson nodded thoughtfully. ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Eleven.’ Lilja turned to Klippan. ‘Why paedophilia? As far as I know, there were no signs of sexual assault.’

  ‘Have we heard from Flätan yet?’ Molander asked.

  ‘Yes, I actually saw him yesterday. Which reminds me, I forgot to show you these.’ Tuvesson handed out a number of pictures showing Moonif lying on a gleaming morgue gurney. ‘I have to say I’ve never seen Flätan so shaken.’

  ‘That’s hardly a surprise.’ Lilja picked up and studied one of the pictures. The slender body had been straightened out as much as possible but still lay in a kind of reverse foetal position with his legs bent the wrong way. ‘I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been.’

  ‘Has he determined a cause of death?’ Molander asked.

  Tuvesson nodded. ‘Internal bleeding. Apparently too many instances to count. Which makes things worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It means it was the spinning that killed him, not the water from the rinse cycle, as one might have assumed. Though there was quite a lot of that in his lungs, too.’

  ‘Oh my God…’ Lilja dropped the picture and put her head in her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t get it,’ Klippan said. ‘Granted, it’s horrible. But why would it be so much worse?’

  ‘Ingvar.’ Tuvesson turned to Molander. ‘The programme the murderer used. Approximately how long would it take before the spin cycle started?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, but I’d guess after about fifteen or eighteen minutes.’ Molander shrugged and sipped his coffee.