But despite the lousy weather, Fabian’s heart was light when he opened his umbrella, locked the car and walked across the open, deserted car park in the direction of the dock with its row of pontoons, along which hundreds upon hundreds of boats jostled for space. The afternoon had been an unqualified success and when later in the evening he’d told Sonja he had to go, she’d promised to keep the bed warm until he returned.
When he reached the edge of the dock, he stopped and looked out across the marina, which though it was peak season had a kind of peacefulness to it, as though it were hibernating. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Part of the explanation was, of course, that it was the middle of the night. Also, the weather was so bad all vacationing boat owners were probably huddled in double sleeping bags, shivering to stay warm.
It may have looked peaceful, but it was not quiet. On the contrary, there was a minor cacophony of noise: the whistling of the wind through shrouds and stays, halyards beating against masts and the lapping of the waves. Not to mention all the thousands of fenders being squeezed between the tightly packed hulls.
He pulled out the two blue keys he’d found in Elvin’s drawer and checked the handwritten digits 0388 one last time.
He was sure they were boat keys; if the number did in fact designate a particular slip, the boat must be docked in a big marina, and Råå was the biggest by far near Helsingborg.
Luckily, Fabian didn’t have to go out and check each of the approximately five-hundred-feet-long pontoons, because they were all labelled with exactly the information he needed.
The sign on the first one said 0087–0236. He moved on to the next one, home to slips 0237–0402, and continued out on to the long concrete jetty lined on either side with moored motor- and sailboats, both large and small. Most were facing the jetty, dark and abandoned by an unseasonably chilly summer. But here and there, an inviting glow could be seen through a window; a closer look revealed people inside, drinking wine and playing Yahtzee or watching films snuggled up in bed.
Further out on the pontoon, he passed a large Hallberg-Rassy, moored stern-to. It was a real beauty with a teak deck, aft cabin and a large, inviting cockpit with a table in the middle. The sturdy mast was so tall, it came equipped with double spreaders. Here too, the windows along the hull were bright, spreading a warm light across the water; Fabian had to admit there was something attractive about the whole picture.
The cabin hatch was opened by a man his own age, who climbed into the cockpit carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he placed on the table under the canopy roof. He was followed by a woman of the same age, who was holding a lit hurricane lantern in one hand and a small speaker playing smoky old jazz in the other.
Maybe Matilda and Theodor were right. Maybe this was the thing for them. A sailboat. A shared project to help them find peace and harmony among the myriad cosy harbours of Öresund.
‘Excuse me, did you want something or were you just looking?’
Fabian snapped out of his reverie and turned to the man in the cockpit. ‘I’m sorry, I was actually on my way to my own boat. But I just had to stop and admire your beauty. She must be incredible on the open sea.’
‘Sure, she can handle just about anything, though so far we’ve had nothing but smooth sailing all the way from Kalmar.’
‘May I ask where you’re headed?’
‘Next stop is Humlebæk, straight shot across the sound to the Danish side. As soon as the weather improves, that is. Then a night leg to Göteborg; after that, all we know is we’re sailing around the world,’ the man said with a smile, as a boy of about ten stuck his head out of the cabin. ‘We sold our house and took two years’ leave from work. For starters – we’ll see if we ever go back.’ The man laughed and filled the wineglasses.
‘Vincent, I thought you were asleep,’ the woman said, hugging the boy.
‘I want to sleep with you tonight.’
‘But why, when you have your own room and everything?’
‘What if there’s a monster? I’d be all alone in the back.’
‘Vincent, there’s no such thing as monsters, you know that.’
‘Yeah, but still. Please…’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart. Right, Frank?’
‘I thought we’d talked about this. But all right, on one condition. That you and I check to make sure there are no monsters in the aft cabin before we hit the hay. And I’m talking a thorough search.’
The woman let out a laugh and winked at her husband before walking their son back down into the boat.
‘So, what kind of boat do you have?’
‘Um, it’s just down here, slip 388, and it really doesn’t hold a candle to—’
‘388?’ the man broke in, frowning. ‘But that’s right here.’
He nodded to the slip next to his, which was empty.
Fabian went over and confirmed the small sign said 0388.
So the slip was unoccupied. In fact, it was the only vacant slip on either side of the pontoon.
‘I’m sorry, but this is our fourth day here, and it’s been empty the whole time,’ the man continued.
Had he got it wrong? Was it a different marina, or was the number something other than a slip? Had Molander already been here, covering his tracks?
‘That’s just bloody outrageous. Nothing’s safe any more.’
‘Good luck on your trip.’ Fabian turned back towards the dock.
‘I hope you have good insurance,’ the man called out after him.
Back on dry land, Fabian gazed out across the deserted marina again, but saw nothing but cars parked neatly in the dedicated parking bays. He hurried over to the northern end, which opened on to the harbour inlet proper.
Immediately to his right was a gravel area full of empty cradles. But not a single boat. He did spot one, however, on the other side of the river, next to the old harbour museum. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but it definitely was a weather-beaten old Pettersson boat in a cradle, and if there was one kind of boat he could imagine Elvin owning, it was an old wooden one.
Ten minutes later, he’d driven all the way around via Kattegattsgatan and Rååvägen and parked on the other side of the river next to the boat, which, for obvious reasons, assuming it was Elvin’s, hadn’t been launched this year.
An electric cable dangled down the side of the hull and continued in behind the museum building; all that remained of the protective tarpaulin was a few tattered patches, flapping in the wind. Underneath the cradle, Fabian found a ladder, which he leaned against the boat’s transom.
Once he reached the cockpit, which contained a fair amount of sand and seaweed, he pulled out the key again and pushed it into the lock. It got stuck halfway, but he’d thought ahead and brought lubricant; a couple of attempts later, he was able to unlock and open the hatch.
The sight that greeted him was exactly what he’d hoped for. The narrow cabin, where you had to stoop not to hit your head on the ceiling, reminded him of his own study in the basement.
There wasn’t just a computer, there was also a number of external hard drives, marked either Molander’s PC – Home or Molander’s PC – Work, followed by a date. The obligatory whiteboard was filled with Elvin’s notes and ideas and pictures he hadn’t seen before. In fact, it looked like enough material to keep him busy for days, if not weeks.
The contents of Elvin’s desk drawer were clearly just the tip of the iceberg. This had been Elvin’s real office. This was where he’d been able to work undisturbed, safely away from Molander.
He flicked a switch on the wall to the right of the hatch, and several small lights around the cabin came on. He spotted a folder marked Berlin in a small bookcase.
He opened it; the first thing he saw was a copy of the framed photograph from the traditional Berlin café, showing Gertrud and Molander sitting together with two cups of coffee and a half-eaten strudel on the table in front of them. The date stamp at the bottom was circled in red, but the wristwatch of the man at the n
ext table wasn’t, which indicated Elvin hadn’t discovered the twelve-and-a-half-hour time lapse.
He did, however, have a printout of the two boarding passes. They had likely been digitally downloaded to Molander’s home computer and been part of the contents Elvin had copied to his external hard drive.
SAS Boarding Pass
Mr Ingvar Molander – Fast Track Available
Flight Date Time From To Seat Boarding
SK1673 24 Aug 13:30 Berlin Copenhagen 14F 13:10
2007 TXL CPH
easyJet Boarding Pass
Mr Ingvar Molander
Flight Date Time From To Seat Boarding
EZY8627 24 Aug 19:05 Copenhagen Berlin Free seating 18:45
2007 CPH TXL
It was the puzzle piece he’d been looking for. It was all he needed to break Molander’s alibi. That must have been what Molander had realized. It must have been why he killed Elvin. Finally, he had enough to inform Tuvesson.
Fabian pulled out his phone to call her. It rang and rang and rang again before he was redirected to her voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, he hung up and called back. It was late and hardly surprising if she was asleep. But this couldn’t wait, so he called a third time.
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Hi, Astrid, it’s—’
‘Hello! Who is this?’ she slurred.
‘Hi, it’s Fabian. I’m sorry to be calling so late.’
‘I said who the fuck is this?’
‘It’s Fabian. Fabian Risk.’
‘Risk? Bloody hell, why can’t you ever leave me alone? What the fuck do you want now, you goddamn—’
‘Nothing, I accidentally dialled the wrong number. I’m sorry. See you tomorrow.’ He ended the call and could only remark to himself it was lucky he hadn’t confided in her sooner. This might be her first relapse. But there would be more, many more.
He folded up the printout of the boarding passes, slipped it into his inside pocket and started poking around. He flipped through a stack of pictures he hadn’t seen before, and looked through a shoebox containing a number of crystal owls like the ones Gertrud collected and a precision drill with a number of different sander attachments and drill bits.
He picked up one of the owls and realized it wasn’t glass at all but plastic, with a round, flat battery in the base. He tried to find an explanation but was forced to give up.
Instead, he sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. It didn’t ask for a password. Elvin had obviously felt certain Molander would never find this place.
There was a programme open on the screen, which reminded Fabian of the sound-processing software Molander used. There were various rectangles with sound waves on a timeline; he clicked on one of them.
Monotone noise streamed out of the computer’s speakers; it took him a while to identify it as the sound of a vacuum cleaner. But why record a vacuum cleaner? The most recent recording was from Tuesday 19 June at 11.26 a.m. Which meant Elvin hadn’t recorded it himself; it had to be automated.
It looked like there were two recordings from the day before. One at some point in the morning and the other later that night. It was only when he checked the exact time stamp in the top left corner of the rectangle that he realized it was the same time he’d paid a visit to Gertrud.
He clicked it and heard his own voice.
‘This won’t take long.’
‘Isn’t he a sweetheart?’
‘I’m sorry, who?’
‘Reidar, who else? The man you were talking to yesterday. Water?’
‘No, thank you, I’m good.’
Had Elvin installed a hidden microphone in one of the owls? Was that why he had a collection here?
It was far too technical for Fabian to understand exactly how it worked. That should have been true of Elvin as well. He was, if anything, even worse at technology than Fabian. The only explanation was that he’d somehow used Molander’s know-how against him.
He clicked the second recording from the same day, and got Molander’s voice.
‘Fondue. Can’t remember the last time we had that. What are we celebrating?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Gertrud could be heard replying. ‘No need to panic.’
‘That’s a relief. I was worried there for a second. I thought I’d forgotten our anniversary or something.’
‘No, I was just cleaning the kitchen cupboards and I found our—’
Suddenly, the playback stopped and the time marker, which had turned red, jumped to the present.
Fabian was instinctively reaching for the mouse to move the marker back to the conversation he’d been listening to when he realized it was recording something new.
‘Hold on a minute. What did you talk about?’ Molander was saying. ‘Gertrud, I said wait!’
‘Ingvar, you’re scaring me.’
‘I want to know what you talked about!’
‘I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.’
‘I am calm! I just need to—’
‘No, you’re not! And besides, it’s late. We’ll have to discuss this some other time, because I’m going to bed in the guest room. And I would appreciate it if you would respect my privacy.’
‘I’ll give you all the privacy you want, as soon as you tell me what in God’s name Fabian Risk was doing here!’
About the author and translator
STEFAN AHNHEM grew up in Helsingborg, Sweden, and now lives in Denmark. He began his career as a screenwriter, and among his credits is the adaptation of Henning Mankell’s Wallander series for TV. His first novel, Victim Without a Face, won Crimetime’s Novel of the Year in Sweden, and became a top-ten bestseller in Germany, Sweden and Ireland. Eighteen Below was a top-three bestseller in Germany, Sweden and Norway. Stefan Ahnhem has been published in twenty-five countries to date.
AGNES BROOMÉ is a translator of Swedish literature. She holds a PhD in Translation Studies, and her translations include August Prize winner The Expedition by Bea Uusma.
Acknowledgements
Writing a book is like crossing an ocean. It’s just you, the water and the horizon, no matter which way you look. Or at least, that is how it can feel sometimes. The truth is, without help and guidance, I would not have made it very far before the water inevitably entered my lungs and I sunk helplessly to the ocean floor.
My wife Mi has always been there, lifeboat in tow, to cheer me on, read drafts and give feedback – invaluable feedback that eventually helped me reach the shore and feel the ground beneath my feet again. Thank you.
My two eldest, Kasper and Filippa, have supported me when the waves seemed perilously high and the story was impossible to finish. Thank you for always listening and telling me exactly what I needed to hear.
My two youngest, Sander and Noomi. Thank you for existing and for reminding me that there are other things to live for besides work and the next book. Without you, I would be hopelessly old in every way.
My editor, Andreas. This is our fourth book together, and it becomes more enjoyable with every one. Without you I would never dare pursue what is interesting, rather than what is safe. Thank you for that and for access to your thoughts and ideas.
Julia, time flies and soon it will have been two years. I would never have reached the millionth reader in the thirty-something countries in which my books have been published if it hadn’t been for you. Adam, Sara and Hannah at Forum. Concentrated excellence. Thank you for everything you do and more.
King of Sales. I cannot claim that these books would not exist without you, but they would never have reached such a wide audience as they do now. You have been there since my debut, Victim Without a Face, and made sure that my Sveavägen-based publishing house have given these books their all.
Lastly, I want to thank Johanna Björkman and Thomas Vedel Larsen for their expertise.
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