Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (17 page)

“About that helicopter?”

*

John’s thrust with the axe is not precise, but hard enough to split Mick’s cheek open. Mick stumbles backwards into the flat, trips on a low table, falls over and smashes the wooden tabletop in half. A small revolver falls from his hand and lands on the floor.

The door is partially open, still barred by the security chain. John sees the other man move inside the flat, towards the door, hoping to slam it shut in John’s face.

John lifts the axe and hammers down on the security chain. The blade effortlessly cuts through the metal, and he shoulders the door wide open.

On John’s left, Mick struggles to disentangle himself from the ruined table. White bone shows through the wound on his cheek. On John’s right, the other man is backing away, one arm raised in defence while his other hand clutches a glass bottle by its neck. The man’s eyes are wide, his skin pasty with sweat. The bottle quivers wildly in the man’s grip.

John shuts the door, locks it from the inside, and turns to Mick, who tries to sit up, cursing and spitting blood. Before Mick can rise to his feet, John picks up a toaster from the floor, raises it high, and slams it into the side of Mick’s head.

Mick slumps back and lies still. John drops the toaster, turns around, and faces his target.

The man has backed up to the wall. Shaking and whimpering, he holds the bottle in front of him as if it were a sword. When he realizes he has nowhere to escape, he charges at John, his bottle held high.

John watches the man come towards him. The attack is savage but desperate, and the man’s aim is off. He sidesteps the swing and drives the butt of his axe deep into the man’s groin.

The man’s mouth drops open. The bottle flies from his hands and lands on a stained couch. He tries to move away but buckles and collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

John crouches and drives a knee deep into the man’s chest, pinning him down. He raises the axe in the air and aims.

The man splutters and flails with his arms. “I can pay,” he gasps. “I should’ve paid by now, I know, and I will. Got almost all of the money, just a few grand missing. I would never play Tom. He knows it’s true. Ask him.”

John says nothing. The axe is perfectly aligned; one quick twist of his arm and his hunt will be over.

“Or is it Marco?” the man rants on. “But I’ve paid him. He’s got his money, right? I made the swap last week. No, you work for Tom, don’t you? Call him. Tell him I’ll make good. I just need another day. Something got in the way, is all. Shit got ugly yesterday.”

John is silent.

“Real ugly,” the man continues, his words spilling out as he bargains for mercy. “I was fucking blitzed, totally loaded, and I got it in my head to try doors. Some idiots don’t lock them, you know?”

“Go on,” John says.

“I find an open door,” the man croaks. “I go in, and I find this bitch hiding in her bedroom. When I pulled my piece and took her bag, she clings to it. So I shoot her. Fucking dumb, I know, but I needed the cash. I needed to pay Tom. That’s it. Had to get the money.”

John finds himself at a watershed. He has to destroy the squirming anomaly under him, obliterate this source of injustice, but the axe does not fall. Hesitation has checked his final attack. His imagined chain of actions is incomplete.

He may have found the instrument that took Molly from him, but he has not located the hand that guided it. Another link in the chain beckons from farther away: The man who sold Molly’s murderer the drugs. The finger on the trigger. The ultimate prey.

John lowers the axe and scans the room. Crumpled clothes, bins brimming with empty fast-food boxes, mounds of cigarette packs next to the broken table. A sleeping bag on a foam mattress. Towers of DVD movies on the floor. A wide flat-screen TV balancing on a small fridge. Glossy movie posters nailed to the worn wallpaper. Cigarette butts pressed into the vent of a radiator. A mobile phone on the floor. Cheap boxes of chocolate on a low table by the window.

John opens the lid of one of the boxes. Inside are dozens of small transparent bags filled with yellow powder.

He turns back to the man under him. Mick does not move; his head rests in a pool of blood. It is a complication. He has not expected the need to prolong his search, and there are those who want to stop him.

In moments, he knows the steps he must take to truly end his chase. Plans and options arrange themselves in his mind. Primarily, he needs more information, and he needs to move.

Slowly, he lowers the axe.

“Bloody hell,” the man on the floor gasps, then laughs hysterically. “I thought you’d kill me. You know I’m honest, right? Tom trusts me. He can always trust me.”

“If you scream,” John says, “or make any noise, I will cleave your face in half. Do you understand?”

“I got it. I got it, man. Do you want cash? Over there, the yellow bag, under the bed. Take the shoebox too; that alone is worth all I owe him and then some.”

“I need information,” John says. “Not money.”

“You want what?”

“Tell me about Tom.
His full name and his address. Everything you know.”

“I thought you meant – man, I can’t tell you that. You don’t know Tom. He’d kill me.”

John drives the axe into the floor right next to the man’s head and raises it again.

“
Stop. Please.
” Tears flood the man’s eyes. “Jesus fuck. I’m going to die. He’ll torture me, and then he’ll kill me.”

“Tom’s full name,” John says. “Addresses, phone numbers, names of his friends.” The axe hovers in the air above the man’s face.

“Shit,” the man whimpers and then speaks.

After a few minutes, John knows all he needs to know. He is almost ready to move on.

But he is not finished here. His next step will not bring him closer to his new goal, but his quest for balance requires it. A part to fit in the greater picture. The man under John’s knee might be a tool, but he is part of the disturbance John looks to quiet.

There is a bill to settle. An anguish for an agony.

“Keep quiet,” John says and unzips his bag.

“Right. I’m quiet, I’m quiet.”

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” the man stutters. “Why should I close my eyes? I don’t want to close my eyes. I’m not – hey, what’s that? You’re going to paint something? No, that’s –
oh
fuck,
no, don’t–
”

*

John puts his equipment back in his bag and looks at Molly’s murderer. At last, the man’s eyes are closed. He will not give any more excuses or tell more lies.

He examines the phone. Half charged, no security code required. He pockets it, continues to search the room, and finds under the bed a green canvas bag and a large shoebox. Kneeling down, he pulls the shoebox out and opens the lid. Once he has inspected the contents, he pulls out the bag, unzips it, and looks inside. A distant radio murmurs a weather forecast while he thinks.

His own bag is full, so he pulls out his bedroll to make room for the box. After today, he will not need to sleep, but the contents of the box and the rest of the items he has brought may prove useful. At the bottom of the shoebox are three folded printouts of web pages. He leafs through the papers and puts them in his pocket.

Last into the bag goes an advertisement for a local pizzeria. On its back, he has noted down key details about the man who supplied Molly’s killer with drugs: Names, addresses, telephone numbers, descriptions.

John closes the bag and leaves the flat. One more task. One more chase. A different breed of prey, more dangerous, but less prepared.

And he knows where it nests.

*

The helicopter whips up a small cyclone of snow as Lena lands on a meadow close to John’s countryside property. They are near a narrow, winding road that cuts between barns, stables and fenced fields.

Before she left the city headquarters, Gren learned that residents near John’s cabin had teamed up and cleared the roads as much as they could. Some farmers had brought tractors with ploughs and opened up kilometres. That meant cars could reach the house, but Lena insisted on going in the helicopter; she had wasted enough time already.

While she was in the helicopter, Gren called. Two words into the conversation, she could tell from his tone that he was about to give her bad news, and she was right: Lena was no longer in charge of the hunt of the second man, now also the presumed murderer. That task had been transferred to another detective at another department.

It had happened for administrative purposes, Gren assured her three times over. She knew he was lying, or had been lied to.

When Lena did not blow up over the phone, Gren sounded surprised. She offered a small rant to suggest she was upset, but in truth, the decision helped her: it meant she could turn her full attention to John. In practise, she already had.

Lena told Gren there was no need for backup when she searched John’s house. Most likely, she argued, John would not be there, and if the infrared sweep hinted at anything bigger than a rat inside the house, they would land far away and wait for reinforcements.

“It’s possible he’s there,” Lena admitted over the phone when talking to Gren. “The buses go straight to the area from where his girlfriend lived. But unless he’s got a car or a ride waiting to pick him up, he’d have to walk. All bus drivers along those routes have been briefed. They’d call in straight away if they saw him.”

“I’m not sure,” Gren said.

Lena wondered what Gren had been unsure about: John’s whereabouts or Lena’s judgement.

“Even if he went by car,” Lena continued, “the roads weren’t ploughed last night. Besides, he must know we’re aware of the property. Isolating himself there makes no sense.”

“Do you really think John is that rational?” Gren asked.

“In his own way, yes. And he doesn’t want to be caught. That profile doesn’t rhyme with John at all.”

Gren caved in, but only in part: He authorised Lena to take a look around, but she had to wait for backup before she went close to the house, regardless of what the sweep found.

“I’ll arrange the search warrant,” he said. “And you will wait before going in.” His command came out as a half-plea.

“I won’t go close,” Lena promised.

Twenty-five minutes later, stepping out of the helicopter while the rotor blades spin like a misty disc above her head, she wonders why Gren forgot to define ‘close’. It was his loss and her gain.

Three sweeps with the infrared scanner before they landed had not shown any sign of life in the house. Lena had also had time for an aerial view of the property. A small house, a tiny outhouse, and a small overgrown garden surrendered to the whims of nature. A thick forest surrounded the house. The larger road ran some hundred metres away, while the road leading up to the house was so narrow it was more a big path.

“I’ve been called back to the airport,” the pilot calls to Lena when she steps out. “You’ll have to ride back with the backup. Sorry.”

Lena nods and jogs away from the helicopter. Seconds later, she is alone.

The air nips at her face; the blizzard is over, but the temperature has dropped. At least the air is fresh and clean, carrying the scent of woodlands and horses even at this Arctic temperature. When the helicopter has shot away in the grey sky, she looks around to get her bearings.

The field on which she stands is the size of a soccer field. Patches of woods and boulders left behind by the inland ice break up the rolling hills. To the east and south are dense copses of pine trees. There are no people or moving cars nearby. A few kilometres from where she stands, beyond private woodland and large villas with sprawling grounds, is the home of the Swedish royal family. People like John are rare in these parts of Stockholm.

She turns east. John’s house is located behind a small forest at the other end of the field. The wind is picking up. Pulling up the lapel of her jacket, she walks towards the trees, trying to tread where the blanket of snow is the thinnest.

When she is halfway across the field, she calls Agnes. “I’m near John’s property,” she says. “Gren wants me to be a good girl and stay away from the house.”

“Will you do that?” Agnes asks. “Please, take care.”

Under other, less disastrous circumstances, Lena would have smiled. Agnes is starting to know her well. “I won’t go too close,” Lena says. “I promised.”

“We’re at the bridge,” Agnes says. “The roads aren’t good, but they’re better than I expected. We should be with you in about twelve minutes. Did the sweep show anything?”

Lena shakes her head as she walks. Twelve minutes. Not fifteen, not ten. Twelve. Knowing Agnes, she will probably arrive exactly then. “We got nothing,” she says. “If John’s in the house, he’s either dead or hiding in the fridge.”

“Be careful.”

“Call me when you get here.” She hangs up.

Lena jogs towards the forest; it is quicker and makes her warmer. She wants to see the cabin now. Not that she expects the small house to hide a lead, but she cannot help imagine that this place holds a secret, some clue that will vanish like a bubble unless caught in time.

Once at the forest, she barely breaks pace. Branches flash by as she runs, ducking and twisting through the rock-riddled maze of boulders and trees, watching out for holes in the ground, roots, patches of ice, anything that could trip her and break her legs. She crawls over a large rock, slides down its side, runs sideways between two trees, and then she is there, next to the small outhouse she saw from the air.

Resting her hands on her knees, she stops and breathes hard. The house looks ordinary enough: Red-painted timber, probably almost a hundred years old. Low, square and quaint, complete with large snowflakes coasting down onto its roof.

It has three windows on the wall facing her, all covered by white wooden shutters. Halfway between the outhouse and house, in the middle of a clearing, is an old well, visible above the snow only as a circle of round stones and grey mortar. It is a perfect Christmas card.

Before Lena left the headquarters, a colleague who had found building plans had informed her that the house has two rooms: One main room and a small kitchen. The small outhouse hides a modernized bathroom, if something built in the late seventies counts as modern.

Beyond the house is a short stretch of trees, behind them more fields and boulders. She hears no sounds except the soft rustle of branches and the distant barking of a dog. Three minutes have passed since she spoke with Agnes.

Lena flexes her fingers, sets her jaw, and draws her pistol. The plastic grip feels like heavy ice in her palms. For a moment, she stands still next to the outhouse and steers her attention away from the gun. It is a tool, nothing more. A dead weight, unthinking, unconscious. She has to focus on the task at hand. Inspect, think, move on.

“Come on,” she whispers to herself.

Willing herself into action, she moves along the wall of the small outhouse and looks through its tiny window. No one inside. Wooden walls, sink, toilet, old bar of yellow soap. A thick wilted book balancing on the windowsill. She tilts her head to read the title, but the cover has been torn off.

She turns to the house. The shutters cover the windows almost entirely, leaving only a vertical crack. Someone inside could spy on her through the slit, so she advances crouching, staying in what she hopes is an angle obscured by the shutters.

Once she is at a corner, she pauses next to a large plastic barrel under the gutter and moves towards the door, keeping low to stay under the windows. At the door, she pauses again to listen. Nothing. No footprints on the single step in front of the narrow door. A thick string of snow balances on the handle.

She looks over her shoulder. There is no sign of life except for a crow watching her from a naked branch high above the house.

Breathing slowly, she studies the building. If Gren was able to read her thoughts at that moment, he would think she was distressed, but she is certain the house is vacant: There is a sense of hollowness to the location, a lack of life. A missing presence.

Still, she wants to look inside. There might be a clue to what John is doing.

The lock on the door is simple; the locksmith coming with the backup will open it in the blink of an eye, and she herself can probably pry the door open if she found a tool lying around the yard. But if she does, she risks having to explain her actions to Gren. It is better to wait.

She checks the time. Five minutes until Agnes said she would arrive.

Her gun pointed at the ground, she retraces her steps and walks over to the well. Way back, before the island changed from rural nowhere to sanctuary for the wealthy, the water supply would have been used by the house’s residents. The circle of mortared stones is less than a metre across, and its edge reaches only up to her knees.

Two rusty boards of corrugated steel held in place by a large stone cover the opening. The crow caws and flies to another branch as she leans down and pushes at the steel boards. They shift easily.

“A quick look can’t hurt,” she mumbles under her breath.

She slides one of the boards off the well, leans forward to look down, and stumbles back as the well screams in her face.

*