Anabolic

By Richard James

A crime thriller based in Western Swedish written by an English author with a passion for nordic-noir.

The story...

How far will a sect go to hide the truth…?

A man crawls out of a drainage pipe alone and desperate in the middle of a forest fleeing for his life. Emaciated, injured and terrified he sets out to get revenge but the clock is ticking...

Four years later, Johanna Jensen, a forensic scientist, starts investigating a series of disappearances and murders. Her efforts are hampered, however, by her own family, hell-bent on keeping a family secret...

Cesar Jacobsson is a henchman and a psychotic killer. He preys on gay men using Ringr, a dating app. But his use of anabolic steroids is causing him to make mistakes and the Swedish Police Authority are starting to close the net...

The investigation leads Johanna into the world inhabited by the 'Knights of Scandia', an elite group guarding a terrifying truth, a truth they will go to any lengths to protect...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244608590

Richard James

Richard James is a tour operator specialising in historical treks of the Kokoda Track in Papua New Guinea. He has personally led hundreds of Australians across the Kokoda Track and has met many war veterans from the 7th Division who fought in Syria before going on to fight on the Kokoda track the following year. It is from here his passion to write his first book grew.

Book preview

Anabolic

ANABOLIC

A Johanna Jensen Thriller

By Richard James

How far will a sect go to hide the truth…?

A man crawls out of a drainage pipe alone and desperate in the middle of a forest fleeing for his life.  Emaciated, injured and terrified he sets out to get revenge but the clock is ticking...

Four years later, Johanna Jensen, a forensic scientist, starts investigating a series of disappearances and murders. Her efforts are hampered, however, by her own family, hell-bent on keeping a family secret...  

Cesar Jacobsson is a henchman and a psychotic killer. He preys on gay men using Ringr, a dating app. But his use of anabolic steroids is causing him to make mistakes and the Swedish Police Authority are starting to close the net...

The investigation leads Johanna into the world inhabited by the 'Knights of Scandia', an elite group guarding a terrifying truth, a truth they will go to any lengths to protect...

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 R J Hartman

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN 978-0-244-60859-0

Publisher: www.lulu.com

Other titles from this author

CATABOLIC

COMPOUND

MIDDLE

THE NEIGHBOURS

KUNG FU PIRATES

Till Gunilla...

1.

Winter 2016

It was Christmas Eve, and Cesar watched the banker come out of the swing doors from the safety of his Mercedes van; the blacked out windows providing cover for his binoculars and obvious suspicious activities. It was late and many banking staff had already departed for the day, making their way to the neon-lit bars and pubs within the vicinity of the Gothenburg harbour area. This included Oliver Jacobsson.

The backlight from the smart-phone illuminated Cesar's chiselled face as he considered what to write to his date. He wrote with difficulty, his enormous fingers too large for the deft miniature keys. Finally he managed to send it. It read:

Meet under the bridge near The Flowers, quick drink? Or back to mine; I have made supper.

He didn't have to wait long for a reply, a moment later it pinged onto his screen.

OK, give me 20, I’ll be there.

Browsing the banker's details using Ringr - the gay dating app he used to pick up men on a casual basis - he knew his name was Slybi and that he liked muscled men. Cesar felt a little hard just watching him, knowing he had control of the situation, knowing what would become of this young twink in a few hours.  Fearing a loss of control, he steadied himself, willing his hardness away. To help focus, he punched himself in the face. The punch was harder than he had anticipated - he almost knocked himself out. The gold band on his right hand had marked his cheek; a dribble of blood ran down his face. He pulled out a towel from his gym bag in the footwell and wiped his face down. Despite this tiny imperfection, he was in peek physical condition: the workouts, the stacked anabolic steroid cycles, the monastic discipline, the protein powders, the cage fighting as a young man, and his natural strength, height and physique made him one of the most dangerous men in Gothenburg. More recently, however, his skill-set had moved on, he had other talents, ones that would show his true identity, ones that were allowing, in his mind, his true self to blossom; talents that combined art with science.

This was the second time Cesar had seen Slybi - he had completed a full rehearsal the previous day.  He was meticulous in planning and thorough to such an obsessive degree that as he turned on the engine, he checked the time on his phone before setting off to his next destination. He checked off the time after each successive landmark: shopping centre, Opera House, Skanska ferry, and finally the Älvsborg Bridge.

Exactly nineteen minutes later, he pulled up under the bridge, away from any lights and passers-by. Heavy vehicles clonked rhythmically across the roads above; the noise echoed through the deserted streets ahead and behind, and towards the line of parked cars. Checking Ringr for the GPS location of Slybi, he saw that he was near. Looking around through the snow, he noticed a small slim man in a suit and overcoat hiding under a large woollen hat. The investment banker fitted his online profile: snappily dressed, conservative in appearance, overly-shiny shoes, cuff-links, and clean shaven and bespectacled.  In contrast, Cesar was wearing a black cable-knit jumper, a black baseball cap, a pair of black jeans and black hiking trainers. The banker, slim, effeminate and toned; Cesar, muscles defined, hard, and hanging resolutely from his two-metre frame.  To look at them both as a couple, must have seemed a strange sight.

After reaching the bridge and pulling off his hat, the banker crossed to the other side of the road to greet Cesar.  Cesar got out the van, checked around, saw nobody - perfect. He called out.

Over here!  His pesante voice, deepened further by the years of roid cycles and 1000mg of daily testosterone, had the affect of relaying the words towards the banker.  A moment later, the banker skipped over the road and finally came face to face with Cesar. Looking up, the young twink’s eyes lit up, clearly impressed at the towering giant.

You are Slybi, offered Cesar.

Actually Oli, that’s my real name... And you are FarmerC, yes? nodded Slybi laughing a little, hoping to make a good impression with, in his mind, this Olympian god. Cesar didn't respond. Undeterred, Oli carried on.

Well, pleased to meet you, where shall...have you thought about… you said something about going for a meal… actually - I’m starving said Oli excitedly.

We are not going to eat said Cesar.

Oh… perhaps we could go to the cinema… there’s a couple of things on… a rom com and a pretty good thriller if you like that sort of thing…

Cesar shook his head and then added,

We are not going to the cinema.

I’m sorry - I talk a lot on first dates… I’m nervous... added Oli. Impressed with Cesar’s ‘hard to get’ approach and few choice words, he blindly continued firing questions at his Olympian.

A drink perhaps… Oli added. Cesar shook his head. Oli kept up the line of enquiry hoping it would reveal the evening’s entertainment.

Then what are we going to do… asked Oil winking at Cesar, giving him the come-on. Cesar looked around quickly to check the coast was clear. When he was satisfied he stared back at Oli - the stare almost physical in nature. He smiled.

We are going to… MEET MY FAMILY!

As Cesar finished his sentence he reached forward, cradled his left arm around Oli's head, and drew him closer. Oli, anticipating a kiss, let himself go, enjoying the moment of submission to his Olympian god. But instead of caressing Oli, Cesar slammed his elbow into his left temple. His head rolled around, the blow instantly knocking him unconscious. Cesar hit him a couple more times in the face with his fist just to make sure. Oli lost his footing, the weight of the punches, too much for his slender frame.  Cesar caught him before he fell, lifted him easily onto his shoulder and carried him towards the van door. 

Sliding the van door open, the cabin light clicked on, revealing the form of his favourite dog and loyal companion - Max.  The limp body of the banker slumped onto the spotless deck of the van with a soft thud. Cesar grabbed a vial of Formaldehyde from the inside of his jacket and injected it slowly into the twink's neck. This would achieve two of his objectives: to poison his victim and to stop it dehydrating, thus preserving it for his greater plan. Grabbing a mask hanging above the door, then dipping it in a bottle of Chloroform, he carefully placed it over his victim’s mouth and nose. Satisfied that it had rendered him unconscious, he dispensed with the need for handcuffs and instead packed the twink's body in blocks of ice. Before closing the van door, he tucked the twink's legs inside and slammed it shut.

A man, possibly one-hundred metres away, had come out of a late night takeaway. Cesar waited patiently, scanning the man's face for any reaction. The man simply walked away in the opposite direction, stuffing a hamburger into his mouth. Concluding that he hadn't seen anything, Cesar left Max to guard his victim whilst he got into the driver's cabin. Max dutifully snarled ferociously at the unconscious victim so Cesar, alerted by the noise, turned to the dog and stroked him gently on the head.

MAX… GUARD! said Cesar pointing to the banker.  The dog seemingly understood and lay with his head propped up on its front paws, unblinkingly staring at the object in front. Max was Cesar’s favourite Shepweiler - a cross Rottweiler/German shepherd. He had nine in all and had raised them from pups. They knew him as the master, the leader of the pack and were fearless in their protection of him. 

Cesar had stayed calm throughout the entire encounter. He poured himself a coffee from his flask whilst putting on the radio.  As the van headed eastwards back through the Gothenburg tunnel, and then south to the Broadleaf Estate, he listened to Mozart’s Requiem Mass at full volume, closing his eyes and absorbing the music's serenity. A short time later however, a news bulletin interrupted his harmonically-saturated state; |At midnight his radio was set to issue hourly news bulletins. He listened, not really paying attention until he heard the last headline.

Today, Detective Johanna Jensen of the Swedish Police Authority opened a unit called the Rainbow Investigation Team. This unit, with much public support, is tasked with solving previously closed cases of attacks and murder on the LGBT community in the western area. The investigation will span up to a twenty-year period and may be extended nationwide…

2.

Winter - 2012

The water was filling the drain with alarming speed.  It poured in from every direction fed from small drainage pipes carved into the chamber walls.  Jakob had to act, if he didn't he would drown in thousands of litres of sludge.  He grabbed for his mobile one last time. The display showed little battery and reception. He dialled.

Johanna, it's dad…look it's probably too late for me, but... I love you and mum. He checked the screen for the remaining battery - 1%. He cursed, his haunting sounds echoed around the chamber.

Johanna, there is something I need to tell you. It's about the treatments at the manor, something I found out, something awful. Your grandfather is involved. I...I...  There was a beep. He checked – but the phone was already dead.

The chamber continued to fill with sludge. The rain continued to hit the drain cover at the top of the chamber hard. Every minute, every hour it kept raining would mean more run off and more water into the chamber, which ultimately, would drown him.

He roared. Stop wasting energy and think. He was in a drainage chamber on an estate in Western Sweden, surrounded by miles of mixed broadleaf and coniferous forest and miles from any road. Jakob had helped build the chamber and surrounding farm buildings some years earlier. He knew how the foundations were built.  The farm buildings were situated on a hard-standing of about one thousand square metres. It had been dug into the clay base and filled with hundreds of tonnes of limestone and road plaining. The camber was about five degrees, just enough to provide a slant for water to run off. A series of drainage pipes, perforated to collect water, lay under the hard-standing to collect the run off from the surrounding fields and forest. Some of these pipes routed the water directly into the forest but others ran directly into a giant drainage chamber, his current location.

The chamber measured about eight-metres deep. It was cylindrical in shape with each concentric ring one-metre high, stacked vertically on top of the next. Spanning about four-metres diameter in the widest part, the bottom of the chamber was full of sludge that sucked downwards anything unfortunate enough to fall into it. The entire structure was made of reinforced concrete except for the small manhole opening above which lifted upwards - if you had the strength of a bodybuilder.  But Jakob was beaten-up, cold, exhausted and the wrong side of the lid; but most of all, he was alone.

Jakob breathed hard, the cold icy-tomb surrounding him, sapping his strength. He counted to ten and tried to pull his feet free out of the sludge - it had now reached his waist. He heaved again and got one leg free; it made a loud squelch as it pulled free from his boot. Each effort was draining his energy. He heaved again, but without any purchase his free leg simply shot straight back down into the brown sludge. As his leg hit the water a splash hit his face, covering his pale complexion with light brown sludge. An icy numbness gripped his head like a vice, pressing on his temples. It might be easier just to lay down and die, he thought.

After wiping his face, he opened his eyes; an opaque-brown liquid covered his vision, no way of knowing up from down, left from right, just mud, mud, mud.  He wiped his face again with his blue-padded coat, now a sickly-grey colour, but this just smudged his view. Pulling his hat off revealed matted brown hair; he used it to wipe his face again, this time with more success. A column of light cast itself on the wall in front of him in a similar way that theatre lights illuminate soloists. The light illuminated one side of the drainage chamber presenting a different scene - the entrance to an overflow pipe above. Jacob's eyes suddenly widened as he realised this could be a way out - at last a stroke of luck, a glimmer of hope, however small.

The overflow pipe was one-metre or so from the top but that meant he had to climb up four metres. He looked for a way up above him and noticed small drainage inlets about the diameter of an orange. If he could get to one, he could grab hold and pull himself up.  He reached out to the hole in the chamber wall in front of him and pulled. His hands just slipped down. Letting out a groan, he realised for the first time that the sludge pressing onto his chest, was making it harder to breath with each minute. The sludge started to chill his stomach.

He prayed to god. He didn't believe, but what the hell. As he raised his head to the heavens, he looked up and noticed the inlet above him was big with a large crack running down the wall, just deep enough to jam a fist into.  If I could just lean on something, he thought. Looking around, nothing seemed suitable: an old welly-boot, a clump of weeds and what looked like half a watering can. Deciding to feel under the surface and search the sludge, he twisted his body left and right, scanning the area with his hands. Nothing! He tried lower - success. His right hand abruptly hit something hard but stuck-fast.  He tried to free it. No use. Icy-water chilled his bones; he realised he could no longer feel his hands and to make matters worse, the twisting action of his body had made him sink further.

Suddenly his attention shifted to a commotion above - a tractor noise. A moment later the manhole cover lifted revealing a bright-light shining down upon him.

I'M NOT DEAD YET! he screamed.

Are you going to talk? asked a deep voice that echoed off the walls.

If nothing happens to Johanna shouted Jakob.

Where is the disk... last chance? Boomed the voice.

Jakob knew he didn't have much to bargain with. They were going to leave him to die anyway. But he decided to stay defiant until the end.

The disk... In return for Johanna... That's my only offer. Jacob had started to shiver as he spoke.

He waited a moment for a response. Nothing came except a steady stream of water cascading down the chamber wall which hit him on the head. A warm trickle ran down his face; the distinct aroma of urine, engulfing his nostrils.  He repeated his assertion. His shouts tailed off as the chamber lid slid back on and the roar of a tractor started again. The tractor stopped on top of the manhole - a six-litre front-loader Kubota tractor weighing four-tonnes - its rear-tyre now carefully and deliberately positioned on top, blocking any chance of escape. The sound of footsteps trailed away until they could no longer be heard. Silently, he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

The water continued to pour in, a sense of foreboding welled up in him. Stop it, stop it, he thought. Being urinated on, had hardened his resolve. He yanked at his leg and felt it almost dislocate, but it was free. Plunging it down into the sludge, he hooked it under the solid object and pushed his arm down to meet his leg - by some miracle it moved.  After dozens of attempts, inch by inch, the object came into his hands and he yanked until it shot out of the gloop making a farting-noise as it came free. It was a block of rotten-wood - but it would do. Placing it across to the edge of the chamber, he lay down gently, spreading his weight, trying not to make any sudden moves.

At first he simply slumped around in the sludge, wasting energy, flapping like a baby-turtle on the sand; but with each movement he started to understand how to read this treacle-like substance. Slow movements were best, moving your weight intelligently, manoeuvring with the sludge; don't fight it - apply lateral pressure with your limbs - then slide along he thought. It was working. He made a lunge for the wall and reached it but failed to get a grip, and his hands slid down into the greasy mud. Two further attempts failed. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, and drifted off a million miles away.

Johanna as a little girl, dressed in dance clothes cart wheeling in the park on a sunny day, smiling and posing for the camera. Her face and hair lit up by the late summer sunshine; catching helicopter seeds and leaves falling from the trees in autumn; the giggles when the two of them collided, both vying to catch the same leaf.

He raised his head, opened his eyes and stared at the wall. He made a herculean effort to grab the crack and this time he managed to get a hand on it. The sharp edges dug into his wrist. With each tug, pain seared through his brain as the concrete sliced a bit more flesh. Blood ran down his arm and dripped onto his face. Ignoring the pain, he pushed his feet around in the sludge and finally found a foothold  Each subsequent heave exhausted him, his limbs shook, his grip loosened. He remembered his sports-coach once saying something to him.

Jakob, the mind will stop before the body gives up, don't let the mind hold you back - push harder, train your mind so that your body can go further. When two teams fight for victory, at the finish line, they are both equally exhausted; but the winner jumps in celebration, and the loser collapses in a heap; both have pushed themselves to the limit to win, so where does the winner get that extra energy.

Jakob pushed and heaved again until he grabbed what he thought must be the bottom edge of the overflow pipe. After one last heave, he raised himself up the remaining half-metre to the edge and flopped into the pipe.  Raising his head, and opening his eyes as wide as the encrusted sludge around his face would allow, he saw nothing but blackness. He groaned and slammed his fists into the sludge.

Looking back down the chamber, he saw that it was filling more rapidly now. Water was gushing in. The overflow, at 450mm wide, was just wide enough for a small, yet slim person to shimmy through.  He squeezed his shoulders in with his arms in front. The sides were smooth and greasy, allowing his bulk to slide a little more easily. Some of the clay had stuck to the bottom of the pipe and it helped him slide, albeit slowly.  Sliding along the pipe on his elbows, the sediment at the bottom mounted underneath him until finally, he couldn't move. Resting his head on his shoulder and looking under him, he saw water lapping over the rim of the pipe behind. With each few seconds, it crept further towards his feet.

3.

Winter 2016

Just as Cesar diligently took the prize-twink back to his farm, Johanna's cream-coloured backless dress revealed a firm and conditioned body to her colleagues at the Christmas Eve Party, held at the Gothia Towers Restaurant in Central Gothenburg. She made her way over to her