The Chestnut Man

by Søren Sveistrup

  His wife is sitting in her coat and scarf on the bare mattress by the wall. His eyes dart around the room. Across the empty walls and the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. Then back at her.

  ‘The car’s here.’

  ‘Thanks …’

  She nods quickly, still seated. Steen takes another step forward and feels the chill in the room. He notices she’s kneading a yellow T-shirt between her hands.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  It’s a stupid question – she doesn’t look okay.

  ‘I opened the window yesterday then forgot to close it, and I only just realized.’

  He nods sympathetically, although her words didn’t answer the question. From far down the hall they can hear their son shouting that Vogel has arrived, but neither reacts.

  ‘I can’t remember what she smelled like any more.’

  Her hands caress the yellow fabric, and she looks at it as though searching for something hidden in its woven threads.

  ‘I just had to try. But her scent isn’t there. Or in any of the other stuff.’

  He sits down next to her.

  ‘Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s better this way.’

  ‘How could it be better … it’s not better.’

  He doesn’t reply, and he can tell she regrets snapping at him when her voice grows gentler.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this … it seems wrong.’

  ‘It’s not wrong. It’s the only right thing to do. You told me that yourself.’

  Their son calls again.

  ‘She would have told you to go. She would have told you it would all work out. She would have told you you’re amazing.’

  Rosa doesn’t answer. For a moment she just sits there with the T-shirt. Then she takes his hand and squeezes it and attempts a smile.

  ‘Okay, great, see you soon.’ Rosa Hartung’s personal adviser hangs up his phone as he sees her coming down the stairs towards the hall.

  ‘Did I get here too early? Should I ask the royal family to postpone the opening until tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I’m ready now.’

  Rosa smiles at Frederik Vogel’s energy, thinking it makes a nice change. When Vogel’s around, there’s no room for sentimentality.

  ‘Good. Let’s run through the programme. We’ve had a lot of questions come in – some of them good, some of them predictable and tabloid-esque –’

  ‘We’ll do that in the car. Gustav, remember it’s Tuesday and Dad is picking you up. And call if you need anything. All right, love?’

  ‘I know that.’

  The boy nods wearily, and Rosa barely has time to ruffle his hair before Vogel opens the door for her.

  ‘You’ve also got to say hello to the new driver, and we really need to discuss how we’re going to order these negotiations …’

  Steen watches them through the window in the kitchen, trying to smile encouragingly at his wife as she greets the new driver and climbs into the back of the car. As they leave the driveway, Steen feels relieved.

  ‘Are we going or what?’

  His son is asking, and Steen can hear him putting on his coat and boots in the hall.

  ‘Yeah, I’m coming now.’

  Steen opens the fridge, takes out the pack of small liquor bottles, unscrews the cap from one and empties it into his mouth. He feels the spirits rake their way down his gullet and into his belly. Then he puts the remaining bottles in his bag, shuts the fridge and remembers to grab the car keys, which are lying on the kitchen table.

  9

  There’s something about the house Thulin doesn’t like. The feeling began to set in as she stepped, clad in gloves and blue plastic overshoes, into the dark front hall, where the family’s footwear is neatly arrayed beneath the coatrack. Delicate framed pictures of flowers hang on the walls in the corridor, and when she enters the bedroom the room strikes her immediately as feminine and innocent, everything in shades of white apart from the pink pleated blinds, which are still drawn down.

  ‘The victim’s name is Laura Kjær, thirty-seven years old, nurse at a dental practice in central Copenhagen. Looks like she was surprised after she went to bed. Her nine-year-old boy was sleeping in the room at the end of the hall, but apparently he didn’t see or hear anything.’

  Thulin is staring at the double bed, which has only been used on one side, as she’s briefed by the older, uniformed officer. A bedside lamp has toppled off the nightstand and lies cushioned on the thick white carpet.

  ‘The boy woke up to find the house empty, nobody around. He made breakfast for himself, got dressed and waited for his mother, but when she didn’t show up he went round to the neighbour’s. The neighbour went back to the house, found it empty, then heard a dog barking out in the play area, where she subsequently found the victim and called us.’

  ‘Has the father been contacted?’

  Thulin walks past the officer, glancing briefly into the child’s room before returning down the corridor, the officer in her wake.

  ‘According to the neighbour, the father died of cancer a couple of years ago. The victim met someone new six months later, and they moved in here together. Guy’s at a trade fair somewhere in Zealand. We called him when we arrived, so he should be here soon.’

  Through the open bathroom door Thulin can see three electric toothbrushes in a row, a pair of slippers ready on the tiled floor, and two dressing gowns hanging from pegs. She leaves the corridor and enters the open-plan kitchen, where white-clad Forensics techs are busy checking for trace evidence and fingerprints. The furnishings are as ordinary as the neighbourhood. Scandinavian design, probably mostly from Ikea and Ilva, three empty placemats on the table, a little autumn bouquet of decorative sprigs in a vase, cushions on the sofa, and on the kitchen island a single deep bowl containing the remains of milk and cornflakes, which she guesses must be the boy’s. In the living room is a digital photo frame displaying a constant flow of images of the little family to the empty armchair next to it. Mother, son and presumably the live-in boyfriend. They’re smiling and looking happy. Laura Kjær is a beautiful, slender woman with long red hair, but there’s a vulnerability in her warm, sympathetic eyes. It’s a nice home, yet there’s definitely something about it Thulin doesn’t like.

  ‘Signs of forced entry?’

  ‘No. We’ve checked the windows and doors. Looks like she watched TV and drank a cup of tea before she went to bed.’

  Thulin skims the kitchen noticeboard, but all that hangs there are school timetables, calendars, the schedule for the local pool, a tree surgeon’s flyer, an invitation to the residents’ association’s Halloween party and a reminder letter about a check-up at the Rigshospital’s paediatric department. Normally this is where Thulin excels: at noticing the little things that prove significant. Once upon a time she was used to it. Used to coming home, unlocking the front door and reading the signs that augured whether it would be a good day or a bad day. But in this case there’s nothing to notice. Just an ordinary family and their idyllic day-to-day life. The kind of thing she’ll never be able to accept, and for a moment she tries to tell herself that maybe that’s all she dislikes about the house.

  ‘What about computers, tablets, mobiles?’

  ‘As far as we can see, nothing’s been stolen, and Genz’s people have already packed up the gizmos and sent them in.’

  Thulin nods. Most assaults and murders can be cleared up that way. As a rule there are always texts, calls, emails or Facebook messages to indicate why things ended as they did, and she’s already itching to get her hands on the material.

  ‘What’s that smell in here? Vomit?’

  Thulin has suddenly become aware of the harsh, unpleasant stench following her around the house. The older officer looks shame-faced, and Thulin registers that he’s pale.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just come from the scene. I thought I was used to … but I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘I’ll manage. Just let me know when the boyfriend shows up.’

 
; She opens the terrace door to the back garden while the officer nods gratefully.

  10

  The trampoline has seen better days, as has the tiny overgrown greenhouse to the left of the terrace door. To the right, the wet grass extends to the rear wall of a shiny metal garage; although immensely practical, it doesn’t really suit the white, modernist house. Thulin walks towards the far end of the garden. On the other side of the hedge she can see floodlights, uniformed officers and white-clad Forensics techs, and she edges through the trees and bushes with their fire-red and yellow leaves until she reaches a playground. A bulb flashes repeatedly in the rain near a battered playhouse, and from a distance she sees Genz animatedly photographing details of the crime scene while he directs his team.

  ‘Got anywhere?’

  Simon Genz glances up from his camera’s viewfinder. His face is serious, but when he sees her it lightens into a brief grin. Genz is probably in his mid thirties, and an active guy: rumour has it he’s run five marathons this year alone. He’s also the youngest boss the Forensics Department has ever had. Thulin considers him one of the few people worth listening to. Sharp, nerdy – and quite simply she trusts his judgement. If she keeps him at arm’s length, it’s only because he asked her whether she wanted to go on a run together one day, and she didn’t. During the nine months Thulin has been with the murder squad, Genz is the only person with whom she’s developed any sort of relationship, but the least sexy thing she can imagine is a romance with a colleague.

  ‘Hi, Thulin. Not far. The rain makes things tricky, and it’s been quite a few hours since it happened.’

  ‘Have they said anything about a time of death?’

  ‘Not yet. The coroner’s just around the corner. But the rain started about midnight, and my guess is that’s roughly when it happened. If there were obvious tracks in the soil, they’ve been thoroughly washed away, but we’re not giving up. Do you want to see her?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  The lifeless figure on the grass has been covered with a white sheet from the Forensics department. It’s leaning against one of two poles supporting the roof above the playhouse’s front porch, and the scene looks almost peaceful: in the background, red and yellow climbing plants are exploding with colour in the dense shrubbery. Carefully Genz draws back the white sheet to reveal the woman. She’s slumped like a rag doll, naked apart from knickers and a chemise that was once beige but is now soaked with rain and blotches of dark blood. Thulin steps closer, squatting down to get a better look. Laura Kjær has black gaffer tape wrapped all the way around her head. Cutting into her rigid, open mouth, it has been wound several times around the back of her skull and wet red hair. One eye has been caved in, so that you can see deep into the socket, while the other stares blindly into space. Her bluish skin is marred with countless scratches, tears and bruises, and her bare feet have been scraped bloody. Her hands are buried in a little heap of leaves in her lap, bound tightly at the wrists with broad plastic strips. Thulin needs only a single glance at the body to understand why the older officer cracked. Usually she has no problem with examining dead people. Working in Homicide demands an unsentimental approach to death, and anyone who can’t examine a corpse is better off elsewhere. But Thulin has never seen anyone as brutalized as the woman leaning against the playhouse pole.

  ‘You’ll hear it from the coroner, of course, but in my opinion some of the injuries suggest that she tried to run off among the trees at some point. Either away from the house or back to it. But it was pitch black, and she must have been badly weakened after the amputation, which I’m certain was done before she was arranged like this.’

  ‘The amputation?’

  ‘Hold this.’

  Genz absent-mindedly hands her the heavy camera and flash. Approaching the body, he crouches down on his haunches and gently uses his torch to lift the woman’s bound wrists a fraction. Rigor mortis has set in, and her stiff arms mechanically follow: Thulin can see now that Laura Kjær is missing her right hand. It isn’t buried in the leaves, as she supposed. The arm stops grotesquely just beneath the wrist, where a slanting, jagged cut exposes the bone and sinews.

  ‘For the time being we’re assuming it must have happened out here, because we didn’t find a drop of blood in the garage or the house. I’ve asked my people to check the garage thoroughly, of course, especially for tape, gardening tools and cable ties, but so far we’ve come up with nothing obvious. Needless to say we’re also wondering why we haven’t found the hand yet, but we’re still looking.’

  ‘Could be a dog ran off with it.’

  Hess’s voice; he has emerged from the garden and the hedge. He glances around briefly, his shoulders giving a shudder in the rain, and Genz gazes at him in surprise. For some reason the remark irritates Thulin, although she knows he might be right.

  ‘Genz, this is Hess – he’s joining us for a few days.’

  ‘Good morning. Welcome.’ Genz moves to shake hands with Hess, but Hess merely nods towards the house next door.

  ‘Anybody hear anything? Neighbours?’

  There’s a thunderous clatter, and a train abruptly shoots along its wet tracks on the other side of the playground, so Genz has to shout his reply.

  ‘No, as far as we know nobody heard anything! The S-trains don’t run as frequently at night, but on the other hand there are quite a few freight trains on this line!’

  The sound of the train vanishes, and Genz looks at Thulin again.

  ‘I wish I had loads of evidence for you, but right now there’s nothing else I can say. Only that I’ve never seen anyone this savagely beaten before.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There.’

  Thulin is still squatting beside the body, but now she’s pointing at something Genz has to twist around to see. Behind the dead woman, from the beam above the playhouse porch, there’s something dangling in the wind, something caught in its own string. Genz reaches a hand underneath the beam and unwinds the object so that it hangs freely, swinging back and forth. Two dark brown chestnuts placed on top of each other, the top one small and the bottom one large. Two holes have been scratched into the smaller chestnut to make eyes. Matchsticks have been poked into the larger one, representing arms and legs. It’s a simple doll consisting of two spheres and four sticks, but briefly, for some reason she can’t explain, it makes Thulin’s heart stop.

  ‘A chestnut man. Shall we bring him in for questioning?’

  Hess is gazing at her innocently. Evidently cop humour of the classic style is favoured at Europol too, and Thulin doesn’t reply. She and Genz only have time to exchange a glance before Genz is interrupted with a question by one of his people. Hess reaches into his jacket for his phone, which has begun to ring again, and at that moment there’s a whistle from the house. It’s the officer from before, signalling to Thulin from the garden. She gets to her feet and casts her eyes across the playground, which is surrounded by bronze-leafed trees, but there’s nothing else to see. Only wet swing sets and climbing frames and a parkour course, desolate and sad despite the army of officers and techs wading around in the rain as they search the area. Thulin returns to the house. When she passes Hess he’s speaking French again, as yet another train goes rumbling by.

  11

  On their way into the city centre in the ministerial car, Vogel runs through the day’s schedule. All the government ministers are meeting at Christiansborg before heading around the corner to the Palace Chapel for the traditional service. Once that’s over, Rosa will be greeting her staff at her offices, which are located on Holmens Kanal opposite Christiansborg Palace Square, and then rushing back over to Christiansborg in time for the official opening of parliament.

  The rest of the day is also tightly scheduled, but Rosa interjects a few corrections and updates the calendar on her iPhone. She doesn’t need to, because her secretary keeps track of everything on her behalf, but Rosa prefers it like this. It helps her get a sense of the detail
s, to keep a grip on reality and feel like she’s in control. Especially today. But by the time the car swings into the courtyard outside parliament, she’s no longer listening to Vogel. Danish flags wave from the central spire, and there are media vans all over the courtyard; she watches people getting ready or recording pieces to camera underneath umbrellas, lit by their photographers.

  ‘Asger, we’ll keep driving, head around to the back entrance.’

  The new driver nods at Vogel’s words, but Rosa doesn’t like the suggestion.

  ‘No. Let me out here.’

  Vogel turns towards her in surprise and the driver glances at her in the rear-view mirror. Only now does she notice that despite his young age there are grave lines drawn around his mouth.

  ‘If I don’t do it now, they’ll keep at it all day long. Drive right up to the entrance and let me out there.’

  ‘Rosa, are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The car glides up to the curb, and the driver jumps out and opens the door for her. As she climbs out and begins walking towards the broad steps of the parliament building, everything seems to move in slow motion: cameramen turning, journalists beginning to stampede her way, faces with mouths open and words twisted.

  ‘Rosa Hartung, a moment!’

  Reality strikes her. The crowd around her explodes, cameras are thrust into her face, and the journalists’ questions come hailing down. Rosa makes it up two steps before turning to gaze out over the crowd, noting everything. The voices, the lights and microphones, a blue hat drawn down over a furrowed brow, an arm waving, a pair of dark eyes trying to follow along from the back row.

  ‘Hartung, do you have a statement?’

  ‘What’s it like to be back?’

  ‘Could you just give us two minutes?’

  ‘Rosa Hartung, over here!’

  Rosa knows she has been a topic of discussion at various editorial meetings over the last few months – the last few days, especially – but nobody saw this move coming: they are unprepared, and that’s why Rosa has done it.