‘Move back! The minister has a statement.’
Vogel has elbowed his way in front of her, making sure the crowd keeps its distance. Most do as they’re told, and Rosa studies their faces. Many she already knows.
‘As you’re all aware, this has been a difficult time. My family and I are grateful for all the support we have been given. We’re at the start of a new parliamentary year, and it’s time now to look to the future. I want to thank the Prime Minister for his faith in me, and I’m looking forward to getting stuck in to the political tasks ahead. I hope you will all respect that. Thank you.’
Rosa Hartung continues walking up the steps after Vogel, who tries to clear a path.
‘But Hartung, are you ready to come back?’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘What’s it like to know the killer never revealed the locations where your daughter –’
Vogel manages to get her up to the big doors, and when they reach her secretary – waiting on the threshold, stretching out a hand – it’s like being rescued ashore from a foaming sea.
12
‘As you can see, we’ve made a few adjustments to the layout because of the new sofas, but if you’d rather have the others back –’
‘No, this is fine. I like that it’s new.’
Rosa has just stepped into her office on the fourth floor of the Ministry for Social Affairs. Arriving at Christiansborg and at the church service she bumped into many of her colleagues, and it feels nice to get some distance from all the attention. Some gave her a hug, others nodded kindly and with compassion, and she tried to keep moving – except at the service, when she did her best to focus on the bishop’s sermon. Afterwards Vogel stayed behind to speak to various MPs; she was met by her ministerial secretary and a few assistants, and together they crossed the palace square and entered the large grey-brown building that houses the Ministry for Social Affairs. Vogel’s absence suits her just fine; now she can concentrate on greeting her staff and chatting to her ministerial secretary.
‘I don’t know how to put this, so I’m just going to ask straight out. How are you doing?’
Rosa knows her secretary well enough to understand that she has her best interests at heart. Liu is of Chinese heritage, married to a Dane, mother of two, and one of the kindest people Rosa knows, but she still feels compelled to dodge such a personal question.
‘It’s all right to ask. I’m doing well, given the circumstances, and now I’m looking forward to getting started. What about you?’
‘Oh yes, all fine. The younger one has colic. And the older … but it’s all fine.’
‘That wall looks a bit bare, doesn’t it?’
As Rosa points, she senses Liu straining not to put her foot in her mouth.
‘Well, that’s where the pictures were. But I think you should make up your own mind. There were some of – of all of you together – and I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to put them up again.’
Rosa looks down at the box beside the wall and recognizes the corner of a photograph with Kristine.
‘I’ll see about that later. Tell me how much time I have for meetings today.’
‘Not much. You’ll greet the staff in a moment, then there’s the official opening with the Prime Minister’s speech, and afterwards –’
‘That’s fine, but I’d like to get the meetings underway today. Nothing major, just between sessions, quite unofficial. I tried emailing a few people on my way in, but the system was down.’
‘It still is, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, then send Engells in so I can start explaining who I want to talk to.’
‘Engells is out running an errand at the moment, unfortunately.’
‘Now?’
Rosa looks at her, and all of a sudden it hits her there must be another reason for her secretary’s uncertainty and nerves. The Chief of Staff would normally be ready and waiting for her on a day like today, and the fact that he isn’t suddenly seems ominous.
‘Yes. He had to go because … but he can tell you himself when he gets back.’
‘Back from what? What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know exactly. And I’m sure it will all be sorted out, but as I said –’
‘Liu, what’s happening?’
The ministerial secretary hesitates, looking deeply unhappy.
‘I’m really sorry. We’ve had so many lovely emails from people supporting you and wishing you well, and I don’t understand how anybody could send something like that.’
‘Send what?’
‘I haven’t seen it myself. But I believe it’s a threat. From what Engells told me, it was something about your daughter.’
13
‘But I spoke to her last night … I ate, and then I called home, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.’
Laura Kjær’s forty-three-year-old partner, Hans Henrik Hauge, is sitting on a chair in the kitchen, still in his damp overcoat and clutching his car keys in his hand. His eyes are red and puffy, and he’s staring through the window in confusion at the white-clad figures in the garden and down by the hedge before he looks back at Thulin.
‘How did it happen?’
‘We don’t know that yet. What did you talk about on the phone?’
There’s a clatter, and Thulin shoots a sidelong glance at the man from Europol, who’s wandering around opening drawers and cupboards. She’s discovered he has the power to exasperate her even when he isn’t talking.
‘Nothing special. What did Magnus say? I’d like to see him.’
‘In a moment. Did she say anything that made you wonder, or was she anxious, or –’
‘No. We just talked about Magnus, and then she said she was going to bed because she was tired.’
Hans Henrik Hauge’s voice is cracking. He’s tall, powerfully built and well dressed, but he also seems like a soft man, and Thulin thinks it might be difficult to get through the interview if she doesn’t pick up the pace.
‘Tell me how long you’ve known each other.’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Were you married?’
Thulin’s eyes are on Hauge’s hands, where he’s begun to fiddle with a ring.
‘Engaged. I’d given her a ring. We were going to go to Thailand and get married in the winter.’
‘Why Thailand?’
‘We’d both been married before. So we decided this one should be different.’
‘Which hand did she wear her ring on?’
‘What?’
‘The ring. Which hand did she wear it on?’
‘The right one, I think. Why?’
‘I’m just asking questions, but it’s important that you answer them. Tell me where you were yesterday.’
‘Roskilde. I’m an IT developer. I drove down there yesterday morning, and I was only supposed to be at the fair until this afternoon.’
‘So you were with someone last night?’
‘Yes, with my boss. Well, I drove to the motel about nine or ten. That was where I called her from.’
‘Why didn’t you just drive home?’
‘Because the company had asked us to stay the night. We had early-morning meetings.’
‘How were things between you and Laura? Were you having any problems, or –’
‘No. Things were great. What are they doing in the garage?’
Hauge’s tear-stained gaze has strayed back out through the window, this time towards the rear of the garage, where a couple of Forensics techs are standing by the door.
‘They’re looking for evidence, if there is any. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm Laura?’
Hauge looks at her, but it’s as though he’s somewhere else entirely.
‘Perhaps there was something you didn’t know about her? Could she have been seeing another man?’
‘No, no way. Now I’d like to see Magnus. He needs his medication.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘We don’t know. I
mean … he’s been treated at the Rigshospital, and they think he’s got some form of autism. They gave him something for anxiety. Magnus is a good boy, but he’s very withdrawn, and he’s only nine …’
Hans Henrik Hauge’s voice cracks again. Thulin is about to ask another question, but Hess beats her to the punch.
‘Things were good, you said? No problems?’
‘That’s what I already said. Where’s Magnus? I want to see him now.’
‘Why did you get the lock changed?’
The question comes out of the blue, and Thulin stares at Hess. He asked innocently, almost off-handedly, as he held up something from a kitchen drawer. A slip of paper with two shiny keys stuck to it.
Hauge gapes blankly at him and the piece of paper.
‘This is a receipt from a locksmith. It says the lock was changed on 5 October at 3.30 p.m. That’s yesterday afternoon. In other words, after you’d gone to the trade fair.’
‘I don’t know. Magnus had thrown his keys away a few times, so we’d talked about it. But I didn’t know Laura had done it …’
Thulin stands up to look at the receipt, taking it from Hess’s hand. She would have found it later when she searched the house, but she decides to use the momentum despite her irritation.
‘You didn’t know Laura had had the lock changed?’
‘No.’
‘She didn’t mention it when you spoke on the phone?’
‘No … I mean, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Could there be another reason why she didn’t tell you?’
‘She was probably just going to tell me later. Why does it matter?’
Thulin looks at him without answering. Hans Henrik Hauge stares back with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Then he jerks to his feet and the chair flips on to the ground.
‘You can’t just keep me here. I have a right to see Magnus. I want to see him now!’
Thulin hesitates, then nods to an officer waiting in the background by the door.
‘Afterwards you’ll have to be swabbed and fingerprinted. That’s important, so we can distinguish between the prints that are supposed to be here and those that aren’t. Do you understand?’
Hauge nods distractedly and disappears with the officer. Hess has taken off his latex gloves, zipped up his jacket and picked up the little holdall, which he’d set down on a piece of plastic in the hallway.
‘See you at the coroner’s office. Probably a good idea to check that guy’s alibi.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try to remember that.’
Hess nods, unfazed, and leaves the kitchen as another officer steps inside.
‘Will you speak to the boy now? He’s at the neighbour’s, you can see him from the window.’
Thulin walks across to the window that overlooks the neighbour’s house and peers through the patchy hedge into a conservatory. The boy is sitting on a chair by a white table, playing on something that looks like a gaming console. She can only see him in profile, but it’s enough to grasp that there’s something mechanical and vacant about his face and movements.
‘He doesn’t say much, seems a bit backward, really. Talks almost entirely in one-syllable words.’
Thulin is observing the boy as she listens to the officer, and for a moment she recognizes herself and the yawning loneliness she knows the boy will feel today and for many years to come. But then he disappears behind an older woman, presumably the neighbour, who enters the conservatory followed by Hans Henrik Hauge. Hauge begins sobbing at the sight of the boy; he squats down and puts his arm around him while the boy continues to sit bolt upright with his hands on the console.
‘Shall I fetch him?’
The officer is looking impatiently at Thulin.
‘I asked –’
‘No, give them a moment. But keep an eye on the boyfriend and find someone to check his alibi.’
Thulin turns away from the window. She hopes the case is as straightforward as it seems. For a moment the image of the little chestnut doll from the playhouse flickers across her mind’s eye. NC3 can’t come fast enough.
14
The panoramic windows at the architectural firm offer an expansive view across the city. The desks are arranged in small islands throughout the large sky-lit room, but it looks as though the place is capsizing, since most of the employees have converged around the flatscreen TV hanging from the ceiling on one side of the space. The drawings in his arms, Steen Hartung walks up the stairs as the screen, tuned to the news, finishes playing the clip of his wife arriving at Christiansborg. Most of his employees notice his presence and hurriedly pretend to be hard at work as he makes for his office. Only his partner, Bjarke, looks at him and beams an embarrassed smile.
‘Hey there, do you have a second?’
They go into Steen’s office, and Bjarke shuts the door.
‘She’s dealing with it brilliantly, I think.’
‘Thanks. Have you spoken to the client?’
‘Yes, they’re happy.’
‘Then why haven’t we sealed the deal?’
‘Because they’re playing it very safe. They want more drawings, but I told them you need more time.’
‘More drawings?’
‘How’s it going at home?’
‘I can get them done quickly, that’s not a problem.’
Steen clears his drafting table to make space for the brochures, his frustration escalating as his partner continues to stand and stare.
‘Steen, you’re pushing yourself too hard. We’d all understand if you took your foot off the pedal and gave yourself a bit of time. Let the others take the strain. I mean, that’s the whole point of hiring them.’
‘Just tell the client I’ll clarify the proposal in a few days. We need to land this order.’
‘But it’s not what matters most. Steen, I’m worried about you. I still think –’
‘This is Steen Hartung.’
Steen picked up his phone at the very first ring. The voice on the other end introduces itself as his solicitor’s secretary, and Steen turns his back to his partner, hoping he’ll take the hint.
‘Now’s convenient. What’s it about?’ In the reflection in the large pane of glass, Steen sees his partner plod out of the office as the voice on the line continues speaking.
‘Just following up on the information you’ve already been given, and you certainly don’t need to answer now. There may be many good reasons to wait, but now the anniversary of the incident is coming up, we just want to remind you that you’re entitled to start proceedings towards having her declared dead.’
For some reason this isn’t what Steen Hartung was expecting to hear. He feels a wave of nausea, and for a moment he’s unable to move, caught staring at his face in the rain-spattered window.
‘As you know, there are steps we can take in cases where the missing person hasn’t been found but there’s no doubt about the outcome. Of course it’s up to you whether you want to draw a line under it now. We’re just letting you know so you can discuss it with –’
‘We want to.’
The voice on the line falls silent a moment.
‘As I said, this isn’t something you need to –’
‘If you care to send me the papers I’ll sign them and tell my wife about it myself. Thanks.’
He puts down the phone. Two damp pigeons are mincing around on the cornice outside the window. He looks at them without seeing them, and when he stirs the pigeons rise and flap away.
Steen takes a bottle out of his bag and pours it into his coffee cup before getting down to work on the brochures. His hands shake, and he has to use them both when he takes out his gauge. He knows it’s the right decision, and he wishes he could get it done and dusted straight away. It’s a small thing, but important. Mustn’t let the dead overshadow the living. That’s what they said, the psychologists and the therapists, and every single fibre in his body is telling him they’re right.
15
‘It arrived for you early this morni
ng, sent to your official parliamentary email address. Intelligence are trying to trace the sender, and I’m sure they’ll get there, but it may take some time. I’m really very sorry,’ says Engells gently.
When Rosa returned to her office after greeting her staff, she found Engells waiting for her. Now, as she stands by the window behind her desk, she’s aware that her Chief of Staff is watching her with the sympathetic gaze she finds unbearable.
‘I’ve had hate mail before. It’s usually from sad people who can’t help themselves.’
‘This is different. More spiteful. They’ve used images from your daughter’s Facebook page, which was deleted more than a year ago, when she … when she went missing. That means it’s from someone who’s been interested in you for a long time.’
The information shakes Rosa, but she’s determined to suppress the shock.
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘It’s been handed over to Intelligence and the Security lot, and they’re currently –’
‘Engells, you never do anything without making about seven copies. I’d like to see it.’
Engells looks at her dubiously, but then opens the folder he brought with him when he arrived and draws out a sheet of paper, placing it on the table. She picks up the sheet. At first Rosa can make nothing of the tiny, colourful fragments scattered clumsily across the page. But then she understands. She recognizes the selfies Kristine took: lying on the floor of the sports hall, laughing and sweaty in her handball clothes; on the way to the beach on her new mountain bike; during a snowball fight with Gustav in their garden; dressed up in front of the bathroom mirror, pretending to be a model. So many photographs, smiling and happy. Rosa feels a surge of loss and grief, until her eyes fall on the sentence directed at her. ‘Welcome back. You’re going to die, slut.’ The words are arranged above the images in an arc of red lettering, and the message seems all the more malevolent because it’s written in an uncertain, childish hand.
When Rosa speaks again, she struggles to sound normal. ‘It’s not the first nutter we’ve seen. Usually it’s no big deal.’
‘No, but this …’
The Chestnut Man Page 4
