The Chestnut Man

by Søren Sveistrup

  ‘What the hell are you on about? Where did you get that report?’

  ‘I’ve just come from Forensics. Genz gave me a hand with an experiment. When you cut through bone, doesn’t matter what bone, you get microscopic bone dust left in the cracks and notches in the blade. Look at this blow-up of the machete we used in the experiment. It’s pretty much impossible to remove the particles, no matter how thoroughly you clean the weapon. But the original forensic-genetic analysis only found traces of blood. Not bone dust.’

  Hess hands Thulin a few loose sheets of close-up photographs of what looked like small particles on a metallic surface, presumably the machete. But it is the severed limbs in one of the other images that catch her eye.

  ‘What’s that in the background? A pig?’

  ‘It was an experiment. It’s not proof, but the important thing is –’

  ‘If this were relevant they’d probably have mentioned it before, don’t you think?’

  ‘It wasn’t important then, but it might be now – now we’ve found the print!’

  The main door opens and the cold wind whirls inside, carrying with it two laughing men. One is Tim Jansen, a towering and solidly built investigator who is usually seen only in the company of his partner, Martin Ricks. Jansen has a reputation as a sharp and experienced detective, but Thulin knows him as a chauvinistic pig, and she remembers clearly how he rubbed his groin against her during combat training that winter, only letting go when she buried an elbow in his solar plexus. Jansen is also the investigator who, along with his partner, wrung a confession out of Linus Bekker, and Thulin has the feeling their position in the department is unassailable.

  ‘All right there, Hess. Back on sabbatical?’

  Jansen accompanies the greeting with a smirk, and Hess does not respond. He waits until they’ve passed through the courtyard before saying anything else, and Thulin feels like telling him his caution is absurd.

  ‘Maybe it’s nothing. Her blood was there, after all, and personally I couldn’t care less one way or the other, but you need to go to your boss and find out where to go from here,’ he says, holding her gaze.

  Thulin doesn’t want to admit it, but after visiting Magnus at Glostrup Hospital she, too, logged on to the archive and read up on the Hartung case, just to reassure herself that there really wasn’t anything she should bear in mind; and as far as she is concerned, there isn’t. Besides the reminder of how painful it must have been for the parents when she and Hess showed up at their house the other day.

  ‘And you’re telling me this because your work at the Hague makes you an expert in murder cases?’

  ‘No, I’m telling you because –’

  ‘Then keep out of it. I don’t want you making a fuss and clumping around in people’s grief because somebody else did their job while you weren’t doing yours.’

  Hess looks at her. She can see in his eyes that he’s taken aback. It’s a mitigating factor that he’s been so far along his train of thought he hasn’t realized he’s doing more harm than good, but that doesn’t change anything. She’s about to head for the door when a voice echoes across the courtyard.

  ‘Thulin, the IT techs are trying to get hold of you!’

  Thulin peers up the staircase at the officer walking towards her, a mobile phone in his hand.

  ‘Tell them I’ll call back in a minute.’

  ‘It’s important. Laura Kjær’s mobile has just received a message.’

  Thulin senses Hess becoming alert, turning to face the officer, and she takes the phone he hands her.

  There’s a computer tech on the other end. A young guy whose name she doesn’t catch. He speaks quickly, gabbling as he attempts to explain the situation.

  ‘It’s about the victim’s mobile. We always cancel it with the phone company once we’ve finished examining it, but that takes a couple of days, so it’s still active, and you can still –’

  ‘Just tell me what the message said.’

  Thulin gazes at the columns around the courtyard, the bronze-coloured leaves swirling through the air, and senses Hess’s eyes on the back of her neck while the tech reads the message aloud. A chill draught blows through the loosely latched doors, and she hears herself ask whether they can trace the sender.

  32

  She is only fifteen minutes into her meeting with Gert Bukke, the leader of their supporting party, but already Rosa Hartung is beginning to realize that something is seriously wrong.

  The last few days at Christiansborg have been busy, and suggestions for various additions to the social policy budget for next year’s finance bill have been passed back and forth between her ministry and Bukke’s office. She and Vogel have worked day and night to pull together a compromise that will satisfy both the supporting party and the government, but being busy suited Rosa just fine. For six days she’s been trying to forget the hope the two police officers briefly gave her, instead pouring all her energy into reaching an agreement on social policy, as the Prime Minister expected. It is extremely important for her to live up to the PM’s confidence in her, especially because Rosa has given him her own personal assurance that she’s ready to take up a ministerial role once more. That isn’t quite true, perhaps, but it has been crucial in getting Rosa back to work. Luckily there have been no more threats or interruptions that week, and she’s been feeling as though things are headed in the right direction – until now, anyway, as she sits in the meeting room next to the Chamber and surveys Gert Bukke. Bukke is nodding along politely as Vogel explains the suggested amendments, but Rosa can tell he is paying more attention to the doodles on his pad of graph paper. When he speaks, she’s astonished.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but I’ll have to discuss it with the group.’

  ‘But you’ve already done so. Several times?’

  ‘Now I’m doing it again. Why don’t we put it like that?’

  ‘But the group just does whatever you tell them, Bukke. I need to know whether there’s any chance of coming to an agreement before –’

  ‘Rosa, I know the procedure. But as I said.’

  Rosa looks at him as he stands up. She knows that, freely translated, Bukke’s words mean that he is playing for time, but she doesn’t understand why. His political backing and general electoral support aren’t in great shape, and if he could reach an agreement with her then in theory it ought to put him back on track.

  ‘Bukke, we’re happy to meet you halfway, but we can’t let ourselves be blackmailed any more. We’ve been negotiating for nearly a week, and we’ve given you concessions, but we cannot –’

  ‘As I see it, it’s the Prime Minister putting us under pressure, and I don’t appreciate that, so I’m going to take all the time I need.’

  ‘What pressure?’

  Gert Bukke sits back down and leans forward.

  ‘Rosa, I like you. And I’m sorry for you and your loss. But if I’m being honest, it seems like you’ve been yanked back into the ring to make the pill go down more easily, and that’s just not on.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘In the year you’ve been gone, the government has stumbled from one shitstorm to the next. They’re tanking in the opinion polls, and the Prime Minister is desperate. Now he’s trying to turn the finance bill into one massive handout, and he’s deliberately hauled in his most popular minister – i.e. you – to play Santa, so that they can bring the voters back into the fold in time for re-election.’

  ‘Bukke, I wasn’t “hauled in”. I asked to come back.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And if you think the proposal is a handout, then we should discuss that. We’re in the middle of a parliamentary term. We need to stick together for another two years, so all I’m interested in is finding a solution that satisfies both sides. But it just seems like you’re dragging things out.’

  ‘I’m not dragging things out. I’m just saying there are challenges here: I’ve got mine, and obviously you’ve got your own stuff
to contend with, so of course it’s understandable this is proving tough.’

  Bukke gives a diplomatic smile, and Rosa stares at him. Vogel has been attempting in vain to soften the tone, and now he tries again.

  ‘Bukke, if we just make a few more cuts to –’

  But Rosa gets abruptly to her feet.

  ‘No, we’re finished here. Let’s give Bukke time to discuss it with the group.’

  She nods goodbye and strides through the door before Frederik Vogel can say another word.

  The main lobby at Christiansborg is filled with visitors and their enthusiastic guides, who are pointing at the ceiling paintings of various past heads of state. Rosa noticed the busses when she arrived that morning, and although she’s all for democratic transparency, she navigates her way through the throng and up the steps with a strained expression. Vogel catches up with her halfway.

  ‘Just to remind you, we’re dependent on their support. They’re the government’s parliamentary bedrock. You can’t react like that. Even if he did mention your –’

  ‘It has fuck all to do with that. We’ve frittered away a whole week. His plan is to make me look like I’m not up to the job, so he has an excuse to give his support base when the negotiations break down and we’re forced to call an election.’

  It’s clear to Rosa that Bukke is sick of cooperating with the government. He’s probably already received a more attractive offer from the opposition. If he forces an election, Bukke’s centre party will be free to enter into a new alliance, and that last remark – ‘obviously you’ve got your own stuff to contend with’ – probably indicates that he will do his best to make the cock-up Rosa’s responsibility.

  Vogel glances at her as they walk.

  ‘You think he’s had an offer from the opposition? If so, you’re giving him good reason to consider it by walking out of negotiations like that. I’m not sure the Prime Minister will be best pleased.’

  ‘I didn’t walk out of anything. But if he’s trying to pressure us, we need to do the same.’

  ‘How?’

  It strikes Rosa that she’s made a big mistake. Since returning to office she’s avoided the media, asking her staff to kindly but firmly refuse all requests for interviews. Partly because she knows what they would really be about and partly because she’d rather spend the time negotiating. But mainly the former, perhaps. Vogel had tried to change her mind, but she’d stuck to her decision; now, viewing the situation from the outside, she realizes her low profile might be confused with weakness if negotiations end in collapse.

  ‘Arrange some interviews. As many as we can fit in today. Let’s get our social-policy suggestions out there so as many people hear them as possible – that’ll turn up the pressure on Bukke.’

  ‘Agreed. But it will be difficult to keep the focus solely on the politics.’

  Rosa doesn’t get a chance to reply. She feels a hard shove as a young woman bumps into her shoulder, and she has to steady herself against the wall so she doesn’t fall.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing!’

  Vogel takes her arm, glaring indignantly at the woman, who shoots them a backwards glance without bothering to slow down. She’s wearing a gilet and a red hoodie, the hood drawn up around her head. Rosa catches only a brief glimpse of the woman’s dark eyes before she vanishes, apparently to catch up with a group of visitors.

  ‘Idiot. Are you all right?’

  Rosa nods and keeps walking, while Vogel takes out his mobile phone.

  ‘I’ll get on it right now.’

  As Vogel gets through to the first journalist, they reach the stairs. Rosa glances over her shoulder, but she can no longer see the woman among the group of visitors. It strikes her that there was something familiar about her, but she can’t remember where or when she’s seen her before.

  ‘Will you be ready for the first interview in fifteen minutes?’

  Vogel’s voice jerks her back to reality, and the thought is soon forgotten.

  33

  The autumn wind tugs and plucks menacingly at the fluttering tarpaulins over the scaffolding at Jarmers Square, which is choked with traffic. The white squad car, lights flashing and sirens blaring, speeds across the cobbles and past the medieval ruins before getting stuck behind a local-authority flatbed piled high with wet leaves.

  ‘Be more precise. Where’s the signal now!’

  Thulin is sitting behind the wheel, impatiently waiting for the tech to respond over the radio while she tries to steer around the council vehicle.

  ‘The phone signal has left Tagensvej and the lakes and it’s heading down Gothersgade now, most likely in a car.’

  ‘What about the sender’s details?’

  ‘We haven’t got any. The message was sent from a mobile phone with an unregistered prepaid card, but we’ve sent you the message so you can see for yourself.’

  Thulin honks the horn violently, flooring the accelerator the moment she finds a gap in the jam, while Hess, in the passenger seat, reads the text aloud from the display on his phone.

  ‘Chestnut man, do come in. Chestnut man, do come in. Have you any chestnuts that you’ve brought for me today? Thank you kindly, won’t you stay …’

  ‘It’s from a children’s song. “Apple Man, Do Come In”. But kids can swap out “apple man” for “plum man”, “chestnut man”, whatever they feel like. Move it, for fuck’s sake!’

  Thulin slams her palm against the horn again, overtaking a van. Hess eyes her.

  ‘Who knew we found the chestnut man at the crime scene? Was it mentioned anywhere, in a report or analysis or –’

  ‘No. Nylander shut it down, so it wasn’t mentioned anywhere.’

  Thulin knows why Hess is asking. If it has leaked out that they’ve found a chestnut doll with Kristine Hartung’s fingerprint on it, they could be getting messages from any old loony. But that doesn’t seem likely here. Not when the text has been sent directly to Laura Kjær’s phone. The thought makes her bark into the radio again.

  ‘What now? Where are we going?’

  ‘The signal’s heading down Christian IX’s Gade, seems to be vanishing into a building. It’s getting weaker.’

  The light is red, but Thulin mounts the pavement and rams the pedal to the floor. She hurtles through the crossing, looking dead ahead.

  34

  As they leap out of the car and sprint down the ramp, they pass a line of cars queuing behind the barrier to get inside the parking garage. According to the last update, the phone was heading that way before the signal cut out. But the carpark is nearly full. It’s mid-afternoon on a Monday, and people are wandering among the vehicles. Families with hefty shopping bags and pumpkins ready to be carved for Halloween. Muzak plays over the loudspeakers, interrupted only by an enthusiastic voice announcing unbeatable autumn deals waiting to be snapped up on the ground level of the department store.

  Thulin makes a beeline for the parking attendant’s glass box at the far end of the garage. A young man is sitting side-on, putting a couple of files back on a shelf.

  ‘This is the police, I need to know –’

  Thulin notices the attendant’s headphones, and he only reacts when she bangs on the window and shows her badge.

  ‘I need to know what cars arrived within the last five minutes!’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘You’ve got it on the screen, come on!’

  Thulin points at the wall of small screens behind the man, who is slowly beginning to grasp the urgency.

  ‘Run it back, hurry up!’

  There has been no trace of the signal since it vanished into the building, but if Thulin can see which cars have arrived within the last five minutes, she can also see the registration numbers and use them to narrow down the pool. Meanwhile, however, the parking attendant is rummaging around for the remote control.

  ‘I do remember a Mercedes and a courier and some ordinary cars –’

  ‘Come on, come on, come on!’

  ‘Thulin, the sig
nal’s headed for Købmagergade!’

  Thulin glances back at Hess, who has his phone pressed to his ear and is following the information relayed from the tracking device. He’s zigzagging between the cars towards the exit. Thulin turns back to the parking attendant in the glass box – he’s finally located the remote.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Show me the cameras in the department store – the ones on the ground floor, pointing towards the Købmagergade exit!’

  The attendant points at the uppermost three screens, and Thulin keeps her eyes glued to the black-and-white images. A horde of people are milling around the department store like ants in an anthill. It seems impossible to focus on any single individual, until suddenly she catches a glimpse of a lone figure. More purposeful than the rest, and crossing the shop floor in the direction of the Købmagergade exit. Keeping its back to the CCTV cameras. As the dark-haired, suited figure disappears behind a pillar, Thulin breaks into a run.

  35

  Erik Sejer-Lassen is walking just three paces behind the woman, and he can smell her perfume. She’s in her early thirties, wearing a black skirt and black stockings, and he finds the click of her high-heeled Louboutins nearly unbearable as he follows her through the Victoria’s Secret concession. She is well groomed, with the proportions he favours, the large breasts and narrow waist, and he guesses she works someplace with mirrors, oils, hot stones and shit like that – some job she uses to pass the time while she waits for a rich man to take her home and keep her there like a piece of decorative furniture. He thinks about what he wants to do to her, to shove her through a door, force up her skirt and stick it in her from behind as he grabs her long bleach-blonde hair and jerks it back until she screams. He could probably gain access to the promised land by inviting her to some fancy restaurant and a fashionable club, where she’d be giggly and impressed, and her panties would get wet every single time he ran his platinum card through the machine, but that isn’t what he wants – that isn’t what she deserves. He notices his mobile ringing, and when he reaches into his shoulder bag and hastily checks the display, it jolts him out of the fantasy.