She grabs him, grabs his trousers and unzips them, sticks down her hand and immediately finds what she’s seeking. He tries to push her away, but she holds on, and soon she’s drawn it out and taken him in her mouth, and his resistance turns to suppressed moans. As he’s about to come she turns around and bends forward across the wheelie bin. Her hand fumbles to pull up her skirt, but he gets there first, tearing the new yellow skirt aside. She hears the fabric rip. Feeling him inside her, she thrusts her hips backwards so he can’t help himself, and within a few seconds he’s finished. Stiffening, he gasps for breath. She turns and kisses his lifeless lips, holding his damp member, but he takes a step back as though she’s given him an electric shock, then slaps her across the face.
Jessie’s too stunned to speak. She feels the heat spread across her face as he zips up his trousers.
‘That was the last time. I feel nothing for you. Not a fucking thing, and I will never leave my family. You got that?’
She hears his steps and the heavy door slamming behind him. Left alone, her cheek burning. She can still feel him between her legs, but now in a way that makes her feel ashamed. In a sheet of metal on the wall she sees her distorted reflection, and she adjusts her clothes, but the skirt has been torn. The rip is visible from the front, and she has to button her coat so it can’t be seen. Wiping away her tears, she hears the distant, happy music from the studio above, and pulls herself together. Jessie goes back the way she came, but now the door to the stairs is locked. She tugs at it in vain, and when she tries to call for help all she hears is the faint sound of the music.
She decides to take the other route, down a long corridor lined with heating pipes, where she’s never been before. But a little further down the corridor splits, and the first direction she chooses is a dead end. Jessie tries a new door: it too is locked. She retreats, walking back along the corridor with the heating pipes, but she hasn’t gone twenty yards before she hears a noise behind her.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
For a moment she tries to tell herself it’s him, that he’s come back to apologize, but the silence tells her something else. Disconcerted, she walks on. Soon she begins to jog. One corridor follows another, and Jessie thinks she can hear footsteps behind her. This time she doesn’t call out. She tugs at every single door she passes, and when one finally opens she flies into the stairwell and up the steps. She thinks she can hear the door opening below her, and when she reaches the next landing she shoves the door leading to the main shopping centre so hard that it bangs into the wall.
Jessie Kvium bolts up to the top floor, where families are milling around with their shopping trolleys to the sound of autumn offers. Turning to face the entrance to the dance studio, she sees a woman and a tall man with a bruised face questioning one of the mothers, who is pointing in her direction.
67
‘But is it her or isn’t it?’
‘We don’t know. She did feel like she was being followed at the shopping centre. Problem is, she’s not exactly keen to help us. Or maybe she just doesn’t know anything.’
It’s Thulin who answers Nylander, while Hess stands staring into the interview room through the one-way mirror. It’s coated on one side so that he can see Jessie Kvium, but Jessie Kvium can’t see him. Hess can’t be sure, but his gut tells him she might be keeping the kind of secrets that interest the killer. That said, she’s markedly different from the previous victims. Hess’s impression is that Laura Kjær and Anne Sejer-Lassen were more bourgeois and concerned with appearances, while Jessie Kvium seems unrulier, more belligerent. On the other hand, that’s precisely what made her a glaring target. You’d take note of Jessie Kvium among a hundred other women, feeling both attracted and intimidated as a man. Right now the young woman is conducting a furious argument with the poor officer standing guard by the door, doing her best to talk her way past him, and Hess is grateful that the volume of the loudspeaker on the wall is turned down to a minimum. Outside the sky has blackened, and for a second Hess reflects that it would be nice to turn down Nylander’s volume, too.
‘But if she can’t help, then maybe you’re looking at the wrong woman?’
‘Or maybe she’s just rattled, in which case we need more time.’
‘More time?’
Nylander chews over Thulin’s words, and a lifetime’s experience with police chiefs tells Hess what’s coming next.
Thulin and Hess had driven straight from City Hall to Urbanplan, where they rang Jessie Kvium’s doorbell. The door had remained unopened. Nor had the woman been picking up her phone. The case file had mentioned no relatives, only the number of the social worker who was in weekly contact – they were check-ups, strictly speaking – with mother and daughter. The social worker had explained over the phone that they’d agreed the daughter would go to dance lessons every Friday at 5.15 p.m. on the top floor of Amager Shopping Centre.
As soon as they found Jessie Kvium, they could tell something was wrong. The young woman said she’d felt someone was following her when she went down to put the parking disc in her car. They immediately checked the stairs, corridors and basement area, but found nothing suspicious. There were no CCTV cameras in the corridors, and the carpark itself was too busy with people doing their weekend shopping.
During her interview at the police station Jessie Kvium became increasingly aggressive. She smelled of wine, and when she was asked to remove her coat they noticed that her skirt was torn to pieces. The woman said she’d caught it on the car door, and demanded to know what the hell she was doing at the police station. They tried to explain the situation, but Jessie had no useful information. She hadn’t otherwise felt like she was being followed, and as far as she was concerned there was no doubt who’d sent in the anonymous tip-off to the council two months earlier, in which she was accused of beating and neglecting Olivia.
‘One of those busybodies at the school. Always so fucking judgemental, because they’re scared to death their dirty old husbands will think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. But she couldn’t even spell.’
‘Jessie, we don’t believe the report came from one of the mothers at school. Who else could it have been?’
But Jessie was unbending: that was what had happened. To her satisfaction, the council had ended up believing her version, although obviously it had been ‘a pain in the fucking arse to have them poking about all that time’.
‘Jessie, it’s extremely important that you tell us the truth now. For your own sake. We’re not trying to accuse you of anything, but if there’s any truth to the email then the person who wrote it may be planning to harm you.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
Jessie Kvium went ballistic. Nobody had the right to call her a bad mother. She looked after the girl herself without any help from the dad – who’d never paid a krone – the last few years with the excuse that he was in jail in Nyborg for dealing drugs.
‘If you have any doubt about that you can ask Olivia how she’s doing!’
Hess and Thulin hadn’t been planning to do that. The little six-year-old girl, still in her dance outfit, was sitting in the cafeteria with a fizzy drink and a few pieces of crispbread, watching a cartoon with a female officer in the belief that her mother was getting her car checked out. Her clothes were threadbare and full of holes, she was maybe a bit scrawny and untidy, but it was impossible to say whether the girl was being abused. Given the circumstances it was hardly surprising she was quiet, and it would have seemed like bullying if they’d started asking pushy questions about how her mother treated her.
From the interview room they hear Jessie Kvium spit another string of obscenities, telling the guard that she wants permission to leave, but she’s drowned out by Nylander.
‘There is no more time. You said this was the right move, so now you’d better make use of it or pick another direction.’
‘Maybe this would be quicker if we could do the interviews we believe are actually neces
sary,’ said Hess.
‘You’re not referring to Rosa Hartung again?’
‘I’m just saying we weren’t allowed to talk to her.’
‘How many times do I have to spell it out for you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve stopped counting, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect.’
‘Listen! There’s another option.’
Hess and Nylander stop bickering and look at Thulin.
‘If we agree that Jessie Kvium could be the next intended victim, then in principle all we have to do is let her get on with her life while we keep a watch on her and wait for the killer to show up.’
Nylander stares at her, shaking his head.
‘Out of the question. After two murders I’m not bloody well sending Jessie Kvium back out on to the street while we sit on our hands waiting for a psychopath.’
‘I’m not talking about Jessie Kvium. I’m talking about myself.’
Hess gazes at Thulin in surprise. She’s five foot six at the most. A nimble little thing who appears like a gust of wind could bowl her over, but one look into her eyes and you found yourself doubting your own strength.
‘I’m the same height, same hair colour and roughly the same build as Jessie Kvium. If we can find a doll to serve as her daughter, then I think we can fool the killer.’
Nylander is staring at her with interest.
‘When did you have in mind?’
‘As soon as possible. So the killer doesn’t start wondering where she is. If Jessie Kvium is the target, then he knows her routine. Hess, what’s your take?’
Thulin’s suggestion is a simple solution. He is usually in favour of simple solutions, but he doesn’t like this one. There’s too much they don’t know. So far the killer has been one step ahead of them, and now all of a sudden they think they can turn the tables?
‘Let’s question Jessie Kvium again. Maybe –’
The door opens. Tim Jansen appears, drawing an exasperated glance from Nylander.
‘Not now, Jansen!’
‘It’s got to be now. Or you could just switch on the news.’
‘Why?’
Jansen’s eyes land on Hess.
‘Because somebody hasn’t kept their mouth shut about Kristine Hartung’s fingerprints. It’s on all the channels. They’re saying maybe the Hartung case wasn’t cleared up after all.’
68
The pans are simmering on the little gas hob in her Vesterbro apartment, and Thulin has to turn up the news to drown out the extractor fan and doorbell.
‘Go and open the door for Grandad.’
‘You can do it yourself.’
‘Just help me out. I’m busy with the food.’
Le walks reluctantly into the front hall, the ever-present iPad in her hands. They’ve had an argument, but Thulin doesn’t have the energy to deal with it right now. The media has indeed got their hands on the information about Kristine Hartung’s fingerprints on the two chestnut men found near Laura Kjær’s and Anne Sejer-Lassen’s bodies. As far as Thulin could glean from a quick skim online, the initial report came from one of the two major tabloids late that afternoon, but the rival paper followed up so quickly it was hard to tell whether it came from a separate source or was simply a rewrite of the first article. The headline – ‘SHOCK: IS KRISTINE HARTUNG ALIVE?’ – spread like a forest fire to more or less every media outlet, all of which referenced the tabloids as a source and repeated the same content. ‘Anonymous sources in the police’ had hinted there might be a connection between the two murders and the Kristine Hartung case after mysterious fingerprints found on two chestnut dolls cast doubt on the girl’s death. A boiled-down version of the truth, essentially, although Nylander and other senior officers had denied all such speculation. The twist was so sensational that it was the top story everywhere, and if Thulin had forgotten how surprised she’d been the first time she heard about the fingerprints, then it was certainly brought home to her now. All kinds of theories and conjectures were being floated, and one online paper had even taken to using ‘the Chestnut Man’ to refer to the killer; plainly this was only the beginning of an avalanche of news reports. Thulin understood very well why Nylander had instantly abandoned them to focus on strategy meetings and contend with the press.
Meanwhile she had flung herself into preparations for that evening’s operation at Urbanplan. Their attempt to ambush the killer had been approved by Nylander, although Hess had been against it. Jessie Kvium had taken the news that she and her daughter weren’t going to be allowed to return to their apartment with incredulous frustration, but her arguments had been swept aside. Toothbrushes and other necessities would be provided, and they’d have to prepare for a few nights under close watch at a cabin in Valby, which was offered by the council to low-income families. Jessie Kvium and her daughter were already familiar with it, having spent a week’s holiday there during the summer.
Jessie had been willing to answer questions about her routine, and as the questions grew more detailed and insistent it had dawned on her that all their talk of threats had to be serious. It was Thulin herself who, along with Hess, had questioned her, absorbing all the information so that she knew exactly how Jessie would behave from the moment she arrived at the housing complex in her car, which the police were also using as part of the operation.
Thulin had been ready to set off for Urbanplan immediately, but as it turned out Jessie’s routine was different. Every Friday evening after her daughter’s dance class she had to go straight to the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at Christianshavns Torv, which the council had stipulated that Jessie must attend from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. if she wanted to continue receiving family allowance as part of her welfare payments. Her daughter usually dozed in a chair in the corridor until Jessie was finished and took her back to the car. But since by that time it was already past seven, it was decided that Thulin would start living as Jessie Kvium only once the single mother was supposed to have left the AA meeting.
While the task force and its leader spent the wait studying floorplans and the routes to and from Urbanplan, Thulin had picked up Le from her playdate with Ramazan and gone home to make pasta before Grandad showed up and took over. Le had taken the news with frustration, because it meant Thulin wouldn’t have time that evening to help her reach the next level in League of Legends, the game to which her life was apparently dedicated, and Thulin had to admit once again that she spent too much time away from home.
‘Come on, time to eat! If Grandad hasn’t had dinner you can eat together.’
Her daughter re-emerges from the front hall, and there is something triumphant about her expression.
‘It isn’t Grandad. It’s someone from your job with bruises on his head and two different eyes. He says he’d love to show me how to get to the next level.’
69
Thulin hadn’t planned to waste time eating dinner herself, but Hess appearing under the lamp in the front hall changes things.
‘I came early because I’ve been given some drawings of Urbanplan and the apartments. You need to get up to speed before we go.’
‘But first you’ve got to help me,’ pipes up Le, before Thulin can answer. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mark. But as I said, I’m afraid I don’t have time to help you with the game right now – another time I’d love to, though.’
‘You’ve got to eat now, Le,’ adds Thulin swiftly.
‘Then Mark can eat with us. Come on, Mark, then you can explain it to me. Mum’s boyfriend isn’t allowed to eat with us, but you’re not Mum’s boyfriend, so you can.’
Le vanishes into the kitchen. It feels too strange to overrule her child, so Thulin shifts hesitatingly aside and gestures Hess into the apartment.
In the kitchen he sits down beside Le, who swaps her iPad for a laptop while Thulin fetches three plates. With the charm and magnanimity worthy of a princess, Le preoccupies her guest’s attention. At first her friendliness is probably a display to spite Thulin, but as Hess e
xplains more about the game – the source of his knowledge is still mysterious – the girl becomes increasingly engrossed in his advice about getting to the promised land of Level 6.
‘Do you know Park Su? He’s world-famous!’
‘Park Su?’ asks Hess.
Soon a poster and a little plastic figurine of the Korean teenager are set out on the table. They start eating, and the conversation turns to other games Thulin didn’t realize her daughter had heard of, but it turns out that Hess only knows that one game and has never tried any others. For her daughter it’s like having a visiting apprentice. She expands his knowledge in a rapid stream of words, and when the topic is exhausted she fetches the cage with her budgie – which is soon going to have a playmate, so that they can add more names to the family tree.
‘Ramazan has fifteen on his family tree, but I’ve only got three. Five, if I count the budgie and the hamster. Mum doesn’t want her boyfriends on there, so that’s why I haven’t got any more – otherwise I’d have loads.’
At that point Thulin interjects that it’s about time her daughter starts work on Level 6, and after a few more bits of advice from Hess, Le finally sits down on the sofa and goes to war.
‘Smart girl.’
Thulin nods curtly, bracing herself for the usual peppering of questions about the girl’s father, family and the general situation, which she doesn’t feel like getting into. But instead Hess turns to his jacket, which is flung over the back of a chair, and removes a sheaf of papers, spreading them out on the table.
‘Here, let’s have a quick look at these. Run through the plan.’
Hess is thorough, and Thulin listens earnestly as she follows his fingers, which trace the floorplans, stairwells and the areas outside the buildings.
‘The whole complex will be under surveillance, but at a suitable distance, of course, so the task force doesn’t scare off the killer. If he shows up at all.’
He also mentions the doll, which is going to be swaddled in a duvet so that Thulin can pretend she’s carrying the sleeping child inside. Thulin only has a few remarks about the surveillance team, which she’s worried might rouse the killer’s suspicions, but Hess insists it’s necessary.
The Chestnut Man Page 20
