‘Mummy?’
Through the wind they hear the confused voice, and by the kitchen door they can see the faint outline of the girl, who has stepped out into the cold. But Hess can’t move, and it is Thulin who flies up the slope and scoops the girl inside while Hess remains by the tree. Although it is dark, he can see that both arms are unnaturally short. So is one leg. And when he treads closer still, he can just make out a chestnut man with outstretched matchstick arms, the doll jammed upright inside Jessie’s open mouth.
TUESDAY 20 OCTOBER
* * *
79
Thulin jogs through the rain between the blocks, searching for signposts. Water seeps into her shoes, and when she finally sees the sign for 37C it is pointing in the opposite direction from the way she is headed.
It is early morning, and she’s just dropped her daughter off at school. Only a few days have passed since she was standing among the squat blocks at Urbanplan; she didn’t realize then that Hess also lives in social housing, but for some reason it doesn’t surprise her. Friendly but vigilant glances from women in niqabs and headscarves make it clear she is drawing attention, and as she searches for the right route it irks her again that Hess is impossible to get hold of now all hell has broken loose.
For nearly four days the media circus has been in full swing, endlessly featuring live coverage and reportage from the crime scenes, Christiansborg, the police station and the coroner’s office. There have been portraits of the three female victims and Martin Ricks, who died in the gravel at the allotment gardens. There have been interviews with witnesses, neighbours, relatives – there have been opinions from experts and the experts’ critics, and there have been statements by the police, especially from Nylander, who had been repeatedly called to stand in front of banks of microphones, often cross-cut with coordinated statements from the Justice Minister. On top of that there has been the story about Rosa Hartung, who lost her daughter and now has to suffer the indignity of knowing that the case might not have been solved after all. Then, when the news editors begin to realize they are repeating themselves, they have started guessing when the next hideous thing is going to happen.
Hess and Thulin haven’t got much sleep since Friday. The shock of the killings at the allotment gardens has given way to grunt work: endless questioning and phone calls, collecting data about Urbanplan and the garden owners’ association, disentangling Jessie Kvium’s familial and romantic situation. Her six-year-old daughter – who thankfully didn’t see her dead mother – has been sent for a medical examination, and the doctors have found numerous signs of neglect, malnourishment and physical abuse. A psychologist has spoken to her, focusing solely on her grief over her mother’s death, and afterwards he was genuinely impressed by the little girl’s ability to put her loss into words. It bodes well, despite everything, that she has been picked up by her grandparents from Esbjerg, who are only too happy to look after her; although they’ll have to wait and see whether they are allowed to keep her long-term. Thulin, stepping in, has managed to keep the girl and her grandparents out of the media, who in any case are far more interested in reporting the latest news about the Chestnut Man.
Thulin hates it when the press mythologizes killers in this way. Especially because she is certain that in this instance the killer wants to generate fear, is perhaps even spurred on by all the publicity. But it is hard to stem the tide, given that the forensic examinations and countless interviews have produced no breakthrough. Genz and his people have been working night and day, but thus far with no viable result. Nor have they been able to trace the text message to Nikolaj Møller’s phone, and there are no witness statements to suggest who might have been watching Jessie Kvium – not at Urbanplan or that day at the shopping centre, even though they returned a second time to pore over the CCTV footage. Just as in the cases of Laura Kjær and Anne Sejer-Lassen, all trace of the killer has vanished into thin air.
According to the coroner, it is clear that Jessie Kvium died at approximately 1.20 a.m. The amputations were carried out with the same implement as in the other two cases, and she was alive at the time. Certainly during the amputation of the hands, at least. It also seems that the fingerprint on the little chestnut man, which this time was found in the victim’s mouth, belongs to Kristine Hartung. There is general agreement, of course, that the anonymous tip-offs about the three dead women must have been written by the same person. But the council and various caseworkers are no real help, and the three emails and their labyrinthine server connections offer no clue as to the true sender. The situation is so desperate that Nylander has posted officers to guard a shortlist of women who have been anonymously reported through the council’s whistle-blowing scheme, and he has put the department on the highest level of alert.
The atmosphere at the station has been deeply affected by the situation. Martin Ricks may not have been the brightest bulb, but after six years’ service on the squad with only a few days’ absence here and there, he was as permanent a fixture at the station as the golden star above the main entrance. He had also been engaged, which came as a surprise to most of his colleagues. At noon the previous day, they held a minute’s silence at the station, and the stillness was noisy. Colleagues cried, and the investigation took on the grim ferocity that always results from an officer being killed in the line of duty.
For Hess and Thulin, the biggest unanswered question is how the killer could have outmanoeuvred them on the night of the murder. They lay in wait at Urbanplan, but the killer found out. How, exactly, Thulin doesn’t know; but that has to be what happened. Then he went to the allotment gardens, which only makes sense if he knew in advance that Jessie Kvium and her daughter had spent a week there over the summer and so might have been taken there. The text to Nikolaj Møller was sent before the killings – at precisely 12.37 a.m. – using a phone with a prepaid card from somewhere in the gardens, and that part is almost more frightening still. The killer had the presence of mind to lure a bewildered, unfaithful husband to Urbanplan and into the arms of the police, and that tells Thulin he wants to make them feel bested and ridiculous. Just like when he sent a text to Laura Kjær’s phone after her death. That, on top of the arduous yet fruitless investigative slog, means it’s small wonder things exploded into a confrontation with Nylander the night before.
‘What the hell are you afraid of?! Why can’t we interview Rosa Hartung?’
Hess was insisting once again that the killings were somehow connected with Rosa Hartung and her daughter’s case.
‘It makes no sense to investigate one and not the other. Three fingerprints on three chestnut dolls are about as clear as it gets. And it won’t stop here: first there was a hand missing, then two, then two hands and a foot. What do you think the killer is planning for the next round? It couldn’t be any more blatantly obvious! Rosa Hartung is either the key or she’s the target!’
But Nylander kept his cool and persevered. The minister had already been questioned once, and she had more than enough to be getting on with.
‘Enough of what? Surely there’s nothing more important than this?’
‘Cool it, Hess.’
‘I’m just asking.’
‘According to the intelligence services, some unknown person has been harassing and threatening her for the last couple of weeks.’
‘What?’
‘And you didn’t think we ought to know that?’ Thulin interjected.
‘No. It can’t have anything to do with the killings! According to Intelligence, the most recent threat was smeared on the bonnet of her ministerial car on Monday 12 October – the same time period when the killer must have been busy attacking Anne Sejer-Lassen.’
The meeting ended in acrimony. Both Hess and Nylander stalked off, and Thulin tried to ignore the feeling that the cracks emerging in the department were all too symptomatic of the state of the investigation.
At last she is out of the rain and on the covered walkway, reaching No. 37C at the far end. A jumble of
paint tins, varnish and cleaning fluid are stacked up on both sides of the door, and in the middle of the mess is a bulky machine Thulin assumes is a floor sander. She knocks impatiently, but of course there is no answer.
‘Are you the one he phoned about the floors?’
Thulin looks at the short Pakistani man who has just stepped out on to the walkway, a little brown-eyed boy at his legs. The man is wearing a bright orange rain cape, but his gardening gloves and rubbish bags indicate that he’s probably just clearing the complex of dead leaves.
‘That’s fine, as long as you’re a professional. The man’s all thumbs, but he thinks he’s Bob the Builder. And he isn’t. You know Bob the Builder?’
‘Yeah …’
‘It’s a good thing he’s selling up. This isn’t the place for him. But if he wants to be rid of that apartment he’s got to spruce it up a bit. I mean, I didn’t mind giving the walls and the ceiling a fresh lick of paint – the man can’t tell a spade from a paintbrush – but I’m not about to polish his floors. And I don’t want him messing about with it himself.’
‘I’m not planning to mess about with it either.’ Thulin flashes her police badge to get rid of the man, but he stays put, watching as she knocks again.
‘You’re not taking over the apartment? Back to square one, then.’
‘No, I’m not. Do you know if Bob the Builder is home?’
‘See for yourself. He never locks the door.’
The Pakistani man elbows Thulin aside and gives the door, which is sticking, a little shove.
‘That’s a problem too. Who decides to leave their door unlocked on this estate? I told him as much, but he says he’s got nothing to steal, so it doesn’t matter, but – Allahu Akbar!’
The short Pakistani man is struck dumb. Thulin can see why. There isn’t much to look at in the room, which reeks of fresh paint. A table, a few chairs, a packet of cigarettes, a mobile phone, some takeaway boxes and a few brushes and tins of paint on the newspaper-covered floor. Evidently not a place Hess spends much time at a stretch. For some reason or other it crosses Thulin’s mind that the man’s apartment in the Hague, or wherever he is living, probably isn’t much more lavishly furnished than this one. Yet it isn’t the interior that has caught their attention – it’s the walls.
Small torn-off notes, photos and newspaper clippings hang everywhere, and between them words and letters are scrawled directly on to the walls. Like a huge, snarled cobweb, the material spreads across the two newly painted surfaces, and an insistent red pen connects the various items with intricate strokes and markings. It evidently started in one corner with the murder of Laura Kjær, then expanded to include the subsequent killings, including that of Martin Ricks. Along the way various lines in pen and drawings of chestnut men have been added, as well as the names of people and crime scenes, which are either illustrated with photographs or written in pen directly on to the wall. The scraps on the wall include crumpled receipts or cardboard torn from pizza boxes, but the material has evidently run out. At the bottom is a torn-out piece of newspaper featuring Rosa Hartung and the date of her comeback, to which Hess has added a line that leads to the murder of Laura Kjær, and from there myriad lines multiply into incalculable connections, reaching all the way across to a separate column, in which is written ‘Christiansborg: threats, harassment, intelligence’. At the very top is an old newspaper photo of twelve-year-old Kristine Hartung, next to a panel drawn in pen: inside it is written, in capital letters, ‘LINUS BEKKER’, and here, too, there are notes scribbled on the wall. Most of them are illegible, and Hess must have struggled to get up there, even using the small stepladder on the floor.
Thulin gapes at the gigantic spider’s web, her feelings mixed. When Hess took off the night before, he was withdrawn and taciturn, and when she wasn’t able to get hold of him this morning she didn’t know what to think. Judging from the walls, the man hasn’t given up. On the other hand, there is something crazy about what he’s done. Possibly he started out trying to get a coherent overview, but it hasn’t ended up that way. Even a gifted cryptographer or a Nobel Prize-winning mathematician would have a tough time deciphering anything beyond that the web’s creator is in the grip of an obsession, or even a mental disorder.
A torrent of Pakistani curses erupt from the little man when he catches sight of the walls, and matters are not improved by Hess’s sudden appearance in the doorway. He is out of breath and completely soaked from the rain, clad only in a black T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. His breath and body are steaming in the cold air. He looks surprisingly muscular and sinewy, but he is clearly not in good shape.
‘What were you thinking? We just painted all this!’
‘I’ll paint it again. It needs two coats, you said.’
Thulin looks at Hess, who is supporting himself on the doorway with his left hand, and notices that he is holding a rolled-up plastic wallet in the other.
‘It had two coats. It had three!’
The brown-eyed boy has got sick of waiting for his dad, and the Pakistani man is reluctantly drawn back out on to the walkway. Thulin glances briefly at Hess before following suit.
‘I’ll wait in the car. Nylander wants to meet. We’re interviewing Rosa Hartung at her offices in an hour.’
80
‘Am I interrupting?’
Tim Jansen stands in the doorway. He has rings under his eyes and a distant gaze, and Nylander notes the day-old reek of spirits.
‘No, come in.’
Behind Jansen the department hums busily, and Nylander has already refused his pleas to remain on the case after the memorial service the day before, so that isn’t why he’s sparing the time. But Hess and Thulin have just left the office, and Jansen didn’t return their greeting: he stared straight ahead as though he hadn’t heard them, and that, among other reasons, makes it seem like a good idea to invite him in.
Nylander had wasted no time delivering his message to Thulin and Hess. He’d been in touch with the Ministry for Social Affairs that morning, and Minister Rosa Hartung had communicated via her adviser Frederik Vogel that she was happy to help with whatever information she could.
‘But the minister is not under suspicion and her credibility is in no way being called into question, so a precondition is that we call this a conversation and not an interview.’
Nylander guessed that Vogel didn’t approve of the situation and had advised his minister to avoid the ‘conversation’ entirely, so she must have insisted personally on helping. Despite the news, Hess, whom Nylander was increasingly coming to dislike, remained planted in the office.
‘Does this mean you’re reopening the case of Kristine Hartung’s disappearance?’
Nylander didn’t fail to catch that Hess said ‘Kristine Hartung’s disappearance’ and not ‘Kristine Hartung’s death’.
‘No, that’s not up for discussion. If you can’t get that through your head, you’re welcome to head back out to Urbanplan and keep ringing doorbells.’
Late last night Nylander had been inclined to postpone the interview with Rosa Hartung once again, but by now the pressure on the department was enormous. The sight that greeted him at the allotment gardens had been out of a nightmare, and Ricks’s murder had made the investigation personal for many of his officers. A life was a life, and there ought to be no difference between the killing of a policeman and that of anybody else, but the cold-blooded attack on the thirty-nine-year-old detective – who according to the coroner had been grabbed from behind, his carotid artery slit – reverberated deep inside the DNA of anyone who’d ever sworn allegiance to the force.
At seven that morning Nylander had been asked to give an update at an emergency management meeting. In principle it was easy to tell them about the upgrade to high-alert and the various investigatory boats they’d launched, many of which seemed promising. But although he didn’t once mention her name, Kristine Hartung cast a shadow across his whole explanation. It was as though they were just waiting for him to fi
nish so they could get to the real point of the meeting: those stupid bloody fingerprints on the chestnut men.
‘In light of what’s happened, have there been any doubts raised about the outcome of the Kristine Hartung case, at all?’
The deputy commissioner had phrased his question diplomatically, but it was still an insult. At least, that was how Nylander took it. It was a crucial point in the conversation, and Nylander felt the eyes of the others on him. None of the bosses in the room would have wanted to be in his shoes – the question was as riddled with mines as a supply road in the Middle East – but Nylander answered. Taken on its own, there was nothing about the Hartung case to suggest it hadn’t been solved. The investigation had been extremely thorough, all possibilities explored, until eventually the evidence had been brought before the court and the guilty man had been sentenced.
On the other hand, it was true that three slightly smudged fingerprints belonging to Kristine Hartung had been identified on the three chestnut dolls found in connection with the murders of three women. That could mean almost anything, though. It could be a kind of signature, a way of criticizing the minister and the social welfare authorities, and for that reason the minister should of course be kept under close guard. And the chestnuts could have come from Kristine Hartung’s booth before her death. Thus far it was all up in the air – except that there was no indication the girl was still alive. To keep his bosses quiet, Nylander even suggested that it might be the killer’s intention to sow the seeds of doubt and uncertainty, so as professionals they ought to focus on facts and reality.
The Chestnut Man Page 23
