Bekker looks out the window and starts picking at his nailbeds again, and for a moment Thulin is sure he will say no.
‘I’d like to. It’s important, if I can help other people, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, exactly. Thank you, that’s kind of you.’
Hess spends the next few minutes checking various facts with Linus Bekker. Age. Residence. Family situation. School. Right-handedness. Previous hospitalizations. All harmless, irrelevant questions to which they already know the answers, intended solely to build trust and make Bekker feel safe. Thulin has to admit Hess is adept at this, and her scepticism about their cover story proves groundless. But the performance takes time, and she feels as though they are sitting in the eye of the tornado, drivelling on about pointless crap while a storm rages outside. At last, Hess reaches the day before the murder.
‘You said the day was vague to you. You remember it only in flashes.’
‘Yeah, I had blackouts. My illness made me dizzy, and I hadn’t slept in a couple of days. I’d spent too much time with the pictures in the archive.’
‘Tell me how it started with the archive.’
‘It was sort of a boyhood dream. If I can put it like that. I mean, I had those urges …’
Bekker pauses, and Thulin guesses that part of his psychological treatment involves him no longer yielding to his sadism and passion for death.
‘… and from documentaries about crimes I knew there were pictures taken at crime scenes. I just didn’t know where they were kept. Not until I got into the server at the Forensics Department. And then the rest was so easy.’
Thulin can attest to this. The only defence for the lack of security is that it had seemed unthinkable anybody would break into the digital archive of victim and crime-scene photographs. Right up until Linus Bekker had broken down the barrier and done it.
‘Did you tell anyone what you had accessed?’
‘No. I knew I wasn’t allowed. But … like I said …’
‘What did the pictures do for you?’
‘I actually thought the pictures … that they were good for me. Because that way I controlled my … urges. But today I realize they weren’t. They excited me. Made me think of only one thing. I remember feeling like I needed fresh air. So I took a drive. But after that it’s difficult, remembering.’
Bekker’s apologetic gaze sweeps across Thulin’s, and although he looks childlike and guileless, she gets goosepimples.
‘Did anybody around you know you had these blackouts? Or did you tell anyone about them?’
‘No. I didn’t see anybody back then. I was home, mostly. If I went out anywhere it was to see the scenes.’
‘What scenes?’
‘The crime scenes. New, old. In Odense, for example, and on Amager Common, where I was arrested. But other places too.’
‘Did you have blackouts on those occasions as well?’
‘Maybe. I don’t remember. I mean, that’s how it is with blackouts.’
‘How much do you remember of the rest of the day of the murder?’
‘Not much. It’s hard to say, because I get it mixed up with what I found out later on.’
‘Can you remember, for example, whether you followed Kristine Hartung into the woods?’
‘No. Not exactly. But I do remember the woods.’
‘But if you don’t remember her, how do you know you were the one who attacked and killed her?’
For a moment Bekker registers surprise. It seems to catch him off guard, as though he’s long ago accepted his guilt.
‘Because … they told me so. And they helped me remember the other things.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, the officers who interrogated me. They’d found things, you know. Soil under my shoes. Blood on the machete I’d used to …’
‘But at that point you still said you hadn’t done it. Did you remember the machete yourself?’
‘No, not at first. But then things began to point in that direction.’
‘Originally, when the machete was found, you said you’d never seen it before. That somebody must have put it on the shelf in the garage next to your car. It wasn’t until a later interview that you confessed and said it was yours.’
‘Yes, that’s right. But the doctors have explained that that’s how my illness works. If you’re a paranoid schizophrenic, your mind plays tricks with reality.’
‘So you can’t think who might have put it there, if indeed it was put there?’
‘But it wasn’t … it was me who did it. I don’t think I’m doing very well with all these questions …’
Linus Bekker looks uncertainly towards the door, but Hess leans towards him and tries to catch his eye.
‘Linus, you’re doing just fine. I need to know whether anybody was close to you during that period. Somebody who knew how things stood with you. Somebody you confided in – somebody you suddenly met or wrote to online, or –’
‘But there wasn’t. I don’t understand what you want. I think I’d like to go back to my room now.’
‘Don’t be nervous, Linus. If you give me a hand, I think we can figure out what happened that day. And what exactly happened to Kristine Hartung.’
Bekker, who had been on the verge of standing up, stares sceptically at Hess.
‘You think so?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Definitely. You just have to tell me who you had contact with.’
Hess is looking trustingly at Linus Bekker. For a moment it seems from the expression on Linus Bekker’s timid, childlike face that Hess has talked him round. But then it splits into a laugh.
Linus Bekker splutters with laughter. Thulin and Hess stare in disbelief at the little man, who is trying in vain to hold his laughter back. When he finally begins to speak it is as though he’s taken off a mask, and there is no longer any trace of uncertainty or nerves.
‘Why don’t you just ask me what you’d really like to know? Skip all this bullshit and get to the point.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you mean?’
Bekker mimics Hess’s voice, rolling his eyes with a teasing grin.
‘You’re gagging to know why I confessed to a crime if I didn’t commit it.’
Thulin stares at Linus Bekker. The transformation is stunning. The man is insane. Stark raving mad, and for a moment Thulin feels like calling in the consultant so that he can see Bekker’s progress for himself. Hess tries to maintain his composure.
‘Okay. Why did you confess, then?’
‘Piss off. That’s what they pay you to find out. Did they really bring you home from Europol to drag this shit out of me, or was that just a cardboard badge you showed me earlier?’
‘Linus, I don’t understand what you’re saying. But if you had nothing to do with Kristine Hartung, it’s not too late to say so. We could help you bring your case back to court.’
‘But I don’t need help. Assuming we’re still living in a law-abiding society, I’ll probably be home again by Christmas at the latest. Or as soon as the Chestnut Man’s done with his harvest.’
The words strike Thulin like a hammer. Hess, too, who sits like a pillar of stone. Bekker knows. He smirks, and while Thulin tries to act like nothing has happened it’s as though night has suddenly fallen in the room.
‘The Chestnut Man …?’
‘Yeah, the Chestnut Man. The reason you’re here. Sweet little Hansen, the bulky one, he forgets we still have teletext on the flatscreen in the common room. Only thirty-eight characters per line, but you can still make something out of it. Why didn’t you show up before now? The boss didn’t want you fiddling around with his nice, tidy case, eh?’
‘What do you know about the Chestnut Man?’
‘Chestnut man, do come in. Chestnut man …’
Bekker hums the tune derisively. Hess is losing patience.
‘I asked what you know.’
‘It’s too late. He’s way ahead. That’s why you’re here, pleading with me. Because he�
��s taken you for a ride. Because you have no idea what to do.’
‘You know who he is?’
‘I know what he is. He’s the master. And he’s made me part of his plan. Otherwise I’d never have confessed.’
‘Tell us who he is, Linus.’
‘Tell us who he is, Linus.’
Linus Bekker is aping Hess again.
‘What about the girl?’
‘What about the girl?’
‘What do you know? Where is she? What happened to her!’
‘Does it matter? She must have had fun …’
Linus Bekker is watching them innocently, an obscene leer spreading across his face. Thulin has no time to react when Hess rises and lunges at him. But Bekker is prepared, and at that very moment he pulls the cord. The alarm goes off with a deafening howl. Almost the exact second the metal door flies open and the broad-shouldered men barge in, Linus Bekker transforms back into the tentative schoolboy with the timorous expression.
86
The gate is opening slowly, but Hess can’t wait. While Thulin is taking their belongings back from the guard behind the bulletproof glass, she sees him squeeze his way through the partially opened gate and continue into the carpark. As she follows, the cold, wet wind feels liberating, and she sucks fresh air into her lungs to get rid of Linus Bekker.
They were chucked headlong out of the facility. Consultant Weiland had demanded an explanation of the incident in the visitors’ room. Bekker had been convincing. Fearful and anxious, he’d flinched away from Hess and Thulin as though he’d suffered physical or psychological damage. To the consultant, he’d complained that Hess had ‘grabbed him’ and asked ‘strange questions about death and murder’, and the consultant had taken his side. It was pointless to argue against his claims; neither Hess nor Thulin had thought it would be necessary to record their conversation with Bekker, and of course their phones had been in the guard’s possession in any case. Driving down here was a catastrophe, and listening to her voicemail as she crosses the carpark does not improve Thulin’s mood. In the time they’ve been inside, her phone has rung seven times, and when she hears the first message she begins running through the rain towards the car.
‘We’ve got to get back to the ministry. They’ve found cases we need to check out.’
Thulin reaches the car and unlocks it, but Hess remains standing in the rain. ‘The ministry doesn’t matter. The killer won’t be in any case file he led us to himself. Didn’t you hear what Bekker said?’
‘I heard a psychopath rambling and you going nuts. Nothing else.’
Thulin opens the door, climbs in and tosses Hess’s gun and belongings on to the seat beside her. Checking the clock on the dashboard, she calculates they won’t reach the city before dark, and she knows she will have to ask Le’s grandad to look after her once again. Hess has barely placed one foot on the passenger-side floor before she starts the engine and swings out on to the road.
‘Bekker knew we would come. He’s been expecting it ever since he was convicted. He knows who we’re looking for,’ Hess says as he slams the door.
‘No, he knows fuck all. Linus Bekker is a perverted sex offender who’s read a little teletext. He wanted to provoke us and mess us around, and you swallowed it hook, line and sinker. What the hell were you thinking?!’
‘He knows who took her.’
‘Like hell he does. He took her himself. The whole world knows the girl’s dead and buried. You’re the only one who hasn’t got it yet. Why the hell would he confess to a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘Because he suddenly realized who had committed it. Someone he’d gladly take the blame for, because in his sick head he sensed it was all part of a grander plan. Someone he admired – someone he looked up to. And who would Linus Bekker look up to?’
‘Nobody! The man’s nuts. All he’s interested in is death and destruction.’
‘Exactly. Somebody expert in what Bekker values most. Something he must have seen in the archive of crime-scene photos he hacked into.’
The words slowly sink in. Thulin slams on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision with the massive lorry ploughing through the rain along the main road. A long row of cars whizz past in the lorry’s wake, and Thulin feels Hess looking at her.
‘I’m sorry I crossed the line. That was wrong. But if Linus Bekker is lying, that means nobody knows what happened to Kristine Hartung. Not even if she’s dead.’
Thulin doesn’t reply. She speeds up again, dialling a number on her phone. Hess has a point. Infuriatingly. It takes a moment, but then Genz picks up. The connection is bad, and it sounds as though he too is in a car.
‘Hey, why couldn’t I get hold of you? How did it go with Bekker?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. Do you have access to all the crime-scene photos he got his hands on? The photos he hacked into?’
Genz sounds surprised.
‘I assume so, but I’ll have to check. Why?’
‘I’ll explain later. But we need to know which specific photos Bekker was most interested in. It must be possible to trace which ones were his favourites. Draw up a list of the images he clicked on most. Plus the ones he downloaded, if there are any of those. We think there might be an important clue in them, so we need them asap. Just make sure Nylander doesn’t get wind of this, okay?’
‘Yeah, okay. I can get hold of the tech guys when I get back. But shouldn’t I wait until we know whether Jansen is right?’
‘Jansen?’
‘He didn’t call you?’
Thulin feels a stab of disquiet. She’d forgotten all about Jansen since their curt encounter with him that morning as they left Nylander’s office. He’d looked like a dead man. Withdrawn and mute. She’d felt reassured to see Nylander bringing him in for a chat, and hoped it would end with him being sent home. Something tells her that wasn’t the case.
‘Why would Jansen have called?’
‘About the address in Sydhavnen. I heard him over the police radio a little while ago, asking for back-up because he had a hunch the suspects might be inside.’
‘The suspects? What suspects? Jansen isn’t even on the case.’
‘Oh, right. Doesn’t seem like he knows that. Right now he’s raiding an address where he thinks the killers are holed up.’
87
In the front seat of his police vehicle, Tim Jansen checks the cartridges in his magazine and slides it with a click back into his Heckler & Koch. It will be at least ten minutes before back-up arrives, but that’s not a problem. He isn’t planning to wait for them anyway. Ricks’s killer might be inside the building, and Jansen would rather conduct the first confrontation or interrogation alone. At least now people know where he is, if he does get into trouble, and when they ask him to explain why he went in he can always claim he had no choice, that the situation demanded it before back-up arrived.
Jansen feels the dank wind on his face as he emerges from the car. The old manufacturing district in Sydhavnen is a hodge-podge of tall warehouses, new self-storage buildings, scrapyards and a handful of dwellings squeezed between the industrial plots. Sand and trash whip through the air, and there are no vehicles on the street as he strides towards the building.
The building facing the street is two storeys, easily confused with an ordinary residential block, but as he approaches he sees the remnants of a sign on the dilapidated wall, announcing that the building once served as a slaughterhouse. The shop window by the main door is covered on the inside with a piece of black material, blocking the view on to the street, so instead Jansen walks down the driveway and into the courtyard. The big, oblong building set back slightly from the one fronting on to the road has to be the old abattoir: running alongside the building are platforms underneath the big gates used for loading and unloading. Further away, the abattoir is bordered by a garden with a broken-down fence and three or four fruit trees, which look as though they are being torn up by the wind. Jansen turns back towards the front building and notices a
back door; there is no sign, but there is a doormat and a pot planted with a shrivelled spruce tree. He raises his hand and knocks, while with the other he switches the safety off the Heckler & Koch in his coat pocket.
For Jansen, the days since Martin Ricks’s death have been unreal. Unreality descended at the sight of his partner’s lifeless figure, amid the flashing lights of the ambulances and the barking of the police dogs as they strained from nook to cranny in the allotment gardens. Arriving from Urbanplan he knew nothing of his friend’s fate, and then out of the blue he found himself staring at something incomprehensible. At first he didn’t think the deathly pale creature could possibly be his colleague. That death could have reduced Ricks to the inert holster at his feet. Yet so it had. And although for several hours afterwards Jansen had almost expected Ricks to show up and haul someone over the coals for leaving him on the gravel so long, that hadn’t happened.
They’d partnered up almost by accident, but as Jansen recalled they’d been on the same wavelength from day one. Ricks had possessed exactly the qualities that made him a bearable partner. Neither particularly clever nor quick with repartee – in fact he rarely spoke for long at any one stretch – he was, however, immensely dogged and loyal once you’d got him on side. Moreover, Ricks had possessed a healthy mistrust of nearly everything and everyone, most likely because he’d been picked on for most of his childhood, and Jansen had understood instantly how the man’s potential could be realized. If he was the head, then Ricks was the body, and they’d soon come to share a natural aversion to bosses and solicitors, none of whom knew a single fucking thing about police-work. Together they’d locked up so many bikers, Pakistanis, wife-beaters, rapists and killers they ought to have been showered with raises and medals all the way up to retirement. But society didn’t work like that. The blessings of the world were unequally distributed. They’d often talked about that, celebrating by themselves in bars and clubs until they were fall-down drunk or had swung by the little brothel in Outer Østerbro.
The Chestnut Man Page 26
