The Chestnut Man

by Søren Sveistrup

  Everything ran like clockwork until thirty-five minutes ago. He’d created an alibi by following the little bastard into the tennis hall and saying a quick hello to the manager, who was always fussing around before training, checking the nets. Then he’d said goodbye and driven around to the back of the hall, parking between the fir trees before entering through the side door, which he’d left ajar when he followed the boy inside. The hall was largely empty at that point, so it had been easy to sneak into the changing rooms unseen. The boy had been busy getting changed and didn’t hear a thing, but just as Asger was standing there like a clown in gloves and a balaclava, getting out the chloroform, he heard approaching footsteps. The manager was coming in, and although Asger managed to rip off his mask, it was awkward when Gustav realized that Asger was standing in the room. The manager, on the other hand, seemed relieved.

  ‘Oh, there you are. I’ve got the intelligence services on the phone. They asked me to find Gustav because they couldn’t get hold of you, but now you can speak to them yourself.’

  He handed the phone to Asger. One of Hartung’s arrogant bodyguards ordered him to drive Gustav to his mother at the ministry, where an emergency had arisen: the police had found the address where the murder suspects were staying, some abandoned slaughterhouse in Sydhavnen. Asger felt his throat constrict. Then, however, it occurred to him that the police had no idea yet it was him they were looking for. He was reprimanded for not answering his phone, and then he left the hall again with the little bastard. The manager followed them with his eyes, so he had to usher Gustav into the car, although none of that mattered now. The ministry was the last place Asger was about to go.

  ‘Why are we going this way? This isn’t the way to my –’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth and give me your phone.’

  The boy on the back seat is too astonished to react.

  ‘Give me your phone! Are you deaf?!’

  Gustav obeys, and once Asger has the phone in his hand he throws it out of the open window, hearing it clunking and clattering over the wet asphalt behind them. Asger realizes the boy is scared, but he doesn’t care. The only thing worrying him now is where the hell he and Benedikte should go, because at no point did they plan a concrete escape route. Asger had imagined they’d be long gone before the police suspected a thing, but it hasn’t panned out like that. His head is abuzz with panicky thoughts, but he knows Benedikte will forgive him. It isn’t his fault the plan has fallen through. She’ll understand, and as long as they’re together it will all be fine.

  Asger had felt like that from the moment he’d looked into her dark eyes. They’d met at the shabby old high school in Tingbjerg with its tied-back curtains, where he’d been a few years above her, and he’d been in love with her ever since. They’d skived off, drunk, smoked and said fuck you to the entire world as they lay on their backs in the grass beside the ring-road crash barrier, and Benedikte had been the first girl he’d slept with. But then he’d got chucked out of school because of all the fist fights, and when he’d ended up at a juvenile institution in South Jutland the relationship had fizzled out. Almost ten years later he’d bumped into her again at the hippie commune at Christiania, where she’d been with one of her nurse friends from the hospital, and the very next day they’d discussed moving in together.

  Asger loved it when she nestled up to him and felt protected by him, although deep down he knew she was infinitely stronger than he was. His time in the military had suited him fine, but after two deployments to Afghanistan driving patrol vehicles and supply trucks he’d quit; he was beginning to suffer from panic attacks, and often woke up at night bathed in sweat, feeling fragile. But Benedikte took his hand, held it fast in hers, and calmed him down. Until the next time, at least. When she came home from her shift she always told him about the kids she’d treated on the ward, and one day she said she wanted a family of her own. Asger saw in her face how much it meant to her. They soon found a cheap, roomy place in the former slaughterhouse – nobody else fancied living there – and when Benedikte got pregnant they made sure Asger was registered at the address of an old soldier friend. That way she’d be eligible for the single-parent benefits they needed.

  Asger didn’t understand what happened to her after the birth, and he started thinking it must be the kid’s fault. Having it taken into care was a shock, of course, but on the other hand he’d never really got attached to the boy. After the delivery he worked tough hours as a scaffolder to bring in cash, and in his eyes Benedikte was a good mum – certainly much better than his, who was always crashing at theirs or wheedling money out of him for booze. Benedikte contacted lawyers, newspapers and TV channels, railing against that stupid whore Rosa Hartung, but then it all came to nothing, and she explained, tears in her eyes, that the journalists didn’t want to help them any more. Shortly afterwards the boy passed away from some lung disease or other, and that changed everything. Benedikte was forcibly committed because of a bust-up with one of the fuckheads from the welfare office, and every day after work Asger drove to Roskilde to visit her at the psychiatric ward. At first she was too medicated even to make facial expressions, and he was given long, incomprehensible explanations by a female doctor he felt like slamming into the wall. Although Asger was painfully slow at it, he started reading newspapers and magazines out loud to Benedikte. Going home and letting himself into the slaughterhouse at night, he felt alone and powerless. Often he had to drink himself to sleep in front of the TV, but when the minister’s daughter went missing last autumn they started making progress.

  The minister losing a child had been a great comfort to Benedikte, and one afternoon when he’d driven down after work, she’d actually put the newspaper out for him on the chair so that he could read it aloud. That was the day the investigation was wrapped up and the case was closed. Gradually the articles had petered out, but Benedikte had begun to smile again, and when the snow came and the ice froze on the lake behind the hospital, they started taking long walks. In early spring, just as Asger thought they’d put the whole episode behind them, the papers announced that Hartung would be back to work after the summer holiday. It said she was looking forward to it. Benedikte took Asger’s hand and clasped it, and Asger knew he would do anything she said as long as her hand was in his.

  They started planning as soon as Benedikte was discharged. Their first thought was to threaten Hartung with anonymous emails and texts, break into her house and smash shit up, maybe even run her down and leave her by the roadside. But when Benedikte visited her website looking for an email address, an advert popped up saying that the ministry was looking for a new driver, and the plan grew more concrete.

  Benedikte wrote Asger’s application, and not long afterwards he was called for an interview with some deputy at the ministry. It was obvious the idiots had no clue about his connection to Benedikte and the media dispute with the minister, presumably because he was still registered at a different address. In the interview they emphasized that Asger had a strong military record, was flexible, without family obligations, and afterwards he had a casual chat with an intelligence agent who was supposed to screen the various candidates. When, later, he was told he’d got the job, he and Benedikte had celebrated by collaging together Facebook photos of the Hartung girl to make the email, ready to welcome the minister back on her first day at work.

  The day Asger started at his new job, he met Rosa Hartung for the first time. He picked her up outside her big luxury villa in Østerbro and was ordered around by her adviser, Vogel, the kind of arrogant arsehole Asger couldn’t help but want to punch. Not long after that they scrawled on the minister’s car using the blood of a few rats from the old abattoir. They’d come up with several other spiteful pranks as well, when suddenly all these weird murder cases and chestnut men with mysterious fingerprints started popping up, and Rosa Hartung got dragged into them. That part had been fine by him – by Benedikte as well – but then the bomb had dropped: Rosa Hartung’s daughter, whom the whole wor
ld thought was dead and gone, might not be dead after all.

  The notion had spurred them on, but now Rosa Hartung was protected by intelligence agents. Even for Asger, it was impossible to get to her, so instead Benedikte asked him about the little bastard. Shifting his focus, he accepted it would be more worthwhile to snatch the boy. Asger also thought the police might believe it was the murderer who’d kidnapped Gustav, and now, as he indicates and turns off the motorway, he can’t help but appreciate the irony that he and Benedikte are wanted for crimes they know fuck all about.

  The rain hammers against the windscreen, and the last light of day has vanished by the time he reaches the lay-by. At the end he can see the van they picked up from Hertz that morning, but he deliberately parks twenty metres away and switches off the engine. Asger takes his things out of the glove compartment and turns briefly towards the boy.

  ‘You stay there until somebody comes and finds you. You stay there. Got that?!’

  The boy nods timidly. Asger climbs out, slams the door and runs across to Benedikte, who has leapt out of the van and is waiting for him in the rain, although she’s wearing only a thin gilet and red hoodie.

  She does not look pleased. She must be able to tell that things have not gone according to plan, and Asger explains breathlessly what has happened.

  ‘There are only two options left, baby. Either we get the hell out of here or we drive straight to a police station and explain the whole fucking thing before it gets worse. What do you reckon?’

  But Benedikte doesn’t respond. Nor when he flings open the door of the rented van and stretches out his hand for the keys. She’s standing in the rain, staring somewhere behind him with the silent, serious gaze that has muted her smile and laughter far too long. When Asger glances over his shoulder, he realizes it’s the little bastard’s anxious face, resting against the tinted window of the ministerial car, that she’s focused on. All at once Asger knows she isn’t about to change her mind.

  90

  As Rosa follows the intelligence agent down the stairs from the Prime Minister’s office, she tries in vain to get hold of Steen on his mobile. She can hardly wait to speak to him – she knows he’ll share the feelings whirring inside her right now. Moments earlier the agent had interrupted her meeting to inform her that the police had just conducted a raid and found what was assumed to be the killers’ hideout. Rosa had tried to suppress her emotions for so long, but after Steen made her see that Kristine’s fingerprints on the chestnuts had to mean something, she began to yield to longing. The police’s discovery might be the breakthrough they’ve been waiting for; and yet there’s still something making her anxious and uneasy.

  When Rosa reaches the door to Prins Jørgens Gård, which is normally reserved for the Prime Minister’s office, several agents are waiting for her. They shield her as they guide her towards a dark car, and after the car has traversed the hundred-yard stretch to the Ministry for Social Affairs they repeat the precaution while she climbs out and walks towards the main entrance.

  Rosa ignores the questions from the journalists who’ve set up camp by the doors, and when she gets inside and passes the security guards she finds Liu standing by the lift, waiting to accompany her upstairs. Ever since the media got hold of the sensational news about Kristine they’d made countless approaches, although she had no intention of making any comment. At first she was exasperated and angry with Steen when he started raving about Kristine’s stall, her friend Mathilde, chestnut men and chestnut animals. She knew he drank, and she knew he made an effort every single day to show that he was strong, but in reality he was perhaps even more frayed than she was. They’d argued about the significance of the fingerprints on the chestnuts at the first two murder scenes – whether they were important, whether Mathilde and Kristine had actually made chestnut men the year before – but she realized it didn’t matter what she said, because Steen couldn’t be held back. Maybe no one else was on his side, either at home or in the police, but at last he’d talked her round. Not because she believed his reasoning, but because she believed him, because she wanted to believe. Steen was no longer the shadow of himself he’d been for so many months, and when she’d asked him in a quivering voice whether he really believed their girl might still be alive, he’d nodded and taken her hands, and she’d burst into tears. They had made love for the first time in more than six months, and Steen had told her about his plan. She’d supported him without knowing whether she could actually go through with it, but then on Friday evening he’d announced on the news that he believed Kristine was still alive. Just as he’d done a year earlier, he’d encouraged people to come forward with information, and asked the kidnapper to let Kristine go. Rosa had tried to watch the feature with Gustav, preparing the ground as well as she could. But Gustav had been angry, he hadn’t understood, and Rosa had sympathized with his confusion and reluctance. She’d almost regretted their decision. Later that same night, Rosa and Steen had been informed that yet another chestnut doll marked with a fingerprint had been found at a crime scene – the third one – and the news had bolstered their spirits, even though the head of Homicide and the two detectives who’d interviewed her today had insisted they shouldn’t get their hopes up.

  All the well-meaning messages from people who’d seen Steen on the news had proved useless, however, and nor had Steen’s self-initiated investigation into Kristine’s activities on the day she disappeared produced any result. At the weekend he’d begun reconstructing the various routes Kristine might have taken from the sports hall, hoping to find new possibilities or witnesses that could help solve the riddle. As an architect he had access to plans of sewer systems, tunnels and electrical substations, which might have been used to stow Kristine quickly out of sight. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but Rosa had been moved to see how dedicated he was to the task. So she was looking forward to telling him the news that interrupted her meeting moments earlier, an unpleasant meeting, which had begun when the Prime Minister greeted her at the door.

  ‘Come in, Rosa. How are you doing?’

  He gave her a hug.

  ‘Not brilliant, thanks. I’ve reached out to Gert Bukke several times for another meeting, but I’ve heard nothing back, so I think we should start negotiating with the other side asap.’

  ‘It wasn’t Bukke I meant – right now it’s clear why he doesn’t want to sit down with us. I meant you and Steen.’

  Rosa had thought she was supposed to report on the stalled-out budgetary negotiations, but the Justice Minister was there too and the agenda was clearly quite different.

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. We do appreciate your position, but as you know, the government has already taken a few scratches to the paintwork this year, and the current situation certainly isn’t helping matters. Steen’s appearances in the media are an implied criticism of the Justice Minister’s work. The minister has explained several times that Kristine’s tragic case was thoroughly investigated – that no stone was left unturned, that everything was done to help you, and you yourself expressed gratitude for that – but now there are serious doubts being raised about his credibility.’

  ‘I’d say the credibility of the whole government,’ the Justice Minister had interjected. ‘My office has been inundated with calls, day and night. Journalists are putting in freedom of information requests left, right and centre, the opposition wants the case reopened, and there’ve even been a few calls to drag me into an official meeting to discuss it. Fine by me, but this morning the Prime Minister himself was asked to comment on the case.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so, of course, but the pressure is unmistakeable.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’m asking you to toe the Justice Minister’s official line. Distance yourself from what Steen is saying. I understand that will be difficult, but I need you to live up to the confidence I showed in you by allowing you to return as minister.’

  Rosa was incensed. She insiste
d that there were uncertainties about the case. The Prime Minister tried to find a compromise, but the Justice Minister was only getting more frustrated before they were interrupted. Rosa didn’t care. As far as she was concerned they could both shove it, and she leaves a hasty message on Steen’s voicemail as she and Liu enter the office.

  ‘How did it go with the PM?’ asks Vogel.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. What do you know?’

  Vogel, two intelligence agents, Engells and a few other colleagues are gathered around the table, and she sits down while they summarize the situation. Ten minutes ago Intelligence gave the ministry the name of the individual renting the property in Sydhavnen, and Engells had immediately located the case file on Benedikte Skans. They go through it for her, although Rosa remembers it now, and Engells and Vogel outdo each other in speculation about what might be going on. One of the agents gets a phone call, and he steps out of the room to answer it. Rosa hears the other agent ask her whether she recalls any recent contact with Benedikte Skans – or her boyfriend, for that matter. They still haven’t managed to get a picture of him, but there are lots of old press photos of Benedikte Skans.

  ‘This is her.’

  Rosa recognizes the young woman with dark, furious eyes. It’s the girl who bumped into her just over a week ago in the lobby. She wore a gilet and a red hoodie, and they collided the same day someone scrawled in blood on her car.

  ‘I can confirm that. I saw her too.’

  The agent jots down what Vogel has just said, and Engells continues reading from the case file: Benedikte Skans’s son was taken into care, but tragically the boy died with his foster family, and suddenly it occurs to Rosa why she’s so uneasy.