Finally it is Le’s turn. She, Ramazan and a few other children are shepherded up to the teacher’s desk, where they announce that chestnuts can be eaten, too.
‘But first you need to make a cut in them! Otherwise they’ll explode in the oven! They need to be roasted at precisely 225 degrees, and then you eat them with butter and salt!’
Le’s voice is clear and bright, and Thulin is nearly bowled over with astonishment: her warrior-like little girl has never shown any interest in anything kitchen-related before. A few bowls of roasted chestnuts are passed around the parents, while the teacher turns to Ramazan, who has obviously forgotten his response.
‘And Ramazan, what should you remember if you roast and eat chestnuts?’
‘You’ve got to choose the right kind. The ones called edible chestnuts.’
‘That’s right. There are lots of different kinds of chestnut, but only some are edible.’
Ramazan nods, takes a chestnut and munches it noisily, as his mum and dad grin proudly and bask in the other parents’ acknowledgement. The teacher launches into an anecdote about how the children themselves have prepared the chestnuts the parents are eating, but Thulin isn’t listening.
‘What do you mean there are lots of different kinds of chestnut?’
The question comes too late, and out of context. The teacher turns to Thulin in surprise, and so do a few of the parents, who’ve stopped laughing.
‘I thought there were just two types of chestnut. Edible chestnuts, and then the ones you make chestnut men out of?’
‘No, actually there are several different kinds. But now Ramazan is going to –’
‘How sure are you?’
‘Quite sure. But now we’re going to –’
‘How many?’
‘How many what?’
‘How many different types of chestnut are there?’
The room has gone quiet. The parents stare from Thulin to the teacher and back again, and even the children are silent. Thulin’s last question has been sharp and inquisitorial, shorn of her initial politeness. The teacher hesitates, smiling uncertainly; she has no idea why she is suddenly being tested.
‘I don’t know all of them. But there are various kinds of edible chestnut, like for example European chestnuts and Japanese chestnuts, and there are different kinds of horse chestnut. So, for instance –’
‘Which kind do you make chestnut animals from?’
‘Well, all of them. But the most common ones around here are horse chestnuts …’
Nobody speaks. The parents are looking at Thulin, while she stares vacantly at the teacher. Somewhere in the corner of her eye she registers her daughter’s face, which tells her this is possibly the most embarrassing moment of her life. But seconds later Thulin is already out the door. As she runs through the common area towards the exit, the Halloween party is in full swing.
102
‘If you’ve come to challenge me to another run, I’ll have to take you up on that next week.’
Genz smiles at her. He is standing beside an oblong flight case and a small holdall, and is busy putting on an oilskin coat as Thulin enters the big laboratory. She already knows from the receptionist who met her that he’s just returned from a crime scene but is now heading straight out the door for a conference held at the Herning Exhibition Centre over the weekend. Still, she managed to talk her way in to see him. She already tried to get hold of him on the phone in the taxi ride over, but didn’t get through, and she is relieved to find him at the department, although clearly she’s come at a bad time.
‘It’s not that. I need your help.’
‘Can we discuss it on the way down to the car?’
‘The chestnut dolls left with the victims, the ones with Kristine Hartung’s fingerprints on them, what kind were they?’
‘What kind?’
Genz has begun to switch off the halogen lamps, but pauses a moment and stares at her.
‘What do you mean?’
Thulin had run up the stairs, and she realizes she is still out of breath.
‘A chestnut isn’t just a chestnut. There are several different kinds, so what kind were they?’
‘I can’t remember offhand –’
‘Were they horse chestnuts?’
‘Why do you ask? What’s happened?’
‘Maybe nothing. If you can’t remember, it must be in one of your lab reports.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’m just –’
‘Genz, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. Can you check right now?’
With a sigh Genz sinks into the seat in front of the big screen. A few seconds later he’s in the system, and Thulin follows what he’s doing on the screen mounted on the wall behind him. Genz accesses a folder and scrolls purposefully through various numbered reports before selecting one and double-clicking. The volume of figures and analyses is enormous, but Genz scrolls rapidly through the report, clearly familiar with its contents, and pauses at a particular paragraph marked ‘Species and origin’.
‘In the first instance, i.e. Laura Kjær, the fingerprint was on an edible chestnut. Specifically one called Castanea sativa x crenata. Satisfied?’
‘What about the others?’
Genz lets his gaze rest on her for a moment, as if to tell her this isn’t funny.
‘Come on, it’s important!’
Genz rummages around again on his digital desk, double-clicking on another report, then repeats the procedure a third time. When he’s done, Thulin knows the answer before he says it out loud.
‘In the other cases the result was the same. Castanea sativa x crenata. Okay?’
‘And you’re sure. There’s no doubt?’
‘Thulin, this part of the analysis was done by my assistants, because I was concentrating on the fingerprint itself, so of course I can’t guarantee –’
‘But it’s not likely your assistants got it wrong three times in a row?’
‘No, it’s not likely. Since none of them are experts in chestnuts, the usual procedure would be to find an expert to identify the species. I imagine that’s what they did. Now, would you mind telling me what all this means?’
Thulin is silent. She had made two calls from the taxi: one to Genz and the other to Steen Hartung. Hartung had answered the call with a lifeless voice. With a stab of guilt she’d apologized for disturbing him and explained that she was just finishing her report and needed to remind herself of the type of chestnut the family had at home, the type Kristine and her friend had used to make their chestnut dolls. Hartung hadn’t had the energy to be surprised, and when she added that it was just a formality he’d answered without further comment. The big chestnut tree in the garden was a horse chestnut tree.
‘It means we’ve got a problem. We need to get hold of that expert. Immediately.’
103
The ground between the red gate and the Peter Lieps Hus Restaurant in the Deer Park is blanketed in fresh snow, and Rosa Hartung chooses to run on the gravel path instead of the asphalt road, which feels as slippery as soap. When she reaches the end of the road she glances at the amusement park, closed this time of year, its rides abandoned and spectral, then turns right, heading down one of the paths sheltered by the trees and thus almost untouched by the snow. Her legs don’t want to continue, but the air is clear and cold, and she forces herself onwards in the hope that the run will shake off her despondent mood.
For ten days she’s barely left the house in Outer Østerbro. All the strength she mustered for her comeback at the ministry deserted her when it was brought home to her that her hopes of seeing Kristine again weren’t anchored in reality. Everything turned grey and insignificant, just as it was most of the previous winter and spring, and although Vogel, Liu and Engells were very kind, encouraging her to return to the ministry, it had no effect. She stayed home, and no matter what they said, Rosa knew her days as a minister were numbered. The Prime Minister and the Justice Minister both made public statements full of solicitude, but
behind the scenes there was no doubt Rosa was finished in the party. Once a little more time had passed she’d be pushed down the ranks, either because she’d disobeyed the Prime Minister or because she was considered too unstable, and Rosa couldn’t care less.
Her grief, however, she could not ignore, and that morning she visited her psychiatrist, who advised her to go back on antidepressants. So she forced herself into her running gear as soon as she got home – the way she used to do after lunch when she was working from home – but today it is mainly because she hopes the run might produce enough endorphins to raise her mood just a tiny bit, and give her the strength to resist another course of pills.
Another reason for the run, of course, is that the removal men are coming to pick up Kristine’s things. After the session Rosa was despairing enough to follow her psychiatrist’s advice to get rid of them once and for all; that way it would be easier to let go of the past. A symbolic act, he said, which would help her move on. So Rosa called a moving company and pointed out the things in Kristine’s bedroom to the au-pair: four big boxes of clothes and shoes, as well as her desk and bed, where Rosa had so often sat. The au-pair had been given the number of a charity shop on Nordre Frihavnsgade so that she could ring and tell them a van would soon be arriving with the boxes and furniture, and then Rosa left and drove up to the Deer Park.
On the way she wondered whether she should ring Steen to tell him about the decision, but she couldn’t face it. They barely spoke any more. The man from Homicide was clear and unambiguous, but Steen still clung to his hopes, and it was more than Rosa could cope with. He refused to sign the papers declaring Kristine dead, even though he was the one who asked the lawyer to send them, and although he never mentioned it she knew he was going door-to-door in neighbourhoods Kristine might have passed through on the day she disappeared. It was his partner, Bjarke, who let her know. He talked anxiously about how Steen’s office was still cluttered with plans of sewage systems, residential neighbourhoods and road networks, plans that had nothing to do with his job; how every morning he simply drove off without saying where. Yesterday Bjarke decided to follow him, and found him wandering restlessly through an area of houses near the sports complex. But Bjarke probably regretted making the call, because Rosa responded with nothing but resignation. Steen’s search was pointless; but, then again, so much was. They ought to stick together, to think of Gustav, but right now they don’t have the strength.
When at last Rosa reaches the red gate again, she’s run herself to the point of exhaustion. Her sweat feels cold and unpleasant. Her breath rises like smoke from her mouth, and for a moment she has to support herself on the wooden gate before heading back to her car. On the way home, driving past the statue of Knud Rasmussen and Arne Jacobsen’s petrol station, she notices a tiny crack in the bank of clouds above. The weather has briefly cleared, and as the sun’s rays break through the clouds, the snow lights up like a carpet of glimmering crystals, and she has to squint so as not to be blinded. When she turns on to her driveway, she realizes her breathing is different from when she left. Slightly calmer – as though it is reaching all the way down into her diaphragm and not merely getting stuck somewhere between her throat and her chest like a clogged sink. Climbing out, she sees the van’s wide tracks in the snow, and feels slightly relieved that it’s done. Out of habit she walks around to the rear of the house, to the utility-room door. It’s the one she always uses when she’s been out for a run, so she doesn’t trail dirt and mud into the hall. She can’t be bothered to stretch: all she wants to do is get inside and collapse on the sofa before the thought of Kristine’s things being gone for good overpowers her. The fresh, untouched snow crunches underneath her feet, but as she rounds the corner of the back porch, she jerks to a halt.
Someone has left something on the mat in front of the door, but at first she can’t tell what it is. As she takes a step closer she can see it’s a delicate wreath or decoration of some kind, and her mind turns immediately to Christmas and Advent, perhaps because of the snow. It isn’t until she bends down to pick it up that she realizes it’s made of chestnut men. They are arranged in a garland, holding hands to form a circle.
Rosa flinches and glances around her warily. There is no one in sight. Everything in the garden, including the old chestnut tree, is covered in new, unblemished snow, and the only footprints are her own. She looks back at the wreath, picks it up cautiously and goes inside. She’s been asked about the chestnut men and their possible significance so many times she’s lost count, and she can think of no connection apart from the dolls Kristine and Mathilde painstakingly made at the dinner table every year. Yet as she runs upstairs to the first floor, still in her wet running shoes, calling for the au-pair, she feels altogether different and much more ill at ease, in a way she can’t quite place.
Rosa finds the au-pair in Kristine’s empty room, vacuuming the carpet where the boxes and furniture had been. The girl looks up, startled, when Rosa switches off the vacuum cleaner and shows her the wreath.
‘Alice, who left this outside? How did it get here?’
But the au-pair knows nothing. She’s never seen the wreath before, and she doesn’t know when it was placed outside the utility-room door or who might have put it there.
‘Alice, this is important!’
Rosa repeats her questions, insisting that the confused girl must have seen something, but apart from the removals men she hadn’t noticed anyone since Rosa went out. Not until there are tears in the au-pair’s eyes does Rosa realize she’s started to shout, desperate for answers the girl doesn’t have.
‘Alice, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …’
‘I can call the police. Do you want me to call the police?’
Rosa looks at the wreath, which she’d set down on the floor to put her arms around the still-sniffling au-pair. The small garland is made up of five chestnut dolls bound together with steel wire. They look like the dolls the police showed her, but now Rosa notices that two of them are taller than the other three. As though the tall dolls are the parents. Chestnut parents holding chestnut children’s hands, like a family dancing in a ring.
Comprehension flashes into Rosa’s mind. She recognizes the wreath, and instantly she understands why it has been placed outside her door of all doors, so that she of all people would find it. She remembers when she saw it first and who gave it to her – and why. All is clear, but her common sense still tries to tell her it can’t be so. That can’t be why. It was far too long ago.
‘I’ll call the police now, Rosa. It’s better to call the police.’
‘No! No police. I’m okay.’
Rosa lets Alice go. As she runs down to her car and drives away, she does so with the feeling that someone is watching; that someone has been watching for a very long time.
104
The drive into town feels long, with endless delays. She changes lanes when she can, and at the Triangle and later by the Castle Gardens she darts through the crossing even though the lights are red. Memories come flooding back. Some of them she can recall with certainty, while others are irresolute and porous, as if her brain has stitched them together afterwards to give the whole thing meaning. Arriving at the ministry, she wonders where to park so as not to draw attention to herself, and after managing to find a spot she hurries towards the back entrance. It occurs to her she’s forgotten her access card, but the guard waves her on.
‘Liu, I need your help.’
Inside her office she finds her secretary mid-meeting with two young women Rosa recognizes as new members of staff. Liu is clearly startled to see Rosa, and the conversation stalls.
‘Yes, of course. We’ll pick this up later.’
Liu dismisses the two women, who shoot Rosa curious sidelong glances on their way out. It dawns on her that she is still in her running gear, still damp and still has mud on her shoes.
‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
She has no time to absorb Liu’s concern.
&nbs
p; ‘Where are Vogel and Engells?’
‘Vogel never showed up today, and I think Engells is at a meeting somewhere in the building. Shall I get hold of them?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter. We can probably find it ourselves. The ministry has access to the council’s register of foster families and children taken into care, correct?’
‘Yes … why?’
‘I need information about a foster family. The one I’m looking for is from Odsherred Council. Probably from 1986, but I’m not sure.’
‘1986? Well then I’m not sure it will be digitali –’
‘Just try! Okay?’
Liu is clearly unnerved, and Rosa feels contrite.
‘Liu, you mustn’t ask why. Please just help me.’
‘Okay …’
Liu sits down at her laptop, which is already on the table, and Rosa gives her a grateful look. She types in her login for the Odsherred Council register and is granted access, while Rosa takes a chair and moves it closer to the screen.
‘The foster family was called the Petersens,’ she tells Liu. ‘They lived in Odsherred, at 35 Kirkevej. The father’s name was Poul, a schoolteacher. The mother was Kirsten, a potter.’
Liu’s fingers fly across the keyboard as she types in the information.
‘Nothing’s coming up. Do you have their ID numbers?’
‘No, I don’t, but I do remember that they had a foster daughter. Rosa Petersen.’ Liu starts typing in the ID number Rosa gives her, but then she pauses and looks at Rosa.
‘But that’s you, isn’t it …?’
‘Yes. Just search. I can’t tell you what this is about. You’ve got to trust me.’
Liu nods uncertainly and keeps searching, and a few seconds later she finds what they are looking for.
‘Rosa, female infant. Born Juul Andersen. Adopted by foster parents Poul and Kirsten Petersen –’
The Chestnut Man Page 34
