Smoke Screen

by Jorn Lier Horst

  She grabbed her phone and checked to see if anything had happened back in Norway overnight. The latest headline on news.no was about a murder in the Botanical Garden. Wollan had taken that case. Emma skimmed through the first few paragraphs and concluded that the police had little to go on.

  She had slept with her wig on – something she never did at home. She got up and went to the bathroom, took it off to shower, then got ready. It was half past eight by the time she re-emerged from the bathroom. She felt a pang of hunger, but most of all, she felt the discomfort of being in someone else’s home. As if she was an intruder and shouldn’t be there.

  Emma followed the aroma of coffee into the kitchen, where Jakob was bent over, peering into the fridge. His pyjama bottoms had slid a little too far down. Emma looked away quickly.

  ‘Oh, good morning,’ Jakob said, once he realised she was there. He straightened up, yanking his pyjama bottoms back into position again as he did so. The unnatural pose had caused his face to turn bright pink.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did,’ Emma lied. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. It’s not been particularly easy to get much sleep these last few days.’

  He paused, before continuing.

  ‘But I slept a little. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  He shot over to one of the cupboards just above the machine, took out a cup and filled it with coffee.

  ‘Just say if you want any milk or sugar.’

  ‘Black coffee is fine.’

  He handed it to her and poured his own. They stood there, both aware of the awkward silence between them.

  ‘Are you always the first one up in the mornings?’ Emma asked.

  Jakob considered the question. ‘Yes … I like to get an early start. To make breakfast for our guests, when we have any. To be in here, enjoying the smell of the coffee. Maybe start to get a little hungry, as I wait.’

  He smiled.

  Emma was starting to like Jakob more and more. Maybe because there had been so much of him in Kasper. Their smiles were almost identical. That great sense of humour. Kasper liked to be up early too, playing the host when she had been to visit him in Copenhagen.

  ‘You must excuse my wife,’ Jakob said. ‘She’s not handling this very well.’

  ‘There is nothing to apologise for,’ Emma insisted.

  ‘She looks at all this like … like it’s an attack on her, personally. What has she done to deserve this? This grief, this punishment?’

  Jakob stopped himself, busied himself with one of the drawers.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, collecting some cutlery. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  Emma smiled and shook her head slightly, trying to show that there was no need for him to apologise.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  Jakob smiled again and shook his head. ‘No, no, you have a seat, I’ll get some food sorted.’

  Emma did as she was told. An immediate restlessness came over her. The desire to get out. Leave. Be alone. She wished she had brought her bike with her.

  Jakob had found a loaf of bread, some butter and a pack of deli meats. He had just begun making a batch of scrambled eggs, when Emma asked if he had a car she could borrow. He turned up the heat on the stove before answering:

  ‘A car? Yes, I … certainly do,’ he said.

  ‘I just fancy having a bit of a look round.’

  Emma wasn’t sure why she had lied, but Jakob nodded as if he understood, answering:

  ‘Sure, of course.’

  He disappeared into the long hallway and returned a moment later, a bunch of keys in his hand, from which he removed a large, thick key. It had a dark-blue Ford logo on it.

  ‘Drive as much as you want,’ he said hospitably. ‘There should be a full tank in there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘More coffee?’

  Emma declined, content to eat a slice of dark rye bread with some liver pâté, before she headed out, glad that the rest of the house had not yet woken up.

  63

  The first flight to Copenhagen left from Oslo Gardermoen Airport at 06:05. Seeing as there were no morning flights that flew direct to Billund, Blix got on the earliest flight to Denmark that he could. He was picked up from Kastrup Airport by Lone Cramer, from the National Police of Denmark. Blix didn’t know anyone else in the Danish police who would show up at such short notice. They had met last autumn through the investigation into the countdown murders, and he had found her to be both a diligent investigator and a friendly person.

  ‘Did you get any sleep last night?’ she asked with a chuckle.

  Blix smiled back and shrugged. ‘Two hours, tops.’

  Cramer guided them through security and led him out to a marked police car parked right outside the main entrance.

  ‘What have you found out about Jette Djurholm?’ Blix asked as he got in.

  Cramer took a folder from off the top of the dashboard and handed it to him.

  ‘She’s had a few speeding tickets,’ she said, pulling out and heading immediately onto the motorway. ‘That’s all. Married, one child. She works part-time in a nursery. Leads a pretty normal life, basically.’

  Blix flipped through the papers.

  ‘You could call her and organise a meeting first?’ Cramer continued. ‘Make sure she’s home.’

  ‘I don’t want her to know I’m coming. That way she won’t have time to prepare before I get there.’

  ‘You think she’s hiding something?’

  Blix mulled it over.

  ‘Not necessarily, but I’ve already questioned her three times, and every single time, she gave the exact same information, right down to the same words, the same expressions. Identical, every time. It was kind of impressive, in a way.’

  ‘You mean, like she’d memorised what to say?’

  ‘Maybe. And she always seemed a little restless.’

  Back then, he had written this off as a fear of authority. Some people got quite anxious when they had to explain themselves to the police, and this often manifested itself in nervous behaviour, erratic movements. It wasn’t uncommon for people to practice what they should say in police interviews either, to avoid misunderstandings. But now that Ruth-Kristine’s role in the kidnapping seemed undeniable, Blix needed to look Jette Djurholm in the eye when he asked her the same questions, one last time.

  They crossed the bridge from Amager over to the larger island of Sjælland, and continued heading further south.

  ‘How far is it to Horsens?’ Blix asked.

  ‘It usually takes about three hours,’ Cramer replied, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. ‘But with a bit of luck we should get there in about two and a half.’

  Blix took his phone out and scrolled through the Norwegian news websites. Nothing new.

  Kovic had called him a couple of times the previous evening, with a few practical questions regarding the homicide at the Botanical Garden. She had nothing to go on and had no more leads to guide the investigation. There were no witnesses, no solid evidence at the crime scene, no conflicts in the victim’s closest relationships. It felt like he had left her in the lurch, with such a difficult task.

  Emma had contacted him the evening before too. A text to say that she was also on her way to Denmark. Which meant she was already here. She hadn’t elaborated on why she was coming or what she was doing. Blix was afraid that if he answered her, he would be at a loss for words if she asked about Ahlander. They needed radio silence surrounding the investigation for the time being, until all the pieces were in place.

  He sat back and stared at the road ahead.

  ‘Recline the chair a bit and get some sleep,’ Cramer offered.

  ‘Sleep? At this speed?’ Blix said. ‘Like that’s even possible.’

  Cramer smiled and tilted her head back against the headrest.

  They had driven over the Storebælt Bridge and were approachi
ng Fyn when Blix’s phone rang. It was Ann-Mari Sara.

  ‘Hi,’ Blix said, picking up immediately. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s a damn good question,’ Sara replied.

  ‘Oh?’

  She sighed heavily into the receiver, and started: ‘You know those knuckles you dug up in Undrumsåsen yesterday?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were right to say that the bones belonged to a small child, about a year and a half old.’

  Again, there was a moment of silence, before she continued:

  ‘But it’s not Patricia.’

  64

  Kovic looked up and was met with her own reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face was pale, eyes bloodshot. She rubbed the sleep out of one of them. She seemed so much older than she actually was.

  The voices coming from some of the other investigators reached her from the hallway, but no one came into the bathroom. She was glad of it. She needed a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

  The investigation into the murder of Amy Linh was in its second day, and they still had no solid direction to go in. Kovic hoped that the autopsy and the forensic examinations of the body might give her something, but that didn’t stop her from thinking that someone else should be leading the investigation. Someone with more experience.

  The door opened behind her. A cleaner came in. Kovic turned on the tap and washed her hands. Dried them, and walked out. At least Amy Linh had no relatives she had to meet, to give updates on their progress, Kovic thought to herself as she walked to her desk.

  Her phone rang the moment she took a seat.

  ‘This is Teddy,’ the man said on the other end. ‘Theodor Rønning, from Hotel Gyldenløve.’

  Kovic grabbed a pen.

  ‘There’s someone here who you might want to talk to,’ Rønning went on.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elena Vilensky,’ Rønning answered. ‘She was off work yesterday, but she’s here today. She worked a lot of shifts with Amy. Said that Amy had been upset when she left work on Thursday.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Something about a guest who had been behaving strangely,’ he replied. ‘You can talk to her if you want?’

  Kovic had already stood up. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

  It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, Kovic thought as she strode over to the lift. They were meant to be going over the case at eleven. Maybe she would have something to give them by then.

  The traffic was light at that time of the morning. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get to Majorstua. She swung into a vacant parking place in one of the side streets.

  Elena Vilensky was a slender woman in her mid-twenties.

  Kovic introduced herself and sat down in one of the empty chairs beside Rønning.

  ‘Tell me about the guest,’ Kovic requested. ‘What exactly happened?’

  Elena blew her nose on a small pocket tissue first.

  ‘He frightened her.’

  ‘Who?’

  Elena took a moment to compose herself. A tram rattled by on the street outside. Sirens started wailing in the distance.

  ‘Amy worked on the sixth floor,’ she began. ‘I’m on the fifth. That’s where the linen room is, and where the trolleys are kept. I was cleaning one of the rooms. She was done for the day, and she passed on her way back with the trolley. I called out to her, but she kept going, as if she hadn’t heard me. So I went after her. I could tell that something had happened. She had this distant look in her eye. It took quite a while before I could convince her to tell me what was going on.’

  She sniffed again, clasped the tissue in her hand a little tighter.

  ‘There was a room she couldn’t get in to clean. The guy staying there never took down the Do Not Disturb sign, so in the end she went in anyway.’

  Kovic remembered what she had read in Amy Linh’s journal, the prompts she had written, her speculations about why someone would want to isolate themselves for days on end.

  ‘Go on…’

  Elena glanced at her boss and back at Kovic.

  ‘He came back while she was in there,’ she explained, hesitating again.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Elena answered. ‘She didn’t say anything else. From what I did get out of her, I gathered that it had been unpleasant. That he had scared her.’

  ‘Do you know which room he was staying in?’

  Elena shook her head.

  ‘But it was on the sixth floor.’

  Behind his desk, Rønning had lifted himself slightly out of his chair and was looking over the top of their heads, out into the lobby. Kovic turned. Through the frosted glass, she could see the flashing blue lights of numerous police cars out on the street. She got up, crossed the room and was at the door in just a few steps. Within seconds, the lobby was full of uniformed officers.

  The receptionist accompanied one of them to the hotel manager’s office. Kovic recognised him. It was Claes Stenberg, head of the police tactical unit. In one swift determined motion, he shoved the door open, found Theodor Rønning and announced:

  ‘We’re evacuating everyone from this building, now.’

  65

  The Danish roads were wide and smooth. The landscape consisted of windmills and farms, as far as the eye could see. Herds of cows grazed among the bright-green fields, even though it was still early January. It was a light but cloudy day. Powerful gusts of wind nudged the car occasionally. Emma held both hands on the steering wheel.

  After thirty kilometres or so, she pulled over onto the roadside, picked up her phone and typed ‘Jette Djurholm’ into the Danish yellow pages website. Ruth-Kristine’s alibi and closest friend lived in Horsens, about fifteen minutes away, on a street called Engtoften.

  Emma drove out onto the road and concentrated as she diligently followed the directions on the sat nav, soon reaching a residential area. The road she followed was wide, with cycle paths on each side. The hedges surrounding the houses and gardens were immaculate.

  Emma turned off onto a side road to the right. Engtoften turned out to be a dead end, but she drove all the way to the end, parking next to a yellow skip, making sure not to block the little footpath that passed through a hedge and led onto another street behind.

  The smell of wet grass hit her as she climbed out of the car. She looked at the time and realised it was far too early for an unannounced visit, at least for a Saturday. The drive from Århus had only taken three quarters of an hour, and Jette Djurholm and her family were probably asleep.

  Emma decided to have a look round first. Jette Djurholm lived in a large, white, brick house. There was a blue trampoline in the garden. And a greenhouse at the back. There were no cars parked in the driveway, but Emma noticed smoke rising from the chimney. Maybe they were already up.

  Emma strode past the post box, which had Djurholm/Kvist printed on it, and over to the front door. She rang the doorbell. There was a sign beside it that read: Caroline, Jette and Jens-Christian live here. She couldn’t hear any movement inside.

  Emma pressed the bell again. There was a flicker of movement behind the curtain in the small window next to the door, but she didn’t catch sight of who had been peeking through. Only now did Emma realise that the door had a peephole. It felt as if someone were staring at her from the other side.

  The door opened an inch. The face of the woman who peered out was sallow, weary. She had unruly, shoulder-length hair and a large, dark mole on her left cheek. She was wearing a brown cardigan over a white sweater. Black jeans. Barefoot.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Jette Djurholm?’

  ‘Yes?’ she answered hesitantly.

  The hallway behind her was narrow. There was another door, but it was shut, preventing Emma from seeing any more of the house.

  ‘Hi,’ Emma said, smiling. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you on the weekend, and so early. My name is Emma Ramm and I work for news.no, an online newspaper in Norway. I
’ve tried calling you a few times?’

  There was no sign that Djurholm recognised Emma’s name.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch about a case I’m working on,’ Emma continued. ‘Patricia’s kidnapping, the daughter of your former neighbour in Oslo, in Holmlia. I don’t know if you’ve been following what’s been going in Norway over the last few days, but…’

  Something about the expression on Djurholm’s face made Emma stop mid-sentence. The woman in front of her looked as if she was about to cry.

  ‘I’m trying to locate Ruth-Kristine Smeplass,’ Emma continued, cautiously. ‘Patricia’s mother.’

  Djurholm closed her eyes for a few seconds, before they shot open again as she spun round, as if she was checking to see whether someone was standing behind her. Her lips moved.

  ‘Hm?’ Emma pointed to her ear. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.’

  ‘Help me,’ Djurholm whispered. ‘Hurry, you have to tell the pol—’

  In the next second, the door behind Djurholm was thrown open. A dark-haired woman stormed towards them, in one quick, aggressive motion – as if trying to chase Emma away. Instead of pushing Emma out and closing the door, she stopped in her tracks and stared at her. Emma returned the woman’s inquisitive gaze. It took a few moments before she realised who she was looking at. Those eyes. That angry, harassed look she had seen so many times in various newspaper articles over the last few days – as if she was permanently mad at the world.

  ‘You,’ she hissed, pointing to Emma. ‘Get inside!’

  Emma looked down. The woman had a gun in her hand.

  66

  Authoritative commands blared through the lobby as heavily armed police officers began to occupy the hotel.

  Kovic introduced herself to the head of the tactical unit. She explained what she was doing at the hotel and asked him to do the same.

  Claes Stenberg showed her a grainy print-out of an image captured from a CCTV camera, and pointed out to the street, towards one of the businesses on the other side.