The Stolen Angel

by Sara Blaedel

  She shook her head at the two of them.

  “I’ve spoken to the moving company and they say they can be there Saturday afternoon to start packing and then drive the whole lot back over to Zealand on Sunday morning. All they need is an address for the storage. To be honest, though, I don’t even know if fru Milling will want to go when it comes down to it.”

  “Of course she will,” Jonas asserted, prompting Louise to fall silent.

  The boy had been there himself when the rectory had been cleared and packed away after his father’s death. Mostly he had kept things from his own room, but he had taken some of his father’s items, too. The rest had been packed away in boxes and sent into storage until he was old enough to move into a place of his own and select what he wanted to have around him in his own home.

  “I can offer our assistance and see what she says,” Louise decided, taking the car keys from the hook in the hall. “See you later. Not sure what time I’ll be back. Depends on how she reacts.”

  * * *

  The house in Dragør was painted yellow with a small cobbled area out front enclosed by a low green fence. The lights were on in the windows and Grete Milling opened the door before Louise managed to put her finger to the doorbell. She must have seen her come in through the gate.

  “How kind of you to come all this way,” the woman said, smiling meekly. “I’ve been wondering when someone might have the time to see me.”

  She handed Louise a hanger for her coat. She was a small, gray-haired woman with kind hazel eyes and a chunky silver ornament around her neck. She showed the way into the low-ceilinged living room and gestured for Louise to sit down on the deep-red sofa.

  A moment later she came back from the kitchen carrying a tray in front of her. Her hands trembled slightly as she stooped to put it down on the table. Louise reached out to help.

  “I thought you might like some coffee,” the woman said, sitting down opposite. “I’ve cleared out the guest room as best I could. I thought Jeanette’s things might go in there, some of them anyway.”

  She poured the coffee and offered Louise a cookie from the plate.

  Louise took a deep breath and folded her hands together in her lap.

  “Fru Milling,” she began. “I’m awfully sorry to have to say this, but I’m afraid you really must start coming to terms with the possibility that your daughter won’t be coming home again. We don’t know if she fell victim to a crime, whether she took her own life, or if she simply decided to start a whole new life for herself. But we do think it’s time now to accept that the life your daughter lived in Esbjerg has come to an end one way or another and should be wrapped up accordingly.”

  The woman put her coffee cup down gently on the table.

  “You don’t think she’s coming home, then?” she said, and began wringing her hands.

  Louise shook her head in sympathy.

  “No,” she replied. “I’m afraid she isn’t. The police in Spain have done all they can, but no one has seen Jeanette since she went missing. There just isn’t a trace after the last time she was seen at the hotel.”

  “My daughter did not take her own life,” the woman said, breaking the ensuing silence. “Nor would she just disappear of her own accord. We only had each other, she would have said good-bye. There’s always been a mutual respect and understanding between us. We’ve often talked about there being a time when one of us might not want to be here any longer—mostly with a view to my own age, you understand. We both agreed that if that were ever the case, then we would always let the other one go.”

  Louise nodded and felt a knot tighten in her chest. But this was not her grief, and she needed to keep it at bay.

  “But if one of us did make that decision then we were going to say good-bye in a proper manner so there wouldn’t be any loose ends, things you wanted to say but never did. That was what we agreed. I would have respected if Jeanette had wanted to try something different. Start a new life, as you say. But she would never have walked out on everything and left me to sort things out on my own like this. She knew there was no one else to tidy up after her.”

  Louise cleared her throat.

  “What do you think could be the reason your daughter hasn’t come home?” she asked, giving her time to wipe away the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks.

  “Because she’s dead,” the woman sobbed, lowering her chin to her breast and closing her eyes tightly. “I think she must be dead. But as long as no one’s said so, and the police have still been out looking for her, there’s always been hope. It’s made it easier to push the thought from my mind. But deep down I’ve known all along.”

  Potted plants lined the windowsills, standard lamps stood in each corner of the room, and fine carpets covered the floors. But there must have been a man here once, Louise thought, noting the heavy mahogany desk with its inlaid desk pad and sturdy lamp.

  “Nothing’s ever certain, though, not before there’s a body,” she pointed out once the woman had collected herself again.

  Grete Milling nodded silently, her eyes glazed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though they were the only thing she had left to hold on to. For a moment she seemed to be far away.

  Louise poured herself some coffee, offering a top-up to fru Milling whose own cup, however, had barely been touched.

  “I’ve spoken to a moving company in Esbjerg. They say they can clear Jeanette’s flat and pack everything away in boxes and drive the whole lot over here this weekend.”

  Grete Milling looked up at her in surprise and suddenly clapped her hands together as if snapping out of her anguish.

  “Yes, that’s what we’ll do,” she said with resolve. “I must do as they say and empty that flat. I don’t want my daughter to be seen in a bad light. If I make an early start I might be able to catch a train and be there before it all gets packed away.”

  She rose to her feet.

  “I think I might even have a timetable somewhere. I’m sure there’ll be an early train, even if it is the weekend.”

  She came back with the DSB timetable and sat down in her chair, reaching for her glasses on the coffee table.

  “Let me see, there’s a bus to the main station,” she mumbled to herself, studying the schedule. “And then when I get to Esbjerg there’ll be a bus from the station there. She lived in Hjerting, you see.”

  “Actually, I was thinking I might drive you there myself,” Louise interrupted, immediately suspending the woman’s planning. “If I pick you up here at ten o’clock that’ll leave us plenty of time to get there before they start packing everything away.”

  “But, dear, you mustn’t let me take your day off.”

  Louise smiled and said her downstairs neighbor and her twelve-year-old foster son had offered to lend a hand, too, and were already looking forward to the trip.

  “I must say, that’s very kind of you, but I could never accept. I wouldn’t dream of putting you and your family out like that.”

  “But we’d like to very much,” Louise insisted, not mentioning that it was the thought of the woman’s emotional well-being that had initially prompted the suggestion. “We could do with a day out, and I’d like to see your daughter’s flat before anything gets disturbed.”

  Grete Milling wrung her hands again.

  “Then let me at least cover the expense,” she said finally.

  “Agreed,” said Louise.

  “In that case, thank you very much indeed. It’s very thoughtful of you. I haven’t owned a car since my husband died, shortly after Jeanette was confirmed. To be honest, I’ve hardly ever driven at all, even if I did get my license a few years after we got married.”

  “No problem. I’ll gladly drive,” Louise said. “And it’s no trouble, really. Both Melvin and Jonas know what it’s like to lose a loved one, so they know when help’s needed, too.”

  Grete Milling smiled, nodding in response when Louise asked if ten o’clock the next morning would be okay.

&n
bsp; “I’ll make sure I’m ready. I’ve got the key to Jeanette’s flat.”

  She showed Louise to the door and clasped her hands in hers.

  “Thank you so much for coming to see me,” she said before opening the door.

  “No trouble at all,” Louise smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

  11

  Flesh, muscle, and bone were the only things left on her body; everything else had been replaced by silicone. Every cell was infused, thereby maintaining its original structure, and soon impervious to the body’s natural processes of decomposition. In other words, she was now preserved, imperishable for all time.

  The only thing spoiling the impression as yet were the empty eye sockets. The orbs of her eyes had been damaged in the acetone bath and could not be saved. As before, he would have to replace them with a pair from the wooden box, a process he had already made into a ceremony: the choice of color. Three pairs had already been selected for his other exhibits, and the green ones were being saved for the redhead that would complete his collection.

  Green was no good for this one anyway. He had known from the beginning that this woman’s eyes had to be blue, though whether they should be bright and sparkling or a deeper, subtler shade was something he would know only when she was ready to be placed in her display case.

  A warm feeling passed through him.

  He felt he knew her now, and though he had never seen her alive the fact did not prevent him from harboring strong feelings for her as she lay there before him. It had been exactly the same with the first three women—and indeed still was. They were part of his life now, just as he had hoped when he had ordered the first.

  * * *

  Perfect, he thought as he studied the fair-haired woman.

  He had now removed the plastic tubing and the liquid silicone, moved the cart aside, and tidied the room so everything was orderly before he went to get the heat lamps.

  Three large heat lamps of the kind he believed were used on poultry farms. The ceiling hooks were already in place. He drew the small stepladder toward him and hung the first lamp on its hook. The hooks were positioned fifty centimeters apart, ensuring the heat would reach over the entire length of the body, taking into account that length would vary from corpse to corpse.

  He almost felt the urge to crack open a bottle of champagne. Until now he had reserved the pleasure of raising a celebratory glass until after each woman had been positioned in her display case, but somehow he already felt himself in the grip of a rising sense of euphoria. The woman in the shallow bath was almost ready. The silicone just needed to harden before he inserted the eyes, the jewel in the crown of his immaculate work.

  As yet, the cap still sheathed her hair, but now that the bath had been emptied and she was ready to be transferred onto the gurney it could just as well be removed, its purpose fulfilled.

  He wheeled the gurney from the first of the cellar’s rooms, maneuvering it through the door and positioning it next to the bath before stepping over to the cupboard and taking out the white toweling sheet. The French lavender fabric conditioner made it smell so nice and fresh. He spread the sheet out over the gurney’s stainless steel and smoothed it with his hand, adjusting it so it draped evenly on all sides.

  Now he would do her proud. After six months of hard work on her corpse he could devote himself to the pleasure of pampering and coddling. Now, finally, they had reached the point where her dignity would be returned, and unlike all other women, who aged and declined, her beauty would be preserved forever.

  Her body was slight and delicate, and he had no difficulty making the transfer from bath to gurney. He took a small towel and dabbed her dry.

  Her breasts were small and firm, perfectly rounded like two droplets in shape. He adjusted her arms slightly, turning her palms downward and smoothing her fingers. The silicone appeared to be somewhat unevenly distributed in her legs; here and there it seemed to have collected, the smallest bulges under her skin, though nothing that could not be rectified before she was placed under the heat lamps. It was only when the substance was completely hardened that such imperfections were difficult to correct.

  Now the artist inside him was awakened. Now, before the heat lamps were switched on, he would model and shape, lingering on the finer subtleties, the tiny details that made the female body so perfect.

  He had already turned on the bright ceiling light; now he drew a work lamp over to her face. After rubbing his hands together to warm his fingers, he began to cautiously smooth her cheeks.

  Her skin was white like mother-of-pearl, and quite as fine. She had been suntanned when she arrived, with hideous white bikini marks; now she was evenly bleached by the acetone.

  Eventually, feeling confident the shaping was accomplished to his standards, he stepped back in admiration of his work and felt a rush of pride. He had done it again. There was no doubt, even though the work was not quite complete. Even now he could see the result would be perfect.

  He smiled to himself and went into the next room to get the wooden box containing the glass eyes. They were easiest to insert while the silicone was still pliable. He had decided on deep blue, and when finally he put them in place she seemed almost to gleam at him.

  His work was good. In fact, it was more than good: It was fabulous, he thought with delight, rolling the gurney underneath the heat lamps. He was still smiling as he packed away the wooden box and the microfiber cleaning cloth and flicked the switch to turn on the lamps.

  * * *

  The first woman he had received remained his most stirring experience. So ravishing she had been. Young and pale, with long, dark hair. Their looks were by no means insignificant. They needed to complement each other if the exhibition was to be as consummate as he wished.

  He did not want to know anything about their backgrounds. He placed his order, expressing his wishes as to their desired appearance with exactness. The delivered item was to correspond fully to his expectations. Nothing else would do.

  One million Danish kroner was the price he paid for a corpse delivered to a rest area somewhere on Zealand. The exact location varied, the money paid only on delivery. It was a matter of mutual trust.

  They never spoke when the body changed hands, and he asked no questions, noting merely whether the delivery was in accordance with what he had ordered.

  Until now that had certainly been the case, and he was thrilled at having found a thoroughly professional supplier. It was no coincidence, either, that the Costa de Sol had been selected as a most suitable source. The region boasted a plethora of hotels to which single women flocked, so there was no shortage of potential subjects. Moreover, the open borders inside the EU meant they could be transported back to Denmark by road with an absolute minimum of difficulty.

  Earlier that same day he had placed another order. He already felt excitement at the prospect of receiving what for now would be the final exhibit in his collection.

  12

  It was Saturday morning when film director Naja Holten’s flight touched down in Málaga. She had been up since before the birds to make the 6 a.m. check-in at Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport, and she was grateful Jesper had given her a lift and saved her having to take the train.

  It was stupid, but she missed him already. And not only Jesper, but the dog, the cat, and their house, too. They had only just moved in and the place was in disarray, they were still in the middle of doing up the living room, the builders were in and out, and there were forever decisions to be made about one thing or another. All of a sudden Naja had had enough.

  In a premature attack of first-night nerves she had bought herself a cheap flight and booked into a rather more expensive hotel. Jesper had said nothing, had merely kissed her when she told him she had given herself a week’s vacation in the sun in order to recharge her batteries and regain some measure of composure before her new movie was due to premiere. Next Tuesday, she thought, sensing once again the butterflies flutter in her stomach.

  She pulled her
shoulder bag down from the overhead locker and joined the flow of travelers heading toward the conveyor belts of the baggage claim.

  Inside the airport building itself she failed to notice the man in the yellow hi-vis who stood surveying the female passengers who had just come in from Denmark. She did not see him when like a shadow he slid closer and concealed himself behind the arrivals board; nor was she aware of the way he swiftly identified the women who appeared to be traveling alone. Instead, her attention was distracted by three men waiting for their suitcases and already well into their duty-free Gammel Dansk.

  “Tits out for the lads!” one of them bellowed, raising his little disposable glass in the air and throwing its contents down his throat.

  She had not noticed them at all on the flight. Just as well, she thought, unable nevertheless to take her eyes off them. She could hardly avoid gleaning the fact that the three of them worked together in Frederikssund, a master baker and his two assistants off on a cheap and boisterous winter break together, totally without filter. They were having what they undoubtedly would call fun, looking forward to a week in the sun, and well on their way to getting plastered.

  Many of the other passengers had already collected their baggage and were on their way through customs. Gradually the throng thinned out. One of the merry bakers missed his suitcase as it glided past. The two others had managed to retrieve theirs and raised their glasses in her direction. One of them lifted the bottle, too, and waved it inquiringly in the air. A little pick-me-up while she waited?

  “No, thanks.” She smiled, shaking her head and sensing a rising annoyance at her suitcase as usual being one of the last.