by Inger Wolf
"The emergency room."
"Why don't we drink that beer instead?" Trokic hated the thought of white coats. And needles. "I was going to make goulash for us. With ajvar. I've been working on the recipe."
"For ajvar?"
"Ajvar, yes. It has more taste. And it's hotter. Red bell peppers, eggplant, garlic, chili peppers, wine vinegar, olive oil, cane sugar, salt, and pepper. It was all ready for the gullasch. But it's a little late for that now."
Jacob looked disappointed. "Okay, but let's stop at the emergency room first then grab a pizza on the way home. We'll put some ajvar on it."
Chapter Forty
Friday, September 26
Lisa glanced into every single mirror or reflective surface she passed by that morning. She still couldn't get used to it. Her longish, messy look had been replaced by a page, and her hair color was toned down with light golden highlights. It changed her appearance quite a bit; the nuances in her face were less striking in her new frame of hair. She and Anita had also bought new clothes for her in Magasin. She'd never let her too-mainstream sister influence her style before, but the losses on the romance front kept piling up, and it was time for new tactics. You don't want to scare the bird off before it lands, either, her sister had warned her. And maybe Anita knew what she was doing after all, judging from the compliments she raked in at the station on the way to the office.
She met Trokic on the stairs. The pale detective looked like he'd been in a car accident. His swollen left cheek was yellowish green, and a bandage was wrapped around his head.
"What in the world happened to you?"
He gave her the short version. "I'll tell you the rest in my office. I need to be briefed about the interviews yesterday."
"God, you look terrible."
Trokic instinctively touched the sore spot on the back of his head. "Twelve stitches. They had to shave quite a bit of hair to get to the wound and avoid infection. It'll grow back, they said." He sighed heavily. "I was so close, we could have him, right now."
His office phone rang. He answered and handed the receiver to Lisa. "It's for you."
"Kaare Storm. I'm one of Christoffer Holm's friends. I read in the paper that he'd been murdered."
He paused before going on, his voice unsteady from emotion. "I don't know what…we corresponded quite a bit."
"Yes?"
"I was going through our emails last night. From the past year. I was hoping there might be something that could help you. I don't know if this is important, but we emailed back and forth this past spring about his research."
Lisa perked up. "What about?"
She caught Trokic's eye across the desk and put the phone on speaker.
"I think you'd better have a look yourself. I can forward them to you. I can count on your discretion concerning the private parts of our correspondence, right?"
"Of course."
A light bulb came on in her head. When they had spoken with Søren Mikkelsen at the psychiatric hospital the day before, she'd wondered if Christoffer's work played some part in the case. She'd spent the evening trying to gain an understanding of it, but her lack of knowledge in the area was a major handicap. And if Christoffer did have professional secrets, they were most likely not buried in the stack of papers she'd been given.
"I'm also interested in any correspondence about girlfriends and lovers he might have had."
"I'll send you what I have, right now," Storm said.
Lisa hung up. "This could turn into something."
"Follow it up. And talk to someone from Procticon. Take Jacob with you. And for the time being, let's not say anything about the investigation to the hospital."
"I'd like to see his apartment, as soon as I read what Storm sends."
"I'll make sure you get the key."
Yesterday, Jasper and Kurt, the tech, had ransacked the small apartment on the edge of the city center. In contrast to Anna Kiehl's place, it had been a mess, as if someone had left in a hurry. They'd found hair they presumed came from women, along with several fingerprints. Everything was being analyzed. But if some research material had been overlooked, it wouldn't necessarily take up much space.
Chapter Forty-One
He hadn't said anything about her hair or clothes, and the mood was oddly strained. As if there were a distance between them, a space filled with possibilities.
They unlocked the fifth-floor apartment and walked in. The view extended over most of the city. "What exactly are we looking for?" Jacob said.
"I'm not sure. A CD they missed, research material, reports. Something along those lines."
Jacob made a face and looked around. "He didn't have a computer here at home?"
"No, we didn't find one. He probably just used the computer at the psychiatric hospital when he worked there for whatever he needed. We'll have to go through everything."
She opened her laptop and turned it on. The mail correspondence between the two friends had been sporadic and, at times, intense.
This morning, I ran the Swim test again. Stunning. These rats are breaking every barrier. I must have overlooked something. Working day and night and have sent a sample of altromin for analysis.
Maybe she was wrong, maybe they were wasting their time. On the other hand, they didn't have a whole lot to go on, and they couldn't leave a single stone unturned.
They planned to drive over to Copenhagen to talk to a Procticon employee around noon. It would be a lot of driving, but they could switch off and each get some work in on the way, too. They'd return late in the afternoon after the meeting. A long day.
Silently, they worked their way through the apartment. Christoffer Holm didn't seem to have much of an interest in electronic media, but at last, they found a small stack of CDs hidden in a bookshelf.
"Check these out." Jacob handed them to her. She felt a spark when their hands brushed.
She sat down and stuck the first CD into her laptop.
"Nothing here," she finally said, disappointed after going through all the CDs.
"The fish are dead." He opened the doors of the mahogany cabinet on which the aquarium sat. "Or whatever those pitiful things are on the bottom. I had some black guppies when I was a kid. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Fish eat each other."
He pulled out a drawer and looked inside. "Nothing, not a single thing."
"Let's think about this a moment," Lisa said. "Let's assume he stumbled onto something incredibly important. Who would be interested in it?"
"The pharmaceutical industry, for sure."
"Definitely. And how many people could he have told?"
"The people closest to him. Family, girlfriend, maybe a few friends."
"Colleagues?"
"Maybe, but potentially they're competitors," he said.
"And where would he put the research results?"
"A bank box?"
She squinted in concentration. "I don't think he was the type who'd use a bank box. He'd keep it with someone he trusted completely. Some place he knew it would be in good hands."
"Anna Kiehl?"
They looked at each other, then chills ran down her spine. "His sister," she whispered.
He checked his watch. "Do we have time?"
"We can catch her on the way back."
"Okay, let's get our ass in gear, and then we'll see what she's got."
Chapter Forty-Two
Trokic had just finished a depressing phone conversation with the pathologist, and now, on a sudden whim, he was at Isa Nielsen's apartment. She might know something about the hand. Over time, he'd learned to use all available resources.
"What exactly can I help you with?" she said, after they'd sat down, he in an armchair and she on the sofa.
"I want to get your professional opinion about something involving our case."
"What in the world did you do to your head?" For a split second, her arm twitched, as if she wanted to reach out and touch his wound.
"I got in someone's way."
&n
bsp; "Well, it must have hurt. By the way, would you care for a glass of wine? I have an extraordinary Chardonnay cooled down. You look like you could use it."
"No, thank you. On duty, you know."
"Cappuccino, perhaps?"
"I'd appreciate that."
She disappeared into the kitchen. He listened to her rattling around as he leaned back in the comfortable chair. The apartment smelled almost sweet. He peered at a few painted marionettes hanging in one corner of the room. His mother had owned a few similar to them. From Romania. He'd never liked them.
"What makes you think I can help?" She smiled oddly as she handed him a steaming cup. She wore a loose, cream-colored blouse with silk sleeves and a pair of light jeans. Casual. Yet elegant. To him, the woman's appearance simply didn't fit the somberness of the apartment.
"You study human behavior."
"That doesn't necessarily make me an expert. As I told you before, I mostly work with politological models. Everything else is simply a side interest."
"What does interest you?"
"Is there something specific you need help with?" she said, avoiding his question.
He nodded and straightened up in his chair to get a bit closer to her. "Yesterday, I was out at Anna Kiehl's apartment. We found a mummified hand on a small table. Our pathologist inspected it this morning, it's a human hand. Male."
Isa Nielsen showed no signs at all of being shocked. She folded her hands underneath her chin. "Interesting, no doubt about that. Could the killer be telling you something? That he's being led by the hand of another, perhaps?"
"But whose hand?"
She shrugged. "I have no idea. The thought just struck me. It seems very…cunning."
She fiddled with her watch. The calm, professional look on her face melted away, and now she looked gracious yet vulnerable.
"I guess it's possible…"
"You asked my opinion, and that's what immediately came to mind."
He glanced around the apartment, then, after staring at each other a few moments, he said, "Do you live here alone?"
"I do have Europa."
He remembered her saying that the dog was all she had. Europa lifted her head at the sound of her name.
"What about your family? Where do they live?"
"I have no family."
"No one special in your life?"
"Not at present. That's not my strong side." She smiled apologetically. "I'm somewhat of a loner, and relationships never seem to work out. But I'm helping you, aren't I?"
"You are, yes."
"Tell me more, I might be able to help you zero in on the killer."
Trokic hesitated a second too long as he tried to gather his thoughts. She was leaning back in her chair, her cup resting on her right thigh, relaxed as she looked at him in curiosity. He fumbled around for his cigarettes until she shoved a yellow pack over the table to him.
"I guess you don't mind me smoking?" He looked around for an ashtray.
"Not at all. Smoke all you want, I'll join you."
She stood up and found an ashtray, then he lit a cigarette and began to tell her in general terms about the two related cases.
Isa Nielsen pointed demonstratively at her watch. "It's one o'clock, lunch time. Would you like something to eat?"
"No, thank you. It's nice of you to offer, but I can't stay that long."
It was Friday, his day for making Croatian food. Hot and spicy, the way he liked it. Usually, he didn't eat all day so as not to spoil his appetite. She smiled at him and pulled her feet back under her chair.
"Are you married?" she said.
"No."
He waited for the obligatory "why not," but it never came. The sociologist knocked the ash off her cigarette. Her hands were long and slender.
"What do you make of what was carved into the hand?" he said.
She narrowed her eyes a bit. "Do you ever dream?"
That took him by surprise. He wondered if his interrupted, fitful night's sleep was so obvious. "We all do, I guess."
"Do you have nightmares, I mean."
"Yes."
"What about?"
"Rabbits."
"Rabbits?"
A hint of a smile appeared on her lips. Not a contemptuous smile, though; she seemed curious. Anyway, he felt she was digging into him, exploring. "Where do the rabbits come from?"
"Croatia."
"What's their meaning?"
"They have no meaning," he said, hoping that would satisfy her.
"Everything has a meaning. I dream about the forest. The forest at night. Maybe it's because of all the newspaper headlines. What about this sect you mentioned? You said you found a symbol. Surely, that has some significance?"
"We can't seem to connect it with anything." He drank the last of his cappuccino. "I have to be going."
"Going." Isa Nielsen stared blankly at the wall. Suddenly a coldness entered the room. As if he had brought up a painful subject.
"Thank you for the coffee and for talking to me."
"You're welcome."
Agersund's office was empty. Which was a bit odd; these days the boss hadn't been straying far away. Trokic walked back to his own office. The phone was blinking red, which reminded him; he'd turned off his cell phone at Isa Nielsen's apartment so he wouldn't be disturbed. The message on the answering machine was fifteen minutes old. Agersund.
"Where the hell are you?"
Trokic sighed. How many times had he heard that?
"We've been called in; someone from the sect is dead."
Chapter Forty-Three
The young member of the sect lay in a crooked, unnatural angle on the bed in the sparsely furnished bedroom. The pale, naked body was in an advanced stage of rigor mortis, and the bulging eyes seemed about to leave their sockets. The sheets underneath him were soaked with urine. Torben Bach ran his hand through his gray hair and exhaled loudly.
"What's the cause of death?" Trokic said. "Some sort of narcotic, or sleeping pills?"
The pathologist shook his head. "I don't know. Something's wrong here. It looks like he's been strangled, but there aren't any marks on his throat."
Trokic breathed in deeply. Was this the sect member who had called and said he knew the killer's identity? Why didn't he tell them if he'd known? And why hadn't they rounded up the whole lot of them and brought them in for questioning yet? Why hadn't they taken it seriously? He felt powerless. Things were going too slowly; there were too many people to question. Too many calls from people who thought they knew something, but didn't.
"Armageddon is approaching," the sect leader whispered. "But this, he didn't deserve."
"You're the one who found him?" Agersund said.
Hanishka spread his arms. "He didn't make it down to our morning meeting. One of the others came up and knocked on the door and called him several times. She assumed he was deep asleep. We never imagined anything like this. So, after a half hour, I came up to get him. It was a shock—he was already cold."
"Who was the last person to speak to him?" Agersund said.
The leader thought that over. "Probably me. About ten o'clock yesterday evening."
Agersund turned to Trokic. "It must've been after you were attacked in the apartment."
Trokic nodded.
"We're bringing your entire holy flock in, Hanishka," Agersund said.
"None of us are guilty of this."
"All right, listen up. There's a dead man in this house, and we want to know if Palle knew…"
Trokic jumped when music dominated by a light harpsichord suddenly streamed out of a speaker in the ceiling. It sounded strangely innocent in his ears.
"What the goddamn hell is that?" Agersund said.
"It's the call to prayers."
"Can't you stop it? My God, man, people are working here; we can't have that racket bothering them."
The sect leader looked grim. "It will stop in a moment. It was about nine o'clock this morning."
"What was?"
/> "The answer to your next question. When he was found."
"Nine o'clock, you say?" Agersund looked pointedly at his watch, then he tapped on it. "It's two thirty now. What's been going on in the meantime? You been having a little party with this man?"
"We've been praying with Palle."
Like many of the others there, Palle had led a hard life before joining the sect. He'd been mentally unbalanced. Then he met one of the disciples at the beach. "That's why loving God is the most important thing in life," Hanishka had told Trokic earlier in the kitchen. "Palle had been lovesick over an earthly woman, a thorn, and only God's love could save him."
When Trokic opened the curtain to get more light in the room, a sheet of white paper fell out. He grabbed it before it reached the floor, and immediately he thought: a farewell note. Trokic skimmed Palle's brief apology to his parents for what he was about to do, then he handed it to Agersund.
"There's not a whole lot more to do here," Agersund said. "No matter what he took, it looks like an open and shut case. Speak to the others living here, maybe he talked to someone. And we'll take a DNA sample. Theoretically, he could be our man, even though I don't see any connection, plus it seems he was very religious. And that's about it."
Bach took a glass down from the shelf to the left of the bed and inspected it with a frown. He looked startled after sticking his nose in it and sniffing.
"What?" Trokic said.
Bach looked back and forth between them. "This odor, it's the same as the flowers on Anna Kiehl's body. If I'm not very mistaken, our friend here has taken his own life with hemlock."
Chapter Forty-Four
"I knew him from several conferences, national and international. Nice guy," Abrahamsen said after Lisa and Jacob sat down in the spacious living room. The comfy apartment was close to Trianglen in Copenhagen.
"How long have you worked for Procticon?" Jacob said.
"A year. I've worked for two Danish pharmaceuticals, but Procticon is British."
