by Chris Ould
Kjeld looked up. “Who with?”
“A woman called Rakel Poulsen, the head of legal affairs at Juhl Pharmaceuticals.”
Kjeld looked her over. “You want to go all in black?”
“Isn’t that okay?”
“No, I just wondered.”
“So it’s fine?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. See you later.”
* * *
Once Tove had secured her bike in the stainless steel rack at the front of Juhl Pharmaceuticals’ head office she was still five minutes early, so she waited outside, absorbed in her phone and sending a couple of texts. She was always punctual whenever she could be: neither early nor late.
She had considered briefly whether to let Jan Reyná know about the meeting, but had decided there was no need until she knew the result. In any case, he’d made it clear that his interest in Vesborggård House was limited to his mother’s time there, which Tove understood. She had no expectation that other people would share her compulsion to follow the subjects that interested her, although Jan Reyná did seem to share some of her desire for detail. As with most people she met, she found him hard to assess, but she’d come to the conclusion that she would follow her vestigial instinct and allow him into the circle of people she trusted. “Vestigial” was a word she liked to apply to some areas of empathy and emotion where she didn’t feel entirely lacking.
When her phone said it was 10:58 Tove stepped through the automatic glass door into the reception area of Juhl Pharmaceuticals and presented herself at the desk. She was directed to a conference room on the third floor. Inside, a woman with pale skin and half a dozen rings on her fingers introduced herself as Rakel Poulsen, the head of legal affairs for Juhl Pharmaceuticals. She shook Tove’s hand and then turned to the light-haired man in a well-cut suit.
“This is Oscar Juhl, one of our directors,” Rakel Poulsen said.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Oscar Juhl said, extending a hand.
Tove shook again, this time remembering that she ought to make eye contact, so she did. She recognised the man from the photographs she’d seen in her research.
“Is your website wrong?” she asked Juhl. “It says that since you stepped down from being the CEO you only have an advisory role in the company’s operations.”
“Well, sometimes they like me to earn my keep,” Oscar Juhl said with a self-deprecating gesture. “Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
Tove took a chair near the corner of the table, and perhaps not to make an obvious divide between sides, Oscar Juhl sat down with one chair between them. Rakel Poulsen didn’t have any qualms about sitting on the opposite side of the table, however, placing a new legal pad on the table in front of her as Tove took out her phone. She swiped the screen.
“Do you mind if I record this interview?” Tove asked.
The word “interview” seemed to sit uncomfortably with Rakel Poulsen but Oscar Juhl said, “No, of course.”
“Thank you.” She placed the phone on the table with her list of questions facing her on the screen.
Rakel Poulsen shifted. “I’m afraid we have another meeting shortly,” she said. “So if we can begin? In your email you said that you wanted to ask some questions about the clinic at Vesborggård House. Can you tell us why it’s of interest to you?”
Tove looked up from the phone. “Yes. I was conducting research for a friend and when I learned more about it I became interested, too.”
“Is that your profession: a researcher?”
“No, I’m a Masters degree student.”
This didn’t seem to resolve the issue for Rakel Poulsen. “I see. Can I ask your friend’s name?”
“Yes, it’s Jan Reyná.”
Rakel Poulsen made a note on her pad. “And why is Herre Reyná interested in the clinic?”
“His mother worked at Vesborggård House in 1976,” Tove said. “He lived there with her and he wants to know more about it. He’s come here from England to find out about his past.”
This additional information seemed to add another layer of uncertainty to the explanation for Rakel Poulsen. “So he’s British?” she asked.
“No, he’s from the Faroe Islands like me,” Tove said. “But he was adopted in England. His mother died in 1976.”
Rakel Poulsen seemed to become slightly more wary. “And you – he thinks her death is connected to Vesborggård House?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” Tove told her, momentarily reassessing the information she’d just given to see if it should have led to that conclusion. “They are two separate facts.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Wrong-footed by the flatness of Tove’s reply, Rakel Poulsen reassessed for a second. “Well, from what you’ve said I think the best thing would be for you to meet someone from our public relations department. If there’s any archive material about the clinic they should be able to find it for you.”
“Will they also have information about the medical procedures and treatments used there in the 1970s?” Tove asked. “That’s what I’m specifically interested in and what my questions relate to.”
“Well, perhaps not about the medical aspect, but—”
“Then I don’t think there would be any point in talking to them,” Tove said. “Is there someone else you can suggest?”
In his chair Oscar Juhl shifted, sitting forward slightly, looking at Rakel Poulsen. “Perhaps if we heard what Tove’s questions are we’d be able to point her in the right direction for her enquiry.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Rakel Poulsen nodded and Oscar Juhl turned to Tove. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Tove said. She looked down at her phone. “Number one. Can you tell me what sort of treatments were carried out at Vesborggård House?”
Rakel Poulsen made an indefinite gesture, as if to indicate that this wasn’t her area of expertise. “I believe they were to treat certain behavioural problems in the patients at the time.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t have that information.”
Tove accepted that without query. “Okay. Number two. Did any of the treatments or procedures carried out at Vesborggård House involve new drugs that had not been licensed for public use at the time?”
“Again, I don’t have any information about that,” Rakel Poulsen said, seemingly on firmer ground now. “However, I can say that it would be a breach of medical confidentiality between the company and the individuals concerned to divulge details of their treatment.”
“Does that mean you will not be able to provide any details about medical procedures at Vesborggård House?”
“It might, yes,” Rakel Poulsen acceded. “The issue of privacy – medical and commercial – will limit how much the company would wish or be able to say.”
Tove thought about that for a moment. “In that case will you provide me with a list of all the people employed to work at Vesborggård House while it was in operation as a clinic?”
“For what purpose?”
“I would like to interview them.”
Rakel Poulsen shook her head regretfully, as if she would like to be of more service if not for the fact that Tove kept asking impossible things. “I’m sure you know that our industry is commercially sensitive,” she said. “So all our employees sign a confidentiality clause in their contracts of employment. It’s standard practice, so even if I was able to provide you with a list of former employees, they wouldn’t be able to discuss the things you seem to be interested in. And after what – forty years? – I doubt there are many who would still remember anyway.”
“Okay, I see,” Tove said without any apparent regret. “In that case my final question is to ask what can you tell me about the claims for damages brought against Juhl Pharmaceuticals in 2004 by patients at Vesborggård House?”
“I’m afraid nothing,” Rakel Poulsen said. “The case was settled without prejudice and
in a mutually satisfactory manner as we announced at the time. It is also bound by confidentiality agreements for all parties.”
Tove was silent for a moment, then she drew her phone towards her. “Okay. I understand.”
“Would you like me to put you in touch with the public relations department?” Rakel Poulsen asked.
“No, that’s not necessary,” Tove said. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome,” Rakel Poulsen said, closing her notepad.
Outside the conference room Oscar Juhl accompanied Tove to the lift, as Rakel Poulsen headed off briskly in the opposite direction.
“You’re very direct,” Juhl said after they’d taken a few steps.
“Yes, I’ve been told so,” Tove agreed. “Was that a problem?”
Juhl laughed. “No, not at all. It makes a change to hear someone say simply what they want to know. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”
Tove shook her head. “I understand why.”
“You do?”
“Yes, of course. Your company has a reputation for confidentiality.”
“Well, it’s standard practice, I’m afraid,” Juhl said. “Especially as far as the lawyers are concerned. For myself, well…” He made a helpless and slightly apologetic gesture. “I have to go along with them when they tell me it’s in the company’s best interest.”
Tove considered that for a moment. She wondered if he was trying to convey something else but then the lift doors opened and took her attention. “Thank you for your time,” she said again, remembering the formality.
“Not at all. It was good to meet you,” Oscar Juhl said. “I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.”
“No, it wasn’t wasted,” Tove said matter-of-factly. “I learned several things.”
30
I WALKED TWICE ROUND THE CHURCHYARD AT NO MORE THAN a stroll, smoking and thinking, before sitting down on a bench looking out over granite and marble grave markers. Some had fresh flowers, but most not. It was an uncomfortable seat and the breeze was chilly despite the sunshine, but with my hands in my pockets and jacket closed for warmth it had the effect of centring my thoughts.
It seemed to me now that I had an explanation for most of the things I’d either suspected or surmised about Lýdia’s last couple of weeks in Christiania, and at its most basic it was just as Thea had said: on finding her raped and abused, Lýdia had taken us both away from the clinic, back to Christiania where – presumably – she thought we could disappear.
What that didn’t tell me, though, was how she’d found Thea in the first place, or how she’d taken an unconscious girl and a four-year-old boy more than two hundred miles. It would have needed a car, I assumed, but even then, I wasn’t convinced Lýdia could have done it alone. More than that, though, why do it at all? Why hadn’t she simply taken Thea to hospital or called the police? That should have been her instinctive reaction, and because she hadn’t done either I could only conclude that there must have been some overriding reason against it.
I couldn’t guess what that reason might have been, but as I sat and frowned at the gravestones I knew it must be connected to Vesborggård House; as was the Faroese man called Mickey who’d visited the Christiania flat with the promise of help. At this distance I couldn’t tell how significant he might have been in or around the circumstances of Thea’s rape. Whatever I came up with could only be guesswork, so I left him aside and considered the rest.
One of the things you do in any fragmented case is to look for similarities and convergences; of people, of times or of place. Vesborggård House was a convergence beyond any doubt in my mind now, but it went beyond the fact that Thea and Lýdia had lived there, and even beyond the fact that Thea had been raped and brutalised there, too. The thing that pulled at my thoughts now was the yellow memo slip in the back of the file Thomas Friis had showed me; the one with the names of two other girls: Rikke Villadsen and Inge-Lise Hoffmann – one murdered and one missing.
Statistically I knew that the chance of Inge-Lise still being alive had reached almost zero decades ago. So if she was dead it meant there had actually been two killings within a few miles of Vesborggård House and both less than a year before Thea was attacked. Inevitably, it seemed that there had been a very good chance that Thea would have become a third murder victim if Lýdia hadn’t intervened and got her away. So, had Lýdia known that? Was that why she’d gone so far and sought anonymity in Christiania?
I chewed it over for a while, frustrated by too little substance and too many possible interpretations, none of which made even a half-decent theory unless I supported them with supposition or guesses. The whole thing was as unsatisfying as the bench was uncomfortable, so I was happy enough to give up on both when I saw Thea on the path from the church. She was an unmistakeable figure, walking towards me with brisk practicality.
“Did you sort out the electrical problem?” I asked, standing up.
“Yes, I think so – for the moment,” she said. “We have power again and the place won’t burn down, they assure me of that. At least no one can say that the job of a pastor is always the same.” She gestured at the path. “Shall we walk or would you like to go back to the office?”
“No, walking’s fine,” I told her.
We moved off at an unhurried stroll, and for a couple of paces I think we were both trying to work out what to say next. In the end, and because I didn’t want to push things too quickly, I said, “So how long have you been here, at this church?”
“Nearly ten years. Before that I was near Roskilde, but it was a smaller place and more in the country. I like the town better.”
“Did you always want to go into the church – I mean, to become a pastor?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, for many years I was a very long way from God. But sometimes, if you go far enough, you come back to the beginning and you have a new start.”
“Well, maybe there’s hope for me yet,” I said, glib and not very clever, I realised as soon as I’d said it.
“Yes, I think there’s always hope,” she said without any irony, and then after a pause, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She took a second, as if phrasing it in her head. “I wanted to ask if you think there was something wrong about Lýdia’s death. Is that why you came to find me?”
I shook my head. “No. Like I said, I just wanted to fill in the blanks – to find out what she was doing before she died. I’ve read the police report into what happened and it seems pretty clear. There’s no reason to think they got it wrong – unless you know something they weren’t aware of.”
I glanced at her and saw she was thinking back. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “At the time – when I found her – I was very scared; from what I saw and also because I was afraid what would happen if anyone from Vesborggård or the police knew I was there. I didn’t understand why she’d done it, of course, but I never thought there was anything suspicious.” She looked my way. “I’m sorry. Does that make it harder for you?”
“Not really,” I said, because it was true. “I never thought anyone else was responsible except Lýdia herself, so in that way it doesn’t change anything.”
“Okay. I see,” Thea said, although I thought I heard a faint note of reserve.
“What about you?” I asked. “You said you’ve talked about what happened to you at Vesborggård House, but did you ever tell the police?”
“No.” She shook her head. “At first I didn’t think they would believe me, and after I left Christiania I had other problems. I lived on the street in Copenhagen for some time, then in Malmö, Hamburg and other places, not always so good. In those days I was a very self-destructive person; towards myself and also in relationships with other people. I was addicted to drugs and alcohol, and to buy them – for money – well, you were a police officer, so you can guess. The police were not people I wanted to talk to at all.”
I had already guessed from the way she used the phrases common in rehab, so I nodded. “How long have you been in recovery?”
“Twenty-three years and three months. It’s almost half of my life, but it’s the good half, thanks to Jesus.”
We reached a corner in the path and I paused for a moment and took out my cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course. May I have one, too?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
I held out the pack so she could take one. She held it delicately while I lit it, then my own.
“So how did you come to be at Vesborggård in the first place?” I asked when we moved on again. It seemed a little more neutral.
“Oh, I was just stupid and selfish,” she said matter-of-factly. “Like a lot of teenagers, I wanted attention and I didn’t like the rules. My home life wasn’t very good, so I got into trouble, but while I was young it was excused. In some ways it might have been better if they had been harder on me then, but instead I got worse until when I was sixteen I was sent to the court and the dommer – the justices – decided I was a ‘delinquent’.”
She used the word as if it had some amusement for her now – as if it missed the point. She flicked ash off her cigarette and glanced across the gravestones before looking back. “So, they told me they ought to send me to prison, but instead I was lucky because there was somewhere which had a new treatment for people like me. It was a clinic, they said: a place to make me a better person; a nice place.”
“And was it?”
“Sure, yes, I would say so,” she said with a nod, as if it didn’t require any assessment. “When I arrived I was scared, but most of the people were caring and there weren’t so many hard rules. We couldn’t leave the grounds but there was nowhere to go anyway, and we were encouraged to work. The boys had a workshop and the girls could use sewing machines or help in the kitchen. If we did there was a small payment and there was a shop to buy chocolate and other things. That was where I met Lýdia. She came to the house when I’d been there for a few weeks and she worked in the shop and the kitchen.”
