by Chris Ould
“Okay, I see,” Tove said. “So, can you tell me why the clinic was closed?”
“Oh, yes, I can tell you that,” Lene Sønderby said flatly. “It was because people are stupid.”
“Who do you mean?”
Lene Sønderby made a general gesture. “All of them, out there in the sticks, but the ones who lived near the house were the worst. They made up stories – ridiculous stories – about what was done at the clinic, just because they didn’t like the fact it was there. From what they said you would have thought the place was a Nazi experiment camp.” She waved a hand as if batting a fly. “Ridiculous people, too stupid to know any better; too stupid to be listened to by any sensible person. Some did listen, though, of course. Gossip and falsehoods are always more interesting than the facts, aren’t they?”
“Not to me,” Tove said. “The facts are why I’m here.”
“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” Lene Sønderby said, as if she realised she’d let her emotions betray her. “But even so, I can’t tell you anything more.”
She shifted in her seat, preparing to stand, but Tove was looking at her phone once again and didn’t take the hint. “Did your husband keep any records?” she asked.
“Records? What sort of records?”
“About the treatment of the people at Vesborggård House.”
“No, not at home. All that sort of thing would have gone, I don’t know where.” Lene Sønderby rose from her seat. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have to go out.”
She took a step forward and Tove finally realised that she was being given her cue to move. She stood up but it didn’t stop her asking one final question. “Where did your husband work after Vesborggård House?”
“It was… He went into private practice,” Lene Sønderby said. “Near Helsingør,” she added, as if that would further bolster the fact.
“Okay, thank you,” Tove said.
She followed Lene Sønderby to the front door, pausing by the hallway table to put on her coat, then going out through the front door as Fru Sønderby held it open.
“Good night,” Tove said, as pleasantly as she could as she stepped on to the path.
“And to you,” Lene Sønderby said closing the door.
Back on the pavement Tove retraced her steps in the direction she’d come, but at the end of the row of houses she stopped and looked at the time, then moved into the partial shelter of a tree by the roadside. From there she had a view of Lene Sønderby’s car on the street and also of the front of her house.
Tove waited for twenty minutes without taking her eyes off the house before she concluded that, in fact, Lene Sønderby did not have to go out after all, but instead had only come back a short time ago, dressed as she was and with her lipstick unrefreshed after whatever function she had attended.
The lipstick was a small detail, but Tove noted such things when they took her attention or when she made a particular point of being alert. In much the same way she’d also noticed the letter on the hallway stand as she’d put on her coat. It was addressed to “Nursing Sister (Retired) Lene Sønderby” and bore the imprint of Dansk Sygeplejeråd – the Danish Nursing Council. Two small things, then, she decided as she finally left her spot and started off again towards the train station: one a lie, the other an omission, at least.
By the time she boarded the next train to Copenhagen twenty minutes later she was browsing the Dansk Sygeplejeråd website with absorbed interest, particularly the “Friends and Colleagues” pages.
36
THE CENTRUM HOTEL WAS A FIFTEEN-STOREY CONFERENCE hotel a short walk from the police station, which was probably part of the reason Thomas Friis had found me a room there; that and the fact that the place seemed as dead as only empty hotels can be. Given that Aarhus had seemed busy and thriving the previous day, it struck me as strange that the hotel wasn’t more lively – not that I cared a great deal. The prospect of a night without the sound of trains through the window was enough to make up for any lack of atmosphere.
I hadn’t brought an overnight bag, only a spare sweatshirt which had travelled the last few days in the car, unneeded. With a toothbrush and toothpaste bought at the reception desk it was enough, though, and after a shower I went down to eat in the hotel restaurant, deserted except for a middle-aged couple at a table right in the centre. Fifty-odd places were unfilled, the absence of customers exaggerated by the neat arrangement of tableware in front of each empty seat and the harsh echo of every hard sound.
Given a free choice of tables, I opted for one with a view of the main road, illuminated by street lamps and passing headlights. I sat with a beer thinking, rethinking and coming to no firm conclusions as I picked at olives and bread. When my phone rang it was Tove.
“I have new information on Vesborggård House,” she announced when I answered. “The medical director was a doctor – a psychiatrist – named Carl Johan Sønderby. He’s dead now and when I visited his wife she wasn’t very helpful but I think she may know more than she wanted to tell me.”
“More about what?”
“About the treatments they carried out at the clinic,” Tove said. “Dr Sønderby co-authored two papers on the use of a drug called Resolomine in the treatment of behavioural disorders. The patent for Resolomine was held by Juhl Pharmaceuticals from 1970, but as far as I can find out it was never approved by the Danish department of health, so I think this explains why Juhl Pharmaceuticals were sued in 2004. Resolomine was obviously used at Vesborggård House.”
“Do you know its effects?” I asked, thinking of Thea Rask’s description of the vitaminer she and the other residents at Vesborggård House had been given.
“No, I don’t know that yet,” Tove said. “It’s outside my frame of reference, but in the morning I’ll find someone at the university to ask about it.”
It was easy to get dragged under the tracks of Tove’s bulldozer-like drive to know all there was about her chosen subject of interest, and to a certain extent I still felt responsible for triggering this particular fixation. I recognised the compulsion, but given what had happened at Vesborggård House a few hours ago I knew I should at least try to apply the brakes.
“Tove, listen,” I said. “I was at Vesborggård House this afternoon. A body’s been found there and there’s a police investigation going on at the moment, so it might be better if you held off on any more research. I don’t know what the police will find or who they’ll want to interview, but they probably won’t be very happy if you queer the pitch before they get there.”
There was silence for a second and I could imagine her frown. “Okay, yes, I understand ‘queer the pitch’,” she said. “Do the police have a suspect?”
I debated for a second, but there didn’t seem to be any good reason not to tell her at least part of what I knew. “Possibly someone who worked at Vesborggård House in 1976,” I told her.
“Yeh, that would be logical,” she said and when she lapsed into silence I thought that maybe the bulldozer had slowed just a little so I pressed the advantage.
“By tomorrow I might know more about the investigation,” I said. “I’m staying in Aarhus tonight, then coming back to Copenhagen. Why don’t we meet up and talk when I get back?”
“Yeh, okay, we can do that,” she said, although it sounded as if she was thinking about something else. “Call me when you get here.”
I said that I would and then she rang off, as abruptly as ever.
* * *
The smaller of the two incident rooms at the main police station in Aarhus was lit by four strip lights, but one wasn’t working. Outside it was dark, and Vicekriminalkommissær Asger Markussen looked at the reflection of the room in the black glass of the window while Thomas Friis outlined the situation at Vesborggård House. Markussen had stayed late for this briefing, preferring to do that rather than go out to the site when there would be very little to see in the darkness.
There wasn’t much solid information yet, but Friis was at pains to po
int out that – as he saw it – there were already two crimes they could look at: one the rape of Thea Rask, and the other a probable murder. In his view, he said, the most likely scenario was that the remains found today would turn out to be Inge-Lise Hofmann, whose case file showed definite links between her disappearance and Vesborggård House. He would review it again, he told Markussen, and highlight any factors which might help to make an early identification of the remains.
Despite Friis’s obvious ability and intelligence, Markussen had never quite managed to dispel a small but innate misgiving about the man, and it was at times like this briefing that he felt them the most. Friis had settled at kriminalassistent grade 2 six years ago and since then had never applied for promotion, although he was certainly capable of more. He seemed to prefer the role of backseat driver, confident that his opinion should be noted, but abdicating any responsibility if it wasn’t. Like the expensive and well-tailored suits Friis wore, it gave Markussen the suspicion that the man thought he was just that little bit superior to his colleagues, whatever their rank.
“So, what about this Faroese officer, Hentze?” Markussen said. “Is he going to have some interest in the investigation, do we know?”
“No, I’m not sure yet,” Friis said. “He’s on his own case: a double murder on the islands from 1974, but beyond that he didn’t say very much, only that there may be some similarities between the burials.”
Markussen considered. “All right,” he said in the end. “Until the remains are out of the ground and we have a forensic pathologist’s report we can’t do anything else. If the body is Inge-Lise Hoffmann then obviously we’ll need to reopen that case, but until then I think we can wait.”
“There is also the rape in 1976,” Thomas Friis said. “We have at least some evidence of that from Jan Reyná’s photograph and we can get a statement from the victim herself, Thea Rask. If the location of that crime was also at Vesborggård House—”
“Yes, we’ll need her statement, of course,” Markussen said with a note of forestalling. “But if she hasn’t reported it for – what, forty years? – I think we should hold off until we know exactly what we have from the site. There’s no point tying the two crimes together until we have a date for the burial.”
“Okay, sure,” Friis said, as if choosing his battles. “But while you’re here there’s something else I think we should also consider.”
He moved to his laptop, which was hooked up to a video projector, and after a couple of keystrokes one of the whiteboards was illuminated by a projection: a horizontal timeline.
Markussen moved to look at the display, but as soon as he saw the photographs and the names on the timeline his body language became stiffer and more resistant. “Thomas… Again?” he said, pained.
Thomas Friis appeared not to hear as he moved the cursor on the screen. “If we look at this timeline and work backwards we have Helene Kruse in January this year; then Louise Kjærsgaard in 2008.” He skipped the cursor back over the individual markers. “Then, as you know, there are killings in 2001, 1996, 1990 and finally Nina Lodberg in 1982. Each incident or incident cluster has a gap of between five and seven years before the next. So, if we were to go back one further step on the line from Nina Lodberg in 1982, then a killing in 1976 when Inge-Lise disappeared would fit the pattern, as well.”
On the screen projection Friis circled the cursor around an unmarked point on the line where 1976 would be represented and Markussen sighed.
“But it’s not a pattern, though, is it?” Markussen said. “We’ve already been through this. This theory of a ‘hibernating killer’” – he made air quotes – “doesn’t have any consistent features. The time period varies – you said so yourself. The incidents don’t even happen at the same time of year or in the same area. The only pattern is that none of these killings fits a pattern.”
“And they’re also unsolved,” Friis said, unabashed. “But in at least three of the cases we know that some kind of stupefying drug was employed, and now we also have that as a feature in the case of Thea Rask when she was raped in 1976. So, if the body we’ve found turns out to be Inge-Lise Hoffmann as well, I think we could reasonably add 1976 to this timeline. That means it could be our best opportunity yet to identify the man responsible because it places him in a known location at a known point in time when there are witnesses and records we can check.”
Markussen drew a heavy breath, as if he’d wished to avoid this situation but, now that it had been thrust upon him, he had no choice. “Thomas, listen—” He paused, as if deciding what he wanted to say was unexpectedly complex. “Okay, look, I know you’re smarter than most of us round here, and you know I’ve given you plenty of leeway on this theory, right? And while it was only a pet project all that was okay, but at some point you’ve got to give it a rest. They only found this new body, what, four hours ago? It’s way too soon to be jumping to any conclusions, you know that. And as for linking it to a theory about a dozen old cases…” He shook his head.
“Yes, but—” Friis started, until Markussen held up his hand.
“No. No, just leave it now,” Markussen said, flatly resolved. “Natasja and Martin can look after things over the weekend and you should knock off.”
Briefly it looked as if Thomas Friis might argue the point, but in the end he just nodded. “Okay, if that’s what you want,” he said fatalistically.
“It is,” Markussen said, resisting the urge to rise to Friis’s tone. Then, more mildly, he said, “Listen, it’s Friday night, for God’s sake. Just go and enjoy the weekend, all right? I’ll see you on Monday.” And with a last glance at the whiteboard, he turned away towards the door.
When Markussen had gone, Friis disconnected his laptop from the video projector and closed it down. He was gathering a few things together into his bag when Kasper Sandstrøm came in.
“I just had a call from the technical team at Vesborggård House,” Kasper said. “They’ve found a bundle of clothes in the grave: some shoes and a bag, too.”
For a moment Thomas Friis hesitated. “Okay, well, you’d better let Natasja know,” he said, zipping the laptop into his bag. “I’m on my way out for the weekend.”
“Oh. Right. Got something on?”
“No, not really,” Friis said, lifting his bag. “Just family time.”
37
WHEN I OPENED THE DOOR OF MY ROOM TO THE KNOCK I FOUND Thomas Friis in the corridor outside. He had a messenger bag on his shoulder, spoiling the line of his suit.
“I took a chance that you’d be here,” Friis said. “Do you mind if we talk for a few minutes?”
“No, come in,” I said, holding the door wider. “Have a seat.” I gestured him to one of the two vinyl chairs by the window and crossed to the minibar.
“Would you like a drink?”
He looked and then nodded. “Sure, thanks. Is there a Coke? I still have to drive home.”
I got him a Coke and a gin and tonic for myself. There was no ice, but I could live with that.
“So I can give you a progress report,” Friis said when I sat down. “You might want to know that as I left the office the technical team at Vesborggård House had found clothing in the grave – not on the body, but in a bundle. If we’re lucky they may help to identify who they belonged to. Also, I should say that Vicekriminalkommissær Markussen is now in charge of the case, so I think it will be one of his team who will take your statement tomorrow.”
“So you’re not staying on it?”
Friis shook his head. “Only to write the report from today. I have… other things.”
I couldn’t tell whether he felt hard done by at that. Like most coppers, I’d imagined he’d have a natural desire to be involved in a significant case, but he showed little sign of anything approaching frustration as he took a measured sip of his Coke.
“So,” he said then, as if to acknowledge that he had moved on. “Just to have a better idea of how things have been left, can I ask about Thea Rask? You told m
e earlier that you’d spoken to her and she had confirmed that she was the girl in the photograph you have, yes?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “She told me she’d been raped at Vesborggård House but I didn’t show her the photograph, for obvious reasons.”
“No, okay, I understand,” Friis said with a nod. “But do you think it is her? Did you recognise her from the picture?”
I made a so-so gesture. “Well, she’s forty years older so I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but she looks similar to the girl in the photo, and given everything else I’d say she is, yes.”
“Okay, so in that case, does she know who was responsible for her rape?”
“No, she says not. From what she told me it’s pretty obvious she was drugged before the attack, so all she remembers is coming round the next day at a flat in Christiania with my mother and me.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Then do you think it was your mother – Lýdia, yes? – who got her away from Vesborggård House?”
I nodded. “So Thea says. I can’t see any other explanation.”
“Does Thea know how? Did she ask your mother what happened?”
“She told me she asked, but Lýdia wouldn’t say: perhaps because she didn’t want to upset her any more. I don’t know.”
It obviously wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for, but after a few seconds he seemed to put it aside. “Okay, let me ask you something else, then,” he said. “What do you think we are dealing with here?”
“Based on today?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to guess.”
It was another answer he hadn’t hoped for.
“But with one girl who was raped and another – perhaps two – who were killed, what would you say? If we think both incidents are from the same time, wouldn’t it be logical to think that it was the same man who made both attacks?”
I got the sense that he was pressing this because he had his own agenda, and that made me slightly wary. “Hypothetically?” I asked. “Well, I suppose you could suspect it – if you knew that the remains we found today definitely date back to 1976 and that they’re of Inge-Lise Hoffmann.”
