The Hanging Girl

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

“What’s up, Assad?”

  “Try to feel here.” He pulled Carl’s hand up to a spot in the middle of the copy.

  “And?”

  “Press harder; then you’ll feel it, right?”

  Now he could feel it clearly.

  “Yes. Something is stuck to the back of the photocopy.” Assad nodded to himself. “Of course Habersaat assumed that we’d take the enlargement with us, Carl, of course he did. Now I think we’ve found the needle in the strawstack that we were looking for.”

  “Needle in the haystack, Assad.” Carl peeled the tape on the corner of the photocopy.

  “Bongo,” said Assad, and he was right. On the back of the copy was the page from the photo album with the four photos.

  “Maybe there’s something about when they’re from,” said Assad, pulling the page free from the photocopy.

  But of course there wasn’t.

  Carl took the page with the photographs and turned it over. All four photos on the page were obviously part of a larger series with a classic car theme, probably taken at a festival of some sort or another.

  Carl felt his heart skip a beat. This happened from time to time when an investigation suddenly entered a new stage. He smiled to himself. This is what he lived and breathed for.

  “Here’s our man,” he said calmly, pointing at a section of less than a square inch on one of the photographs. “There, right at the back of the area, can you see him? And he’s looking over toward the car with the impressive hood. A beautiful old model.”

  “Carl, we’ll never manage to get that little section clearer than Habersaat did. Never. Not even if we tried for a hundred years.”

  He was right. Everything taken into consideration, Habersaat had done what he could.

  “CI B14G27 it’s got here under the photo. And BCCR/BCCEC down in the corner. And look what’s written above the black car on the photo next to it: THA 20. And the other two underneath: WIKN 27, WIKN 28. Don’t you think they refer some way or other to the cars, Carl? Do you know anything about classic cars apart from that old sardine tin you drive us around in?”

  Carl shook his head. “The only make of car I know with Ci is Citroën. But the others, THA and WIKN, I don’t recognize.”

  “We’ll look them up,” said Assad.

  Rose didn’t manage to protest before Curly jumped in and pushed the computer chair, with her in it, away from the screen.

  “We’ll explain in a second,” Carl said, while Assad typed Citroën B14G27 in the search box.

  No match. What now?

  “You two aren’t the brightest bunch, are you?” said Rose, somewhat peeved as she glanced quickly over at the photo page. “They’re old cars, right? Very old in fact. From the twenties even, I’d guess. More specifically 1920, 1927, and 1928, as I read it.”

  Carl raised his eyebrows. How embarrassing that it hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Okay. Try and write Citroën B14G 1927 instead, Assad.”

  Rose was right. A second after Assad had typed it, a whole series popped up on the screen of polished examples of what the motor industry and the art of the conveyor belt could produce in the inter-war years. Beautiful, beautiful cars in all colors.

  “Fantastic. What car makes do we know, then, with TH or WIKN or WI KN? Check it out, Assad.”

  “Just let me,” said Rose, pushing the computer chair into Assad’s hip with a thud.

  After a minute of typing, she produced pictures of a Thulin A 1920 and two Willys-Knights from 1927 and 1928.

  Assad looked like someone who was about to open his presents. “Here we go, then, Carl, now we’ll find out,” he said when Rose typed all the car models in one and the same Google search.

  “Hidehi,” shouted Assad with a huge smile.

  A meager three hits came up with this complicated search, and the top hit was definitely the right one: a link to a photo series from the Bornholm Classic Car Rally 1997 and a website for the Bornholm Classic Car Enthusiasts’ Club.

  And with that, any doubt about what BCCR/BCCEC stood for was laid to rest.

  Assad was jumping up and down with excitement. An odd sight when you took his general condition and age into account.

  “Yeah, yeah, Assad. Now there’s just the job of finding out where the photo was taken, who gave the photo page to Habersaat, who the man in the photo is—if anyone even knows—and then finding out if he’s actually guilty, and where he is, and how Habersaat . . .”

  All of which put a stop to Assad’s jumping.

  “Give it a rest, Carl,” said Rose. “I’ll check if Habersaat’s printer works and, if it does, print out everything I can find on that club, okay? Then we’ll take it from there.”

  Carl pulled out his cell, noticing again that the battery was almost dead. He typed Police Superintendent Birkedal’s number.

  “Carl Mørck here. I just have two things to say,” he said briefly when the call was answered. “We’re taking all Habersaat’s research with us over to Police Headquarters, is that okay?”

  “Well, I think those inheriting his estate will be glad. But why?”

  “We’ve become curious—someone has to be. And the other thing is . . .”

  “If there’s something more specific in relation to the case, Carl,” interrupted Birkedal, “you’ll need to talk directly with the man responsible from that time. He’s a good guy, so go easy on him, all right? He’s actually one of the good guys, works hard, does a good job. I’ll transfer you. His name’s Jonas Ravnå.”

  “Just one more thing. Did you find anything at Bjarke Habersaat’s place that we should know about? Motives for the suicide or anything like that?”

  “No, nothing. His computer was just chockablock with pornographic photos of a homosexual nature and old games.”

  “You’ll send it over to us when you’re finished, right?”

  “You asked for it. I’ll transfer you to Ravnå.”

  A worn voice came from the receiver, and it didn’t sound any less tired when Carl told him what he was calling about.

  “Believe it or not, I really did want to help Christian Habersaat,” he said. “The problem was that we just didn’t get anywhere, and at the same time, there were all the other cases since then. It’s almost twenty years ago after all, don’t forget that.”

  Carl nodded. He knew the game better than anyone. If there was just one thing in life you could be sure of, it was that criminals didn’t suddenly stop committing crime.

  “Habersaat harbored a suspicion about a man in a VW Kombi who he traced in a photo album from 1997. Do you have any idea who might’ve given it to him, and has he ever told you about his suspicion?”

  “Christian and I didn’t discuss the case over the last five to six years. Actually, I banned him from bringing it up unless he had groundbreaking new evidence; otherwise he should just get on with his work in the uniform division. So I suppose it points to it not being something groundbreaking, and that it’s something he discovered more recently.”

  “What about you? Did you ever come across anything conclusive in the case? How do you view it today?”

  “I have my theories.”

  “And they are?”

  “If it was an accident, the driver of the vehicle could’ve been under the influence of alcohol or drugs, as there were no skid marks. If it wasn’t an accident, but premeditated murder, we’re totally lacking a motive. She wasn’t pregnant and she was well liked, so why murder her? It could’ve been spontaneous. Maybe even carried out by a random sick person who had a sudden impulse to kill another human being. But again, there must have been a reason for Alberte to cycle out there so early in the morning, and we don’t know the answer to that with any certainty. Was she supposed to meet someone, and if so, why there exactly? I assume it was there that she had a meeting and had gotten off the bike to wait. She’d left it a l
ittle way from where she was standing; otherwise she would’ve been cut up by the parts of the bike. And we found absolutely no tissue residue on it. So I think she arrived a bit too early and walked around a little while waiting. Maybe for the person who killed her.”

  “Any theory about who she was waiting for? Was it the man in the car?”

  “Yes, that’s just it. We know she had a boyfriend, as detailed in my report. We know that he was staying on the island, but whether he disappeared before or after the accident, I don’t know.”

  “Do you have his name and a place of residence on the island?”

  “He probably lived in an interim camp located on a farm by Ølene, but we don’t have a name. The farmer who was renting out his land didn’t write a contract; he just got his five thousand kroner in cash for the rental period. Yes, he even declared the income to the taxman.”

  “Probably, you said. How did you find out about him? This isn’t mentioned in the report.”

  “I honestly don’t remember. I expect it was something Habersaat had discovered. He was sniffing about twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Hmm. What period did the rental payment cover?”

  “Six months in 1997. June to November.”

  “Do we have a description of the tenant?”

  “Yes. He was in his twenties, maybe even a bit older than midtwenties. Handsome, long dark hair, hippie clothes. Military jacket with sewn-on labels. Nuclear Power? No Thanks and that sort of thing.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “Not bloody much. And you’re sure that the landlord told you everything he had?”

  “I sincerely hope so because the man died three years ago.”

  Carl shook his head and ended the conversation. No case should ever be allowed to drag on so long.

  “I have a little detail to tell you, Carl, but there’s no guarantee it’ll please you,” said Rose. Then why on earth did she flash him that demonic smile?

  “I’ve booked two more nights at the hotel.”

  “That’s fine. And what’s the problem?”

  “Oh, there’s no problem apart from the fact that both your bedroom and Assad’s have been allocated to other people.”

  “Okay, then we’ll just change hotels, right?” Assad said cautiously, beating Carl to it.

  Rose looked at them as if they were a couple of spoiled teenagers. There wouldn’t be any other hotel.

  “Then we’ll just be transferring over to a couple of other rooms?” Assad continued.

  “Exactly. There weren’t any single rooms left, but I managed to book a double room for you instead. With double bed and double duvet, the whole caboodle. That’ll be cozy, won’t it?”

  13

  October 2013

  The woman with the suitcase and a far too waspish waist stood in the square in front of the large yellow building, leaning up against one of the flagpoles like a gracious sculpture. Lording over it with her glistening brown skin, she appeared to mock all the genes that had survived the fight with the darkness up here in the far north. Mocking the twenty years during which Pirjo had dedicated her life to Atu and his world, believing she’d win his heart in the end. This woman was far too beautiful and graceful, far too athletic, intimidatingly different and exotic.

  Pirjo sat for a moment astride her scooter wondering if she should turn around. But rationally it just wouldn’t do. Now that the girl had come so far, wild horses couldn’t stop her from finding the way herself, so Pirjo trembled inside.

  But before she went to extremes, which she now realized might be necessary, she simply had to try other methods first.

  “Hello,” she said as naturally and perkily as possible, crossing the square. “I’m Pirjo, the one you’ve been writing with. I see you’ve come over here anyway. It’s actually a real shame because as I already warned you, you’ve come in vain.”

  Pirjo gave her a sympathetic smile. That tended to work.

  “But as you’re here, and probably due to a misunderstanding and bad communication on our part, we’ve decided that we’d like to pay for your return journey to London. Then you can possibly come another . . .”

  “Hello, Pirjo, nice to see you,” the woman interrupted her, unaffected. “Yes, I’m Wanda Phinn.” She offered her hand with an innocent smile, as if she hadn’t heard a word of what Pirjo had said, but Pirjo knew better. She could see it in the woman’s eyes and from her smile. This woman with the seductive cheekbones wouldn’t be satisfied before she stood before Atu.

  “Fair enough, Wanda, but we’ve actually arranged a return ticket for you, didn’t you hear?”

  “Yes, and thanks a lot for the sentiment. But I’ve come to meet Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi and I can’t go back before I’ve done that. I understand that there aren’t any course places available, but I have to see him.”

  Pirjo nodded. “I understand, but I’m sorry. Atu isn’t at the course center just now.”

  For a brief moment the woman looked disappointed, but then seemingly managed to compose herself. “Okay! Then I’ll just wait. I know there’s a hotel called Frimurare Hotellet only two minutes from here. I checked from home that there were rooms available, so it’s no problem if I have to wait a couple of days. I can just go down to the hotel now and you can call when he’s back. You’ve got my cell number in the e-mail.”

  When a predator attacks, it’s normally after a prolonged state of deep concentration and patient waiting. The snake that lies quietly as if dead, the predator that waits flat on the ground, the falcon before it suddenly dives. In the same way, this woman appeared incredibly determined, with eyes that seemed too relaxed and focused. The awareness that her arrival would meet with resistance literally radiated from her. That she was well aware of what she was up against and that she knew the weaknesses in the system. Like she knew the full extent of Atu’s susceptibility, knew what a weak position Pirjo had in the game, and when she should strike.

  But that’s where she was mistaken, because while Pirjo might not be feeling on top just now, she was a long way from feeling weak or vulnerable. She’d just been in doubt about what measures to take, but not anymore. She’d resorted to drastic decisions in similar situations in the past, successfully and without regret.

  After all, this woman had thrown the dice herself, not her, and she’d soon regret it.

  “Frimurare Hotellet?” she said. “Okay, but it would be a shame if you had to use your hard-earned cash on a hotel, so we’ll just have to see if we can’t arrange a short audience before you go back. Atu is probably down on the south end of the island or out on the moor in the middle of the island, what we call Stora Alvaret. He often goes there to meditate and get into his soul. He isn’t keen on being disturbed, but seeing as you’re so insistent we’ll just have to try.”

  Pirjo smiled the best that she could. Apparently the woman bought it.

  “But, Wanda, I’ll say it now so you aren’t disappointed; that will have to be all, and then I’ll drive you back to the station afterward. Your return flight from Copenhagen doesn’t take off until tomorrow afternoon, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

  The woman nodded toward the scooter with its flimsy luggage rack, helmets, and foldable spade. “What about my suitcase?” she asked. “There isn’t room for that, too?”

  “No, you’re right. We’ll put it in a locker. We’re going to be back in an hour or two anyway.”

  The young woman nodded. It was very obvious that when it came to it she thought they’d both be involved in that decision. No doubt she thought that the suitcase would be brought to where she wanted it to be when the time came.

  “Have you ridden on a scooter before, Wanda?”

  “We don’t do anything else where I come from,” she answered.

  “Good. You’ll need to hitch your skirt up and then just hold tight onto my jacket.
I don’t really like people holding me around my waist.”

  * * *

  Pirjo collected herself and turned up the charm. The most important thing was that Wanda Phinn didn’t suspect anything untoward but enjoyed the journey, surroundings, and beautiful landscape, secure in the knowledge that the first stage of her conquest of Atu Abanshamash’s undivided attention was going smoothly.

  “Öland is a fantastic place, you know. When you come over here another time, I’ll give you a better tour, but I can show you some of the attractions on the island while we drive,” shouted Pirjo.

  Behind her, Wanda sat with a light grip on Pirjo’s jacket, staring out across the sea and over toward the promised island. On both sides of the Öland Bridge the waves whipped the sea up into foam. The breeze from the mainland had changed direction, with the wind now coming from due east and somewhat cooler than might have been desired.

  Pirjo thought that when they reached the windmills up on the ridge, she’d find somewhere to shake her off, resulting in a hard and unexpected fall that would likely kill her outright. If not, she’d just have to help the process along.

  “There are loads of windmills out here on the island,” she shouted. “No families wanted to share them, so they split the parcels of land up and each built their own. The only problem was that they also split the parcels up within families, and at one point the parcels became too small to be able to live off. In the end people had to leave the island if they didn’t want to starve to death.” She felt that Wanda was nodding behind her but that she was probably totally uninterested in Öland’s past, which suited Pirjo. It meant she could concentrate on getting this done right and using the side wind to her advantage.

  Despite the time of day and year, there were a good number of cars on the road. It was probably due to a group of artists on the highway down toward Vickleby and Kastlösa coordinating their openings, exhibitions, and receptions, which meant a large group of art enthusiasts from the mainland were currently on a sort of Öland tour of the world of glass and painting. It was only a little south of these towns that the traffic petered out, but so did the opportunities.