by Sara Blaedel
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgments
Discover More Sara Blaedel
About the Author
Also by Sara Blaedel
Copyright © 2018 by Sara Blaedel
Translated by Thom Satterlee, translation © 2018 by Sara Blaedel.
Excerpt from The Undertaker’s Daughter © 2017 by Sara Blaedel.
Cover design by Elizabeth Connor
Cover photos © Mark Owen / Trevillion Images
Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group
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Grand Central Publishing
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First published in Denmark as Haevnens gudinde in 2009
First American Edition: January 2018
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Blaedel, Sara, author. | Satterlee, Thom, translator. Title: The running girl / Sara Blaedel ; translated by Thom Satterlee. Other titles: Haevens gudinde. English Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2018. Identifiers: LCCN 2017036653| ISBN 9781538759738 (softcover) | ISBN 9781478993926 (audio downloadable) | ISBN 9781538759721 (open ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives—Denmark—Fiction. | Gangs—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction. Classification: LCC PT8177.12.L33 H3413 2018 | DDC 839.813/8—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017036653
E3-20171128-DA-NF
For Gitte and Bo
Prologue
The first blow lands on the homeless man’s cheekbone, just as the door to the basement slams shut behind them. They keep coming, the blows. They hammer down on him, incessantly. Neither daylight nor sound reaches in here where a group of youths has circled around their victim, but two glaring lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling reveal that the tormenters are wearing masks. Like bank robbers; only their eyes show.
The terrified man holds his hands desperately in front of his face in a futile attempt to keep the punches away. He turns, trying feebly to defend himself with his thin forearms, until two of the masked assailants step forward on either side of him and twist his arms behind his back. Then, a boot strikes him in the pit of his stomach with a force that takes all the air out of him. He crumples over.
The masked faces blur together as the violence intensifies. No one reacts to the stillness that has crept invisibly into the shabby and unkempt man on the cellar floor. Only a weak moan comes from him as yet another boot rams into the back of his head. Otherwise, nothing.
The man is no longer conscious when one of the masked youths makes sure that his body is visible in the footage. A quick nod is made to the corner, where still another black-masked figure pulls out an iron pipe wrapped in tape and slowly moves closer. He positions himself beside the now lifeless victim.
Step-by-step, the masked attackers move forward in a tightening circle. At first their voices hum low, like an insistent chanting, but eventually the sound grows stronger and finally explodes into a rhythmical cry of celebration, as the iron strikes the man’s head and crushes his skull.
Blow after blow. Nobody counts. Their focus is poured into the intense battle cry that increases and approaches ecstasy, while the blood spreads across the cellar floor.
Nobody seems to notice that the angel of death has come and taken the soul of the destitute man with it.
As the film ends, a heavy silence falls on the five boys who sit completely still around the computer screen.
There are small beads of sweat on the upper lip of one; the knuckles of a second have turned white. A third shakes it off and stands up to grab a handful of beers from the boathouse’s well-stocked fridge.
Nobody says anything as the bottle caps pop off. But then, suddenly, they speak. All at the same time, excited and eager. The release rolls through them like an orgasm, and then gets washed down with strong beer.
Over the course of the evening, they remain drunk on violence, watching more “Faces of Death,” films which feature real people being killed, their murders recorded live. They’re saved as downloads on the computer in the primitive clubhouse. Tomorrow night there will be a private party in one of the sailing clubs farther down the harbor. A kid’s party. Thrilled with themselves, the boys clink their bottle necks together and toast.
Ah, finally, it’s the weekend.
1
I don’t respect people who give in to stress, or men who take maternity leave. There you have it! And I don’t give a shit what the HR people say about it. If you don’t have the interest or energy to do your job in my investigation group, then you’re out. There are lots of people who want in and know what it takes to do a job like ours.”
The late September sun showed that the windows in the Homicide Department at Copenhagen’s Police Headquarters were in serious need of a good washing. The dirt had put a dusty film over the glass, highlighting dead insects and bird splatterings.
Louise Rick closed her eyes for a moment, while Detective Superintendent Willumsen thundered on. Sooner or later he’d get to his favorite line.
“I think I
’ve said it before.” Here it came. “When you work with me, it’s ‘Yes,’ ‘No,’ or ‘Up yours.’ I want clear responses. This place isn’t a rest home for pregnant nuns. There are gang wars in the city and shootings on the streets. And as you all know, late last night, the father of a family was shot in his home outside of Amager. There’s no end to our workload. The damned shootings suck up our resources. The police chief’s Task Force Group recruits people from all departments, and for the rest of us it’ll continue to mean hours of overtime. So, if you have problems on the home front or a hard time balancing family life with work life, then go look for a desk job! It’s sure as hell a decision one would expect grown adults to be capable of…”
Willumsen left the last part hanging, while he sighed deeply and wiped the side of his mouth.
In a way, Louise couldn’t have agreed more. No one could make those sorts of decisions for you but yourself. She looked at her coworkers. Toft seemed a bit tired, and it struck her that maybe he regretted receiving the offer to come back to Homicide. As the result of a reorganization, he’d been sent out to Bellahøj Station a year and a half ago, and given a position that was later eliminated again.
Michael Stig had pointedly tipped back his chair. His eyes were half shut, while he gazed out of the dirty window panes. He was obviously irritated over being made to attend the detective superintendent’s tongue lashing, when it wasn’t even aimed at any of the officers Willumsen had called together into his office that late Friday afternoon.
The fit of rage was aimed at Louise’s partner, Lars Jørgensen, who earlier in the day had handed in a sick notice, initially for a month’s time. According to the doctor, stress was the reason for the long period of absence. Those in the know understood that the real reason was Willumsen’s cruel behavior toward Lars Jørgensen, who needed fewer hours after his wife had moved out to her sister’s in Vangede, leaving him with the eight-year-old twins and a broken heart.
In the good month and a half since his wife had left her husband and children to find herself, Lars Jørgensen had made a virtue out of leaving on time so he was there when his kids came home from day care. He begged off from extra work on the weekends, and every single time Willumsen went after him.
The lead investigator had always been rude and arrogant. It was like he got a certain pleasure out of wiping the floor with people. Louise studied Willumsen. He was in his late fifties. His hair was still black, and he had sharp facial features. He was holding up well, but the tension had plowed two deep lines across his forehead, which made him look fierce. Her thoughts slipped back to Jørgensen.
A couple of days earlier, as she arrived back to the office after lunch, she’d found her partner sitting with his face hidden in his hands. At first, he tried to let on like it was nothing, as if she hadn’t just caught him at a vulnerable moment. But after a couple of minutes of awkward silence, he stood up and closed the door.
“I don’t give a damn that he keeps riding me,” he said when he was back in his chair. His eyes were sad, and he looked pale and tired. “But the way things are, how the hell do I know if things will ever be different? Maybe she’ll never come back. I can’t give a date for when everything’ll be wonderful again!”
Louise hadn’t answered him. There wasn’t much to say.
He gave her a blank look, and she could see that he was at least as frustrated over the situation as the superintendent was. Lars Jørgensen wasn’t normally the sort to shut down his computer at four o’clock to go pick up the kids and shop at Føtex. On the other hand, she also knew he’d never dream of giving up time with his kids. The idea of seeing the twins every other week wasn’t for him, so when his wife announced that she needed time alone without husband or children while she thought about her life, he’d taken on the extra responsibility himself.
“How about you, Rick?” Willumsen continued in the same tone, snatching her back from her thoughts. “Are you about to hand in your sick notice, too?”
Louise observed the lead investigator for a moment, weighing whether it was worth the trouble to answer him. Instead, she just shook her head. They’d already talked till they were blue in the face about the responsibility she’d taken on when she’d agreed to adopt a twelve-year-old foster son. Still, not once in all the months since Jonas Holm moved into her apartment had the detective superintendent gone after her anywhere close to the way he went after Lars Jørgensen. Maybe it was because the lead investigator himself was moved by the boy’s case. Jonas had become an orphan when his father was killed before his very eyes, shot in the back of the head on the family’s vacation property in Sweden. At any rate, Willumsen often asked after the boy with something approaching genuine concern.
“Could we maybe wrap this meeting up and move on?”
Toft pushed back his chair to capitalize on the silence that had fallen over the room.
“I need to take care of an interrogation before the weekend.”
Willumsen gave a quick nod, but called them back before they’d made it out to the hallway.
“There’s just Amager,” he said and looked around. “We need to question the suspect who’s being held after the shooting last night in the duplex apartment out on Dyvekes Allé. But some of these biker types have gotten so refined over time that they’re not happy with just a public defender. They have their own. Right now, he’s sitting and waiting for his lawyer to come back from a trial on Jutland. But she should be here around six o’clock.”
He looked at Louise.
“Rick, will you take it?”
She stood for a moment with her back to him before turning to the lead investigator.
“Hmmm…I’m sorry. Jonas is going to a party for one of his classmates tomorrow, and I have to go home and buy ingredients to make the meatballs. And I need to drop off some extra chairs for the party, so I’d better slip out now.”
She left without waiting for his response, but heard Michael Stig take on the late interrogation with the shooting suspect. On the way down the hall, her colleague caught up with her. For a moment, Louise thought maybe he was expecting her to say thanks, but instead he asked about Camilla Lind.
“Has she left?”
Louise nodded.
“We drove them to the airport this morning. They fly into Chicago first, then on to Seattle, where they’re staying until Wednesday. From there, they’re renting a car and driving down the West Coast.”
“How long will they be away?” he asked.
She still hadn’t gotten used to how Michael Stig, who’d never really been her cup of tea, had apparently developed a genuine interest in her closest friend.
It had started up in Sweden, at the Holm family’s vacation property, the day Jonas saw his father killed. Michael Stig and Louise had had Camilla in the car with them as they’d literally raced with death—but arrived too late. Afterward her colleague and her friend had kept in touch. He’d also visited her in the hospital.
Louise still had a hard time understanding how the case against two Eastern European sex traffickers could have had such a tragic end. The experience had left deep marks, and she was a long way from coming to terms with the violent conclusion that had caused Camilla to take a leave of absence from her job.
“For two months, so they’ll have plenty of time to drive down to San Diego,” she answered. “But you can e-mail or text her. She promised me she’d be checking. But they won’t be spending any time on Facebook.”
Michael Stig nodded. She started to leave, but he stood there.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
Louise stood a while thinking it over before deciding on the honest version.
“She’s going through hell. Between us, I really don’t think it’s responsible of her to take Markus along on such a long trip. Psychologically, she’s still broken to bits, and so she’s pretty unbalanced. The way I see it, she seems to think it’ll help to run away. Because that’s exactly what she’s doing, even though she likes to call it quality time
with her son. Camilla is turning her back on everything that happened, so she can escape a confrontation with anything or anyone who reminds her of it, because she’s still not up to it. I just don’t know if she’s strong enough to put a lid on it. It might have been better to spend the time and money on a good psychiatrist.”
Louise thought about all the money Camilla had borrowed from her father in order to go away for so long. Then she added, “She blames herself for everything that happened, and in truth she can’t live with herself…or her life, because of it.”
She noticed that her voice became a little ambiguous with that last sentence, and so she quickly changed the subject.
“What about the shooting victim from Amager? Will he make it?”
Michael Stig shrugged his shoulders.
“If not, you’ll definitely hear from Willumsen before Monday.”
2
Do you know how many are coming to the party?” Louise yelled to Jonas. She was trying to figure out whether six pounds of ground meat would be enough for the number of meatballs she had to make. It was a new world for her. Never before had she given any thought to sausage rolls, mini-pizzas, and other junk foods, so she had no idea how much a class of seventh graders would go through, considering there’d be other things on the buffet, too.
And it had been ridiculously bold of her to tell Signe’s mother she’d bring the meatballs, Louise thought irritably. It was a private going-away party for a girl who was changing schools, not a class get-together, and no one had asked her to bring anything.
“About twenty-five, I think,” Jonas answered. He had a hoarse voice that made him sound like he was on the verge of tonsillitis. In reality, he suffered from a condition that Louise eventually learned was called multiple papilloma larynx, where small nodules had developed on his vocal cords. Over time they’d disappear, but till then they gave his voice a characteristically rough and rusty tone. “It’s our class, and probably some others from the music school,” he added.
“What about adults?”
Louise walked over and stood in the door to what had once been her guest room, but was now turned into Jonas’s bedroom. He lay on the bed and read, his dark hair falling over his eyes. She could see that he had a hard time tearing himself from the book, but out of politeness he sat up and looked at her attentively.
