The Running Girl

by Sara Blaedel

  “There’s been a big fire down on South Pier this evening, and the boathouse where your son and his friends stayed has burned down,” Louise said.

  The father pulled a chair up close and supported himself against the back of it.

  “Two people died in the fire,” she continued. “But at the present time, we’ve not been able to identify the deceased.”

  He slumped a little and sat down heavily.

  “We’ve also been unable to get hold of Peter Nymann,” Michael Stig said in a serious tone. “So, we don’t know if he and your son are together, but at any rate they’re not at his place, because we’ve just come from there.”

  The restaurant owner turned pale.

  “Have you called them?” he asked and cleared his throat.

  Louise nodded and watched the father as he slipped farther down into his chair, put his hands on his knees, and leaned forward a little, as if it had suddenly become difficult for him to breathe.

  “Are there other places your son might be?” Michael Stig asked, hoping to get the father thinking.

  “Nowhere I can think of immediately. He lives here with me. His mother died of cancer five years ago, and ever since we’ve been alone he’s always been good about remembering to tell me where he’s gone, so I don’t have to go and be too worried.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m here most of the time watching the shop. We ate together up in the apartment, and when I was coming down to take over the night shift, he went over to Nymann’s—that’s what they call him. He’s from Næstved, and the boys met at a boarding school for vocational studies.”

  He drank a little of the beer in front of him. He didn’t seem to notice what he was doing, but rather reached for the bottle as more of a reflex.

  “The boarding school is in Haslev. That’s also where they met Jón, and the big one they only call ‘Brute-Thomsen.’ His real name is Thomas Jørgensen. He has quite the temper, and it’s not always so easy for him to control it.”

  He shook his head, as if he knew this was the glorified version he was serving to the police.

  “I often think that maybe it would have been better if they’d stayed out there in the country instead of coming in here to the city when they finished school,” the restaurant owner continued. “They haven’t all turned out to be God’s best children.”

  He sank a little into himself before adding that the boys were OK, and that one shouldn’t judge anyone by appearances.

  Louise held back an eruption. Three of “the boys” had more violent offenses than there are hours in a school day, so no one was talking about judging them based on their tattoos and shaved heads.

  The father turned his face up to them.

  “You need to find out if one of them is my Sebastian. He has his whole body covered in tattoos, and he’s such a beautiful boy. His hair falls in curls, just like his mom’s, who is gone.”

  Words and sentences flowed from him like a drowning man trying to hold himself above water, before inevitably being pulled down into the deep.

  “You can see them, they’re over his whole body,” the father explained.

  Louise looked over at her colleague, who took a step forward and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder before telling him, as delicately as possible, that there wasn’t enough skin left on the burn victims to identify them based on their tattoos, even if it had been a full-body.

  A noise came from deep down in the father’s throat, like a hollowed-out sigh.

  “His hair?”

  Michael Stig shook his head.

  “On the other hand, we don’t know it’s your son,” Louise said frankly. “But we need to prepare you that it might be. And since we can’t get hold of him or his friend, we need to ask you for the name of his dentist, so we can get his dental records. That would help us with a positive identification.”

  The restaurant owner nodded and pulled the notepad over. Then he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and found a little white appointment card. He wrote down the name and number of the dentist, whose building was just around the corner on Store Strandstræde.

  “Well then, it’s like they say: I hope for the best but fear the worst.”

  He took his last gulp of beer and sat for a moment with his eyes closed.

  “I think it’s too early to fear the worst,” said Michael Stig, reminding him that the boys had been kicked out by the owner of the boathouse and didn’t have permission to be there anymore.

  The father nodded and said he knew that, since it was his car the boys had used when they went down to pick up their things.

  “It’s all upstairs in the guest room, until they find a new place they’re allowed to be. Or else they’re welcome to use my loft. Now we’ll just have to see.”

  “Couldn’t you help us try to get hold of your son?” Louise asked.

  She asked him whether there might be a girlfriend he would have wanted to spend the night with.

  The restaurant owner nodded.

  “That’s certainly possible,” he admitted, brightening up a little. “I can’t always keep up with his female acquaintances, but there’s always something going on there. And when they haven’t come here, he could easily think of going to them.”

  Suddenly he’d been thrown a lifeline, and he wasn’t slow to grab it and hold on fast. Then the glimmer in his eyes went out again.

  “But he would have told me.”

  Michael Stig began walking to the door and Louise followed him, knowing it would be a long night for Sebastian’s father.

  “If you know anything about the girls he sees, then try to get their numbers. Maybe there’s something in his room. If you find him, we’d really like you to call us so we can cross him off the list.”

  They parted at the door. Through the window, she saw the father watching them as they came up onto the street and walked over to the car.

  “Nymann,” said Louise. “It would be nice to know his parents’ first names before we start calling up everyone in Næstved and asking if it could have been their son who burned to death down at the harbor.”

  As long as the burn victims weren’t identified, they’d have to get hold of his parents and let them know what was happening.

  Michael Stig nodded and offered to drive her home. Then he’d drive himself to Bellahøj and find the parents’ names in Peter Nymann’s case files.

  It was nearly six o’clock, only an hour before Jonas had to get up for school. She’d have to pick up the Saab later.

  29

  Camilla had taken her laptop with her into the four-poster bed at Carter House in Eureka and was looking at the home page of the Danish newspaper Morgenavisen.

  There hadn’t been any trace of Walther Sachs-Smith, she read. The police had augmented the search with specially trained dogs and helicopters. The Home Guard was searching in the woods around Roskilde, and later in the day divers from the Scuba Corps would conduct a search in the fjord by the family’s large property, which abutted the water.

  She skimmed the rest and clicked on a related link.

  THE CHILDREN GRIEVE

  Rebekka and Carl Emil Sachs-Smith were photographed in front of their parents’ luxurious estate, which made Camilla think of an old English manor house. A magnificently large and beautiful colossus with windows as tall as terrace doors and an entrance with a wide stone staircase that unfolded in front of the main door with elegant flower pots on either side. The yard in front of the house had a round grass lawn with a little fountain in the middle, and the whole drive was covered in pebbles.

  In the article’s subheading, it said the children had decided that the estate manager would continue the operations and run everything as before, but the main house would be closed down, and the furnishings placed in storage so it would be ready for sale when the estate was eventually put up.

  The two grown children no longer believed that their father would show up alive, and now they must live on with the grief of having lost
both parents.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Camilla.

  It hadn’t even been a month since Inger Sachs-Smith had taken her own life, and their father had disappeared shortly afterward. Now they were already starting to liquidate the valuables. In fact, they didn’t want to risk waiting the formal ten years required by Danish law before selling the estate, if Walther Sachs-Smith’s body didn’t show up.

  Markus stirred in the bed, but then rolled over on his side and pulled the duvet up.

  She shook her head and was about to close out of the page when the story was updated. A new headline popped up in all caps.

  UNREST ON TERMO-LUX BOARD OF DIRECTORS

  The newest was that there’d been discord on the board, with the family’s two youngest now starting to argue publicly about how Termo-Lux should be run in the future. The family business had been, as was well-known, continuously owned by Walther Sachs-Smith and his three children, but after he had decided to step down, only Rebekka and Carl Emil remained as family members on the board. With so much power divided between so few people, there were beginning to be tears in the fabric.

  Camilla was startled and looked at the pictures of the two well-known jet-set faces—dark Rebekka and fair Carl Emil. It was the daughter, in fact, who looked more like their father, she thought. Both from the slightly screwed-up eyes and the sharper nose. The brother was delicate and fair like his mother. And hot, thought Camilla, but caught herself. Fact was, the two siblings were pretty much the most unsympathetic people she could think of, if she limited herself to the category of rich family members and relations.

  The eldest brother, Frederik Sachs-Smith, was not in any of the pictures, and he wasn’t even mentioned in recent articles.

  Even though Camilla was 100 percent on a leave of absence and doubted whether her desire to write would ever return, she felt the start of an itch.

  In fact, it itched all the way to her fingertips.

  To her great surprise, it occurred to her that she might very damned well think of hearing what Frederik Sachs-Smith had to say about all of this—even though there obviously must be a reason why he still hadn’t come forward and contributed to the scandal with his version of events.

  But Signe’s father knew him, she thought, and if he’d help some with establishing the contact, then Frederik couldn’t very well refuse.

  * * *

  Their bags were packed, and Markus had strolled into the restaurant’s breakfast buffet and found a table by the window.

  There’d arisen a new peace between them, thought Camilla, and she was glad they’d decided to stay in the same place for a few days. Now it had gotten to the point where they were bored with the little town, which didn’t have much entertainment to offer them besides the movie theater on the edge of town.

  They’d managed to see two movies, and both times they’d supplied themselves with supersize colas and buttered popcorn. But they’d quickly realized that Eureka’s Cinema 8 was a far cry from the new theater they had at home in Frederiksberg. The theaters were big enough, but they smelled like the outdoor music festival in Roskilde on a hot summer day: warm, sourish, sweet, and rather a lot like pee. Suddenly Camilla had turned squeamish and insisted that Markus spread his jacket over his seat before sitting down, which, of course, she knew he thought was ridiculous.

  But other than that, they hadn’t had any clashes. They’d been to Lost Coast, the town’s popular diner, where humongous spiders fell on their heads as they walked in the door, and monsters hung down heavily from the ceiling. The waiter had recommended buffalo wings, which made flames shoot out of their mouths.

  The next day they’d agreed it was time to move on to Mendocino, which, according to their guide book for Northern California, was supposed to be a lovely, idyllic town farther down along the coast with a fabulous view.

  Camilla got hold of the waiter and ordered coffee, then pondered whether it was best to write or call Ulrik about setting up a contact with Frederik Sachs-Smith.

  30

  It was 9:15, and Louise had just fit in a quick cup of tea at the office before crossing Hambroes Allé to pick up a car from the police garage. From a distance, she waved to Svendsen, the garage manager, as he left the section where the K-9 patrol parked and walked up to her, limping slightly. As usual, he was testy with her for not calling ahead and making a reservation when Willumsen’s group already had two of his cars.

  “Both Toft and Michael Stig are out today,” she answered him.

  Her colleagues had postponed the Haderslev bowling tournament, but hoped to leave by evening so they could make the rest of the weekend’s activities.

  “We have two victims that we’re having a hard time identifying,” she said.

  His attitude softened a little when she told him about the big fire out in Svanemølle, and how they’d gone around all night in hopes of finding out who it was who’d lost their lives in the flames.

  It had been several years since Svendsen himself had driven patrol or been part of an investigation group. In 1987, he’d been involved in a serious car accident while chasing a bank robber out in Hvidovre. His partner was killed, and he’d lost his right leg at the knee and had had a hard time getting used to his prosthetic, both mentally and physically. Louise figured it was his sad fate that accounted for the harsh tone whenever officers took Svendsen and his work for granted. So, she always tried to express her appreciation for the puzzle he had to work out in painstakingly administering the police force’s vehicle fleet.

  “It’s the weekend soon. Do you have it off?” he asked as he went over to the computer to sign her up for a patrol vehicle.

  “You bet. It’ll be nice, but I have a couple of autopsies to get through first.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you have any particular preferences for which car?” he asked with his eyes still on the screen.

  She shook her head and said she’d be happy with one of the smaller ones. That was easiest when she had to get around in the city.

  The garage was as big as the parking basement under Falkoner Plads. The concrete walls produced hollow echoes, there were long rows of parking spots, and bright fluorescent lighting hung from the ceiling.

  The patrol vehicles were spread out among the unmarked police cars, and in a row along the middle column there were spots for motorcycles. In the very back of the garage they parked the big vehicles, the armored personnel carriers that were sent into the streets when there were riots. They filled up most of the space.

  “You should try the new Mondeo,” said Svendsen cheerfully and tossed Louise a set of keys. “It’s not quite as fast as the old model, but she’s a little angel to ride in.”

  He said it so affectionately that he almost made it sound sexual.

  Men and cars, thought Louise as she followed his directions over to the fifth parking spot along the wall. A boat, she realized as she carefully edged the car out past the concrete pillar. Svendsen would probably not be very pleased if she scratched the little angel’s paintwork all the way down the left side.

  In her bag, she had two dental records. One of them Michael Stig had managed to get with help from the Næstved Police, and the other one she’d picked up herself over on Store Strandstræde.

  Sebastian Styhne and Peter Nymann.

  The café owner’s son with the full-body tattoo and the dark-haired guy with the ponytail who had run after Signe.

  They still hadn’t managed to contact those two, and the parents on the farm just outside Næstved hadn’t seen or heard from their son. Now they were at home in their kitchen, sitting on pins and needles waiting for the news.

  * * *

  The glass doors at the Department of Forensic Medicine opened, and she looked at her watch. It was ten minutes before they were to start. Louise went up to the floor with the autopsy bays. She stood and looked out the window while she shook her hair out of the hairband and gathered her long, dark curls into a tight bun that was easy to tuck away under the hat sh
e had to wear, along with the overalls and the blue plastic booties.

  Flemming Larsen was on his way down with two cups of coffee, but the lab technicians hadn’t arrived yet.

  She said hello to two forensic techs as they came out of the elevator from the basement with the burn victims. From the contours of the body bags it was obvious that the bodies still lay in their desperate fencing positions, with arms and legs stiffly bent.

  Preparations had been made in two autopsy bays: the homicide room, which was the farthest back and largest and designed so that both lab technicians and investigators could be there while the medical examiner worked; but at the same time, the other body would be autopsied in a smaller bay next door, where space was a little tighter.

  “We’ve just had both bodies scanned to see if there might be bullets inside them, which we hadn’t been able to spot because of the state of the corpses. But there was nothing to see. So now it will be interesting to confirm whether they were alive when the fire broke out,” said Flemming Larsen.

  He passed a plastic cup to Louise.

  “Based on the soot particles I found in the nasal cavities, I feel quite confident, but naturally I can’t say with certainty before we’ve had a proper look at them. On the other hand, I’m quite sure we’re looking at two young men, and that agrees very well with what you’ve come up with.”

  She gestured with her hand to correct him.

  “We haven’t come up with anything yet, but we have a suspicion of who they might be.”

  She held out the two dental records.

  Just then, four lab technicians came walking toward them. Their voices were loud, and their steps echoed. It was Klein’s voice that rose above the others.

  “You should just be happy grill season is over for the year,” bellowed the experienced, teddy bear–shaped lab tech as he looked at his two male colleagues, who Louise didn’t know by name. “It’s awfully unappetizing to go home and fire up the Weber after a day with two charred and crispy-fried corpses.”