by Sara Blaedel
He paused for a moment. “Christine wasn’t like that. She felt you should do what you enjoy doing, and she also loved to sing. It was as if she wanted to show me that I could open up to life. We joined a large Nordic choir, and did several tours with them.”
Now his smile was distant. “Then came her disease.” He looked at Olle as though he wanted this officer to know what had been taken from him. “Huntington’s is a hellish disorder. Her mother had it, too, and Christine knew what to expect.”
Louise tried to catch Olle’s eye. They needed to get going, but he was leaning back in the sofa, allowing the widower to speak.
“Christine was a cheerful woman who loved life. She loved sex and warmth; it was natural to her. But it all disappeared after the diagnosis. She didn’t want me to touch her that way. I didn’t care that we couldn’t make love anymore, she gave me so much else. But her body began to disgust her. Huntington’s is an inherited brain disease that causes tics and muscle contractions, completely out of control. It also changes the patient’s personality and behavior, and leads to dementia and total disability. There is no treatment; the patient dies within fifteen years. Christine felt that her body had betrayed her. She was a realist, she said. She’d watched the disorder slowly paralyze her mother’s body, saw her rot away in a wheelchair. Until she was unable to do anything for herself.”
He looked up.
“Your wife donated some money shortly before her death,” Louise said. She felt a great sympathy for the woman’s tragic fate, but they had to keep things moving. “Can you tell us what she was supporting?”
The question didn’t seem to surprise Sørensen. He looked at Olle. “When you called, you mentioned an amount that was transferred to a foreign account.” He shook his head. “I knew she supported several charities, but the truth is, I haven’t looked closely at the estate. The executor isn’t finished yet, either. Christine inherited a fortune from her mother, and she handled it herself. I’ve handed it all over to our lawyer, but I can ask him to see how much she transferred.”
“That’s not necessary,” Louise said. “We know how much. What we’re interested in is what she was donating to.”
“I can’t help you with that either, but I’ll be happy to take a look and get back to you.”
He had sunk in his chair a bit, but now he pulled himself together and slapped his thighs before standing up. “All right, then, I’d better walk Siggy. Otherwise he’s going to tear something apart.”
Louise had noticed the dog bed by the patio door, and she’d heard a bark when they arrived. She asked about the dog.
“He’s out in the utility room. He goes crazy when people stop by; I put him out there so you wouldn’t have to put up with it.” He smiled wanly and followed them out to the hall.
“Thank you so much for your time,” Louise said, even though they’d learned nothing new. “And give us a call if you find out what the donation was for.”
“Okay, then, on to the next,” Olle said, as Louise pulled out on the broad residential street. “It’s down in Karlslunde or Greve. Are you up for it?”
Do we have a choice? Louise thought, as he punched in the address on the GPS.
* * *
Winnie Moesgaard led them into the living room. Muted music, light classical, came from the next room. Candles flickered all around.
In the car, Olle had told Louise that Mrs. Moesgaard was seventy-three years old. Her nearly white hair was loosely elegant, and she was wearing a soft skirt with a matching cardigan over a satiny, narrow-collared yellow blouse. Her eyes were red. The music was for her husband, Werner, who was six years older than she. He lay on his deathbed in the bedroom, as Louise and Olle had been told when they called and asked if they could stop by.
Less than two weeks ago, the couple had transferred just over twenty-six thousand kroners to Sofie’s account in Switzerland.
“You can say hello,” she said. She turned and led them into the bedroom.
“It’s the police,” she said.
Louise sensed the somber atmosphere. This wasn’t necessary, she thought.
A narrow patio door stood near the foot of the bed, giving a view of a long stretch of winter beach, forlorn and frosty. Marram grass swayed, long-legged birds picked around in the sand, but the warm bedroom was quiet.
A vase filled with yellow tulips stood on a night table, and a woman holding a book in her lap sat by the window close to the door. She glanced up when they walked in. Though she looked twenty years younger than Winnie Moesgaard, she could have been her sister. Perhaps a sister-in-law. She nodded tersely and returned to her book.
The terminally ill man was asleep. His breathing was labored, but otherwise everything seemed peaceful. Louise nodded at the woman and smiled before walking back to Olle, who had stayed out in the hall. She wasn’t going to stand there staring at a dying man she’d never met. It was simply too private.
Mrs. Moesgaard exchanged a few whispered words with the woman in the chair before leading them back into the living room.
“He has no strength left,” she said, blinking a few times while she smiled a bit apologetically. “And we’ve known for a long time what would happen. It’s still difficult to say good-bye to someone you spent most of your life with. We met each other when I was nineteen.”
“Of course,” Louise said. She prepared herself to listen, since the woman needed to talk, and she sat down and nodded at Olle to do the same.
“But you were interested in the donation,” Mrs. Moesgaard said, this time in a stronger voice. She pulled a chair out and sat at the end of the table. “I don’t know how I would have managed without the home hospice nurse.”
The soft music from the bedroom began again after a short pause. “Unlike Werner, I’m afraid of death. I can’t be alone with it, I don’t dare. I’m ashamed of that, but I’ve never seen a dead person.”
She glanced at them uneasily until Olle smiled and said that it was nothing at all to be ashamed of. “It’s completely natural to feel that death is difficult.”
“That’s why I was very grateful several months ago, when my husband told me he’d contacted a nurse a close friend had recommended. The friend had lost his wife to cancer, and he’d been very grateful for professional help.”
“A home hospice nurse,” Louise said. Now she understood who the woman in the bedroom was. She didn’t realize home hospice care existed anymore; she’d thought it was something from the past. But she still didn’t see the connection with Sofie Parker in England. “So the money transferred was for a nurse to come and sit with your husband on his deathbed?”
“You could put it that way,” the woman said. “But it isn’t exactly a payment for services. A bill was never sent. We decided ourselves how much to give. You give what you can, or at least an amount you feel is reasonable.”
“Is it possible for us to have a few words with the nurse?” Louise asked. “Then we’ll have someone to contact in the home hospice service if we need more information.”
“Of course, but there isn’t anything wrong, is there?”
“Not at all,” Olle quickly assured her. “We just need to be able to contact the service. We’re lacking information concerning a case we’re assisting the English police with.”
“I see,” Mrs. Moesgaard said. She went in to get the woman.
* * *
The nurse joined them in the living room. She had cool hands and an open expression, and she moved with a natural grace. Not that she was transparent, but there was something ethereal about her. It felt comfortable being around her.
“I’m Margit,” she said. Mrs. Moesgaard asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee. “Yes, thank you very much.”
She turned back to Louise. “You wanted to ask me about something?”
Louise nodded. “We’d like to know if you’ve seen…” She thought about what Kurt Melvang’s aide had said. “If heirs ever become offended, perhaps even angry, because your service receives such lar
ge donations? In some cases even an entire estate has been given away.”
“Oh. Well, the fact is I know nothing about this. I’m a volunteer in the home hospice service; I have nothing to do with finances.”
“Certainly, I understand.” Louise asked how long they usually stayed when called to a deathbed. “Of course, I realize how difficult it is to generalize; sometimes death is quick and sometimes not.”
“You are so right about that.” Margit smiled. “But most often it takes longer when the person dying is alone and without a family. They want us to come early, before they start feeling lonesome and insecure. When the terminally ill person has relatives around, usually we give the ones providing care some breathing room. We relieve them at night, for example.”
“I assume there must be some sort of rotation, where volunteers take shifts?” Louise said. “Or do you stay with the same person for the most part?”
“We have a duty schedule, but we’re shorthanded in this district, so we always work it out ourselves. It is best if the person dying and the relatives don’t have to deal with too many volunteers, so we do try to arrange it so only one or two of us can handle an individual case.”
Louise nodded. “Could we get the name, address, and telephone number of the home hospice service, in case we need to know more?”
“We don’t actually have an office. We take turns manning a telephone; you can always contact us that way.”
She gave Louise the number and wrote down her name and home address underneath.
“I’m thinking relatives,” Olle said, on the way to the car.
“You mean, the killer is one of the relatives?”
“Some of them must be pretty disappointed about their entire inheritance being donated to an organization. You never know how people will react in situations like that.”
Louise nodded. That line of reasoning made sense. Given such large donations and the home hospice nurses working for free, it stood to reason that someone must be raking it in. Judging from the Swiss bank statement, this could be where Sofie Parker entered the picture. But she couldn’t figure out how some heirs had uncovered her identity.
“In any case,” she said, “Ian Davies and his people should investigate this.” She was pleased that already, after one day, they could offer a possible motive to the English police.
15
Louise finally caught up to Ian Davies on the phone. “I think we’ve found something. We’ll email you a list of names and contact information.”
At first, she had tried the Nailsea Police Station, but he had been out. Then she called Jones, who was also out. She was in the Search Department lounge when Davies finally returned her call. She’d expected he would be happy to hear what she had to tell him, but his reaction was surprisingly brief.
“We’ll also send a summary of some interviews we’ve conducted.” It annoyed her when he mumbled something she couldn’t understand. “Is this a bad time? Should I call back later?”
“No, no. I’m sorry! It’s just because the Parker daughter has disappeared. We’ve been out looking for her since early this morning.”
“Stephanie?” Louise walked over and sat down in the windowsill, worried now. “What happened?”
She had the feeling Davies wasn’t alone. A door slammed in the background.
“We brought her in for an interview yesterday evening after you left. In fact, she called us.” He sounded preoccupied again.
“And?”
“She told us she saw the man who shot her mother. She’d remembered. She’d been in shock when we first spoke with her, that’s understandable.”
Louise gestured to Olle to stay when he walked in holding his coffee cup. “Stephanie has disappeared,” she said, adding that the daughter had seen the killer. She put her cell phone on speaker and held it up.
“Can she identify him?” Louise asked. “Did she give a description?”
“She agreed to come down to the police station today after school, so we could put together a description and send it out. But she never showed up. We drove out to the house, but her father was the only one there. It looked like someone had gone through her mother’s office. We still don’t know if anything was taken. We’re afraid the perpetrator returned, that he might have been inside the house. He could have taken Stephanie, because he knows she can identify him.”
Eik had been standing in the doorway, but he stepped aside when Rønholt stopped out in the hall. Annoyed, Louise shushed them.
“Our entire force is out looking for her, but no one has reported having seen her,” Davies said, his voice audible in the room.
She sensed Eik’s eyes on her. It bothered her that he and Rønholt were listening.
“Fill me in later,” Olle whispered, and he left to give her privacy, but the others didn’t take the hint. Louise punched off the speaker and stood by the window with her back to them.
“As I said, we followed up on the donations,” she said. She filled him in on the home hospice service and the volunteers working for it. “We suggest you take a closer look at the relatives of dying people who gave most of an inheritance away. And it might be interesting to check the amounts withdrawn from the Swiss account, to find out what they’ve been used for. But, of course, the first priority is to find the girl. Please keep me informed of any news.”
She ended the conversation. Eik was gone when she turned to go back to her office, but Rønholt was waiting for her.
“Take a look at this,” he said, handing her a blue sheet of paper. It was a job application.
“Slagelse?”
“Yes. Of course I’ll put in a good word for you. I know the police chief down there.”
She laid the job application by the coffee machine. “I’m going nowhere. If someone has to leave, talk to Eik.” She walked out.
* * *
It was almost 5:30 p.m. when Louise, sweaty from ninety minutes of intensive training in the police fitness room, walked up to the department in her workout clothes. She didn’t like running in the winter, but she did it anyway. Today, however, it had been easier training on the machines.
She was late. Jonas would soon be home from boarding school. There was an introductory meeting at Frederiksberg High School at eight, and they had to eat before then.
On her way to the office to pick up her bag, she heard a whining sound. For a moment she stood listening before walking slowly down the hall to the door of Olle’s old office. Her skin tingled at the sound of Charlie on the other side.
She opened the door while talking to the German shepherd, and he wagged his tail while trotting over to her. The desk was empty, the computer monitor black. Eik’s jacket wasn’t hanging over the chair. He had left the office without the dog.
For a long moment, she gazed around the office. Then she lifted Charlie’s leash off the hook behind the door and took him with her.
Her phone rang as she walked to her car. She was so angry that she almost didn’t answer, but then she reminded herself it could be Jonas, who might be home by now. She took the phone out of her pocket; it was her son’s number.
“Hi!” She stopped abruptly when she didn’t recognize the dry voice or the name of the woman who introduced herself as Bente, who lived on the second floor of their building.
“Your son asked me to call you,” the woman said.
“Has something happened?” Louise couldn’t control her voice, which sounded like a hoarse whisper.
“Melvin fell down out in the hallway; your son found him. He’s doing CPR. You’d better come home.”
Louise had reached her car, and now she leaned against the front grille. She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. Images flew by of Melvin on the steps, maybe after walking Dina in Frederiksberg Gardens. No, it was too dark, she thought. Maybe he’d been down shopping.
“The ambulance is on its way.”
“I’m coming,” Louise said. She let Charlie hop in back.
16
Wh
en Camilla reached Korsør, the pylons of the Great Belt Bridge rose high above the foggy winter landscape. On the slope to the bridge she glanced in the rearview mirror before passing a truck; a BMW was coming up on her as if she were standing still. She swerved back into the right lane. She’d planned on taking the passing lane, zipping over the bridge as fast as possible—she had a fear of heights. Camilla cursed loudly when her car hit the bumps at each pylon. She glanced to her left when she reached the West Bridge; Language Island and its old lighthouse looked ghostly. On the last stretch she drove alongside an IC4 train, and suddenly she was on the island of Fyn.
Terkel Høyer had caved and let her check out the story, as long as she traveled to Jutland on a weekend. But he had steadfastly refused to allow her travel expenses, and she hadn’t argued with him. While driving across Fyn toward Sofie Bygmann’s small Jutland hometown, she caught herself humming, even when a semi in front of her sprayed gravel on her windshield. It had been ages since she’d hit the road to investigate an intriguing story. It was the type of article Camilla loved to do, though the thought of arriving unannounced to try to convince people to talk also sent a chill or two down her spine.
Her GPS told her to turn right five hundred meters farther ahead, and she slowed down for a moment. A church stood off to the left. White, traditional, and actually quite big, she noticed as she slowly drove by. Big in relation to the size of the town, anyway. For a moment she stopped at a T junction to get her bearings. Left or right? It looked deserted both ways. She turned right when a car behind her honked.
She passed by a grocery store that also functioned as a post office, bakery, and flower shop. She continued past the town’s beauty salon, located in a fine-looking white brick building. And suddenly she was out of town.
Farther on, she turned off on a gravel road, backed onto the highway again, and returned to the T junction. She spotted a bicycle shop; the facade and the bicycles in the window looked as if they had been there since Sofie left.
