by Lotte Hammer
“Did you recognise the mask? I mean, did it look like any definite character?”
“I didn’t recognise it, but there was more. Around his head and over his hair he had a kind of grayish-black cloth that went with the mask.”
“So you didn’t see his face?”
“No, not at all. Only his ears and a little of his head between the fabric and the mask.”
“Did he have gloves on?”
“Yes, and they were black too.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No, not in the house, not until we got down to the shore.”
“He took you down there?”
“Yes, he grabbed my clothes and shoved me ahead of him. We went quite fast, and a couple of times I fell, and then he pulled me up.”
“Did he pull you by the hair?”
“No, only by the clothes, and not brutally, more like firmly.”
“What about light? It must have been dark since you were living somewhere isolated?”
“He brought along a flashlight, and he took me pretty far down by the shore before he stopped. It was there I knew that I would die. I mean, that he was going to kill me.”
“You thought he would kill you?”
“No, I didn’t think so, I was sure of it, and I still am today. Yes, he wanted to kill me. He had dug my grave. A deep hole down in the sand, a place where the beach was narrow and the water reached almost to the dunes. There was a shovel to one side, ready for him to cover me with sand.”
“Did he use the flashlight to show you the grave?”
“No, the searchlight from the lighthouse at Spodsbjerg swept regularly across the beach, and then I could see it.”
“What happened to you there?”
“First I was supposed to take my jeans off, but not my panties. Then he forced me down on my stomach and tied my ankles together, after which he tore up my blouse in front and removed my bra. I can’t remember how, but I do recall that he looked away, as if he respected my modesty, and I also recall that I thought at least he wouldn’t rape me . . . That is, because he tied my ankles together first. Then I had to sit up, and he released my hands. Is this too disturbing, Jeanette? You can take a walk if you don’t want to hear this. Hans and Simon are with me.”
The girl answered in a voice filled with hatred.
“It’s not that I feel sick, Grandma, I just get so damned mad.”
“That’s the best reaction to have. Well, there on the shore, when I was sitting up, he took out a pair of scissors and sat down alongside me.”
Simonsen asked carefully, “Where did he get the scissors from? His pocket?”
“No, he had a knapsack on, a small one, that was where he got the scissors from while he was talking to me for the first time. It was in such a strange way. He was saying ‘she’ the whole time instead of ‘you’, and behaved as if the whole thing was an act. And then that disgusting mask he was wearing. When he looked at me, it was as if he was spewing out all the evil in the world.”
“What did he say?”
“She’s going to have her long claws clipped now, she’s going to have her long claws clipped now. That’s how he said it at first, and then in a completely different voice to instruct me, Then she shows her nails. But he did not speak harshly, more like we were playing a game or something like that. I didn’t understand at first, but then he simply repeated it. Then she will show her nails, then she will show her nails. At last I held my fingers up to him, and although my nails were quite short, he pretended that he was cutting them. That was with the first voice again. Uha da da, they need to be clipped. Clip, clip. Uha clip, clip. Look now, that was good indeed that we got the scissors out. Clip, clip. He spoke in that style, while he clipped in the air in front of each finger with his scissors.”
Jeanette Hvidt hissed in English, “Fucking weirdo.”
“What was that, dear? What did you say?”
“That he was crazy, Grandma.”
“Yes, he was, and if I hadn’t been so lucky, he would have killed me too. I don’t doubt that for a moment. But while we were sitting there some mopeds came driving up towards the shore. It was the young hands from the farms, tearing around for fun. Out and in between the dunes and racing by the water’s edge. Even though they were pretty far away, they scared him and he ran away. To top it off he asked me to wait. Can you believe that! I wriggled my legs free from the tape and ran for all I was worth in the opposite direction. I hid under an old rowing boat that was rotting on the shore. Then later, when the mopeds were gone, he searched for me. That’s almost what I remember best: him calling and the flashlight shining around in all directions. Where are you hiding? She has to come out for him. He wants her. Again and again. Sometimes close by, other times farther away, so the sea distorted his words. But I stayed where I was.”
Hans Svendsen said quietly, “I think it was good you did that, Rikke. I think it was really good.”
CHAPTER 18
After the conversation with Rikke Barbara Hvidt, Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen left Hundested Harbour together. By chance they had parked in the same car park, which gave them a few minutes to discuss the day’s events with each other, an opportunity that Simonsen did not take, however. When he was summoned from Copenhagen on short notice he’d forgotten to bring along the lunch the Countess had made for him that morning, and now he was hungry. He steadfastly ignored a hot-dog cart whose enticing aroma of grilled sausages seemed to pursue him long after they had passed it. Crossly he said, “I think we both need to let this information settle a little. I do anyway. Will you write a report? Preferably before you go home, if you can manage it.”
“No problem.”
“Excellent. When you’re finished, email a copy to our new psychologist. With one of those red exclamation points, if you know how to set them. I’ve never been able to work it out.”
“I’ll call and tell him that the information is important. That way he can’t miss it.”
Simonsen stopped by a bench and sat down. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. It was his third of the day, and it tasted like soap. Pedersen sat down beside him without commenting on his weakness. Shortly after he said, to make conversation, “How is Kasper Planck really doing?”
“Poorly.”
“He’s in a nursing home, I hear.”
“That was several months ago. The man is dying, it’s only a matter of time.”
Simonsen inhaled with pleasure and noticed how, despite the taste, smoking helped his mood. He added, “I was out there last week. He barely recognised me, and for the few minutes when he was clear about it we mostly talked about whether anyone would remember him when he’s gone.”
“Hmm, doesn’t sound much fun, but it’s good that you visit him.”
“I’m not sure it makes any difference to him, and the worst thing is the nurse told me he may be lying there like that for a while. Just how long she wouldn’t say.”
They sat in silence after that. Simonsen felt exhausted, and the drive home seemed an overwhelming obstacle. He lit another cigarette with the old one. The new one tasted better; the tiredness left him. Pedersen glanced worriedly at his boss, but turned his eyes away when he encountered a defiant look. Simonsen said a little tartly, “You don’t look too good yourself. Are you stressed?”
“No, I just had a hard time sleeping last night. It happens sometimes. But there is one thing I’ve been thinking about, Simon, and of course you should say no if you don’t agree. I’ve been thinking about . . . I mean, I’ll understand completely if you don’t—”
“Remember to walk carefully when it starts snowing?”
“Okay, I was wondering if you would like to play chess with me.”
Simonsen did not answer right away. Conflicting feelings tore at him, but curiosity won out.
“How well do you play?”
“I don’t know. Pretty well, I think. But it doesn’t have to be now, we can wait until you’re back home again. That is, if
you go back home again. That is, what I'm saying is that I don’t want to get mixed up in your—”
“Eight o’clock. Incidentally, the Countess won’t be home. And you maintain that you play well?”
“I think I do. I’ll be there at eight o’clock.”
When Arne Pedersen smiled, he looked like an overgrown schoolboy.
A good six hours later Arne Pedersen resembled a little boy, a little boy who slowly but surely was being crushed at chess. The two men sat opposite each other at the dining table in the Countess’s living room. The game went on for a long time, even though the outcome had long been ordained. Simonsen was on the verge of winning, yet thought for an unfeasibly long time over a rather obvious move. Pedersen could not understand why until suddenly it occurred to him that he had failed to mark on the chess clock between them the fact that he had moved. Annoyingly he stopped his own time for consideration and thereby activated his opponent’s. Simonsen moved immediately and did not forget the clock. After another fifteen minutes of slow torture it was over. Pedersen gave up. Simonsen stretched and said, “Shall we play through the game again?”
“What good would it do? I won’t gain anything from that.”
Simonsen shrugged; it was obvious that chess protocol did not unduly concern his new partner. Nonetheless Pedersen had played well; considering that he had never been in a club or read theory, almost frighteningly well. Albeit mixed with amateurish errors, thank God, which had decided the game. “No, of course you won’t,” he said.
“Do you think I played badly?”
“Yes, you did.”
“So you wouldn’t care to play with me again?”
“Sure, now and then we can have a game.”
They collapsed at either end of the Countess’s sofa. Pedersen opened two mineral waters he had fetched, the one with the other, and then in reverse—in a quick pull, without spilling a drop. Simonsen followed the process with interest. He had seen it before and was equally impressed every time.
Both of them were tired. Pedersen actually looked even more worn out than his boss. He would have preferred to leave immediately after the chess match, but did not feel that was polite. They talked casually about this and that until the Countess came home a little later. By contrast to the two men she seemed energetic. She greeted them cheerily and sat on the armrest next to Simonsen. Then she pointed towards their bottles.
“Have you gentlemen ever heard of coasters?”
Both pretended not to have any idea what she meant. She dropped the subject, the damage was already done. Simonsen said, “How did it go?”
“Terrible, complete waste of time. She’s a power-hungry bitch all right, and to top it off I have to fight with her again tomorrow evening.”
Pedersen was not following this so he asked, “Who’s this? And what have you been doing?”
“Waiting for a self-centred social services and cultural director to condescend to talk to me. I’m supposed to have access to some archives in a museum so I can check a small point about Maryann Nygaard’s stay in Greenland. It’s not even particularly interesting, but I’m digging my heels in about it. Even though it has proved so far to be unreasonably difficult to get her permission, not to mention a little help.”
“Why in the world is that?”
“After the municipal mergers there was a lot of trouble about the old museum administration, so my simple request has now gone up to director level, and, ye gods, what a director. Helle Oldermand Hagensen, she and only she is the one who grants access for third parties to the museum’s non-publicly accessible collections. The latter is unfortunately a quote. So I had to wait three solid hours until she was done with some public meeting or other—and that was after she’d cancelled our first meeting.”
“Couldn’t the museum appointment be made by phone?”
“Well, unfortunately not, the director wanted to see who she was dealing with in person.”
“Did you say that this concerned a serious crime?”
“Yes, of course. But she was completely indifferent. The result was that I’ve been granted an hour tomorrow evening . . . ”
The Countess stuck her nose in the air and said unctuously, “This must be done in an hour, Officer Rosen, I don’t have more time than that, you must understand.”
Pedersen observed her with curiosity and then said, “Your eyes look evil, that’s unusual.”
The Countess let out a curt, joyless laugh.
“Evil eye? Well, maybe I’m trying out a little good old-fashioned black magic. Abracadabra—Mrs Hagensen, may your milk never curdle.”
She had spoken in a low voice, almost mumbling. Pedersen asked, “What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”
“Never mind, I’m just trying to distance myself from her a little.”
Simonsen muttered in irritation. “It’s completely indefensible that she is allowed to hinder a murder investigation. There must be someone she reports to. Should I exchange a few words with them tomorrow morning?”
“No thanks. I’ll manage on my own, and maybe I’ll find something that can put her in her place. I’m not completely new to this job after all. But the problem is that what I’m rooting around in is a trifle complicated. I don’t want too much controversy about what I’m doing.”
“No, I’ve noticed that.”
The irony was clear. Pedersen wondered what was going on here. He had no idea what the Countess was working on, but that Simonsen was obviously not fully informed either seemed almost bizarre. The Countess guessed his thoughts and hurried to ask, “How did your chess games go?”
“Chess game. We only had time for one, and Simon won, obviously. Unfortunately I’m not as good as I thought I was.”
Simonsen nodded his agreement. The Countess did not let herself be convinced. She slid down from the armrest and over behind Pedersen, where to both men’s surprise she set one hand on his shoulder. In the past there had been problems between them, so the gesture was unexpected.
“I don’t believe that for a moment. On the contrary, you are certainly a competent chess player or your game would never have taken over three hours, but now you should head home so Simon can get his night’s sleep. You look worn out yourself.”
The two men said goodbye in the hall. Simonsen opened the front door. Pedersen pressed him about their next chess appointment.
“But we will play another time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it true that I’m bad?”
“Yes, you mustn’t listen to her, she has no appreciation of chess.”
Simonsen’s tune was a little different when fifteen minutes later the Countess kissed him goodnight and hustled him upstairs and into bed.
“If I had his talent, I could have reached IM level.”
“And if I was sitting on a rack, I could have become a dressmaker’s dummy. Good night, Simon.”
“It’s only a matter of time before he beats me.”
“It’s only a matter of time before you fall asleep. A short time.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Work.”
“On what?”
“Good night and sleep well, Simon.”
CHAPTER 19
He is a child, and he is lying in his bed at night. The room is illuminated by a weak bulb set directly in the socket, which gives off a subdued green light that has a soothing effect on children. He is afraid of the night light, but even more afraid of the dark.
In the room there is a window that faces the forest. It is made up of two parts, each with six small panes divided by peeling white bars. All four hasps are securely fastened, and the curtain is drawn completely. If the hollyhocks get too high, his father nails a tack to the sill and ties up the stalks, so they don’t knock against the panes in the wind. He is afraid of the window, but even more afraid of the unknown outside.
When fatigue overcomes his anxiety he falls asleep, but is wakened by a soft sound coming from the window behind the curtai
n. A small, metallic clack. It is the witch pulling the hasps up one by one. A witch can do that sort of thing, pull hasps off windows from outside.
At first her dark green silhouette is enlarged upon the wall. Then he sees her little body as she crawls in with difficulty. Her limbs are long and slender like spider’s legs, her fingers crooked, her nails sharp. With a quick pull she tears the curtain away and looks greedily at him with her small, blinking eyes. Her dirty hair sticks out in tufts, but the worst thing is the mouth. It is missing.
He runs.
As fast as he can, he bolts down a hallway. At the end his mother is standing with her arms open, but the faster he runs, the farther away she is. The witch is right behind him. He hears her panting, smells her. Finally, finally he reaches his mother, throws himself against her and hides his face in her skirt, while he weeps with relief and notices how she holds him protectively.
That is how the nightmare begins.
He looks up, but it is not his mother’s face he is looking into; it is the witch’s.
As far back as Arne Pedersen can remember, he has suffered from nightmares. Always the same, and always with the same result, namely that he wakes up bathed in sweat from head to toe, with a fear inside that it takes the rest of the night to overcome. In his childhood this happened often, once or twice a week when it was at its worst. As an adult he experiences it much less often. Six months might pass in between episodes; plenty of time to repress the memory, until one night there it is again. Like the flu, only over more quickly. For this reason his recurring nightmare has no further effect on his life, and so far he’s paid no particular attention to it. It is a congenital nuisance, there is nothing more to say about it. His mother called it the bad dream. His wife refers to it simply as it . . . “My God, did you have it again?” . . . and always sweetly gets up with him and makes him a cup of chamomile tea, before she goes back to bed again. He wishes she wouldn’t.
Now for the third night in a row he’d been awakened by the nightmare, and he could not remember that ever happening before. Either as a child or as an adult. His wife was worried. She set down the mug of chamomile tea on the table beside him and asked cautiously, “Is there something wrong, Arne? Is something bothering you?”
