“Right here.” A hoarse female voice came from behind him. The Jutland accent wasn’t as strong as he had expected.
He turned around and saw a pretty, blonde woman with an outstretched arm. A firm, dry handshake. She was tall, almost lanky. Her wispy hair covered her neck and ears but was pushed back from her animated grey eyes. There was a cluster of freckles drizzled across her nose and cheeks. She was wearing jeans and a pair of rubber boots that looked far too big for her thin frame.
“You must be Lars.” She smiled. Lars tried returning the smile. It went surprisingly well.
“Welcome.” He nodded at the body and then looked at her. “Can you give me a quick overview?”
Sanne looked at Toke, then at Frelsén as he waded through the shallow water. The forensic pathologist removed his latex gloves as he walked toward them.
“Well, you see —”
“Leave the poor girl alone.” Frelsén stuffed the gloves into his back pocket. “Now this is interesting. The corpse has been preserved. The same procedure used on bodies that are donated to science.”
Sanne’s cheeks went red. “Are you saying someone abused the corpse?”
“A person who donates their body to science seldom leaves this mournful world with a bullet through the heart.” Frelsén pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Very tidy. Right above the left breast. Bint found a fine corona of gunshot residue around the entrance wound. Oh, and her eyes have been removed.”
Everyone was quiet.
“Bint?” Sanne asked after a short while. Her voice only trembled a little.
“Wallid Bint,” Lars explained. “We hardly ever use his first name.” He turned to Frelsén. “So can you start from the beginning?”
“Come.” Frelsén motioned for them to follow, walking through the water on the other side of the body. Lars, Sanne, and Toke lined up on the shore. Allan stood slightly apart from the rest.
A slight hospital smell mixed with the scent of algae lingered by the water’s edge. Lars looked down.
She was lying on her back, naked, with her legs slightly apart. She had a root stuck in her back, so her chest was pushed up and out. The skin had an unnatural yellowish-white tone and rubbery appearance. The water covered her from the knees down; the rest of her body was on land. Either the dark pubic hairs were very sparse or they had just started growing back after a recent shaving. Rigor mortis had set her forearms at a ninety-degree angle, pointing to the sky. Her face was contorted in an expression of terror and disgust. The frayed entrance wound from a bullet was visible just above her left breast.
“Young woman,” Frelsén started. “Presumably Eastern European, presumably a prostitute. Cause of death: a single gunshot to the heart. She’s been here no more than eight hours, judging by the condition of the skin.”
He lifted the body’s lower leg, bringing the toes above the surface of the water. They all noticed the wrinkled skin, but the decomposition wasn’t far advanced. Frelsén pulled a small Maglite flashlight out of his breast pocket, and directed the light at the mixture of sludge, seaweed, and sand below her left shoulder. Something was gleaming.
“Bint thinks it’s glass,” Frelsén said.
Lars looked across the small lake toward the suburban neighbourhood hidden behind the low vegetation.
“How long?”
Frelsén straightened up. “Since she died? That will require further examination. But I suspect her eyes were removed first — presumably under anaesthetic, considering the clean incisions. Then she was shot.”
Sanne cleared her throat. “Was she . . . was she conscious . . . during?”
“When the eyes were removed? Unlikely. Afterwards? Judging by her facial expression, I’d say yes,” Frelsén said.
“Jesus,” Allan whispered behind them. Even the crime scene investigators stopped working.
Lars raised his voice. “How did she end up here?”
Allan looked down at his notepad. “Something heavy was dragged through the bushes. Bint found some fibres, possibly from a blanket. And there are footprints, size 11.5. There are also some tire tracks up by the dirt road.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.
“Good,” Lars said. “Let’s get the dogs out here, see if they can find something.”
“Welcome back, Lars.” Frelsén rubbed his hands together. Then he shouted, “Come on, it’s down here.” A couple of paramedics were making their way down the overgrown slope, a stretcher balanced between them.
Lars closed his eyes. He wished he was back at Kato Vasiliki. Back at Nikki’s beach restaurant with nothing to do but drink frappés and pints of Amstel and stare across the water toward Patras.
Chapter 4
It was almost 7:00 p.m. by the time Lars stood in front of his apartment entrance at number 2 Folmer Bendtsens Plads. Just as he placed the key in the lock, he saw an S-train rumble out of Nørrebro Station. The newspaper placards in front of the neighbouring corner store flapped as the train passed. A loose newspaper page blew out onto the road. Clinking bottles could be heard from inside the Ring Café. A drunk was being hushed by his buddies. Lars pushed open the door to the staircase and, with a weary movement, lifted the bag of Thai takeout, and tramped up the stairs. First day of work after two months of vacation. He could barely drag himself up to the second floor.
After the ambulance had driven away with the body, Lars sent Allan off to canvas the Amager hostel and the housing co-op. According to Frelsén, the body had been brought to the area shortly after midnight, so there was little likelihood anyone had seen anything. Still, questions had to be asked all the same. Sanne and Toke went to the red-light district in Vesterbro with a photo of the dead girl’s face and instructions to ask the girls working the streets there if they knew the victim. Hopefully someone would recognize her. If not, identifying the body would take some time. When Lars got back to the station, he had started going through all the missing persons reports from the past three months. With no luck.
After too many cups of coffee and far too many reports, Lars was still alone at the station. Allan had not returned, nor had Sanne and Toke — Ulrik had been in to see him twice and they had exchanged a few monosyllabic words — so he’d gotten up to leave.
As he opened the door to his flat, he was greeted by a stuffy, slightly musty air. He hadn’t been back at the apartment since he moved his stuff in the night before he flew to Athens, about two months ago.
The apartment consisted of a small hallway, two rooms facing the street, and a bedroom and kitchen that faced the rear courtyard. The tiny bathroom was located on the left, just past the front door. The urban regeneration company had finally fitted showers in the apartments here. The water sprayed over everything, but at least he had his own shower.
The first room contained the moving boxes with the stereo system, the LPs, a table, and a couple of chairs. He dropped the bag of food on the table, fell into a chair, and kicked off his sneakers. He threw his jacket in the corner behind him, then lit a King’s and put his feet up.
Ah.
As the nicotine surged through his body and shot up into his brain, he looked around the apartment. Textured wallpaper, 1980s style. The walls and ceiling had probably been white once, but after almost thirty years and an untold number of cigarettes, they had turned an indeterminable yellowish hue. Something should be done about that. With the cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth, he got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked into the other room. More boxes, a threadbare couch, a TV. He opened the door to the balcony. The hinges squeaked. The cigarette smoke mingled with petrol fumes and the smell of hot asphalt. An eggplant-coloured Toyota on its last legs chugged out of the roundabout, clanking all the while. Roads, sidewalks, houses — everything was oozing with pent-up heat from the sun. He looked down Folmer Bendtsens Plads, below the elevated railway where Ørnevej met Bregnerødgade. On the far side of the roundab
out was one of the ubiquitous green grocers as well as a store that, taking its sign at face value, sold “Muffler.”
So this was home.
He flicked the cigarette butt over the balcony and went back inside, leaving the door open. He walked into the kitchen. It was a standard Copenhagen kitchen with two narrow windows facing a dark courtyard. He put away his groceries: milk in the fridge, coffee and oats in the greasy wall cupboard. Then he found the moving box with kitchen utensils, dug out a plate and a fork, and rinsed them under the tap.
He couldn’t shake the image of the dead woman, naked and vulnerable at the edge of the water, the empty eye sockets staring out into nothing. Lars dried the fork, put it on the plate, and went into the living room. He was getting hungry, but first he had to hook up the stereo.
He managed to manoeuvre the amplifier, preamplifier, and speakers onto the low bookcase; he connected everything and plugged it in. Now all he needed was the turntable. The old Rega P1. He lifted it out of the moving box, placed it next to the amplifier, and plugged in the cables.
It took some time finding the box with the LPs but before long he had eased the stylus onto Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out and dove into his cashew chicken with extra chilli.
A little while later, he plugged in the TV, adjusted it so he could see the screen from the other room, and turned the volume all the way down. A home-improvement program flashed across the screen. An actor was helping an accountant build a patio for his house. Lars lit a cigarette, laced his fingers behind his neck, and tilted his chair back.
Why had the murderer removed her eyes? Had she seen something she wasn’t supposed to? Was there something she wasn’t allowed to see?
He sent a billowy smoke ring drifting up toward the ceiling.
There was a violent crash from the apartment above followed by loud swearing.
Two more months in this vacuum, then he’d be gone.
May 1953
He’s been sitting on the sofa since Grandfather and the men brought him back from the woods the previous night. In the morning, Grandfather takes one look at him, then grabs his doctor’s bag to go on a house call. Mother is in her rocking chair, staring into space. As always.
Creak-creak, creak-creak, Mother rocks back and forth. He gets up and strokes her porcelain pale cheek. Her loose skin quivers, moves away under his fingers.
She needs a pick-me-up. He takes off his jacket, walks into the kitchen to make her some warm juice. He pours water into a pot and lights the old cast iron stove.
On his way down to the cellar for the cups with the English motif, the ones Grandfather forbids them to use, he checks in on Mother. She’s sitting as he left her, stone-faced, her hands folded in her lap, in the rocking chair in the empty living room. The sunlight enters through the window, casting squares and rectangles on the wide floorboards. Dust dances. He hurries down to the cellar, pushes past all the junk Grandfather keeps there to the wall-mounted vitrine with the china, then hurries upstairs to avoid the voices.
Back in the kitchen, the water is boiling. He fills the cup halfway with Ribena fruit concentrate, and tops it up with hot water. He crumbles a rusk into the thick juice mix and already has the teaspoon in his hand when he discovers a chip in the saucer. A piece has broken off the rim; the crack spreads all the way down the glaze. A sudden rage surges up in him. Everything has to be just right today. He tears the cup from the saucer. Juice and rusk crumbs spill out onto the kitchen table. The saucer flies into the sink, shatters. A shower of broken porcelain clatters against the drain.
He has to go down to the cellar again, force himself past all of Grandfather’s things.
The door to the vitrine is open. Did he remember to close it earlier? The monotonous creaking of the rocking chair upstairs in the living room reaches all the way down here. He reaches for the last saucer at the very back of the shelf. As his fingers close around the porcelain, they brush the head of a nail sticking up in the corner. With a gentle click, the nail slides down and in: the vitrine swings open toward him. A black hole appears in the wall behind it. Musty air streams out, smelling of rot and chemicals.
He finds a candle stump on the bookcase below the cabinet and lights it. The darkness is so great it swallows the light from the flame. Tentatively, he places one foot on the bookcase, steps up. Through the opening in the wall, he sees a staircase leading down.
Fifteen steps he counts before reaching the foot of the stairs. He gropes his way forward, holding out the candle stump in front of him. Restless shapes dance at the edge of the circle the light casts. They spring to life with each flicker of the small flame. There are bookcases, boxes, and cases with hand-drawn labels along the wall: Cyclotol, Husqvarna, Composition B. Hirtenberger 5.6 x 50 Mag.
The bookcases tower above him. He raises the candle stump above his head. The light shines on a jar on the shelf. Two pale white, blurry spheres with grey pupils float in a cloudy liquid. Muscle tissue, frayed tendons form veil tails behind them. Remnants of Grandfather’s medical practice? His heart falters, he gasps for air. He drops the candle stump on the floor; it sputters and rolls away. He drops to his knees, searches the floor with trembling hands.
Then they’re on him, the voices from the woods. They fall into a slowly turning cadence.
When he emerges from the cellar, night has replaced day. Mother is still sitting in the living room, rocking her creak-creak. Grandfather has not returned.
He puts the jar down on the table in front of her. The pale white objects rock quietly in time with the movements of the liquid, and settle down shortly after. He’s standing before her, a layer of dust clinging to his knees and forehead.
She doesn’t look at the jar. Her lips curl into a strange smile; her pupils are pitch black. She looks up at him and speaks for the first time.
“Father took them. Father took everything.”
Sunday
June 15
chapter 5
An insane droning broke through his sleep, penetrating his ear canal. Lars sat up with a start, banging his forehead against the edge of the small bureau next to the bed.
“Ow, Jes —”
He doubled over, holding his hand to his head. The music started again. Blindly he fumbled for the infernal machine. He was on the verge of throwing it out the window when it occurred to him to switch off the phone.
Blessed peace.
Then an S-train thundered into the station across the street. The windows in the living room rattled. Welcome to Nørrebro.
He took a quick shower, ate some rolled oats, got dressed — loose-fitting dark blue shirt, jeans, and sneakers — had a cup of coffee and a morning smoke, then went out the door. They were meeting Frelsén at the Institute of Forensic Medicine at nine o’clock for the autopsy and post-mortem examination.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Lars was running across Blegdamsvej toward Frederik V’s Vej. He ran along Fælledparken, Copenhagen’s largest park, then looked up. Another one of those never-ending blue skies. A white Fiat 500 pulled up alongside him as he approached the entrance to the Institute of Forensic Medicine at number 11. Sanne rolled down the window.
“Good morning.”
“Hey . . . I mean, good morning.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to turn into an empty parking spot. He waited while she climbed out of the car.
“So we got lucky.” Sanne looked up as she locked the doors. “It took a few hours but in the end we found two Slovakian girls. They didn’t want to say anything at first, but I took them to a café and made sure Toke kept his distance . . . Oh, yeah, it took a few lattes as well.”
“Good work. Tell me about it.”
They walked up the stairs to the entrance. Lars stopped outside the door, moved aside to let a group of students past. Sanne continued.
“Her name was Mira, from Bratislava. The two girls shared a room with her on Mysundegade. We w
ent there afterwards — to get her personal effects.” Sanne swallowed. “It’s all at the station.”
“Who was her pimp?”
“They mentioned two Kosovo-Albanian brothers. Bukoshi, I think it was. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Lars nodded.
“The girls weren’t very keen on saying much,” she continued. “They say the brothers beat her in her room less than a week before she disappeared. On . . .” Sanne pulled out a notebook, “. . . May 4.”
“Denmark’s Liberation Day?” Lars grabbed her sleeve and pulled her toward the door. “Come on. They’re waiting for us —”
Just then the door opened and Ulrik walked out wearing a freshly pressed uniform.
“Lars, Sanne.” Ulrik nodded at them. “Glad I caught you here.” He hesitated, stuck his hands in his pockets. “I spoke with the chief of homicide this morning, Lars.” Ulrik looked at him searchingly. Lars didn’t say anything, waiting. Ulrik sighed.
“You’ve asked to be transferred to the North Zealand department in Helsingør — is that correct?” Ulrik was breathing a touch faster now.
Lars shrugged. “I need a change of scenery.”
Sanne took an almost imperceptible step backwards and looked from one man to the other.
“You might have considered letting me know first. As your superior, as — your friend?”
“No, not really.”
Ulrik caught his breath. “You can’t be in charge of a murder investigation if you’re leaving the department. You’re off the case.”
Lars pulled out a cigarette. At least this meant he could have a smoke.
Ulrik continued. “You’ve got nothing to say?”
Lars shrugged again, then lit the cigarette.
Ulrik took off his peaked cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I’m taking over the homicide investigation.” He put the cap back on. “A woman was admitted to the Juliane Marie Centre. She was beaten and raped last night. You’re taking that case. You’ve got Kim A, Frank, Lisa Bak, and Toke. Sanne and Allan are with me.” Ulrik’s eyes flashed under his cap. “I understood you weren’t thrilled about getting a new partner anyway?”
The House That Jack Built Page 2
