“They hang out at an Albanian basement club just up ahead. It’s called Shqiptarë. It’s number 10,” Allan said to the officer at the wheel. “Just pull up to the sidewalk here,” he said, pointing to the parking lot of an adult video store. “They’ll smell us a mile away.”
The officer nodded and pulled in behind a beaten-up Peugeot on the left side of Abel Cathrines Gade, just outside number 14 and the windows of Videokælderen. Private booths, the sign in the window promised. The heat returned to her cheeks. Why couldn’t she just act natural? It didn’t seem as if Allan had noticed her embarassment, though. He was giving last-minute instructions to the officers in the front seat.
Suddenly she realized what they were planning.
“It won’t work,” she interrupted. “If we all go barging in, they’ll take off. They’ll be heading out the back before we’ve made it down the stairs.” She shook her head and pointed at Allan. “You get out here. We’ll drive past the building and park a little farther ahead. The two of us —” she nodded at the officer in the passenger seat, “— will enter through the gate over there. When we get inside, Allan will go into the club. You stay here,” she told the driver, “but be ready to back up Allan.”
The officer in the passenger seat twisted around in his seat. “She’s right. They normally have lookouts up there, in the apartments.” He pointed at the windows on either side.
Allan leaned back. “That’s not a bad idea,” he conceded. “I’ll give you one minute, then I’m going in.” He opened the door and climbed out.
The Mondeo pulled away from the curb, found a parking spot further ahead, past a basement bar. Sanne nodded to the officer in the passenger seat, opened the door, and jumped out.
She went to the door and pressed the buzzer.
“It’s the police,” she said when the door phone picked up.
“It’s about time you did something.”
She heard the buzzer opening the gate.
In the courtyard, a couple of children were playing in a sandbox under a withered tree. The parents were sitting around a table with their coffees, watching Sanne and her colleague as they moved along the wall toward the staircase at the back of number 10. No one said anything. The sun was right overhead, turning the courtyard into a smouldering furnace. A radio was blaring from one of the apartments, mournful vocals over a primitive beat.
“I’m going in,” Allan’s voice crackled over the radio.
Sanne and the officer moved back against the wall. Sweat was trickling down her neck and from under her arms. She whispered to herself, one, two, three, four, but was interrupted by a loud clattering from the basement bar. Someone shouted. A door slammed. Immediately after, footsteps came up the stairs, the door flew open, and a large stocky man in a dirty tracksuit appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight.
Her colleague stepped in front of him.
“Well, looks like it’s the end of the road for you, buddy.”
The officer raised his hand to place it on the man’s shoulder but the man misinterpreted the move and struck out, hitting the officer on the temple. The officer fell to the ground without a sound. The man jumped over the officer, ready to run across the courtyard. Sanne instinctively stuck a leg out, and the man fell to the ground next to the officer with a hollow thud. She fumbled with the service pistol in her shoulder holster, then held it in front of her with both hands.
“Stay down!” she shouted.
Her heart was pounding; she was gasping for air. The parents at the table still hadn’t made a sound. One of them held his coffee cup suspended halfway between the table and his mouth. One of the children was crying.
She heard more footsteps coming up the staircase.
“Jesus.” Allan appeared in the doorway. He took two steps forward and managed to wrest the gun from Sanne. He glanced down at the other officer, who was groaning on the ground. Allan secured her weapon and stuffed it into his pants. Then he walked over to the suspect, forced one arm behind his back, then the other, and fastened them with plastic straps.
“It is now 9:37 a.m. and you’re under arrest,” he said. Only then did he return the pistol to Sanne.
“Sit down for a moment.” He helped her over to a crate that was next to the building. “Put your head between your legs.”
Sanne did as she was told while Allan helped the injured officer sit up. Her mind was swirling: the heat, the weapon in her hand, the sliding resistance of her trigger. Easy. So close.
The officer driving the car came racing into the courtyard with his weapon drawn.
“You can put that away.” Allan said. He leaned over Sanne. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, spat between her knees.
“He — he’s getting away.” One of the parents was pointing. The suspect was on his feet again, running awkwardly toward a shed at the other end of the courtyard with his hands secured behind his back.
“Hey, you, hey!” Allan ran after the suspect. When he caught up with him, he got hold of his T-shirt but the man tore free. Allan caught up with him again and stuck his leg out. The suspect fell to the ground, but this time he couldn’t break the fall with his hands and fell face-first on the asphalt. His face was battered and smeared with soil, blood, and grime. His eyes were half-closed and his T-shirt was torn to shreds. The pungent smell of sweat surrounded him.
Allan pulled him up, then motioned for one of the officers, and together they managed to drag the man back to where the others were.
“May I present: Meriton Bukoshi.”
Chapter 11
ELENA WINKLER. Lars’s eyes cast over the large sweeping letters on the glass door. At least she hasn’t changed her name yet. Through the store window, past an opulent display of shoes, he saw her standing behind a large leopard-print armchair. Her back was turned to him. She was wearing a thin cream-coloured knit T-shirt, mocha-coloured slacks that were tight around the hips and wide through the legs, and a pair of high heels from her collection. Her dark frizzy hair was pulled back in a low, tight bun. The row of Chinese masks on the wall bore into him with their evil eyes.
He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. This was it.
She turned around when the bell sounded.
“Hi Lars.” They stood across from each other, uncertain. Two people with far too much history. Then she kissed the air by both of his cheeks and took two steps back, turned around, and continued arranging the display.
The scent of her skin and the light hint of perfume made his stomach tingle. He shut his eyes.
“Have you been to Milan again?” he asked after a while.
“Yes, I brought Maria with me. Just after . . . you left. We visited one of the factories and saw next year’s collection. Those are this year’s.” She turned around and pointed at the shoes in the window. “Aren’t they lovely?”
He had never really understood the concept behind the kind of shoes Italian women wore. Most of them looked like something from an adult movie. But he didn’t get a chance to respond.
“I want to talk about Maria,” Elena continued. She paused briefly, her dark eyes wandering.
“Elena —” he started, reaching out for her. She stepped back, turned, and began to rearrange the merchandise with quick, focused movements.
“I think that’s enough of that. We’ve been through it all before.” Her hoarse voice began as a whisper but ended with a firm and authoritative tone.
He observed the lines on her slender neck, the large, gold earrings. A heavy lump sunk slowly down his throat, continued past his lungs and entrails, to finally settle in his groin.
“I don’t want to argue with you,” he finally said. “If —”
“Lars.” She turned around. A grey pallor had settled on her face. “We need to think of Maria now. She needs us, needs you.”
The abrupt movements
of her slender hands followed the rhythm of the sentences. Light brown skin with the beginnings of fine wrinkles. Even her hands were beautiful. They looked like —
Then came the longing, that sinking feeling in his body that never hit bottom. How long had it been since he had seen Maria? One month? Two? He couldn’t remember anymore.
“Is something wrong?” he managed to ask. His voice sounded wooden, hollow.
Elena ran her finger along a shelf, checking for dust. Then she looked directly at him.
“She’s angry with you — no, not angry, furious.” The corners of her mouth were twitching. She cocked her head slightly. “How could you be so stupid and just take off?” she whispered. “She needs you. More than you can imagine.”
The air was quivering in the small store. Lars was about to reply when the bell rang and two women in their twenties stepped in, weighed down with bags from the nearby boutiques, Free Lance and Stig P.
“What about school?” he asked.
Elena went behind the counter and followed the two women with her eyes. She held her left forearm against her stomach, resting her right elbow in her left hand while she toyed with her earring. His gaze moved down to her breasts.
“She’s moved over to Øregård.”
He looked up again, hoping she hadn’t noticed anything.
“She doesn’t talk about anything,” said Elena. “She just sits in her room with her homework. She sees only a couple of kids from her old high school.”
“That’s how teenagers are. And Simon?”
Elena bit her lip. “I think she broke up with him.”
“Well, it’s great that she’s keeping in touch with her old friends.” He moved around the counter, made sure it was between them.
Elena nodded, staring absently at the two customers.
“Excuse me.” One of them turned to Elena, held up something that looked more like a spectacle than a shoe. “Do you have this in an eight and a half?”
Lars was about to say something but Elena interrupted him.
“Yes, one moment and I’ll have a look.” She turned to Lars. “That’s all I wanted to say.” She was already on her way to the storeroom. “And stop burying yourself in your work.”
He whispered something; he hardly knew himself what he said.
“I know what you guys are like,” Elena answered. Then she was gone.
Lars was standing outside the shop on Ny Østergade. He didn’t know what he had expected of his meeting with his ex-wife; he only knew that nothing was as it should be. Apart from Maria — he would see Maria today.
Chapter 12
“What the hell did you do to him?” The doctor snapped his bag shut. Meriton Bukoshi had submitted to the doctor’s treatment without batting an eyelid. “I ought to report this.”
Allan pulled the doctor aside, describing the arrest to him, while Sanne looked around Allan and Toke’s shared office. It was a good deal bigger and brighter than the broom closet she had been assigned, but otherwise the layout was the same. Just two of everything: desks, telephones, computers, chairs, and filing cabinets. But what made all the difference were the two large windows facing Niels Brocks Gade, which let in the light from the clear blue summer sky.
Allan walked the doctor to the door, then turned to the suspect.
“Well, Meriton. How about we have a little chat now?”
Meriton gave him a surly look. “Vetëm shqiptar.”
“What does that mean?” Sanne asked.
Allan folded his arms. “It sounded a bit like the name of their club, Shqiptarë. Does it mean Albania — or Albanian? No doubt he wants an interpreter.” Allan looked at Meriton inquiringly, who nodded and looked away at the same time.
“There, you see. He understands perfectly well what we’re saying. He just doesn’t feel like speaking Danish, isn’t that right Meriton?” Allan slapped the man on the shoulder.
Sanne flinched. Meriton smiled at her lewdly.
Allan looked at her. “Why don’t you find us a translator?”
By rights, she should complain about being treated like a secretary, but she was new here and she certainly didn’t feel like being left alone with Meriton Bukoshi.
A little while later, she returned with the translator, Shpend. He was tall and his eyes were constantly watery. His papers said he was in his mid-thirties but the guy looked at least ten years older.
She started coughing as soon as she opened the office door. The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke. Meriton was sitting bolt upright in the chair, hands on his lap. Allan sat on the windowsill. Hadn’t the ashtray been empty when she left? They had to be on their second, maybe third, cigarette each. Meriton raised an eyebrow when she hurried through the office to open a window. Allan stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and, using his foot, pushed out a chair for Shpend. Sanne stood by the open window.
“Good.” Allan rubbed his hands and winked at Sanne. “Let’s get started.”
Meriton dropped his cigarette in the ashtray, mumbling to himself.
“We’d like to know what Meriton did on the night of May 5.” Allan looked at Sanne, who nodded.
Meriton raised his eyebrows, probably suspecting that someone had talked. They had to make sure they didn’t expose the girls. Sanne filled her lungs with a final mouthful of fresh air and sat down on the edge of the table behind the interpreter. Meriton followed her movements while he answered the questions, fixating on her breasts.
Meriton said he had been playing cards in their club, Shqiptarë, until late, maybe 3:30 a.m., except when he had gone to get some food around midnight. Afterwards, he went upstairs to a small room on the ground floor that he and his brother used for sleeping.
“Ask him to write down the names of the people he played cards with that evening.” Sanne placed a pen and paper on the table in front of Meriton.
Allan pulled her over to the other side of the office and whispered, “Why? Their friends would pin aggravated murder on their own mothers if the brothers asked them to.”
“No doubt. But if we can place just one of these alleged card players somewhere else, we have the first gap in his story.”
Sanne returned, nodded at Meriton, and pointed at the paper while Shpend translated. Scowling, the pimp started writing down a list of names.
“Tell him we know that he knows exactly why he’s here,” Sanne said. “And then ask him where his brother is.”
The interpreter translated; Meriton shook his head.
“He hasn’t seen him since the day before yesterday,” Shpend said.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and a large, bald man in his fifties barged into the room. A considerable muscle mass was hidden beneath a layer of body fat.
“Hi Kim,” Allan said.
Kim A gave Allan a quick nod, then let his gaze fall on Meriton, who glared back at him. Then Kim A spotted Sanne. He pursed his lips and cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he said, to Allan. “I was told you were asking for me?”
Allan raised his eyebrows. “Really? Who told you that?”
Kim A pointed backwards, looked at Meriton, then out the window. “I just ran into . . .” He stopped. “It was probably just a mistake. Sorry for interrupting.” Then he was gone.
“Who was that?” Sanne asked.
“Kim A. Former riot squad officer.”
“Isn’t he on the case that Lars is handling now?”
“That sounds about right.” Allan snorted. Was that a laugh?
Meriton mumbled something and Shpend pulled out a cigarette, lit it for him. He inhaled, blew out two enormous clouds of smoke, one from each nostril.
Sanne pulled Allan into the corner. “He can’t find out that we know they beat Mira. It will just get the other girls into trouble, and they’ll probably get a beating too.”
Allan nodded.
“Okay.” Sanne crossed the room, looked Meriton hard in the eye. She tried to ignore the penetrating stench of stale sweat. “So you do admit that you knew Mira?”
Meriton puffed his chest out. “She was a — how do you say — girlfriend?” Shpend translated. “He has not seen her since the night of May 4.”
Meriton took a drag on the cigarette; the ember flared up. He started speaking quickly, gesticulating; Shpend almost couldn’t keep up. “Meriton and his brother Ukë had agreed to meet Mira at Burger Palace on Vesterbrogade at 11:30 p.m. But she never turned up. Some of their other girlfriends” — Meriton laughed at this point — “had seen her on Absalonsgade an hour before. They’d had people out looking for her, but the ground might as well have opened up and swallowed her whole. Until he saw her on the front page of today’s paper.” Meriton nodded at the open copy of the tabloid BT on Toke’s desk.
Allan leaned forward in the chair. His stomach spilled out onto his thighs. “Do you know what I think? I think you and your brother discovered that she had a customer or two on the side.”
Meriton looked away, took a drag on the cigarette. “You don’t know shit. Danish police don’t know shit,” he said in Danish. “You need to find out who killed my friend Mira.” The interpreter stared at him open-mouthed.
Allan started to get up, his face flushed. Sanne had to pull him back down into the chair.
She waved the paper with the list Meriton had made in front of his face. “We’re going to check this list thoroughly. You’d better hope that one of your friends wasn’t somewhere else that night. In a car accident, ticketed for running a red light, bar fight . . .” Meriton’s gaze wandered. Sanne continued, “And when you see your brother, tell him we’d really like to have a word with him. Preferably today and at the very latest, tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll make it our mission to destroy your business. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The House That Jack Built Page 5
