Meriton spat out the cigarette butt.
“Danish police,” he said getting up, then stomping toward the door. “You don’t know shit.”
A little later Sanne sat in her broom-closet-sized office. There were no windows and the walls were brown. The room smelled of linoleum and old paper. She twisted and turned a dirty envelope in her hand. The stamp was postmarked 22.4 Bratislava, Slovakia. One side of the envelope looked to have been opened with a knife.
She put the envelope down and sorted through the few, modest belongings Mira had left behind: a fake Dolce & Gabbana purse, cheap lace underwear, a pair of tight H&M jeans, two very short dresses, three tops, a shirt, and a down vest. There were also a couple of books in some Eastern European language. Judging by the covers, they looked to be medical romance novels of some kind. She opened the purse: a lot of cheap, no-name makeup, probably bought in some backstreet shop, and a couple of curled-up banknotes. One kept rolling up every time she smoothed it out. Forensics would most likely find remnants of cocaine on it. Lip balm, condoms. And, in an inside pocket, a small folded-up packet containing white powder. Sanne stuck a finger inside, tasted it. The powder tasted metallic, hard. Speed or cocaine. The purse contained no phone numbers, no papers — in fact, not one of Mira’s few possessions indicated anything about her as a person.
Apart from the one folded-up piece of paper and the envelope it was in.
Sanne took the letter out of the envelope. The words were incomprehensible to her, but it was signed by someone named Zoe, and Mira’s full name was written on the envelope: “Mira Vanin, P.O. Box 2840, Copenhaigen, Denimark.”
The least she could do was send an enquiry to the Slovakian police through Interpol.
Ten minutes later she was on the phone with Ulrik. She had to get his permission to get the letter translated.
“Sanne,” Ulrik said in that preppy schoolboy Danish. “I can assure you that who Mira was as a person is not important. She was a prostitute who was killed by a customer or by her pimps. We’re keeping our focus on her acquaintances in Copenhagen.”
Sanne seethed. The condescending man and the sentimental woman? Not with her.
“On the other hand,” he continued, “all the bleeding hearts and feminists as well as the press are coming down on us for not doing enough for female trafficking victims. Maybe it would be good to get to know Mira a little better, so if they start complaining again, we’ve covered that angle. You should know though, the letter won’t bring us any closer to her killer.”
Chapter 13
16Skyttegade was a corner property, constructed in grey brick sometime around the dawn of the twentieth century. The entire ground floor was painted rust red, and the front door was covered in graffiti. But the property was lined with neat rows of plants and white hollyhocks, and the double-paned window appeared to be well maintained.
“It looks like a housing co-op.” Toke tilted his head back to look up at the top floor. Lars followed his gaze. Of course this guy lived all the way up on the fifth floor.
Lisa had finally managed to get hold of the Penthouse doorman’s friend. He couldn’t remember who the guy was that had been harassing Stine Bang, but he thought he worked in a music store downtown. Lisa went to a couple of record stores, but to no avail. Next she started visiting stores that sold musical instruments. Finally, in 4sound, on the corner of Åbenrå and Landemærket, she got lucky. The store manager identified the man standing behind Stine Bang in the photograph as one of his employees, Mikkel Rasmussen. Mikkel hadn’t been to work for a few days, but he lived at 16 Skyttegade in Nørrebro.
Nobody answered the door phone, so Lars buzzed the neighbour.
“Police,” he said when someone finally answered.
“What do you want?” The voice was scratchy, like the man had just woken up.
“We need to have a word with your neighbour, Mikkel Rasmussen.”
“Why don’t you try buzzing him then?”
Lars took a deep breath. At least he hadn’t hung up.
“Could you please let us in?”
The neighbour hung up. Ten seconds later, Lars heard a buzz. He pushed open the front door. These days, the police could not expect much help in the district. And he knew why. With the district’s history of riots and fighting in the streets, Nørrebro held little love for the police.
Mikkel Rasmussen’s neighbour opened the door a crack when Lars, Toke, and the two uniformed officers, heavily winded, arrived at the top of the narrow staircase. The neighbour was young and scrawny, with dark, medium-length hair and drooping eyelids above grey cheeks.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” he said.
Lars pulled out his badge.
“Thanks. And sorry.” The guy nodded. “There are a lot of strange people around here.”
Lars put the badge in his pocket. “I understand. We’d like to speak with your neighbour. Do you know where he is?”
The guy in the doorway looked surprised. “What did he do?”
“We just want to talk with him.” Lars smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way. “So you don’t know where he is?”
Mikkel’s neighbour shook his head.
“We’re going to carry out a search, and by law we need two witnesses,” Lars said. “Are you able to do that?”
“Well, actually, I’m studying for my exams. But hey, a little procrastination here and there never hurt. You need two people, right?”
Lars nodded. The guy disappeared inside the apartment but left the door ajar. He heard some murmuring from inside the apartment. A student during exam time. He shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
Mikkel’s neighbour came out with a young woman. She had spiky black hair and wore a short black tank dress over cut-off jeans. Tattoos ran all the way down one arm. She stared at Lars and the officers with a look of deep distrust.
The largest of the uniformed officers positioned a crowbar just above the lock between the door and doorframe of Mikkel Rasmussen’s apartment, and forced the door open. The pungent smell of dank clothes, sweat, and rotten food filled the hallway.
There wasn’t much room in the small apartment. Junk mail spilled across the entranceway. In the middle of the floor, on top of a supermarket flyer, was a half-full bowl of yogurt. A pair of underwear had settled into the thick, grey liquid.
They had to bend a little because of the sloping attic walls. Unwashed clothes were piled in every corner. In the first room there was a mattress on the floor with dirty sheets. A rectangular piece of chipboard rested on top of two plastic beer crates. Rolling papers, a week-old newspaper, coffee cups, a couple of beer bottles, and two ashtrays filled with butts competed for space on top of the improvised table.
“I’m sure Mikkel wouldn’t mind if I smoked.” Lars looked at the neighbour and his girlfriend, then lit a King’s. He divided Toke and the two officers between the second room, the kitchen, and the washroom, then turned back to the neighbour.
“Were you home the night before last?”
The neighbour looked at his girlfriend, then nodded. “I was studying.”
Lars flicked the ashes from his cigarette. The grey flakes fluttered through the dusty light and down toward the ashtray.
“What are you studying?” Lars asked.
The young man’s face lit up. “Philosophy.”
“That sounds a bit dry,”
“Well, yes and no. A couple of the courses are pretty crazy, so it can get quite interesting now and again.”
“Really?” Lars raised his eyebrows. Then he continued, “How well do you know Mikkel?”
“Not that well.” He shrugged. “We say hello and that’s about it.”
“The night before last, after 3:00 a.m., did you hear Mikkel come home around that time?”
The young man thought about it. “I must have been studying Merleau-Ponty around then. I�
��m afraid I was completely engrossed in it.” He looked annoyed. Lars turned to the girlfriend, gave her an inquiring look. She shook her head, pointed at her ears. Only then did he see the white headphones and the wire running into the pocket of her cut-off jeans.
“She always listens to music,” the neighbour explained. “The other night as well. She didn’t hear anything.”
“Come in here for a moment.” It was Toke, yelling from the kitchen.
Lars went into the kitchen. Toke was holding a charcoal-grey denim shirt out in front of him with two fingers.
“Hello there,” Toke said. “Doesn’t this look like Mikkel’s shirt?”
Dark splatters were spread in a speckled pattern across the chest.
Chapter 14
He RAN INTO Sanne in the square just outside the main entrance to the Copenhagen Police Department. Her sunglasses were resting in her hair. The top buttons of her shirt were undone. The two of them stood awkwardly, squinting in the bright sunlight.
Lars was the first to speak.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I was tired, and Ulrik —”
“Can we just forget about that?” She waved her hand. “Where have you been?”
“On a search. It’s the rape case. Actually I was going to go for a walk. It’s hard to think in there sometimes.”
She smiled at him. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Yes — I mean no, I don’t mind. It’s fine.”
She laughed and slid her sunglasses on.
They walked across the square, turned down Bernstorffsgade, and headed toward Kalvebod Brygge. Neither of them said anything. Lars walked with his hands in his pockets. Sanne turned her head to the sun. Behind the dark glasses, her eyes were shut.
They crossed Kalvebod Brygge, passed the Marriott Hotel, and stopped by the harbour. Across the water, they could make out people swimming in the harbour baths on Islands Brygge, tiny black insects swarming on the promenade on the far side, dots popping up and down in the glistening water.
Sanne followed his gaze. “It looks lovely. Have you been in?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s still too urban for me. I have to go out to Amager Beach Park before I show myself in swim trunks.”
Sanne laughed and followed him along the harbour. “There ought to be a café around here. The view is absolutely fantastic.”
“A little different from Kolding?”
“Actually we do have a harbour — your typical small-town commercial harbour. Not as big as this one.”
“I think we can get some coffee just around the corner here.” Lars led Sanne along the boardwalk, around the next building to where a small café was nestled in a corner between two buildings. He bought a latte for Sanne and a black coffee for himself. They continued south along the water’s edge with their drinks.
The towering head offices of banks, the engineering union, and the elite of the Danish corporate world cut off the view to downtown Copenhagen. A broad, low tour boat shot past. Gulls hung in the air above, squawking.
Sanne pushed her sunglasses up on her head and squinted.
“What is it with —?” She stopped herself. “No, just forget it.”
Lars stopped. She had latte foam on her upper lip. She looked lovely in the sunlight and by the glistening water. The air smelled of salt and sea.
“It’s just the two of us. We’re far away from the station and the others.” He smiled. “Spit it out.”
She took a sip of her latte and looked across the water.
“You can’t get annoyed,” she began.
“I’m the one who asked you.”
“Fine. Nobody’s said anything to me, but I can sense grumbling in the corners. From your team too, according to the rumours.” She looked up. “What’s the deal with you and Ulrik?”
His eyes wandered. He ran the bottom of the cardboard cup against his palm, coughed with his fist covering his mouth. There was only one way to say it. Quickly and to the point.
“A little over two months ago, my wife Elena came home and told me she was moving out, taking our daughter with her. To Ulrik’s.” Lars stared across the harbour. “He and I have been friends since the academy. We’ve been on vacations together, celebrated Christmas, birthdays.” He shrugged. “Ulrik is more ambitious than me. I suppose that’s what Elena was missing.”
Sanne’s smile stiffened. “If you don’t want —”
“No, it’s okay.” He took another sip. The coffee tasted bitter. “We’d drifted apart — I just hadn’t noticed it. Ulrik on the other hand — Ow, go . . .” He’d squeezed the cardboard cup so hard that the lid had popped off and hot coffee spilled onto his hand. Sanne grabbed the cup, started wiping the scalding hot coffee off his hand with her napkin. The touch sent a shock through him.
“It’s not that bad,” he said to Sanne. “It just surprised me.”
She looked at his hand with a worried expression. “It’s always bad when there are children involved,” she said. “How old is she?”
“Maria’s sixteen, starting grade ten.” He pictured Maria. “She’s going to stay with me for the next two weeks.” He hadn’t seen her for two months. How would she react when they met? Was she still angry at him? He was suddenly nervous about seeing her again. How well did he really know her anymore?
“Listen, if you’d rather just be with your daughter tonight . . .” Sanne looked down. “But I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place for dinner? I mean, me and my boyfriend’s place.”
“That sounds nice. I think . . .” It should really be just him and Maria tonight of all nights. But what was he going to say to her? Where would he start? He threw the coffee cup into a garbage can by the promenade. “You know what, we’d like that a lot.”
Chapter 15
There was a file from the translator in her mail slot when she returned. Quick service. Impressive.
She waited until she was inside her office before she placed the original and the translation side by side on her desk. She adjusted the lamp and started reading.
Dear Mira,
I hope you get my letter. I don’t understand why I can’t have your actual address? I promise I won’t come to Copenhagen. I just get so worried.
Mira, I know you’re just like me. You knew what you were getting into. But don’t waste your life. Soon it will be too late. Soon you won’t be able to have a normal job. The streets devour you. They chew you up and spit you out until there’s nothing left. You know I’ve been there and God knows I never want to go back. I implore you, no I beg you: think carefully.
You were so beautiful when you were little. You babbled and laughed in my arms. It was just the two of us in the world. Can’t it be like that again?
That was all I wanted to say. Hurry home, dear girl. Time passes by far too quickly and before you know it, it’s too late. If it’s money you need, then write. I’ll see what I can do.
I love you.
Your Mom,
Zoe
Sanne put the letter down. Ulrik was right: its contents had not revealed much about Mira. The letter suggested that her mom had been a prostitute too. Had Zoe in some way passed her fate onto her daughter? She forced back the thought. Better to think about what she was going to cook for Lars and his daughter. Tasty but not too fancy. Everyday food, something along the lines of salmon, or fresh plaice. Something that tasted of Danish summer.
She had better call Martin and tell him they were having guests.
Chapter 16
A flock of pigeons flew up from the tracks and veered out over Lygten. The F-Line from Hellerup rumbled into Nørrebro Station.
Lars had a knot in his stomach; he was perspiring, afraid of meeting a sixteen-year-old high school student. It could hardly be more pathetic. But Maria was the person he loved more than anyone — and she was furious with him.
She had sent him a short text message earlier. She was arriving on the F-line at 4:18 p.m., and even though she’d said he didn’t have to, he was waiting for her, just like he had after her first day of school. He remembered his little girl on a rainy day in the suburb of Mørkhøj — Maria standing on the road in a dress and sandals with her hair in braids.
Just before coming to meet his daughter, he had left Mikkel Rasmussen’s shirt with Toke. Now it was on its way to Forensics. Getting usable DNA wouldn’t be a problem. They had him.
The crowd parted in front of him. A figure stood out. Then a body pressed against his, a momentary touch of a cheek before she pulled back, stood in front of him, waiting. Her pretty, deep brown eyes shifted toward the billboards, the people passing by — the light in their eyes had long since gone out — the departing train. Everything but him.
“Hey,” he ventured.
Maria mumbled something in reply. He tried stroking her hair.
“Are we just going to stand here?” she said, pulling her head back.
When he laughed, he could hear how hollow it sounded.
“No, of course not. Come on, it’s just over there.” He speed-talked as he walked ahead of her toward the stairs leading to street level. On the first landing he stopped so she could catch up to him. She wore cut-off jean shorts, a black peasant top, Converse sneakers, and a backpack. Her hair was still long and dark brown like his. She had a small upturned nose and delicate eyebrows, and her mouth was slightly too big for her slender face. She was just as he remembered her. But had she lost weight? Did her cheeks look a little hollow?
She was already on her cell, texting. Her thumb passed lightning fast over the keys.
He glanced at her as they walked along the street under the tracks. She was somewhere else. Not here. Not with him. “Can’t you wait a minute with that?”
She didn’t answer, continued texting as she followed him down Folmer Bendtsens Plads.
When they got upstairs, Maria walked straight into the first room. “Is this supposed to be my room?”
The House That Jack Built Page 6
