Stacks of empty soft drink crates were piled up just outside the door, and three large dumpsters were pushed against a low wall in the back of the courtyard. The dull thumping from the club made the summer night vibrate. He grabbed Mikkel by the arm, dragging him through the gate and around the corner to the unmarked car parked on Vestergade alongside Gammeltorv. The square had been a central meeting point of the 1980s Copenhagen punk scene. He had sat on the low wall framing the square so many times back then. Lars shrugged off the past, opened the rear door, and pushed Mikkel inside.
“Mind holding onto him until I give word?”
The officer in the passenger seat sent Mikkel a disinterested look, scrunched up his face, then gave Lars the thumbs up.
“Thanks.”
Lars slammed the door and made his way back to Penthouse and his place by the bar.
“He very nearly ruined everything,” Toke shouted in his ear. After the brief reprieve outside, the noise inside the club seemed deafening.
Lars took a sip of the Coke. It had already gone flat. “Did anyone notice anything?”
“Nobody left the bar,” Toke said. “I’ve checked with our colleagues at the door.”
“So we wait.”
* * *
Lene went to the bathroom. Lars looked at his watch. It was
2:25 a.m. It was at this time that Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen had left the club. He nodded to Toke who positioned himself halfway toward the exit. The door to the women’s washroom opened. Lene came out, looked at him, and sent a quick smile. Then she pushed her way through the lineup at the bar toward the coat check.
Lars gave her a one-and-a-half-minute head start before following. He walked along the bar and then up the stairs. She wasn’t in the lineup at the coat check. He couldn’t see Toke either. He made his way out to the street and spotted Lene further up along Nørregade. She went past Vor Frue Kirke, pushing a vintage bike.
“She shouldn’t walk so quickly,” Toke whispered in his ear. “Give the guy a chance to follow her.”
“He’ll follow.” Lars moved a few steps away from the crowd by the entrance. It was good to get outside. They strolled up Nørregade, two friends on their way home from a night out, checking out the home decor display in the window of Notre Dame and strolling past Vester Kopi print and copy shop.
“There, she’s easing up a bit now,” Toke said.
“Relax. We’re not the only ones watching her. See if you can spot our guy instead.” Lars stuck a hand into his jacket pocket and put the small earpiece into his ear. He heard static, then muffled voices. Contact.
Toke pulled a package out of the bag he had collected from the coat check, and handed it to Lars. He checked the magazine on his service weapon, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact, then stuffed the gun into his pants. He shivered as the cold steel pressed against his thin shirt.
“We’re the only ones here. Another unit is up at Krystalgade. She’s passing them now.” Toke kept a constant eye on her. “There. Who’s that?”
A figure came staggering toward them, past the old KTAS building across from Hotel Skt. Petri.
“Just somebody on a night out. He’s coming from Nørreport. Remember, we’re looking for someone who’s following her.” Lars patted him on the shoulder. Toke snorted, stared at the guy as he sailed past them in a blissful drunken stupor.
Lars turned around, took a look at the guy after they had passed each other. There was no one else behind them. Reports from various surveillance posts flowed in: Nørreport, all quiet. Farimagsgade, nothing to report. Dronning Louises Bro, empty.
They continued through the city. Nørregade opened up toward the blaze of lights in front of the 7-Eleven at Nørreport. Lene was already walking down Frederiksborggade. Lars and Toke ran across the crosswalk at Fiolstræde, ducking through the construction at Nørreport Station and breezing through the penetrating stench of piss before reaching Frederiksborggade. There were more people on the streets now, lone figures or couples, on their way home from a night out. On Queen Louise’s Bridge, the neon signs of Irma supermarket reflected on the black surface of the water. The bridge glowed under the orange and yellow of the streetlights. Out toward the district of Østerbro there was a permanent glow in the sky. The white nights. It was so beautiful Lars had to stop. The older he got, the shorter the early days of summer felt. Another heyday was about to die.
As planned, Lene turned down Peblinge Dossering. Lars and Toke followed, cutting past the old air-raid shelter. A family of ducks bobbed by the shore, their beaks tucked under their wings. Lene continued along Baggesensgade, Blågårdsgade, across Blågårds Plads. On Korsgade, Lars and Toke looked up at Hellig Kors Kirke’s massive spire, which ripped through the sky at the end of the street. Here, along the narrow streets, they could move in without fear of being exposed.
They passed the church.
“It’s got to be now, if it’s going to happen,” Toke mumbled.
Lars nodded. The hair on his arms stood on end. Hans Tavsens Park opened up to the right, disappearing into the shadows of Assistens Cemetery. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Down toward Struenseegade, loud music drifted out of open windows. Lights shone from the odd apartment. Up ahead Lene was a white figure in a sea of shadows.
Lars’s earpiece crackled.
“There — what was —” The excitement in the voice levelled off. “Sorry, probably just a false alarm. Bravo here. All quiet. Wait —”
Just then the shadows in Hans Tavsens Parken sprung to life. Something moved in the grass, darted past them, and knocked Lene over. As her bike hit the ground the metallic clatter echoed through the night.
“This is it.” Lars started running. His service weapon was already in his hand. Toke rushed after him. The streets around them were filled with the rapid pounding of boots. Everybody was moving in. Lene was rolling around on the ground with her attacker, then managed to get up. The shadow took a swing at her, but she grabbed his clothes and pulled him on top of her, planting a foot in his stomach and sending him flying. He fell into a roll and was on his feet in one swift movement. The assailant took a swing, striking Lene on the temple with something in his hand. She staggered back, falling to the ground near a bench.
“Stop! Police!” Lars shouted. He was now less than thirty metres away.
Only then did the assailant notice that they weren’t alone. He looked steadily at Lars before breaking into a run toward the cemetery. Lars swore. Lene’s fingers were groping for the bench, then her hand dropped limply to her side. She mumbled something. A thin line of blood ran from her temple.
“Call an ambulance,” he shouted at Toke. Then he shot past her.
The shadow was already by the cemetery fence. He jumped up on the chainlink and swung his legs over the top. A small thud broke the silence when he landed on the other side.
When Lars got to the fence, he took three quick steps and was halfway over before he slid headfirst down the other side of the fence. He managed to soften the landing with his hands, but stabs of pain radiated in his leg and torso when his hip hit the ground. The service weapon flew out of his hands and clattered onto the path. He forced himself to his feet, lunged for the pistol, and popped up with one knee on the ground and his weapon raised in front of him.
It was completely still. No sound, no movement. Then came the voices from Hans Tavsens Park, the shouting on the radio, the baying of the dogs. Lars tried to block out the noise and focus on the cemetery. There. A bush moved. He approached with the pistol raised. Then he heard steps running in the opposite direction, toward Nørrebrogade. Lars abandoned the footpath and ran in between the gravestones where the soft grass deadened the sound of his steps. The steps ahead of him slowed down; the assailant was getting tired. Lars listened for the sound of breathing. He peered forward but the shadows were alive here — dead things with fluid, bobbing movements, a world under water.
<
br /> During the day, nursing mothers, children, and people living in the area used the cemetery as a park. They had picnics, smoked, drank coffee, kissed. But during the night something else took over, something primal.
A shadow broke away from the darkness and slipped between two trees only to melt into the shadow of an imposing headstone. Lars felt a light splatter on his forehead and on the back of his hand. He blinked, wiped the raindrop from his forehead with his sleeve. He crouched down, ran in a wide arc across the lawn, and circled around to the other side of the headstone. No one was there. The pistol was shaking in his hand.
Then the sky opened and water came pouring down.
The noise was deafening. Leaves screamed under the downpour. In an instant, his visibility was reduced to a couple of metres. Everything was a pale grey, moving carpet.
But what was that? It sounded like someone was whistling.
Lars headed in the direction of the sound, toward the dense thicket of trees at the other end of the cemetery. He slipped on the wet asphalt but recovered his balance. His hair clung to his forehead and water ran into his eyes. He tried to ward off the blows from the branches. The hissing sound of tires on wet asphalt. They had to be near Jagtvej.
He could hear it through the rain now: the sound of a body ploughing through the bushes. Lars began running in the direction of the noise. He kept wiping the water from his eyes but it was futile: a second later and his sight was again blurred by the rain. Suddenly the wall was there, towering in front of him. He was going too fast; he couldn’t stop on the soft, wet surface, and crashed into the wall. Pain exploded in his nose, knees, and elbows, and his forehead and hands were cut. Dammit. Where was he? A little to the right was a mulberry tree. The bark had been stripped away, and the exposed trunk shone in the dark. Lars flung himself up the tree, one metre, two metres, three metres above the ground, until he could see over the wall. Sure enough, Jagtvej was on the other side. He stepped off the tree and onto the wall, jumped down on the other side, landing on both feet. He looked up and down the street. Shiny wet asphalt, puddles teeming with raindrops, a cab’s headlights, engine noise, pizza joints and bars. But nobody was on the street.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head up toward the sky. He wished he could be swept away by the rain. Forget and be forgotten.
August 1944
“Laura? We have guests.” Father’s voice rises up through the stairwell. She hides Family Journal under the pillow, straightens her hair, and hurries downstairs. Who could it be? The evening sun shines through the window of her parents’ bedroom, warm and red. The soft call of a blackbird rises and falls through the gardens. It is almost time for her daily trip to the cellar.
On the landing, she looks down, stops suddenly. A pair of long black boots is waiting just inside the door, the brim of a black cap.
“Welcome. It’s been too long.” Father and Arno shake hands.
What is he doing here?
“It is an honour to be received in your home!” Arno slides the cap under his arm and stands at attention.
“Come down here, my girl.” Father motions for her to come downstairs. The steps glide away beneath her. The black uniform, the boots float up toward her. She doesn’t want to, and yet she must. Arno holds out his hand. She sees herself from the outside, watches as she places her hand in his and lets him help her down the last steps.
If he’s come for Jack . . . She doesn’t want to finish the thought. She takes the final step, looks down, and curtsies deeply. She can be nice. For Jack.
“I’ve made coffee.” Mother wrings her hands, then shows Arno into the living room. Father places a hand on Laura’s shoulder, steers her after him. Arno smells of leather oil and horse. There are sweat stains on the collar of his uniform. His long neck is white as a sheet from the collar up to the short strands of hair peeking out at the edge of the black cap.
Now they are sitting on the sofa beside each other, Father in the chair opposite them. And outside in the garden, the evening is so beautiful that it hurts. Mother pours coffee and offers Arno the tray with the war macaroons, the ones she baked for Jack in the morning. It’s so quiet, the few sounds grow. Arno champs the milled barley oats with lateral movements of his jaw; his boots squeak. Father breathes with a quiet whistling.
She breaks a little piece of the war macaroon on her plate. The slightly nauseating taste of the cake grows in her mouth; she hurries to swallow before she has to throw up. She hopes Jack is sleeping down there, that he doesn’t hear Arno dragging his boots across the living room floor.
“The rumours say the resistance will attempt to sabotage the weapons factory in Ordrup.” Arno smiles. “But they will fail, as they failed with the labour strikes last month.”
Father and Arno stare at each other for a long time. She holds her breath. Good God, it’s over now. In a moment, they’ll be pounding on the door, then forcing their way inside with their dogs and guns. Then Father smiles. He shakes his head and wipes his mouth.
“Laura? You’re not saying anything? You’ve been so distant. Are you keeping secrets?” Father’s still smiling at her. But his gaze stings, burns into her. She can’t catch her breath. All those things that can’t be said. Everything they mustn’t touch upon. The little fish is doing somersaults behind her navel; she can almost hear Jack groaning in the cellar below.
Arno takes off his cap, turns it in his hands, then places it on the sofa between them.
“Laura.” He grabs her with his cold, clammy hands. “I have work to do now, for Denmark. For you.”
Father leans back in the chair, satisfied. Everything has been turned upside down, out of joint. What are they up to?
“Come.” Arno gets up, attempting to pull her up with him. “It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s go outside.”
She doesn’t want to go, her knees are shaking. But Arno has a firm hold and she is forced to her feet. Father and Arno. And Jack trapped in the cellar. She can’t go on, it’s too much. She breaks away, dashes up the stairs, and hides under the blanket in her small room in the attic while Arno and her parents call from downstairs.
When Arno has left, Father forbids her to take food down to Jack. He has to manage as best as he can, he says. With her head buried in her pillow, she cries herself to sleep.
Chapter 30
The slam of the tailgate cut through the dogs’ barking. They continued baying behind the windows of the truck, their eyes large in frustration at the abortive pursuit. Lars sat with a blanket around him on the tailgate of Forensics’ Toyota HiAce. Someone had placed a warm cup of coffee in his hand. He patted his jacket pocket, took out the pack of cigarettes. It was drenched. He threw the pack down, looked around for someone to bum a smoke from.
Toke approached, handing him a pack without asking. Lars pulled out a Prince and leaned toward the lighter that Toke held out. Hans Tavsens Park was filled with flashing lights, colleagues, and curious onlookers. Somewhere out there, on the other side of the cordon, a couple of press photographers flashed their cameras. Lars inhaled, let the smoke filter out through his nose. It burned.
“The ambulance has just left. With Lene.” Toke put the cigarettes back in his pocket. “They say she’s suffered a concussion. Lisa went with her.”
Lars nodded. He was far away. Why had the assailant whistled? And he had come through the park, not along the streets. That meant he’d been behind them. He had known that they were tailing Lene. That it was a trap.
He inhaled again, narrowing his eyes. A short distance away, Bint was bent over Lene’s bicycle. A crime scene investigator Lars didn’t know was examining the area for fingerprints.
“What does Bint say?”
Toke followed his gaze. “It doesn’t look like there are any fingerprints. A little saliva but that could also belong to Lene — or someone else altogether. And they’ve found a bludgeon. That must be what he hit her with. Bint
says it’s sheer luck her skull wasn’t crushed.”
Lars drew the last of the cigarette into his lungs, threw the hot butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with the tip of his shoe. He was about to collapse with fatigue.
“Can you take care of this?” He got up, pulled the blanket off. “I need to . . .” He patted Toke on the shoulder and left him.
Lars stepped over the barrier tape and started walking down Hans Tavsens Gade, past the journalists that had gathered there. One, two photographers fired off their flashes in his face. Someone asked him a question, but he kept walking.
On Jagtvej the scene had not changed in the half hour that had passed since he last stood there. Car lights, puddles, pizza joints, pubs. No pedestrians. He walked slowly toward Nørrebrogade, made note of the spot where the assailant had jumped over the wall separating the street from the cemetery. There were far too many streets the perp could have run down. Stairways, courtyards. Back into the cemetery, even. It was futile. He continued toward the roundabout at the intersection of Jagtvej and Nørrebrogade. He couldn’t let go of the thought that the perp had known it was a trap all along. He pounded his fist into the wall in rage, clenched his teeth as the pain crippled his breathing. He stuffed the wounded hand deep into his jacket pocket and started walking faster. He should have stopped the operation; he shouldn’t have allowed it to happen. He’d had a bad feeling right from the beginning.
Now the perp knew that they had discovered where he found his victims. Lene was in the hospital, and the investigation was left in ruins.
There was life on Nørrebrogade: buses were filled with people on their way home from a night out, and the morning bars had begun to open. He just wanted to go home. At
St. Stefan’s Church, he hailed a cab. The driver shot him an angry glance in the rearview mirror when he climbed into the back in his wet clothes, then streaked along Nørrebrogade. He tore down the short stretch by Nørrebrohallen’s sports facility, where cars were forbidden. Lars was too tired to protest.
The House That Jack Built Page 13
