The House That Jack Built

by Jakob Melander

  Allan stood with a hand on the back of the chair. “So from here on out it’s going to be . . . ?”

  Ulrik looked at them in turn. “The three of us,” he said. “Plus the two cars that are already monitoring the brothers. So three unmarked cars.” He turned to Sanne. “Where are we at with the glass eye?”

  “Negative, I’m afraid.” Sanne could see Professor Lau, his large fingers around the small eye prosthesis. “But we’re still investigating.”

  “And the neighbours on Brogårdsvej? Did they see or hear anything? This Abu … Abuiwa . . . The black girl. Are they . . . ?”

  “Abuiewa.” Sanne sighed. “Gentofte Police are canvassing today.”

  Allan put his hands into his pockets. “Kim A called an hour ago,” he said. “I don’t know how he got wind of it, but he wanted me to ask if he could come along.”

  Ulrik’s brow lifted into a series of wrinkles. “To South Zealand? Why?”

  “Maybe things are starting to get a little strained on Lars’s team? After the complaint, I mean. He was very eager.”

  “I’ll deal with that,” Ulrik said. Then he started packing up the papers on his desk. “That’ll be all.”

  Sanne got up and walked out of the office with Allan, so many thoughts milling around in her head. What had happened to Lars’s daughter?

  Chapter 38

  Lars had gone to Rigshospitalet with Maria in the morning. Caroline was still asleep. He’d spoken with Christine Fogh for a bit, just as she was finishing her shift. She was unusually quiet. She promised to keep an eye on Maria, who wanted to stay until Caroline woke up. Now he was standing by the coffee machine in the reception area of the Violent Crime Unit, pouring what promised to be the first of many cups.

  Before leaving, Maria described how she had found Caroline hiding behind the sofa in the corner of her apartment, just inside the open door. She was squeezing an old teddy bear, her arms locked in front of her chest, rocking back and forth. How long she had been sitting like that, Maria didn’t know.

  “Lars?”

  A hand rested on his shoulder. He started, turned around. Ulrik. Again.

  Lars’s gaze wandered along the walls as he looked for an escape. But the reception desk was empty. There was no help to be found. Ulrik leaned against the wall, searching his eyes.

  “It’s terrible about Maria’s . . . about Caroline. I understand it was you and Maria who brought her to the hospital?”

  “I have absolutely no interest in discussing this with you.” He clenched the plastic cup, squeezed the sides until the lukewarm coffee rose to the edge.

  “But we have to . . . I care about Maria too. And Elena —”

  “Just stay out of this.” Lars took a deep breath. “What you do at home doesn’t concern me. What I do —” He started walking toward his office. “Just stay away.”

  Over far too many cups of coffee, Lars had pored over the reports on Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen once more, hoping to find something new. He got up, swore, then kicked the wastepaper basket, sending it rolling toward the door. Crumpled up handouts, apple cores, paper cups, and broken pens spilled out onto the floor.

  The door opened, hit the basket. Toke poked his head in.

  “Everything okay?”

  Lars sat down on the windowsill. Bits of food and waste paper were spread across most of the floor.

  “Come in.” Lars remained on the windowsill, staring at the wall.

  Toke pushed the door open and stepped inside. “What have the departmental wastepaper baskets done to you now?” he joked. He started picking up the garbage. “You know these cases can be hell. It can take years to catch the perp. And then it’s most likely by chance.”

  Lars didn’t respond. Toke gave him a blank look, then put the wastepaper basket back in its usual spot next to the desk.

  “Listen,” Toke said. “About an hour ago, a journalist from Ekstra Bladet cornered me outside. She wanted a little background info on you. I think something’s brewing.”

  Just then the door opened and Lisa walked in. She shook her head before either of them could manage to open their mouths. No good news, then.

  “Caroline is doing better,” she said, taking off her jacket and leaning against the doorframe. “Fortunately she’s suffered less damage than the other two.”

  Lars leaned the back of his head against the windowpane. So now all she needed was a few too many hours with a psychologist.

  The door opened and Frank stepped in with Kim A, who was waving three DVDs. He nodded at Lars. Curtly, but still a nod.

  “So we got lucky,” Frank said.

  Everyone straightened up. Frank grabbed the DVDs from Kim A and slid the first disk into Lars’s computer. The office was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and shuffling feet. The entire investigative unit gathered behind Lars’s desk. Only Kim A stayed back, taking over Lisa’s position by the door.

  The screen showed an image of a 7-Eleven and a particularly well-lit stretch of Nørregade, Nørre Voldgade, and Nørreport. The time stamp in the upper right-hand corner showed 02:11:55.

  “That can’t be from the 7-Eleven,” Toke said.

  “No,” Frank said. “They don’t have any video surveillance outside. But Danske Bank, across the street, they do. They were kind enough to make a copy of the videos from each of the nights in question. Look at this.”

  On the screen, Stine Bang appeared pushing a bike. A group of kids in front of the convenience store stopped her; one girl gave her a hug. A guy handed her a can of beer. They clinked cans and kept talking. The time stamp ticked away in the corner.

  “Well, that explains the minutes we couldn’t account for,” Toke said.

  “She stays here for quite a while, a quarter of an hour. It’s not very interesting but check this out —” Frank wound the video forward to 02:24. Stine waved and pushed her bike to the crosswalk at Nørregade, headed toward Fiolstræde, then disappeared from view. Immediately after, a person in dark clothing hurried across the street after her.

  “Try playing that last bit back in slow motion.” Lars’s heart was pounding in his chest. It was him: the shadow he had chased through Assistens Cemetery.

  Frank’s fingers danced across the keyboard and the film rewound. Stine waved goodbye again and began pushing her bike across the street at a deadly slow tempo. Then the figure followed in slow motion.

  “That could very well be a black tracksuit,” Lisa said. “And he is blonde.” Her voice was about a quarter of an octave above her normal pitch. She was also amped up from the adrenaline. Her jaw was moving, her eyes shining.

  “Look how oddly he’s walking.” Toke leaned toward the screen. “Is he trying to avoid the camera?”

  “Hardly. He’s ducking his head so the group of kids doesn’t see him.” Lars cocked his head. He tried to see what was below the cap, but it was no use: he couldn’t make out the person’s face. “Okay, freeze there. That’s probably the best we can get?” He looked at Frank who nodded. “Good. Print it and let’s see the two other DVDs.”

  “How are you going to find him?” Toke nodded at the face on the screen, a grainy white blob.

  Lars slumped back in his chair. What now? He wound Media Player back. Stine’s hand lifted the beer can to her face. Over and over and over again.

  “Stine has to know the guy who gave her the beer. Maybe he saw something?”

  Lisa shook her head. “We asked. She can’t remember anything.”

  Lars tugged his lower lip. “The beer, there.” He paused. “Frank, Kim A, you’re going back to Nørreport. We need the surveillance videos from inside the store.”

  Kim A rolled his eyes. “How’s that going to help?”

  “We need a picture of whoever bought a can of beer right around that time. We’ll have to hope that the person in question paid with a credit card.”

/>   Chapter 39

  Sanne closed the door behind them. Allan remained standing by the filing cabinet.

  “Right, so I guess it’s just a matter of waiting until there’s news from the wiretaps?” He tapped his fingers on the filing cabinet, producing a hollow and metallic sound in the small office. Sanne sat down. She gathered the papers she had left behind when they went to see Ulrik.

  “Hey, I was thinking about what Justine told us yesterday.”

  “It’s too vague,” Allan said.

  “But let’s just suppose that what she saw was correct?”

  “Do you realize how many licence plates end in fifty-six or fifty-nine? And even if it was a C or a G . . .” He slammed the filing cabinet with the palm of his hand. “I need a coffee. How about you?”

  Sanne was consulting the Central Registry for Motor Vehicles.

  “Come here.” She waved him over. “Abeiuwa was found on Brogårdsvej. What if we limit the search to Gentofte — what’s the postal code?”

  “Twenty-eight twenty.” Allan closed the door, positioned himself behind her.

  She keyed in numbers and letters, filling in the postal code. They looked on in silence while the computer searched the system.

  Nothing.

  “Try it with fifty-nine.” Allan was excited now; his eagerness rubbed off on her. She replaced the fifty-six with fifty-nine in the search field and pressed Enter.

  A list of licence plate numbers appeared on the screen. One jumped out. Margit Langhoff. 16 Søtoften.

  “Bastard,” Sanne whispered. “He’s using his wife’s car to pick up hookers.”

  “We have to go about this rather delicately.” Ulrik was sitting in the back seat, observing the Saturday traffic on Lyngbyvej drift idly by. “He’s chief executive officer of Gentofte city council. He could give us a lot of trouble.”

  “Should we turn around?” Sanne caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. Small beads of sweat were glistening on his upper lip. This clearly was not something he enjoyed. Still, he had insisted on coming along. The political animal had taken over.

  “No,” Ulrik said, considering it. “No, the correct thing to do is check this out. We just have to tread carefully.”

  Sanne signalled to turn onto Brogårdsvej, reduced her speed.

  * * *

  “Sorry for disturbing you on a Saturday, Mrs. Langhoff.” Ulrik smiled, showing his badge. “But we have some questions we were hoping you and your husband might be able to help us with.”

  Margit Langhoff was an anorectic woman of about fifty. Her long hair was damaged from too much bleaching, and her tanned, wrinkled face set off the dark circles under her eyes.

  “We’re having lunch.” She led them through the kitchen and out onto the terrace. “Mathias, it’s the police.”

  Mathias Langhoff started to get up from his chair. He was tall and lanky and his scalp was red from too much sun. He wore chinos and a checked shirt. Flower beds and stone circles flowed down the terrace to the bottom of the garden. The lawn was tidy and well kept; not a blade of grass was out of place.

  Margit sat down opposite her husband. A Danish lunch filled the checkered tablecloth between the married couple: herring, liver pâté, eggs, salmon, and cold cuts. They each had a beer.

  “How can we help you?” Mathias asked.

  “There are a few dates we’d like to ask you about,” Ulrik said. “Can we go into the study, Mr. Langhoff? That is where you keep your calendar, isn’t it?”

  Allan remained outside with Margit Langhoff. Ulrik and Sanne followed Mathias into the house.

  “Well, what is it you wanted to discuss?” Mathias Langhoff shut the door behind them. “I’m sure you’re aware that my secretary manages my calendar.”

  Ulrik smiled. “Sanne?”

  So this was Ulrik’s idea of being diplomatic? Palming off the interview on her? She wet her lips, looked Langhoff in the eyes.

  “You drive a silver BMW?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s not in the driveway?”

  “It’s in the shop. The muffler went on Wednesday. I’m getting it back next week.”

  “On Tuesday, between 9:15 p.m. and 10:30 p.m., you had a visit from a prostitute at this address,” Sanne said. She sensed Ulrik catching his breath.

  For a few long seconds, Mathias Langhoff stared at her. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “And?”

  “The night before last, another prostitute, a young African woman, was found on Brogårdsvej. With one eyeball hanging out. A client attempted to remove it with a scalpel.”

  Mathias Langhoff rested his hands on the desk. He went white. A yellow stain glistened on his collar. Curried herring?

  “I heard about that. It’s awful. And here, in our neighbourhood.”

  “Sanne?” Ulrik must have been in shock, otherwise he would have stopped her long ago. But she wasn’t paying attention.

  “Where were you on the night before last?”

  “Listen, I don’t need a secretary or a calendar to answer that. But just out of curiosity: why are you asking me?”

  “A witness saw the African girl being picked up in your wife’s car on Vesterbro.”

  Mathias Langhoff smiled broadly. “I sincerely doubt that. You see, Thursday I was at a meeting for the Association of City Councils in Fredericia. The meeting finished late. I spent the night at Kronprinds Frederik Hotel and only returned last night.”

  Sanne cleared her throat. “But your wife’s car —”

  “Neither myself nor my wife’s car were on Vesterbro the night before last. You see, I drove it to Fredericia. I’m certain that the toll booth at A/S Storebælt can produce a photo of both my outbound and return journey over the bridge. You’re also welcome to see the hotel receipts.”

  Sanne went hot and cold all at once. She tried to avoid Ulrik’s gaze; he was seething next to her.

  “That — I think that’s everything, Mr. Langhoff. We’re sorry for disturbing you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Mathias Langhoff opened the door for them.

  “No need to apologize. It’s been — entertaining. By the way, the girl you asked about?” Sanne stopped in the doorway as Mathias Langhoff continued: “I thought you should know, I wasn’t home alone that evening. My wife took part in our . . . ah, ménage à trois.”

  Sanne banged her forehead against the steering wheel when they got into the car. Ulrik was silent.

  Allan looked from Sanne to Ulrik. “What happened in there?”

  “Sanne learned a valuable lesson.” Ulrik sat stiffly in the back seat. “Can we leave now?”

  Chapter 40

  Evening. Peace. Free from the grumpy faces at the station. Toke — and Sanne — were probably the only two he could really trust. He skewered the last tortellini, moved the fork to his mouth, and let his molars grind away. There was next to nothing Italian about it, the ham inside even less so. He chewed, raised his glass. At least the Ripasso was from Valpolicella.

  He turned on the TV. One feel-good news feature after another, only to be replaced by an in-depth feature on the price difference between plastic bags. What was it his mother had said? That TV is society’s appendix, a useless part of a system whose only function is to release shit.

  Maybe the patient wasn’t going to kick the bucket straight away, but it definitely looked inflamed.

  He poured more wine, then turned off the TV. He squatted in front of the old boxes on the floor and started flicking through the LPs. There was only one medicine, one thing that would help ease this melancholy: loud music, old school, the type that made Maria shake her head and think he was beyond redemption.

  She had sent him a text. She was going to meet her boyfriend in town and he shouldn’t wait with dinner. An infinitely long and solitary evening stretched out before him.

  He ha
d reached Lou Reed’s Transformer. “Perfect Day” was probably the right track for the moment. He hesitated, chose the compilation just behind it, “Sad Song.” He found a crumpled pack of King’s in his pants pocket and lit up. He tilted his head to one side to avoid getting smoke in his eyes while he took the record out of its inner sleeve and placed it carefully down on the record player. Once the needle was in the groove, he leaned back and tapped ash on the plate. The first bass tone, Mick Ronson on the piano. And then that voice. Lars would have gotten goosebumps if that weren’t so banal.

  The doorbell rang.

  The music wasn’t that loud, was it? He flicked the ash off the cigarette, went to the entrance and opened the door.

  A young man stood there, well dressed and holding a large bouquet of flowers. He was wearing a graduation cap.

  “Good evening. Is Maria home?”

  Good evening? Did anyone really speak like that anymore? Lars took a drag on the cigarette and scrunched up his eyes. The boy was probably a couple of years older than Maria. His sandy hair hung down over eyes so blue that the colour seemed to spill out.

  Lars shook his head. “I’m sorry. She’s meeting someone in town. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

  “That’s all right.” The boy stepped forward with a self-assured gait that forced Lars to step aside. The next thing he knew, the boy was inside. “We agreed to meet here instead. She’ll probably be here soon.”

  Lars scratched the back of his neck and stared at the kid in disbelief. Although it was a warm summer evening, he wore a brightly coloured trench coat. The dark red shirt underneath looked freshly ironed and expensive.

  In the living room, Lou had launched into “Sad Song.”

  “Do you want a glass of wine?” he heard himself asking. “And congratulations.” He nodded at the cap.

  “Thank you, that would be great. Would you mind taking these?” The boy handed Lars the flowers, which were practically exploding yellow and blue. He just managed to grab the bouquet before it fell to the floor, then followed the boy into the living room. Lars put the flowers down in a corner. The young man was hunched down in front of the LPs and the stereo.