The House That Jack Built

by Jakob Melander

  “Listen, I’m sorry about . . .” Sanne began. “The complaint and —”

  “I’m leaving anyway.” He shrugged. “Where are you going? You seem like you’re in a hurry.”

  “Out to question a witness. And you?”

  “I’m just swinging by Forensics and then I’m going out to Hellerup.” Lars took a step down the stairs, hesitated. “It’s just an idea I had.”

  “We could drive together? I’m going to Gentofte.”

  “Do you have a car?” A tingling feeling ran down his neck and into the pit of his stomach.

  Sanne handed him a set of keys.

  “Here. My Fiat 500 is in the parking garage. Do you want to head down and start it up?”

  Sanne leapt up the stairs. Lars gazed after her. For a brief moment, his eyes followed her slender legs, her tight buttocks. Then he continued through the door to the rotunda, cut across to the exit, and rounded the corner to Hambrosgade.

  The white Fiat 500 was well hidden behind a row of rundown and dirty patrol cars. It was surprisingly clean inside. Lars put the key in the ignition, eased down on the clutch, and put the car into gear. Then he pulled up by the stairwell, stopped, and opened the door to the passenger side just as Sanne came rushing down.

  “Stress will kill you, you know.” He pushed the gas pedal and the car jumped forward.

  Sanne laughed, slammed the door shut, and fastened her seat belt. They drove out on Hambrosgade, then took a left down H. C. Andersens Boulevard. She pulled out a pile of papers from her purse, flipping them back and forth.

  “I’ll never learn to keep track of all the streets here,” she said. Then: “There. Brogårdsvej.”

  “Is this about the black prostitute?” Lars drove past City Hall. “I read about it in the papers.”

  “Yeah, the guy who reported it has been interviewed, but I’d like to . . .” She broke off. “It’s unbelievable. No one saw anything. But when their peace and quiet is disturbed because she’s standing in the street, screaming in pain and horror, then they call to get her carted off.”

  Lars zigzagged through the traffic out of the city, continued along Gyldenløvsgade. “Hey, is it all right if we swing by my place first? There’s just something I need to pick up.” The sun glistened on the waves on the string of lakes marking the border of the inner city. Sanne nodded.

  “Sorry, I interrupted,” he said. “Was that your guy?”

  “It looks like it. Frelsén is quite certain. Same incision, same MO. Enucleation, removal of the eyeball. Well, except that she got away. What do you need to do?”

  “Oh, there’s just a couple of things I need to check.”

  Lars turned right on Lundtoftegade. At Folmer Bendtsens Plads he pulled up opposite the elevated railway.

  “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  Up in the apartment he went into the bathroom, squatted down, and pulled out an evidence bag from his inside pocket. He opened the garbage can with a pen and rummaged through the Kleenex, hairballs, and toothpaste tube. There it was, half hidden by a mascara box. Pale yellow and wrinkled, tied in a knot. He knew he had no right to do this. His eyes quickly flickered, then he poked the pen inside and lifted the used condom into the brown paper bag.

  When he came down to the car, she was leaning against the window, staring at the dashboard. He climbed in.

  “Is something the matter?” he said.

  Sanne didn’t answer; she was somewhere else. She jumped when he slammed the door.

  “What?”

  “You look like something’s wrong.”

  “It’s —” Sanne closed her eyes. “I made a fool of myself yesterday. Ulrik . . . Oh, never mind.” She looked out the window. Lars gave her a quick glance. Then he turned the key and started the engine.

  Chapter 42

  Frelsén had his legs up on the table. His red-and-purple-striped socks led to a pair of worn, brown leather shoes. Some loose sheets of paper were strewn across the floor. His gold-framed glasses were resting on his forehead, and his eyes were closed.

  Lars raised his hand to knock on the open door.

  “It’s called meditation.” The forensic pathologist kept his eyes closed, his mouth hardly moved. “And you don’t disturb someone who’s meditating. Sit down in the corner chair; I’ll be finished soon.”

  Lars looked around the narrow office. The window at the end had a view of the parking lot behind the main building of Rigshospitalet. The enormous desk rested against the wall on the right; bookshelves, groaning under the weight of thick volumes, lined the wall on the left. Here, in the corner by the door, Lars found a chair, moved the reports and what looked like a complete set of The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology onto the floor, and settled in.

  A few minutes later Frelsén’s deep, steady breathing quickened. His eyelashes flickered; one leg fell to the floor.

  “Okay, I’m back.” The forensic pathologist opened his eyes; the grey pupils were staring intently at him.

  Lars took the evidence bag out of his inside pocket. “I’d like you to do a quick DNA test. Quick as in: I need the results today.”

  Frelsén looked at the bag, narrowed his eyes. “You know it has to go down to Forensic Genetics. They can do a rush analysis in twenty-four hours. That’s going to cost you sixty thousand kroner. Is that in your budget?”

  Lars held out the bag for Frelsén. “I was thinking that maybe you could do a little magic — just you.”

  Frelsén took the bag, looked inside. “And why, may I ask, is it not going through the usual channels?”

  “Let’s just say, it’s a . . . feeling.”

  “Unofficially, then” — Frelsén smacked his lips — “I can look at it and have something ready by the afternoon. But it can’t be used as evidence; a proper analysis is needed for that. All the same, I can point to a suspect — and I guess that’s what you’re looking for?” The forensic pathologist’s inquiring look was sharp as a scalpel.

  Gentofte. 24 Brogårdsvej. Small trees and large bushes made a whitewashed house with black glazed roof tiles nearly invisible from the road. Sanne was halfway up the driveway before Lars had gotten out of the car. She took the stairs up to the front door in two steps and knocked. A man in his sixties appeared. His hair was silvery-white, his teeth gleaming against his tanned face. His bare feet were in light brown loafers.

  “Yes?”

  “Police, Mr. Lund.” Sanne showed him her badge. “Sanne Bissen. This is my colleague Lars Winkler.” Lars came up the stairs behind her. “Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

  At the word “police,” the open, smiling face transformed to scowling mistrust.

  “What’s this concerning?” He closed the door a few millimetres, probably without realizing it. Lars prepared to move his foot inside.

  “Two nights ago, at 2:10 a.m., you called emergency services and said” — Sanne pulled out the sheet — “‘There’s a Negro whore screaming in the middle of the road right outside my house.’ You were quite worked up.”

  “Oh, that.” His shoulders dropped a little. The smile returned. “Yes, your colleagues have already been out. It’s rare for something so dramatic to happen out here. And it was in the newspaper too, so —”

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened, sir?” Lars interrupted. “How did you discover her?”

  Lund took a step back. “Come inside.”

  They dried their shoes on the mat and stepped inside. A beechwood staircase wound up to the second floor on the left side. The steps were worn in the middle. A long carpet led them through the entrance toward the living room. Lund waved them in.

  The living room was a good size and parallel to the road. There were several thick rugs on the floor and a built-in bookcase covered one wall. A row of hunting trophies hung between the three-light windows on the opposite side o
f the room. Lund followed Lars’s gaze.

  “They’re not mine,” he said. “They’re my father-in-law’s. But they kind of suit the house, don’t you think?”

  Lars nodded. Sanne stood with her back to the window.

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened when you spotted the girl, Mr. Lund?”

  “Yes, well, she was difficult to ignore. I was sitting in that armchair there, reading, listening to music. Mahler, if I remember correctly. The girl had a voice that cut straight through both walls and the orchestra.”

  Lars looked out the window. “The road isn’t visible from here?” Bushes and trees blocked the view.

  “Not from that window, but here . . .” Lund went to the very back window. “A little bit of the road is visible through the branches.”

  Lars and Sanne moved behind him. Sure enough, a good stretch of Brogårdsvej was actually visible from there.

  “Of course it was dark and you couldn’t see who was standing in the shadows,” Lund continued. “I wasn’t going to run outside and get attacked. And your colleagues arrived quite quickly.”

  “There’s a police station up the road,” Lars explained to Sanne, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “And Gentofte hospital is only several hundred metres away. The ambulance must have been here shortly after?”

  Lund nodded. “Within five minutes. I checked my watch.”

  “You stay up late, Mr. Lund?”

  “When you get to be my age, it can be difficult to fall asleep.” Lund smiled. “So a cup of tea and a good book helps. And of course the music doesn’t bother anyone out here.”

  Lars nodded, scanning the bookcase. Classics, book-club purchases from the 1970s.

  “What are you reading, Mr Lund?” Just then, he spotted the low table by the armchair, where a thick novel lay half-covered by a newspaper. Lund followed his gaze.

  “Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. The old Russian classics ought to be reread once in a while. After that it’s Fathers and Sons. You know Turgenev, of course?” Lars didn’t, but he tried smiling anyway.

  “So there’s nothing else? Nothing happened that night, nothing unusual?”

  Lund shook his head. “I went to bed, it must have been around 11:00 p.m. I woke up again a little past one. Then I came downstairs and made tea and read. It wasn’t long before the young girl started shouting.” He adjusted the book. “Before that, I neither saw nor heard anything. I was listening to music.”

  Sanne nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lund. We may return later.”

  Lars followed them to the entrance hall. On the way out the door he turned around. “Do you have any children, Mr. Lund?”

  Lund looked a little taken aback. “Two daughters. Why do you ask?”

  “Fathers and Sons, Mr. Lund. Fathers and Sons.”

  Lund’s eyes flickered briefly. “We’ve all had a father, Detective.”

  Chapter 43

  Sanne rolled down the window. The smell of internal combustion engines and lilacs filled the car. People were strolling the gardens on Ole Olsens Allé. The sky was high and deep into summer.

  Lars parked by the curb. An old elder tree leaned over the fence. Parked in front of them was an old roadster, an aubergine-coloured MG Austin-Healey Sprite. Lars opened the door and climbed out. A great tit flew out from the low branches, circled over the car, and squawked.

  “Somebody’s grumpy.” Lars watched the bird fly away. “Do you want to come?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Sanne climbed out.

  A large box-like red-brick house with enormous windows towered at the bottom of the open garden. The window surfaces reflected the bright sunlight.

  “Functionalism,” Sanne said. “Looks like Arne Jacobsen.”

  “Really?” Lars turned halfway around on the way down the garden path to face her. Then they were at the door and he rang the bell. Møller, the door read. Ditlev, Margit, and Christian.

  Thirty seconds passed. Dawdling steps dragged through the house.

  Christian opened the door.

  “Lars,” he said. “Thanks for the other night.” He was drying his hair with a green towel. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hi Christian. This is my colleague, Sanne Bissen. Do you mind if we come in for a moment? Are your parents home?”

  “Come on in.” Christian motioned with his hand, stepped aside so they could enter. “Dad’s at the clinic. Mom . . . I don’t actually know. Maybe she’s out shopping? I was in the cellar.” He smiled, then looked down.

  “But the car out there —” Lars pointed over his shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s mine.” Christian closed the door behind them. “Would you like anything?”

  Lars shook his head, looked around. A staircase led upstairs. Doors opened up to the rest of the house. A large modern painting filled the entire wall to their right. Black and brown brush strokes, circles dancing across a white canvas.

  “No thanks, just a couple of questions. We’ll be off shortly.”

  “Any way that I can help.”

  Lars pulled the photo out of his jacket pocket. He’d had to fold it up and was doing his best to smooth it out again. He hadn’t had time to consider how to tackle this. He’d just have to take the plunge.

  “This picture was taken at Penthouse on Friday night. Can you confirm that that’s you standing at the end of the bar?” He pointed at the figure, half hidden behind someone’s back. Sanne leaned against the door frame, followed their conversation with an uninterested expression. But her eyes flicked from one to the other in time with their exchange.

  Christian didn’t take long. “Well, it is a little difficult to see, but I was there that night. I had just aced my Danish exam and I was celebrating.” He nodded. “That must be me. Is that the girl who got raped?” He pointed at Lene.

  “That’s Lene, an officer-in-training. She was assaulted later that same night.” He looked Christian in the eye. The boy stared back, his gaze expressionless. “But no, she wasn’t the one who got raped. Can you remember when you left?”

  “It must have been . . .” Christian thought about it. “It was late and I’d had a lot to drink. Around 1:30 a.m., I think. Maybe a little later.”

  Lars folded the picture, put it back in his inside pocket.

  “Were you there with someone? Is there anyone who can verify that you left at one thirty?”

  “Unfortunately not.” He gave them a wry smile. “I like going out on my own.”

  “And your parents? Were they up when you came home?”

  Christian shook his head. “Is this where I need to call a lawyer?” His smile broadened. Lars’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He held Christian’s gaze and took the call.

  “Frelsén here. I’ll spare you the details. You’d like to know if the DNA profile matches Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen’s rapist?”

  “Yes.”

  Frelsén paused. “Unfortunately not.”

  “And Caroline?”

  “Negative again. I’ll send it over to Forensics immediately. We need to analyze the semen properly, of course, but that won’t change anything. He’s not the one you’re looking for.”

  Lars thanked Frelsén, ended the call, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

  “Good news?” Christian asked.

  “Actually, yes.” He shook Christian’s hand. “Well, that was everything. Thanks for your help. And sorry for disturbing you. We may ask you to come into the station to look at some more pictures.”

  “If I can help . . .”

  Lars nodded at Sanne. They could leave.

  “Oh, by the way,” Christian said. “I’ve invited Maria out here for dinner tonight. I hope you didn’t have other plans?”

  “No, that’s fine. Do you know where she is now?”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen her since last nig
ht.” He wiped the back of his neck with the towel. “It’s awful about her friend.”

  “Yes.” Lars could picture Caroline’s face. Then he forced himself to move. “We have to get going. Come on, Sanne.”

  The long line of cars was winding its way down Lyngbyvejen, racing to get home from work. It was summer, a time of rolled-up sleeves, rolled-down windows, and radios blasting through the air. Lars was back behind the wheel, following the rhythm of rush hour. He had been so certain. Christian’s behaviour had been so bizarre the previous night. The blond hair and the blue eyes. And he had been at Penthouse on at least one of the nights. Everything had added up. But maybe a little too well? He passed a bronze Grand Vitara and slipped into the right lane. He started to sweat.

  “What do you think?” Sanne said, observing his profile.

  “What do I think?” Had she said something, had he missed something? Then he understood. “Oh, about Lund? It’s your case.”

  “Come on, you’re the experienced officer here. You know the neighbourhood.”

  On the radio, Chris Isaak crooned his way through “Wicked Game.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it didn’t yield very much. He hadn’t seen or heard anything.”

  Sanne raised an eyebrow.

  “Most people get nervous, when the police come knocking,” he continued. “They wonder what they’ve done: did they forget about a parking ticket, or run a red light? Is the butt from the joint they smoked yesterday still lying in the ashtray?”

  Sanne laughed. “I can’t really imagine Lund smoking pot.”

  “You’d be surprised when you discover how widespread it is. But that was just an example.” He pulled out the cigarette pack, squeezed it. Only one left. He’d better wait. “I just don’t think he had anything to do with the abduction and that operation — what did you call it?”

  “Enucleation.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. The guy you’re looking for is a loner. He’s probably clashed with the law before, maybe arson or rape . . .”