The Considerate Killer

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Seeing if I can lure him further out of hiding.”

  “Søren! That’s my phone. And my profile!”

  He looked up at her with something resembling real wonder.

  “Surely you don’t actually believe what he wrote?” he asked.

  “Does it matter? You can’t just . . . pretend to be me!”

  He drew his glasses down on his nose and observed her over the top of them.

  “Right now he knows quite bit about you,” he said dryly. “Your real name, your whereabouts—can’t you at least turn off that function?—what your family looks like, how you’re feeling, and what you think about everything under the sun. If we assume the flowers were from him, then he figured out what hospital you had been admitted to. We don’t know if he is alone or part of a team. If he was the one who photographed your mother, it might have been to give his colleagues the ability to recognize her. He’s got you and your life at his fingertips. Whereas you only know that he might live in Manila, might have been educated at the St. Francis College of Medicine, and that he likes the International Red Cross, a couple of Filipino pop groups and something called Young Christian Diamond. But have you seen his list of friends? He has one—and that’s you.”

  She wrestled the phone away from him. First to read the message he had written in her name—“Where are you? What is so important?”—and then to conclude that he was right. In the Facebook universe, she was apparently Victor’s only friend.

  “That profile was created solely to contact you,” said Søren with an irritatingly professional expression. “Victor may not even have been the one who did it. But the person looking for information can sometimes end up giving away more than he gets. He wants something from you. That’s a weakness we can exploit.”

  She glared at him.

  “We aren’t all terrorists,” she pointed out. “Some of us are who we say we are—with or without a thousand friends on Facebook.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s wait and see how he answers.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said angrily. “The people you meet under conditions like that . . . you go through hell together. You hardly sleep, you don’t get enough to eat and drink, all of that is pushed aside because . . . because it’s life or death, literally. People are dying right here, right then. Every mistake, every break can cost some poor wretch their life. Under those circumstances, the masks drop. You see who people are—and what they are not. You see what they are capable of, what they can take, and what they find unbearable. And the Victor I got to know in that way—he was a good man. A good person. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  He nodded very faintly—she barely caught the movement. There was something disarming about it, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what he was agreeing with.

  “You’ve just been attacked by an unknown assailant,” he then said, calmly and neutrally.

  “That Westmann woman says it’s some kind of eastern European gang.”

  “No. That Westmann woman would like to know if it’s them—or not.”

  “I have thought about it,” she said. “And I just can’t see how it can have anything at all to do with Victor and Manila.”

  “I’m not saying it does. Not yet—we don’t know enough. That’s why I’m fishing for more information.”

  “By abusing my profile!”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t even say he was sorry. And he didn’t look the least apologetic. What were you supposed to do with the man?

  She kept glaring at him for quite a long time, but he was one of the few people you simply couldn’t stare down. A faint smile had appeared on one side of his mouth, and he returned her look in a way that was entirely devoid of confrontation.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Looking at you.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her blush, but the warmth in her cheeks—and a few other places—could not be ignored. She could hardly be a sight for sore eyes right now, but his gaze followed everything, took it all in: the fading bruises, the hematoma, the hollows below her cheekbones and the swelling under her eyes.

  “You’re crazy,” she whispered and meant it. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “This?”

  “Us. Me.” Her voice broke a bit. “A lot of people would think you’re out of your mind.”

  His smile grew noticably broader.

  “A few people have said something of the kind,” he agreed.

  She deliberately placed her hand on his chest precisely where the scar was hidden under his T-shirt. He let her do it without breaking eye contact. Then she felt his hands on the small of her back and let herself fall into him. The cell phone slid out of her hand and disappeared somewhere under the covers. She didn’t care about the headache that buzzed constantly in the background or the faint smell of hospital that still clung to her skin. His lips tasted like sleep and a little of toothpaste, and she suddenly began to shake all over—long, shuddering jolts that she couldn’t control.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. No.” She pulled herself out of his embrace. “I don’t know . . .”

  It felt ridiculously dangerous to relax her wariness and allow someone else to be on guard. Like stepping out in front of a bus and hoping the driver would have time to put on the brakes. Dangerous, but at the same time unbelievably tempting.

  “Come here.”

  He held her for a while, calm and silent. Then she felt the cell phone vibrate against her right thigh. Victor had answered.

  “I’ll be in Denmark tomorrow. I must speak to you. My life is in danger—and so is yours.”

  “Mommy . . . can we go to the Swim Center? Please? Pretty please?”

  Anton was old enough now to have complete control over his powers of persuasion. He knew it irritated her when he whined and begged in that pathetic way, so he opened his eyes extra wide, batted his eyelashes, and offered her a smile that made Shirley Temple look like an amateur. All of it with just enough ironic exaggeration that she couldn’t help laughing.

  “We’ll have to ask Søren first.” What was she supposed to say if he asked why? Because Søren has to determine if it’s safe. “And it won’t be today, Anton. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Why not?”

  Luckily, he reacted to the limit she could more easily defend.

  “Because . . . because I’m not completely well,” she said.

  The smile disappeared as if someone had erased it with a wet cloth. He tugged at his blue Man of Steel hoodie (“I’m not saying I’m Superman. I’m just saying nobody has ever seen me and Superman in the same room.”) and looked both more grown-up and more afraid.

  “Tomorrow is fine,” he said quickly. “Filip and me can play at Filip’s if you want.”

  You have two children who are afraid of losing you. Oh, Christ.

  “Ask Filip if he wants to come here instead,” she said and tried to look perky in spite of the stubborn headache. “Then we can make apple fritters and watch The Lord of the Rings.”

  “All three of them?” he asked.

  “If Filip is allowed.” She quickly calculated what that promise entailed. Damn it. Nine solid hours of orcs and elves and epic battle scenes. So much for that day.

  They were only halfway through the Mines of Moria, however, when the doorbell rang. Caroline Westmann, of the Mid-West Jutland Police.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said. “But there’s something I’d like to show you. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  Nina quickly evaluated the possibilities. The living room was occupied by fantasy fans and echoed with clashing swords and monstrous roars; in the conservatory her mother was teaching Ida to knit (Ida? Knit? It was so unlike her that it almost defied belief). T
he three bedrooms, Nina felt, were all just too small and intimate for police interviews.

  The kitchen. It would have to be the kitchen.

  “Coffee? Would you like an apple fritter?” she asked.

  Caroline Westmann declined politely but allowed herself to accept a cup of tea.

  “I have to be a little careful about how much coffee I drink,” she said apologetically, then immediately became professional and business-like again.

  “I’d like to show you some photos,” she said. “Please tell me if anyone seems familiar.”

  She looked around—it wasn’t easy to find a ready surface that wasn’t covered in grease and fritter batter. Nina quickly cleared the small dining table by dumping two bowls into the kitchen sink and wiping the vinyl tablecloth with a damp cloth, not entirely clean.

  “Sorry. Half-term break.”

  “That’s okay. My sister has children; I know what it’s like.”

  Westmann placed the photographs on the table as if dealing a game of solitaire. There were a dozen or so, all men, all between about twenty and thirty-five, all more or less “European” looking—whatever that meant these days. Nina studied them, one at a time.

  “No,” she said. “They don’t ring any bells. Who are they?”

  “Try again,” said Westmann. “Take as long as you need.”

  Søren emerged casually from the fantasy marathon and exchanged polite greetings. He loaded the coffee machine with water and freshly ground beans, but Nina didn’t think it was a desperate craving for caffeine that had brought him here, and she suspected that Caroline Westmann was equally unconvinced.

  He kept silent while Nina took another tour through the photo archive. Not until she repeated her negative—“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember ever seeing any of them”—did he get involved.

  “Did you find them? Your eastern Europeans?”

  Caroline Westmann hesitated. Then she nodded.

  “They were caught red-handed,” she said. “Breaking and entering a holiday home on the coast. Two of the victims have already identified them, and so we were hoping . . .”

  Nina shook her head again.

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “What about the DNA?” asked Søren. “From the jacket. Does it match?”

  “We’ve only just sent the samples to be analyzed. That is, the new samples from our three bandits.”

  “And they were all eastern European?”

  “Yes. From Bulgaria.”

  “Do you have anything that leads in a more Southeast Asian direction?”

  “Where are you thinking of?”

  “The Philippines?”

  “No. That’s not something we see every day here. Why?”

  Søren held out his hand.

  “Nina, may we see your phone?”

  She became irrationally angry. Felt yet again that he was flattening the picket fences around her private life and stepping in the flower beds with very big feet. Still, she handed him her cell phone.

  “I suspect that Nina has a kind of stalker,” said Søren. “Look at this.”

  He showed Caroline the messages from Victor. Or she assumed that’s what he was doing. She couldn’t see the display.

  “My life is in danger, and so is yours,” the detective sergeant read. “It’s a bit vague, but I’ll make a note.”

  “And follow up?” asked Søren. “I could help you obtain a bit of info on this Victor Galang. If that’s his real name.”

  “Through the PET?”

  “Yes. We have excellent international connections.”

  “I was under the impression that you were on sick leave,” said Caroline Westmann pointedly.

  Søren looked as if she had just thrown the contents of her teacup into his face. It was only a second—a glimpse so brief that Nina afterward began to doubt it—then he smiled disarmingly and smoothed things over.

  “That’s correct,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask a friend for a favor.”

  Caroline Westmann looked as if she regretted the jab.

  “Well then, thank you. But as I said—we’ve not previously had problems with people from that part of the world.”

  She got up, put on her blue duffel coat and left, in a flurry of wind and autumn leaves.

  Nina turned to Søren.

  “Sick leave?”

  There it was again—and this time she was more certain.

  Shame. But why?

  “Torben’s idea,” he said. “Completely unnecessary, but right now it means I can be here.”

  She bit her lip.

  “And why is that so important?” she asked. She tried not to sound too cold, too dismissive.

  “Don’t you want me here?” he asked and suddenly looked like Anton when he was most uncertain.

  “It was nice that you were there,” she admitted. “At the hospital. It was nice for someone to be there. And that it was you. And . . . it was also nice that you were there last night.”

  That elicited a smile at least. But she had to go on.

  “I was just a little surprised that you had moved into my mother’s house.”

  “She invited me.”

  “She is perfectly entitled to.”

  “That didn’t sound very heartfelt,” he said and straightened to his full height. He was very nearly Morten’s height, she realized. Her shoulder fit under his in almost the same way. Without warning, a jolt of desire shot from her belly button downward and made her legs rather wobbly.

  He noticed. She could see him noticing, and that did not improve matters.

  He pulled her close and kissed her thoroughly.

  “Is it okay?” he asked. “That I’m here? Is it okay with you?”

  “Yes,” she answered hoarsely.

  He let go of her. The house was full of kids. It was the half-term break. And they weren’t teenagers who could go sit in the car and let their hormones take over.

  “Good,” he said, fairly hoarse himself. “That makes bodyguarding you much easier.”

  He said it lightly, with the suggestion of a smile. But she was pretty sure he meant it seriously.

  THE PHILIPPINES, SIX MONTHS EARLIER

  My houses.”

  Vadim pointed across the steering wheel at something that at this distance was merely a group of shimmering dark smears in the heat haze across the rice paddies. “Four blocks, six stories each, altogether eight hundred apartments and homes for almost four thousand people. My work is done.”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that the people who are going to live in those fancy buildings of yours are being forced to move out here because the city council in Manila would like the city to look at bit more appealing to tourists?” Diana considered Vadim across the edge of her Gucci sunglasses, and it was as if her gaze punctured his smugness.

  “And do you realize that every teenage girl you treat for pneumonia in the slums will have ten undernourished kids who’ll also get pneumonia and live a shitty life? Stuck in the mud— quite literally. Filthy, sewage-contaminated mud. Here at least there’s some sort of future. Indoor plumbing. Flushing toilets. No more crapping in the river,” he said.

  Vincent took a sip of his cola and glanced in the rearview mirror. The mood in the car had been oppressive since they left Manila in the early morning. At first Diana had not wanted to go at all, and it was Victor, not Vadim, who had at last convinced her.

  Now she sat looking out at the landscape with a dark and sombre gaze. White T-shirt, dark blue shorts and a pair of worn flip-flops. She had become a resident just a month ago and was now working for starvation wages in a minor hospital only ten kilometers from “Vadim’s phallic constructions,” as she called them. In pediatrics. She wanted to become a pediatrician.

  “Have all the apartments bee
n let?” asked Victor. His enormous body occupied so much of the backseat that his hair grazed the roof, and Diana was perched against the door on her side to give him a little more room.

  “Yes, most people moved out here a month ago. All the units went pretty quickly. People like it.”

  Diana snorted.

  “It wasn’t as if they had much choice. The police bulldozed a half-kilometer strip along Pasig River and burned the rest.”

  Vadim ran his hand through his hair with an irritated gesture. It had been like this since he and Diana broke up about six months ago. A constant battle. It would, of course, have been easier if they had stopped spending time with each other, but that had apparently not occurred to either as a possibility. They met as usual at the Cabana Bar when Diana was in town, and presumably also at home in their respective laps of luxury. Vadim and Diana’s families saw each other socially, lived in the same gated community and attended the same cocktail parties. Vincent also knew that Vadim and Diana still occasionally slept together. It seemed to be a kind of withdrawal symptom sex, and when it happened Vadim would be whistling, cheerful and full of hope, and Diana dark and shuttered. Like now.

  “Sometimes people don’t know what’s best for them,” said Vadim. “In fact, I’d think that most people, myself included, would do better to have others make the decisions about their lives.”

  “I’m not surprised that you think so,” said Diana. “After all you’ve always had your father to do precisely that.”

  Vadim slapped a flat hand against the steering wheel but didn’t answer.

  They were slowly approaching Vadim’s apartment complex. The road was newly paved and bordered by long, brown grass, skinny palm trees, and flat, vividly green rice paddies. Here and there were small clusters of old-fashioned huts with woven bamboo walls and tin roofs, but the teeming multitude of roadside booths and advertising signs that had edged Paradise Road closer to the Manila suburb of Lungsod had dwindled to nothing, and the four buildings towered like lonely human silos in the flat landscape. A few discarded trucks and cement mixers from the construction were still parked in the yellow dust in front of the first building. The remains of cement sacks and plastic tarps flapped in the faint breeze, and a group of kids who had been playing among the building materials ran away screeching when Vadim stopped the car.