Bogman

by R. I. Olufsen

  “How often do you do that?”

  “Once a year in the summer, when the water level goes down naturally. That’s what most clubs do. I reckon Frogman took about fifty balls every time. He could probably get fifteen kroner each for the top brands, and ten kroner for the others. It was a nice little earner for him. All he had to do was clean off the mud and weed out a few duff ones.”

  A light shock ran through Tobias. He saw again in his mind’s eye the frogman flapping across the grass, the net filled with golf balls, the tire tracks, the white van roaring away from the driving range, the bend in the road, the sign: Lake Balls. Heard again the words of the waste depot supervisor - “people are always dumping stuff in skips. Even golf balls."

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’ve just remembered something. It’s important. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” said Christer pleasantly. “I’m going to sit down and watch the show.”

  Sofie must have sensed something. Tobias saw her turn and stare. She got up from her chair.

  “I have to go,” Tobias said when she caught up with him.

  “Don’t play games with me, Tobias,” she said. Her eyes were like stones.

  “No games. This is urgent.” His mind was already elsewhere. He had the phone to his ear. He had walked to the reception. He needed a car. Eddy was saying, “What’s up, Boss?”

  “I have to get to a driving range,” he said. “Pick me up at the Royal Hotel. It’s about the bones.”

  42.

  They got to the Driving Range at nine o’clock. It was dusk. The shop was brightly lit. Behind it, floodlights from the range lit the night sky. The thwock and thock of golf club on golf ball, was the only sound. White balls flew through the air like shooting stars.

  The shop was garishly lit, but empty. Three walls were lined with shelves neatly stacked with golf clothes. A wide door in the fourth wall led to a bank of machines which dispensed practice balls. A man in a yellow baseball cap pulled a lever to restock the machines. The balls made a noise like distant thunder as they rattled down a chute. The man glanced over his shoulder at Tobias and Eddy. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he shouted over the drumming of the balls.

  Eddy picked up a couple of golf balls from a half-full barrel beside the counter and juggled with them. The man in the baseball cap came back into the shop. He wore a badge: Jesper Erikksen: Manager.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Where do you get your lake balls, Jesper?” asked Tobias.

  “You’d like to buy some? They’re good value.”

  “I’d like to know where you get them,” said Tobias.

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters to us,” said Eddy. “We’re police officers.”

  Jesper said, “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Tobias produced his ID. “We’re investigating a crime,” said Tobias. “Can you tell us where you got the lake balls?”

  “It’s not a crime to sell lake balls,” said Jesper.

  “It is if you put on a frogman suit and dive for them on private property,” said Tobias.

  “This is some kind of wind-up,” said Jesper. “I don’t go diving for golf balls. Or anything else for that matter.”

  “So where do you get your lake balls, Jesper?” asked Eddy.

  Jesper looked uncomfortable. “From various suppliers,” he said.

  “And where do these,” Tobias paused again, “various suppliers,” another pause, “get their supplies?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jesper. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “In which case,” said Tobias, “you’ll give me their names and contact details.”

  Jesper shifted uneasily. “I ought to ask him first.”

  “Him? That sounds like just one supplier to me,” said Eddy. “Supplying you with stolen goods.”

  “I know nothing about any stolen goods,” said Jesper. “I buy in good faith.”

  “And you don’t think it’s suspicious to pick up your supplies in a car park at Viby?”

  This was a shot in the dark by Tobias but it hit the mark. Jesper flushed, then paled.

  “You can tell us his name here, or you can tell us at police headquarters,” said Tobias. “Your choice.”

  “His name is Afrim Bushati,” said Jesper. “He’s from Albania. He lives in Gellerupparken.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Jesper wrote down the address on a piece of paper. He pushed it across the counter to Tobias. “He’ll know that I told you. He won’t like that.”

  “He won’t like being behind bars either,” said Eddy. “And if you warn him that we are looking for him, you’ll find yourself behind bars as well.”

  They left a subdued Jesper Erikksen and drove to the address in Gellerupparken. On the way, Tobias spoke to Larsen, who was pleased at apparent progress on the bones case but sceptical about the connection between the bones and stolen golf balls.

  “I don’t want to look like an idiot, Lange,” he said.

  “Neither do I, Sir. But it’s our best lead,” he didn’t say only lead, “so far.”

  Larsen allowed Tobias three officers from Armed Response. They arrived, with Katrine, in an anti-riot transport vehicle. Arrests could be difficult in Gellerupparken.

  The address for Afrim Bushati was on the first floor of an eight-storey block near the underground bin in which the first bones had been found. The entrance was on a walkway. There was no back door, but a balcony gave on to a wide alley at the back. Tobias directed two armed response officers to take one end of the walkway each. The third officer he stationed, with Katrine, at the back of the building, under the balcony. He and Eddy went to the door of the flat. The lights were on. Tobias knocked on the door. Eddy flattened himself against the wall, his Heckler and Koch 9mm pistol in both hands.

  A dark haired woman in a pink tracksuit opened the door. Behind her, Tobias glimpsed a short corridor leading to a brightly lit room.

  “I’m looking for Afrim,” said Tobias.

  “Who is it?” a man called out from inside the flat. Seconds later a short, stocky man in a came to the door. He was drying his hands on a grubby white towel. The woman slipped past him and went back into the room.

  “Who’s looking for him?” asked the stocky man.

  “Police,” said Tobias, showing his ID.

  The man pushed the door against Tobias and ran back into the flat.

  He picked up a chair and flung it at Tobias and Eddy in pursuit. He ran on to the balcony and vaulted over the wall. Tobias and Eddy got to it in time to see him scramble to his feet and run no more than ten metres before being brought down by a hefty shoulder tackle by Katrine. The Armed Response Officer, slower because of his protective armour, arrived in time to help her handcuff Afrim.

  “She’s fit,” said Eddy admiringly.

  They went back into the flat. The woman had drawn herself into the smallest possible space on a sofa, knees drawn up to her chin. Her hands, clasped around her knees, were covered in an assortment of gold and silver rings. Tobias assumed she was Afrim’s wife. She was watchful but silent as Tobias and Eddy glanced around the room.

  They went into the narrow kitchen. Six red plastic buckets filled with golf balls sat on the floor. Water had recently drained out of the sink leaving a residue of suds and small bones, like chicken bones.

  “Harry says it’s hard to tell the difference between chicken bones and human finger bones,” said Eddy.

  “Better get these to him,” said Tobias.

  Eddy took a pair of rubber gloves and a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. He put on the gloves and began picking the bones out of the sink.

  The woman on the sofa spoke. “Afrim is a good man,” she called out. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  Tobias went to the kitchen doorway.

  “So why did he run away?”

  “He’s a good man but he’s also a stupid man. He thinks you’ll throw him in jail because he finds and keeps th
e golf balls people are stupid enough to lose.”

  “We’ll throw him in jail because he has human bones in his kitchen sink,” said Tobias. “Because he dumped human bones in the bin fifty metres from here. Because we think he killed someone.”

  “Afrim wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said the woman. “He found the bones in a lake when he was diving. I told him he should go to the police but he was worried he’d be deported.”

  “So he’s an illegal immigrant,” Tobias said heavily.

  “He’s an asylum seeker. He has a shite job making sandwiches in a factory. Eight at night until six in the morning. Earning peanuts. He was a diving instructor in Albania. He hit on the golf ball idea when he saw a golf tournament on television. He didn’t make a lot of money. Just enough to make life a little easier.”

  “Why isn’t he at work?”

  “Thursday and Saturday are his nights off.”

  “When did he arrive in Denmark?”

  “About eighteen months ago. I met him shortly after he got here.”

  “What’s your name? What’s your relationship to him?”

  “Grete Kjaer,” she said. “We live together.”

  Tobias turned. Eddy was peering at something in the sink. He lifted out the inset drainer, a small round metal container which allowed water to drain while capturing dregs and particles of food waste. He held it out for Tobias to inspect.

  “Take a look at this.”

  Captured in the mesh of the drainer was a silver ring.

  Tobias called out to Grete Kjaer. “Are you missing any of your rings?”

  She spread her hands, examined her fingers.

  Eddy had the ring in his hand. He held it close to his eyes. “It’s engraved on the inside.” He squinted. “Together Forever,” he said.

  Tobias and Eddy stared at each other.

  “Fuck,” said Eddy.

  Tobias said nothing. His brain had built a picture of Emily Rasmussen, a mysterious will o’ the wisp, an elusive warrior in the ecological wars of the planet, fighting developers, living with reindeer. He had not envisaged her finger bones in a sink in Gellerupparken. A great weariness settled on him.

  “I have all my rings,” said Grete Kjaer. “All present and correct.”

  “Take a statement from her, Eddy” said Tobias. “I’m going to speak to Afrim.”

  If what Grete Kjaer said was correct and Afrim was an asylum seeker who’d been in Denmark less than two years, he could not have met Emily Rasmussen, unless she’d been living undetected in Aarhus. He could not have killed her, chopped her up and dissolved her flesh in acid. For how else could he have dumped her bones in bins in the city? Unless those bones belonged to someone else.

  “Take a statement from her, Eddy,” he said. “I’m going to speak to Afrim.”

  The anti-riot van was still parked below the balcony. Afrim sat in the back, handcuffed, behind a metal grille. Katrine was talking to him through the grille. Even in the dim interior light of the vehicle, Tobias could see that Afrim was trembling.

  “Why you arrest me? I lose my job. You arrest me, I lose my job.”

  “A woman was murdered, here in Gellerupparken, on Tuesday night,” said Katrine. “Where were you on Tuesday night between eight o’clock and nine o’clock?”

  Afrim trembled more violently.

  “Stealing golf balls is a crime,” said Tobias. “But not as serious a crime as murder. Where were you on Tuesday night.”

  “At the factory,” cried Afrim. “I work at the factory.”

  “We can check that,” said Tobias. “If you are telling the truth, you have nothing to fear.”

  “You ask my supervisor,” said Afrim. “He tell you I good worker. I always on time.”

  “Why are there bones in your kitchen sink, Afrim?”

  “I found them in the lake with the golf balls,” said Afrim.

  “Which lake?” asked Tobias. As the words left his mouth the answer came into his head.

  Afrim spoke it. “The lake at Skovlynd,” he said.

  Friday: Week Three

  43.

  The draining of the lake on the ninth hole at Skovlynd Golf Course began just after sunrise. The manager, who lived in an apartment above the clubhouse, was wakened by Tobias and Eddy at five o’clock, minutes before the arrival of the crime investigation squad. He stood on the terrace in front of the eighteenth green from where he could see the lake on the ninth and the police vehicles driving over the fairway. He was horrified.

  “You’re going to drain the lake? We have a competition tomorrow,” he said. “You can’t close the course.”

  “You have human remains in your lake,” said Tobias.

  The manager was shocked into silence.

  “Were you here when they created the lake?” asked Tobias.

  The manager nodded. “It was the last thing they did,” he said. “It was just after I joined the company. I joined in August 1998. The lake was filled in September or October. I could tell you exactly by looking through the invoices.”

  “That would be helpful,” said Tobias. “Were the protests still going on?”

  “They were at it right up to opening day,” said the manager. “Then they sort of faded away. Battle lost, I suppose.”

  “When did you last drain the lake?”

  “July last year. We try to pick a dry spell in the summer, when the water level is low.” His looked and sounded unhappy. “I have to speak to my boss.” He moved away and spoke quietly into his mobile phone.

  Katrine arrived at the Thomsen’s house a few minutes before eight o’clock. She wanted to get there before Astrid Thomsen heard news reports about bones being found in the lake at Skovlynd. Before the inevitable speculation that they might be the bones of her missing daughter.

  She recognized Katrine immediately. Her face brightened. “You’re going to tell me where the emails were sent from. I know it. Have you found Emily? Come in.” She held the door open. They went into the wide hallway.

  “Is your husband at home?” asked Katrine. “It might be a good idea to get him.”

  Astrid’s Thomson’s face went white. “It’s bad news, isn’t it? You’ve come to tell me something bad. That’s why you want Marcus here. Tell me. Is she alive? That’s all I want to know. Is Emily alive?”

  Katrine was silent. She put out her hand tentatively.

  Astrid Thomsen uttered a high-pitched scream, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Katrine caught her as she crumpled.

  Marcus Thomsen came bounding down the stairs. “What’s happened? What have you said to her?”

  He took Astrid from Katrine and helped her into a chair. He stroked her hair with one hand and keyed a number into his phone with the other. “I’m calling a doctor.”

  “We’ve found remains in the lake at Skovlynd golf course,” said Katrine. “We think they could be the remains of your stepdaughter, Emily Rasmussen.”

  Astrid moaned again. Marcus continued to stroke her hair.

  “Are you sure? I will be extremely angry if you’ve come here and upset my wife over a case of mistaken identity. Emily has been sending emails. We’re sure she’s alive somewhere.”

  “We found a ring with the remains. We know it’s a ring Emily’s boyfriend, Lennart Praetorius, gave to her.”

  “She could have given the ring to someone else,” said Marcus.

  Astrid lifted her head. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s possible.”

  “The only way to be certain is to take a DNA sample from you for comparison,” said Katrine.

  “How long will it take to get a result,” asked Marcus.

  “Two or three days,” said Katrine. “Maybe less. I can take a sample now. It takes only a few seconds. I just need to brush a cotton bud on the inside of your cheek.”

  “Do it,” said Astrid. “But I still think Emily is alive. And I will go on thinking that until you prove to me that she’s dead.”

  The doorbell rang. Marcus Thomsen went to admit the doctor while Katr
ine took a buccal sample from Astrid, who was sitting up but was still deathly pale.

  While the doctor busied herself with Astrid, Marcus Thomsen walked with Katrine to the car.

  “I don’t want to believe the worst,” he said, “But if this is Emily, do you have any idea what happened? Did she drown?”

  Katrine hesitated. “There’s a crack in the skull,” she said. “The pathologist thinks it was caused by a blunt instrument. Whoever it is was killed by a person or persons unknown.”

  “Emily mixed with some unsavoury types,” said Marcus. “Anarchists. Anti-this and anti-that. Have you any suspects?”

  “Did Emily ever mention someone called Aksel Schmidt?”

  Marcus shook his head. “When my wife is strong enough, I’ll ask her if she’s heard of him. I’ll get in touch.” He shook hands with Katrine. “Good luck, Inspector.”

  44.

  Kurt Malling arrived at Skovlynd just before nine o’clock. The noise of his car door slamming reverberated around the concrete sides and bottom of the lake, now empty of water. Tobias, crouching near a crack in the concrete and clad, like the Forensic team, in blue protective clothing, knew it was Malling before he looked up and saw him standing behind the tape which encircled the lake and the white Forensic tent.

  Malling had his hand up, as though to call a halt. His mouth opened to speak but closed again as one of the forensic team walked past him carrying a clear plastic bag full of bones. Malling’s hand dropped. He looked shaken.

  Tobias acknowledged his presence with a nod and focused again on what Karl Lund was saying.

  “There was an earth tremor last year. In the early hours of the morning. It would have been enough to crack the concrete basin. Especially if there was already a weakness.”

  Tobias remembered someone telling him protesters had drilled into the concrete lining of the lake. Who had mentioned it? Nicholas Hove? Norbert?

  “My guess is the body was buried in a shallow grave before the concrete was poured,” said Karl. “With just enough soil to conceal it. When this crack occurred, the bones floated up. When did they last drain the lake?”