The Girl without Skin

by Mads Peder Nordbo

  ‘You’re only a secretary,’ Storm sneered. ‘So perhaps you should let us do our job—especially if you want to keep your own.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Benno grunted with resignation as he stepped in front of Storm and felt Lisbeth’s blow hit his chest with full force. For a moment he was winded, but he kept his gaze fixed on the irate woman’s eyes. ‘That’s enough for now,’ he said with a quick nod, then he turned around, grabbed Storm by the arm and dragged him into the office.

  Lisbeth could hear Storm complaining bitterly, but she could also hear Benno, who, in an even louder voice, shouted, ‘Just shut your mouth!’

  She waited to make sure that the two men were not coming back, then rushed to Mortensen’s office, where she knocked while pushing open the door without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Mrs Ludvigsen,’ the small man exclaimed in surprise. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘I apologise, sir,’ she said, her voice trembling. Lisbeth was so angry that the words got stuck in her throat. ‘But Benno and Storm have just terrified a little girl who is already utterly broken. What the hell is it that you men don’t understand about girls and women who have been destroyed by men? Do you think we just wake up the morning after we’ve been raped and everything is fine? Can you really not imagine that it hurts forever, and we’re eaten up by anguish and grief every hour of the day and night?’

  Mortensen stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and rubbed his pale chin. ‘I know what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But we must never let personal feelings cloud our objectivity as law enforcement officers.’

  ‘We’re talking about a little girl. A child!’ Lisbeth threw up her hands. ‘There’s nothing objective about that. She needs love, and your men are stomping all over her like a herd of elephants.’

  ‘I was referring to the objectivity between you and Pedersen,’ Mortensen said. ‘We couldn’t leave the girl with him—it wasn’t lawful. And being a police officer, he should have known better. Besides, the whole investigation has taken a very unfortunate turn for Pedersen, and the worst-case scenario is that the girl might have been staying with her parents’ killer. So you see, we had absolutely no choice other than to pick her up. You have to understand that. I promise to have a word with Benno and Storm, so we can establish whether they acted in accordance with procedure.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, forcing herself to stay in control. ‘I would appreciate that.’

  He nodded with a dry smile. ‘Is there anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘Yes…I’ll take the girl back to my place now. She needs a bath, clean clothes and some TLC. If you try to stop me, I’ll go straight to the papers with everything I know. And the same applies if you sack me.’

  Mortensen drummed his fingers on a small brown notebook that lay on the desk in front of him. ‘You don’t scare easily,’ he said with a nod. ‘I like that.’

  49

  The smoke from Mortensen’s cigars was so thick that Jakob couldn’t remember the stench in the small office ever being worse. There were three half-smoked cigars in the ashtray and one dangling between Mortensen’s yellow fingers. Around the ashtray were stacks of files, loose sheets of paper, newspapers, a few pots with pens and an old, grey typewriter. Jakob’s notebook lay in the centre of the ash-stained green blotting pad. Mortensen’s fingers rested on the closed cover.

  ‘Pedersen, Pedersen,’ his boss sighed behind the grey and yellow fog. ‘What the hell am I supposed to make of all this?’ He aimed two probing eyes at Jakob.

  Jakob shrugged.

  ‘Yes, I took the liberty of flicking through your notebook, seeing as it was lying around here at the office. I had started to realise that it might be worth having a look at it.’

  He paused again to allow for objections, but Jakob remained silent.

  ‘It contains four names,’ Mortensen sighed. ‘You wrote down four names. Yes, I acknowledge that there are many other names on your lists, but you have identified these four men as being particularly evil. Four men who are now all dead.’ He turned his head slightly, without taking his eyes off Jakob. ‘We can agree on that, can’t we?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That it’s your notebook, and that you appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner of these four men.’

  ‘That they are four men who repeatedly raped their own daughters—yes, on that we can agree.’

  ‘And you wrote the list, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s in my notebook, yes.’ Jakob looked down and adjusted his shirt nervously. ‘But listen—’

  ‘And you stated publicly that you would be willing to kill Anguteeraq Poulsen,’ Mortensen cut him off. ‘And in secret and against my express orders, you took in his daughter the night before her parents’ murder—am I right?’

  ‘Her name is Paneeraq.’ Jakob looked up at Mortensen again. ‘What have you done to her?’

  Mortensen rubbed his septum. ‘The air is so bloody dry up here.’

  ‘Where’s Paneeraq?’

  ‘She’s in safe hands now.’

  ‘Not if she’s in this building,’ Jakob snapped. ‘This whole town is rotten to the core.’

  ‘Pedersen…’ Mortensen summoned his attention. ‘She’s in safe hands, trust me. She has no family left, but I can promise you that she’s safe. I can’t tell you where she is, obviously, as we don’t want you running straight over there. You’ve become obsessed with this case.’ He cleared his throat and hawked violently. Drummed his fingers on the notebook a few times. ‘This reads like the work of a madman. Not a police officer.’ He looked up. ‘What the hell is this? Poetry and conspiracies all muddled together? What has got into you? Has the darkness finally pushed you over the edge? We have four flayed bodies, but you’re busy philosophising about the taste of the ice cap and conspiring against our leading civil servants.’

  ‘Those notes are private,’ Jakob said. ‘Surely the only madness is that I predicted who was going to die, and as I still believe the deaths are related to the sexual abuse of children, then I was also right about the four men being the worst offenders in this town.’ He flung out his arms. ‘I’ve nothing to do with the murders themselves, obviously. Do you want me to come up with an alibi for the nights of the murders—is that what you’re saying? Now that would be truly mad. And since when is it illegal to write poetry and to love nature, or is that the preserve of murderers? I don’t know what it’s like back in Horsens, but where I come from we still have free speech.’

  ‘I happen to be from Stensballe, not Horsens, not that it matters.’ Mortensen nudged the brown notebook. ‘And the jigsaw puzzle piece? What about that? A signature? You know how this works. No serial killer ever wants to get away with his crimes—deep down he’s desperate for the world to admire his work. Am I right?’

  ‘I agree, but that knowledge doesn’t turn you or me into a serial killer. And as far as the puzzle piece goes, I’ve no idea how it ended up on the deceased.’

  ‘The deceased? You mean Anguteeraq Poulsen? That’s true. Now, what did you say again? That you would bloody well kill him and gut him yourself?’

  ‘For God’s sake, sir. We had just left the apartment. The girl could barely walk. He…he had just…Karlo was angry too. Men like Anguteeraq Poulsen shouldn’t get away with destroying children. Surely you agree?’

  ‘Of course, Pedersen, but it’s something we have to let the law deal with. Our job is solely to collect the evidence, if there is any.’

  ‘Also to prevent crime, surely,’ Jakob objected angrily.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, but did you see a crime in progress while you were there? Did anyone report anything? How about witnesses?’

  ‘I knew he had raped her! I could tell from all their faces. From their eyes. The way she walked and her body language towards her father. She hurt all over. They were covering it up.’

  ‘But has anyone reported it? Where’s the evidence? There might be another explanation, don’t you think?’
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  ‘Everyone is too bloody scared to speak out,’ Jakob yelled. ‘And even if they do, who will help them? The kids are simply sent back to their families. For God’s sake, we need to protect those children.’

  ‘And who will protect men against false accusations, if we start acting purely on a hunch?’

  ‘Men? Protect men?’ Jakob stared at the chief of police in disbelief. ‘The men…they—’

  ‘Deserve to die?’ Mortensen completed Jakob’s sentence.

  Jakob looked at the floor. ‘To hell with the men. We ought to be protecting the girls.’

  ‘Work with me here, Pedersen. You have this bizarre notebook where you’ve written down the names of four men—before they were killed. You have publicly expressed a desire to kill one of them. You removed that man’s daughter from her home shortly before he was killed. And a piece from your jigsaw puzzle was found on the dead man’s forehead.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Can you see where I’m going with this, Pedersen? We have, as far as I’m aware, at no point had another suspect under consideration, but if you look objectively at the facts I’ve just listed, what would you call the man hiding behind them?’

  ‘I do have some suspects now,’ Jakob remarked dryly.

  ‘I would call such a man a suspect,’ Mortensen continued, pushing his own argument. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Jakob shook his head. ‘I had a visit last night. Actually, “intruders” would be more accurate. Jørgen Emil Lyberth and Kjeld Abelsen. They forced their way into my house, along with a strong, ruddy-looking man from the Faroe Islands.’

  Mortensen frowned and picked up a cigar stump. ‘Are you still going on about that? Didn’t I say I wanted to hear nothing more about it?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, you need to let me speak, because all these events are connected.’

  ‘Very well—get it off your chest, then.’

  ‘Like I said, they entered my home last night, and they brought this big, red-haired man with them. They threatened me, told me to abandon my investigation into the children, and said I should charge an innocent man with the murders. They told me to arrest Thomas Olesen from Block 16 today. After the fourth murder, that is, but at the time they were probably the only ones who knew that a fourth murder had been committed.’

  ‘Pedersen, why would Jørgen Emil Lyberth and Kjeld Abelsen threaten you and have a random man go to jail for murders he has nothing to do with?’

  ‘Because they have something to do with the murders. The man with the red hair ripped up my shirt and pressed a knife against my chest, while Abelsen told me that I could easily end up gutted as well.’ ‘Tell me why, Pedersen. Why would Lyberth and Abelsen want all these men killed? Yes, and on top of that, why would they threaten you, a police officer, with your life, unless you agreed to close the case?’ He shook his head. ‘I simply don’t see the logic, my good man.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jakob heaved a sigh and his shoulders slumped. ‘I think they’re involved in the assaults on the children. Perhaps they take part. Perhaps they establish contact with the fathers, who then hire out their daughters to high-ranking politicians or civil servants from Denmark. Perhaps the four men got greedy and wanted more money for their silence. Paneeraq mentioned that Lyberth and Abelsen had previously been to her parents’ apartment together with an older Danish man, and that this man was addressed as “Minister”.’

  ‘And did she say exactly what had happened?’

  Jakob shook his head slowly. ‘She’s only eleven years old.’

  Mortensen slammed both palms against his desk and drummed his fingers. ‘I’m not about to accuse two prominent citizens and the Minister for Greenland of murder and sexual assault just on your say-so. We work with evidence here, and if I’ve understood you correctly, you have nothing to support your accusations. Nothing. I wouldn’t even go to the trouble of telephoning them.’

  ‘I have another witness.’ Jakob stumbled over his words. ‘A woman who saw, among others, Lyberth and the man from the Faroe Islands near Ari Rossing Lynge’s place on the night that Lynge was killed and Najak disappeared. She saw them out in the street and heard them argue upstairs. I believe…I have reason to believe that she heard the murder itself.’

  ‘So she saw these people through a window at night when it was dark and it was snowing, and heard something through the ceiling?’ Mortensen held up a hand in order to stop further protest. ‘It won’t stand up—not without evidence, Jakob. And even if your crazy theories are right, you’re still not in the clear. I have your notebook here, you’ve made threats in public, and you made sure that the girl was out of the apartment on the night of her parents’ murder. So…I’m suspending you for now. I need you to hand in your warrant card and your key to the police station immediately. I’ll try to get a handle on what’s going on today. There’s going to be one hell of an outcry from the powers that be.’

  Jakob removed a key from his key ring, and tossed it and his warrant card onto the desk next to his notebook. ‘You can all go to hell.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. We’ll get there eventually.’ Mortensen picked up Jakob’s warrant card. ‘Please go home and stay there until further notice. That’s all for now.’

  Jakob stopped halfway to the door. He was seething with rage. ‘Najak may still be alive!’

  ‘We all hope that,’ Mortensen grunted, and looked up at him. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘There are some films where I think you can see her.’

  ‘Films? Here in Godthåb?’

  Jakob nodded. ‘I think they were recorded at the location where she’s being held…by Abelsen or the Faroese.’

  Mortensen shook his head and stood up with effort. ‘That’s the final straw, Pedersen. You bring me your films—if they really exist, that is—and then stay the hell away. You’re suspended no matter what, and it won’t help your case if you have evidence lying around at your house.’

  Jakob stared at the floor.

  ‘Now get out of here,’ Mortensen shouted. ‘Get out of here before I tell your colleagues to walk you home and tear your house apart.’

  50

  The snow was several metres high along the roads, so few rocks managed to peek out from underneath the glittering carpet. The moonlight bounced back from it, making the earth look as if it were bathed in phosphorescence. The wind had suddenly died down so even the tiniest movement could be heard from afar. It was only six o’clock in the evening, but the sky over the city was already black and infinitely deep. Millions of stars sparkled over Jakob’s head, and even more crystals under his feet. The cold bit at his nostrils and throat; it felt like it was minus fifteen Celsius already. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It stung, and the hairs in his nostrils froze instantly.

  The houses lay scattered along the road, and light shone from the small windows. Except for his own house, which was just as dark as the sky. The moment he had thrown his warrant card on Mortensen’s desk, he had known that his days in that house were numbered, but he didn’t mind. It was never his home. Two people had once lived there, and they had died together and left everything as it was. A mausoleum. He had merely borrowed it. Now it would be passed on to the next person. He was moving on.

  From a distance of several houses, he had seen that his front door was ajar, and as he took the last few steps across the snow towards the building he realised that the door had been forced. It was ripped from its frame, and the wood around the lock was splintered.

  He had known that the house would be empty. As the day had dragged him deeper and deeper into a bottomless void, he had realised that he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Paneeraq to come back and take care of her. She had been removed by force, and the thought of how that must have been for her was unbearable. He had no idea where the child was now, or if he would ever see her again.

  Jakob pushed open the front door and entered the hall, where he picked up a small plastic bag from the floor—another reel of film. He closed the door
as best he could, and continued into the living room.

  The coffee table had been upended, and pretty much his whole rock collection lay scattered in a crescent shape on the grey rug beside it. He touched the table. There had never been a single scratch in its glossy wood, but now the veneer was crisscrossed with fine lines and dots. His hand continued across the rug and brushed a couple of rocks. Behind the coffee table a section of the rug pile had been squashed down, and in the middle of the flat area was a wet patch.

  He hooked up the new film in the projector and fed it through the machine. The beam of light revealed dust motes dancing in the air. The square on the wall flickered. She was still in the container. Curled up in her corner. But even in the brief flashes of light, he soon realised that her condition had deteriorated. Her hair was unkempt. Dirtier. Matted. She wasn’t wearing any tights. No dress. No underwear. Only the jacket, which she had wrapped tightly around herself. Her body was trembling. Twitching. Light turned to darkness. Then it exploded again in life. Her bare legs were soiled. Filthy. The light and the dark no longer affected her closed eyelids. Her hands were pressed against her mouth and nose. There were trails of several layers of dried tears in the grime on her cheeks.

  She sat like that, completely still. Jakob lost track of time. He just waited. There had been a new note with the film. Last warning, Jakob. Close the case. She dies tomorrow. Jakob stared at the girl in the darkness and the light. Suddenly a shadow appeared and slipped in front of everything. Without the camera moving. It was a tall, thin man. Black hair. Wearing a long, dark coat. He was pale and stern, although his face was seen only in profile for a brief moment. He threw a blanket over Najak, but she didn’t stir or open her eyes.

  The film ran out. The camera hadn’t moved. Nor did it have to. The man who had appeared had answered all Jakob’s questions.

  His temples were throbbing. ‘She’s only eleven years old,’ he screamed into the air. He stared at the projector and shook his head. Then he looked at the wall clock near the kitchen. It was just past eight o’clock. ‘Shit!’