The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  ‘And Frode Otto is in charge of these ventures?’

  ‘Yes, he is. I focus exclusively on agriculture.’

  ‘So how about the accounts, paperwork, budgets, that kind of thing . . . would it be possible for us to have access to that information, possibly take copies of current and past records?’

  The Chamberlain smiled.

  ‘Of course, we have nothing to hide. But as for copying historic paperwork, that’s going to be a bit tricky.’

  Konrad Simonsen’s voice sharpened slightly.

  ‘Because?’

  The Chamberlain flung a gangly arm in the direction of the bookcases to his left with their rows of tightly crammed leather-bound books, most embossed in faded gold leaf with a year.

  ‘In here we keep the accounts for the second half of the eighteenth century. You can see the profits of the manor house itself and that from tenanted farms as well as forest fees, mill fees and tithes. All measured in bushels. But I’m afraid it will take time to copy that.’

  Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold intervened:

  ‘Stop it, Adam. You know perfectly well what he meant.’

  Konrad Simonsen’s mobile announced loudly that he had received a text message. The Countess frowned; he always turned off his mobile during interviews. She was even more surprised when he checked the message apologetically; it must be important. She took over the interview.

  ‘I regret our somewhat unfortunate choice of words. As I’m sure you can hear we’re novices when it comes to accounts. But we have colleagues who are experts in this area. If we ask a couple of our people to come out here, would you be willing to work with them?’

  The Chamberlain’s answer came without hesitation:

  ‘Absolutely! Like I said, there’s nothing here that can’t withstand scrutiny. Besides, most information is available online, if you have the right usernames and passwords, and your people can get those from me.’

  Konrad Simonsen handed his mobile to the Countess, so that she too could read his text message. It was from Pauline Berg.

  Madame says the girl was suspended naked from a tree. Head down and then she was beaten to death. Her clothes were burned in the forest. Madame is very sure of her vision.

  P.S. Her husband gives me the creeps!

  Despite the macabre contents, the Countess smiled broadly, while she shook her head in despair at her newly acquired husband. So Konrad Simonsen had decided to share one of his most sensitive contacts with Pauline Berg. ‘Madame’ was a clairvoyant who operated from her home in Høje Taastrup. The Countess herself had had the opportunity to meet her on only one occasion; otherwise she was the preserve of the Homicide chief himself, often without anyone else knowing that he had visited her, let alone what Madame had told him. But in this investigation Pauline Berg would appear to have been awarded that honour. You had to know Konrad Simonsen well to realise how significant a gesture it was, and yet at the same time, it was typical of him not to mention Pauline’s visit to the clairvoyant to the others in the car on the way here, but to let them tear strips off him instead. They had been unfair to him, she had to admit that now.

  When the Countess had read the text message, Konrad Simonsen asked:

  ‘Would you be willing to give me permission to undertake a more systematic search of Hanehoved Forest?’

  The Countess furrowed her brow. Normally Konrad Simonsen didn’t attach that much importance to Madame’s information. Adam Blixen-Agerskjold replied:

  ‘I’d be happy to. Do you mean the whole forest?’

  ‘Yes, all of it.’

  ‘May I ask what you’re looking for?’

  ‘The remains of a fire, possibly of clothing as well.’

  ‘The African woman’s clothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So her clothes were burned in the forest?’

  ‘They might have been, that’s what we hope to find out. My question is whether you’ll help us?’

  ‘Oh, I will. You’re welcome to use the manor house as your base, if that’s practical, and we can also provide you with a couple of volunteers, but that won’t get you very far, of course. When were you thinking of starting?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I soon will. It would be great to work from here; we don’t need any volunteers, but it was kind of you to offer.’

  They exchanged some practical information, and the officers thanked their hosts for the delicious cake and coffee before they left.

  CHAPTER 9

  Arne Pedersen and Klavs Arnold inspected Kolleløse Manor and its many outbuildings. They had no specific plan. Whenever they met one of the estate’s employees, they would greet them politely and exchange a few casual remarks with them, before strolling on. They hung around the holiday cottages for a while and peered through the windows, then they crossed a lawn diagonally and reached the estate’s stud stables, which were no longer in use, but were well tended with ochre-washed walls and small, black-painted metal windows. Klavs Arnold asked:

  ‘That email Simon circulated this morning . . . I mean, what a load of tosh! I tried my very best to understand it, but it makes no bloody sense.’

  ‘I wrote it for him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, you do? Then did you also know that I was ordered to write it?’

  ‘No, but what difference does that make? If there’s one thing I’ll never get used to, it’s these indirect ways of communicating, which you lot over here in the capital use. It would never have happened back home. There we call a spade a spade.’

  Back home was the town of Esbjerg. Arne Pedersen thought that it probably always would be for Klavs Arnold, no matter how long he lived in Copenhagen. He and his family had only moved to the capital because his wife had been elected to Folketinget, the Danish Parliament, and they were unlikely to stay, if and when she lost her seat. Arne Pedersen gave the young Jutlander a professorial reply.

  ‘That’s because where you come from, you make your living from fishing. It’s plain and simple: go to sea, catch the fish, go home, gut them, put them in the oven, get them into your stomach, and you’re sated and happy. Over here, however, we’re merchants, and that’s far more complicated; you often have to go the long way round to secure a good deal. This rubs off on our language; we’re more sophisticated, so to speak.’

  ‘If you ever come to Esbjerg, I’ll bloody well take you on a fishing boat where you can puke up your condescending remarks into the North Sea!’

  ‘Do you know, I’ve always wanted to do that . . . not puke, I mean, but go to sea in a fishing boat. Would you really be able to arrange that?’

  Klavs Arnold opened his mouth but didn’t reply. Arne Pedersen followed the direction in which he was looking. To their left a barn door stood open and a hen slipped out. Klavs Arnold said:

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Gallus gallus domesticus, also known as a hen. You ought to know that, you’re the country boy.’

  The hen started pecking in between the cobbles in the farmyard; every now and again it would squint suspiciously at the two officers, as if it knew they were talking about it. Klavs Arnold stayed put even when shortly afterwards the clucking bird waddled off. Suddenly Arne Pedersen could see it too – a brief, white flash of light coming from inside the barn. It lasted barely more than a few seconds, then it was gone. They entered.

  The interior was large, and there were agricultural machines everywhere, old and new together, tractors, a combine harvester, sprayers, and several vehicles whose function neither of the officers knew. To the left of the entrance was an old landau carriage; one wheel had been replaced by a wooden post, and decay had eaten its way well into the hood, which was cracked and overgrown with mould. Right next to it was a giant, modern plough, a red-and-green-painted monster with its numerous shiny shears retracted and pointing up at the ceiling.

  They zigzagged through the barn, Klavs Arnold leading, Arne Pedersen following a little hesitantly behind, not sure where his colleague was taking them. The
flashes of light grew brighter, and a strong smell of ozone found its way to the officers’ nostrils. At the back of the room a man stood welding at a small metal table. His face was covered by a helmet and an impressive breathing apparatus that culminated in a big, black hood, which reached down to his shoulders. The welder looked briefly at his uninvited guests, and made a point of carrying on with his work. The two officers watched him for a while, every now and again shielding their eyes or looking away from the bright, bluish light, until Klavs Arnold finally took a few steps forward and turned off the switch on the wall. The man tore off his strong work gloves and, with an irritated gesture, chucked them onto the metal table He pushed up his visor, squinted, took off his helmet and placed it on top of the gloves.

  ‘Frode Otto?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Klavs Arnold looked for his ID, but was interrupted.

  ‘Forget it, I know you’re cops. And yes, I’m Frode Otto.’

  He was a powerful man of about fifty, with heavy features and strong limbs, a body used to physical labour. His face was ruddy, his hair greying and tied together in an unflattering ponytail that flopped about his neck. His eyes were guarded and hostile. Klavs Arnold stared at Frode Otto’s hands: they were colossal, even for his size. Working hands, bent, impossible to open fully after decades of toil. His left little finger was missing the two top joints; there was no wedding ring on his ring finger. Klavs Arnold extended his hand but the man refused it with a grunt.

  ‘No, thanks, I don’t need your pleasantries. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll answer you as best as I can, and try to forget that you’ve probably asked me the same questions hundreds of times before.’

  Klavs Arnold pointed to the metal piece on the work table.

  ‘You’re a crap welder.’

  The Jutlander’s disarming tone of voice made the remark conversational, almost matey. Arne Pedersen smiled, he had seen this before. His partner had excellent people skills in his own down-to-earth fashion. All three men looked; the welding was indeed uneven and knobbly. Klavs Arnold added:

  ‘Though I don’t think I could have done a better job myself. It’s a lot harder than people think.’

  Frode Otto shrugged.

  ‘It’s not an altarpiece, it just needs to stick together, that’s all. But I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be leaving soon. But tell me, have they bothered you a lot, our people from Hillerød, since you’re so pissed off?’

  The man tilted his head from side to side as if to indicate that it hadn’t been that bad. Arne Pedersen broke into the conversation.

  ‘I can sort of see where you’re coming from. We have a bad habit of targeting people we’ve been in contact with before, if I can put it like that.’

  The placatory tone of voice succeeded, Frode Otto thawed, and soon they were chatting about this and that. But the mood changed in an instant when Konrad Simonsen and the Countess joined them.

  They appeared from behind a tractor, and the moment Frode Otto spotted them, his behaviour changed. At first he froze, almost as if scared, then he quickly slipped on his work gloves and rudely turned his back on the two new arrivals. He restored the power to his welding equipment and donned his helmet. Konrad Simonsen stood on the other side of the work table and watched the bailiff continuously until the dazzling welding light forced him to look away. The Countess decided it was time to go. She turned and left, and the others followed her.

  CHAPTER 10

  The poker lounge at Casino Hafnia was quivering with dense anticipation; the pot was tonight’s highest so far and the winner would become chip leader, securing for themselves the perfect start to reach the very top of the tournament.

  Jan Podowski watched the audience, whose attention was focused on the finale table. Those at the back had stood up, and only a few were following the game on the casino’s screens, which provided a far superior view; everyone wanted a glimpse of real-live action. Or nearly everyone. He noticed how the three models seized their chance for a brief respite, discarding their smiles and warming their naked shoulders by rubbing their palms up and down their bare skin. They were hired as living posters, almost sexless with their perfect bodies squeezed into flimsy silk dresses, one orange, one green and one red, the colours of Casino Hafnia, indifferent eye candy.

  He caught the eyes of Miss Orange, folded his arms across his chest and mimicked her movements, and she rewarded him with a small smile, a genuine one, probably the first since her arrival. The turn card was revealed and apprehension spread briefly throughout the room. He glanced casually up at the screen to his left: the ten of diamonds, which could mean anything. The camera then zoomed in on Benedikte Lerche-Larsen frozen in a pensive pose, one he knew she intended to maintain for what would seem to be an eternity, before she would go all in and lose the hand. It was time for her to pull out; after all, they hadn’t come here to win Casino Hafnia’s measly 50,000 kroner, though he was the only person in the room apart from her who knew that.

  She had played well tonight, most definitely, there could be no doubt that it was one of her finest performances. He already knew her betting style; she was firmly in the category tight-aggressive, playing only a few hands and then only when the odds were good. On average she joined in less than thirty per cent of the games, depending on the number of opponents. She was consistent in her raises and re-raises, both before and after the flop, once she got involved. But her strength was that every once in a while she would break her pattern and randomly launch into wild bluffs or semi-bluffs to steal the pot, in some instances two or even three games in a row. It made her unpredictable, hard to read, and matched perfectly her behaviour away from the poker table.

  Tonight her strategy had paid off, and she had gone all the way to the final. She had been lucky, of course, that was crucial; in poker luck always beat skill in the short term. Nevertheless, it was no coincidence that she was one of the four remaining players. Jan Podowski reminded himself to praise her when she joined him later, although she would undoubtedly dismiss his appreciation with her usual sarcasm – a form of self-defence she had practised for as long as he could remember, the result of a neglected childhood where nothing she did was ever good enough. It was a mystery why she hadn’t turned her back on her parents a long time ago; they had deserved that, as indeed had she. He thought that one day he would ask her. Then he knocked back the rest of his whisky and immediately needed another one.

  Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s deliberations were finally concluded. A restrained hush rippled through the lounge when she pushed all her chips into the pot. Her acne-scarred opponent was rewarded with a few seconds’ attention from the camera when, without hesitation, he called her. Both players showed their cards, while the television flashed the 2.1-million-kroner stake in the pot across the screen in exaggerated gold letters, Monopoly money with no link to reality. Jan Podowski noted to his satisfaction that she would most probably lose, only a six on the river card could save her, and only two of those were left. As an extra bonus her opponent would get a boost for the hands still to be dealt, which meant they would get the chance to study him further: it was nimbly done. The dealer prolonged the tension as was his job, before he turned over the seven of clubs with his card stick; Jan Podowski gestured to the waiter for another whisky.

  It was quite a while before Benedikte joined him; he was about to start looking for her when she showed up, looking surprisingly elated. She waltzed through the room like a queen. People stared after her as she smiled sweetly at everyone and looked absolutely incredible in the dim, yellow light, just as she had done in the sharp, white light over the poker table. A couple of camera flashlights immortalised her, and she turned up the charm an extra notch for the next shot. She was wearing a black skirt, which emphasised her curves as she walked, and a long cashmere cardigan in muted indigo, which matched the precious stones in her large gold earrings. She had left her red hair loose and her make-up was light. She held a s
ilver clutch from Chanel in one hand. Jan Podowski thought that she was becoming a familiar face among the poker players, and tonight could only add to her fame. He had heard whispers that she had even earned herself a nickname: they called her Ice Queen, nomenclature she would probably protest loudly against if she ever heard it, though you never could tell with her. She slipped elegantly into the chair next to him, but waited until her admirers had stopped gazing at her before she started talking. Then she nodded in the direction of his whisky glass.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘So you’re drunk – as usual. Well, I won’t be driving you home, or indeed anywhere else, you can take a cab.’

  Jan Podowski was known to keep his private life private; on those occasions when she had given him a lift, he had always demanded to be dropped off at Roskilde Station, then he could manage the rest of the way himself. He said, ‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own way home. Tell me, what was that performance all about? It’s not like you.’

  ‘I bumped into a girlfriend. She’s sitting at the bar making eyes at absolutely everybody. I decided to show her the difference between good and bad style. I can’t stand her.’

  ‘Why do you have friends you can’t stand?’

  ‘None of your business. Maybe because they’re the only friends I can be bothered with. Get me a pomegranate and elderflower soda with ice, and tell me what you think about that boy. Are we staying here or are we going home?’

  Jan Podowski snapped his fingers for the waiter, before answering pensively.

  ‘I think he has potential, but I’m not sure. His playing style is quite disjointed, so he’s hard to read. What do you think?’

  ‘The same as you: flaky, unschooled. On the other hand, he’s sharp as a pin, no doubt about it. But Svend has followed him online or we wouldn’t be sitting here. What does he say?’

  Svend was her father. It was only in recent years that she had started to refer to him by his first name, and it still grated on Jan Podowski’s ears when she did so. The habit revealed better than anything her distance from her father, and she knew it; indeed she probably enjoyed it and savoured the casual ease with which she uttered the name. As if he had never been known as anything else as far as she was concerned . . . It was borderline frightening. However, Jan Podowski had no particular desire to discuss his boss with her; it was a minefield.