The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  Bjarne Fabricius answered pensively:

  ‘Perhaps we should carry on this conversation another day when we have more time. It might be of mutual benefit.’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  She smiled slightly and caught his eye in a mischievous gaze, which he did not return.

  ‘Think of it like that if you wish. Is that a yes?’

  Her voice was cheeky:

  ‘What would your daughters say if you started dating someone their age?’

  The remark was an error, stupid and crass. Yet his reaction took her completely by surprise. He stepped forward and spun her around, brutally forced her arm behind her back and twisted it upwards, until she whimpered. He yanked her head back by the hair, so her right ear pressed against his mouth. He hissed in a low voice:

  ‘So you don’t like orchids?’

  Her response was more a sound than a ‘no’, his grip hurt. It got worse when he shoved her head in front of a random flower without releasing his hold on her arm. She gritted her teeth, but still emitted a short gasp of pain.

  ‘This is Cattleya “Barbara Belle”, and that one is . . .’

  He turned her head in a brusque jerk to the next flower.

  ‘. . . Paphiopedilum lathanianum. The species is easy to recognise from its lady slipper below.’

  Again he forced her ear close to his mouth. He snarled:

  ‘If you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll make you learn the names of every single flower in here, and those you get wrong, I’ll make you eat. And don’t think this is an empty threat, I mean it, quite literally. Do you understand?’

  He threw her forward without waiting for her answer. She tripped and scraped her knee against a terracotta pot. As if nothing had happened, he said:

  ‘Your father will struggle to keep both species alive in the same greenhouse. They demand different winter temperatures, but he’ll find that out for himself in due course. Why don’t we go down to the terrace? I think I’ve seen enough orchids for one day.’

  She got up. A drop of blood trickled down her shin; he offered her his handkerchief. The cut wasn’t bad. She wiped off the blood with a brusque movement and folded the handkerchief around the stain.

  ‘Five, Benedikte, no more than five.’

  He held up a hand with splayed fingers and his palm facing her.

  ‘Five hookers on the side for you and your mother. That’ll have to do. And if your father finds out, don’t you dare claim that I sanctioned your extra-curricular activities.’

  ‘He won’t, but five it is.’

  She placed the handkerchief in his hand and slowly closed his fingers around it.

  ‘So when will we meet?’

  He smiled icily and withdrew his hand.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  CHAPTER 13

  The terrace was Karina Larsen’s pride and joy. It was made up of an artful circle of Swedish granite cobblestones worn until they shone; every single stone had been carefully chosen and only the smoothest had found favour with their new owner. The rest had been returned to the supplier. It had cost a fortune, but that was nothing compared to the one-and-a-half-metre retaining wall built from medieval bricks, which Mrs Larsen personally, with much difficulty and by consistently evading conservation rules, had sourced from a dismantled cemetery wall on Falster. Now the regular black- and red-hued bricks, neatly reconstructed in a Gothic bond, shielded the house from the east wind.

  Jan Podowski leaned heavily on the wall. His gaze swept across the Øresund, which lay languid and shimmering beneath him with the blue-grey Swedish coastline on the far horizon. He felt unwell and wondered whether to sneak off for a swig of his usual medication, but decided against it. Today was not a day to risk excess alcohol consumption. Karina Larsen was sitting in an armchair with her back to him; even so it seemed she could read his thoughts when she said:

  ‘You’d better stay sober, Jan.’

  He made a half-hearted promise and thought that he could, not unreasonably, ask her to do the same. While they had been waiting, she had drunk two glasses of white wine and was halfway through her third, a clear sign that she was nervous. Another sign was the display of snacks; she had frantically ordered the maid around all morning. The result was the table in front of her, which was groaning with far too much food: tapas, French brie, chorizo, tapenade, Parma ham and melon, olives, grapes, marinated garlic and guacamole, which had to be made three times before she felt they had captured the original Mexican flavour she remembered from the twenty-four hours the cruise ship had docked in Veracruz. It had to be perfect, as always with Karina, and if she was aware that people laughed at her behind her back, she never let on.

  ‘There he is.’

  Her voice was excited and the information superfluous. You had to be blind not to see Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and Bjarne Fabricius stroll up the garden path. A little too intimate together, Jan Podowski thought, although he was unable to put his finger on the nature of that intimacy. Maybe it was all in his mind.

  Bjarne Fabricius pulled out a chair for Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and sat down next to her. Karina Larsen grabbed the white wine and asked nervously:

  ‘A glass, Bjarne? It’s a Christwein, the grapes were picked on Christmas Eve.’

  Benedikte Lerche-Larsen added:

  ‘By the mouths of blind Corsican nuns.’

  There was no humour in her voice, merely contempt for her mother’s snobbery. Bjarne Fabricius ignored her and politely declined the wine while praising the terrace and the food. Karina Larsen beamed. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen sulked and poured herself a glass, then flung out her arm to indicate the impressive garden and said:

  ‘And to think that all this started with just one hooker and one gambler.’

  Jan Podowski hushed her.

  ‘Give it a rest, Benedikte. What would you like to drink, Bjarne?’

  ‘Some iced tea, if you have it, would be great. If not, then a glass of water.’

  He pointed to the carafe, but Karina Larsen wouldn’t hear of it. She chirped on.

  ‘Yes, of course we have iced tea. I’m sure we do. Don’t we, Jan?’

  Jan Podowski got up wearily, took a step backwards, then sat down with a bump. He had had cirrhosis of the liver for years caused by his excessive alcohol intake, and his doctor had told him over and over that he had to quit drinking if he wanted to live. And on this lovely April day in Rungsted his doctor was finally proved right.

  A varicose vein burst in his throat, haematemesis, the doctor would have called it, or a haemorrhage as it was more commonly known. Bloody vomit projected from him and across the table displaying the hostess’s munificent light lunch. Then he flopped sideways and collapsed heavily onto the ground. Karina Larsen screamed, long hysterical squeals, with her glass in one hand and the other pressed against her temple. Bjarne Fabricius rolled the sick man onto his side and called 112 from his mobile. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen threw her white wine at her mother’s face, then squatted down on her haunches and held Jan Podowski’s head.

  By then he was already dead.

  CHAPTER 14

  The National Police Commissioner was speaking. He had been doing so for almost fifteen minutes, but without anyone understanding a single word.

  The Homicide Department – along with everyone else from Police Headquarters – were on a course to learn how to implement the new values of the police force. The course was mandatory and it was essential that everyone participated. For months senior police officers and a firm of consultants had worked to identify the five adjectives that from now on would be the lodestars for every single officer across the country, and today these adjectives would be unveiled. Tivoli Congress Centre had been booked, no one could excuse themself, the new values applied to everyone, and at the end of the course every single employee would be given a coffee mug listing those five values. It was time-wasting on a monumental scale.

  Konrad Simonsen sighed, then elbowed Klavs Arnold, who was sitting
on the chair next to him, fast asleep. The Jutlander woke up, squinted and started clapping loudly and noisily with his big hands. A few people around the room followed suit, but not when he stood up and continued his applause, now with his hands raised above his head. Konrad Simonsen yanked him back down.

  ‘Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you up when they have a break. Or if you start snoring again.’

  Later that afternoon every imaginable word about the police force’s new values had been uttered so many times that even the dimmest line manager couldn’t think of anything to add. This was followed by sessions where smaller groups of participants would offer their take on what those values meant to them personally in their daily work. Konrad Simonsen, Arne Pedersen and Klavs Arnold gathered in meeting room 22a, where coffee and cake had been set out, and where a list of forty questions – purely for inspiration, if they couldn’t come up with anything themselves – were waiting for them. They were surprised to see each other because all the other groups were bigger and made up of staff taken randomly from across departments. Arne Pedersen was impressed.

  ‘How on earth did you wangle that, Simon?’

  Konrad Simonsen looked baffled, he hadn’t wangled anything. The explanation arrived soon afterwards when the Countess joined them.

  ‘I fixed it so we could spend at least some of today being productive. I presume we’re dropping the official agenda?’

  She looked at Konrad Simonsen, but it was Klavs Arnold who replied:

  ‘We are, or I’m going home. I simply can’t handle any more waffle.’

  Arne Pedersen grinned. ‘You’ll forfeit your mug. But tell me, where is Pauline?’

  Konrad Simonsen took a small piece of cake and informed him gravely:

  ‘She let fly at one of the consultants during lunch, and then she stormed off. I caught her in the car park. She was going to go to Frederiksværk, but I talked out of it by promising that one of us will go there with her next weekend.’

  Klavs Arnold volunteered, which was surprising. Of all of them he knew her the least well.

  ‘If we can make it the Saturday, then all right. I’m presuming it’s the case you call the “Juli-non-case” she wants to investigate.’

  Konrad Simonsen nodded, and the Jutlander added:

  ‘I had a mate who was in Afghanistan. He came home with PTSD, so I know why she suffers from uncontrollable outbursts of crying, anxiety attacks and outbreaks of rage.’

  The Countess mimicked his tone of voice:

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  Klavs Arnold continued:

  ‘If we reject her, she has nothing left. We’re the ones who have to shoulder the heavy load, that’s just how it is. But let’s do something worthwhile now, I’m in need of that.’

  Konrad Simonsen stood next to the whiteboard with a marker pen in his hand, ready to brainstorm the ‘nignog’ investigation, as he must remember never, ever to refer to it.

  ‘What angles have we got? Let’s list them and discuss them individually.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t take us long,’ Arne Pedersen quipped.

  ‘Would you rather be discussing values?’

  No one wanted to do that, and they agreed on three strategies: A thorough search of Hanehoved Forest, Potential witnesses and the estate bailiff at Kolleløse Manor, Frode Otto. Konrad Simonsen numbered the three points, and underlined each with a red dry-wipe marker pen. Then he put the cap back on the pen, tossed it onto a table next to the whiteboard and said what everyone was thinking:

  ‘That’s pathetic.’

  ‘As far as the lake is concerned,’ the Countess remarked, ‘we’ll just have to wait and see. We can always hope that we find her clothes, but I don’t suppose we’ll get that lucky. We have to assume that the killer or killers removed them and disposed of them later. Doing anything else would be almost too idiotic. But, like I said, we’ll know more next week.’

  Konrad Simonsen added:

  ‘As you know, I’m in charge of organising the search, and it’s going to be a major operation. There’ll be about a hundred men from the Territorial Army, and we’re doing it over three days. But you’re right, Countess, the likelihood of us finding anything interesting isn’t great. However, it’s worth a try. Besides, it’s no secret that this is also about us showing initiative for the benefit of the top brass. And ideally an initiative that will earn us press coverage. That’s the reality of the situation. Unfortunately.’

  The Homicide chief’s closest staff accepted these facts, before Arne Pedersen speculated for five minutes on the next item: the witnesses. He had nothing new to add, and was mainly speaking because he thought it was his turn. He summarised what everyone knew, which was that any potential witnesses would be found amongst hunters and ornithologists, and that option had long since been explored to no avail. But Konrad Simonsen could add something that wasn’t entirely pointless.

  ‘I would like one of you to check members of all registered hunting or ornithology clubs on Sjælland, to see if one of them had a female African member in 2008 who isn’t a member today. It should have been done before, but as far as I can see from the file it hasn’t happened. Would that be something for you, Klavs?’

  Klavs Arnold accepted. It reeked of two dull, fruitless days spent on the phone, but he agreed with his boss that it was worth a shot.

  All that remained was Frode Otto, the estate bailiff, who had reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp when he saw Konrad Simonsen. This was undoubtedly the Homicide Department’s most interesting lead, despite the fact that absolutely nothing linked Otto to the murder of the woman. Their interest was purely sparked by his strangely negative reaction to the sight of Konrad Simonsen, which must have some grounds, although the Countess, who was allocated that job, couldn’t contribute anything new.

  ‘Together with a few colleagues, I’ve reviewed every single investigation in which Simon has been involved since he started working in the Homicide Department. We haven’t quite finished yet but almost, and I’m afraid that so far we haven’t come across the name Frode Otto.’

  Nor did Konrad Simonsen himself have any suggestions that might explain the estate bailiff’s behaviour.

  ‘I’m almost certain I haven’t met him before. It’s rare for me to forget a face, and . . . yes, as I said, I don’t know Frode Otto.’

  Arne Pedersen said tentatively:

  ‘Perhaps we should try a reconstruction of the episode? We have plenty of time, and we might have overlooked something. Another idea would be to call and ask Frode Otto himself. There might be a natural explanation, we can’t rule that out.’

  They opted for a reconstruction. Tables and chairs were reorganised based on the surprisingly accurate sketch Arne Pedersen drew on the whiteboard. Klavs Arnold played Frode Otto, Arne Pedersen talked them through the incident.

  ‘Klavs and I are talking to him. At that point he has mellowed and our conversation is almost pleasant. Then you appear from behind some agricultural machinery . . . we haven’t heard you arrive.’

  Konrad Simonsen walked up to the table representing the agricultural machine, but the Countess didn’t follow him; instead she interrupted the Jutlander.

  ‘Maybe he was reacting to me.’

  The three men were enthusiastic; there was good reasoning in that observation.

  ‘However, I don’t fancy reading through all my own cases. They bring back memories I could really do without.’

  Arne Pedersen volunteered to take charge of the review, and the reconstruction continued. Klavs Arnold said:

  ‘The moment he spots you, he turns and switches on the power for the welding apparatus. Or, no, hang on . . . the first thing he does is put on his welding gloves. Then he turns on the power, then he puts on his helmet and lowers the visor.’

  Klavs Arnold mimicked Frode Otto’s actions as accurately as he could. He looked ridiculous, but no one laughed. Konrad Simonsen said thoughtfully:

  ‘If he didn’t want the Countess
or me to recognise him, why on earth didn’t he put his helmet on first? That would have made more sense. But he put on his gloves instead.’

  ‘Because he didn’t want you to see that he only has nine fingers. That’s why.’

  It was Arne Pedersen who spotted the logic. Konrad Simonsen nodded his approval.

  ‘You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that. But why does it matter to him? As far as I remember, I’ve never . . .’

  The Countess interrupted again:

  ‘Is he missing his left little finger?’

  Arne Pedersen and Klavs Arnold nodded and the Countess continued in a grave tone:

  ‘Nordjylland, the summer of 1992, sexual assault on a fifteen-year-old German girl. It was unusually violent and cruel, undoubtedly one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. We worked like maniacs for several months, but we never found the perpetrator.’

  Konrad Simonsen asked her:

  ‘But you had his fingerprints, I gather?’

  ‘Yes and no, sadly. We had nine distinct bruises on the girl’s buttocks and hips from nine fingers pinning her down.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Hanehoved Forest was searched with military precision.

  The logistics were undertaken by the Territorial Army, along with nine dogs and their handlers on loan from Hillerød police. In a long row, with each man roughly four metres apart from the next, they moved slowly through one section of the forest after another. The dogs ran on ahead in high spirits, enjoying their work. The men followed behind attentively, everyone using a stick to turn over branches or plants.

  The organisation was skilfully handled by a middle-aged platoon commander, who seemed able to be in several places at once. Every time an area had been examined, he carefully crossed it off his map, rearranged his men and ordered them to start on the next section. During breaks he was taciturn and stayed on the fringes of the group, often sitting up against a tree trunk reading a book. Konrad Simonsen thought he was worth his weight in gold. It meant he himself was freed from the practical responsibility of leading the operation, a task the Homicide chief was only too pleased to delegate when it was handled as competently as it was now. So instead of leading from the front, Simonsen plodded behind the column, enjoying the walk. For two of the days he walked alongside Adam Blixen-Agerskjold, who thought it only natural that he was present, though he had no specific role to play. As far as Konrad Simonsen could gauge, it was a matter of honour for the Chamberlain. A young woman had been found dead on his land, and the least he could do was take an interest. Besides, Adam Blixen-Agerskjold had personally paid for sandwiches for the men during the lunch break on every single day of the three-day operation, plus a cold beer at the end of the working day for anyone who fancied one.