by Lotte Hammer
‘There’s another explanation, Henrik. I can feel it. And don’t blame yourself, it has happened before; it can be like this the first time between me and some men. Usually the ones who really care about me.’
He made no reply, and she continued speaking.
‘When I was four or five years old, my father played a game with me. He lifted me up on our dining table and stood a short distance away, holding out his arms towards me. Then he told me to jump. He said he would definitely catch me, that there was nothing to be scared of, that he would take care of me. It was dangerous, it was a long way down, but eventually . . .’
He could feel her body tense and when the pause grew too long, asked cautiously:
‘And what happened, did you jump?’
‘Never trust anyone, Benedikte, no matter who it is. That’s what he told me when I’d stopped crying. And he made me repeat it. Never trust anyone, no matter who it is. The next time it took even more persuasion before I decided that today must be a special day and he would catch me, as he’d promised. But I learned my lesson eventually. No matter what he tried to make me believe, I wouldn’t jump. My mother praised me to the skies, he didn’t.’
‘What an arsehole! Are you scared of him?’
‘Only in my dreams.’
There was another long silence, then she spoke again.
‘I’m at one of those old-fashioned inns you find in the forest. People are sitting outdoors on benches enjoying the fine weather. Ordinary people, mostly peasants with their well-behaved children, boys in sailor suits, girls with red ribbons in their pigtails. The tables are decorated with simple blue-and-white gingham tablecloths, strings of coloured lights have been trailed across the yard for the evening and, outside the picket fence, a cart drawn by two shire horses rolls down the road. A black dog wags its tail. Everyone is having a nice time . . . the locals drink beer from large tankards, a couple of foreign tourists, who don’t really fit in, drink wine.’
‘You really remember your dreams, I’m impressed.’
‘I’ve dreamed it many times and the start is always the best. A young man gets up to sing. He looks so blond and so right in his light-coloured cotton shirt, his leather belt tight around his waist, such white teeth . . . and he has a black scout scarf around his neck. His voice is loud and clear, he’s singing from memory and it’s as if he sings only to me, a wonderful, uplifting song about the future. And then this amazing thing happens – everyone is carried away by the situation, young and old, and one by one they stand up until everyone is singing in unison. Me too, I’m one of the first voices to join in. Now we’re one big community. Even the stern-looking woman by my side, wearing a royal blue jacket and skirt and matching hat, has surrendered. Only an old, decrepit worker with glasses and wrinkles stays sitting down. It doesn’t matter, he can barely raise his own tankard, we don’t need him. The boy salutes his audience politely, as he sings the last notes, and people salute him back. I have a wonderful sense of calm all over, I believe that tomorrow belongs to me and everything looks bright.’
‘That sounds like a nice dream, I wouldn’t mind dreaming that.’
‘It is a nice dream, until my father arrives, and he does that now. Suddenly, just as I’m feeling really good about everything, he arrives. In a terrifying disguise, his face made up all white with black eyebrows that end in a pointed triangle as though he has horns. Half devil and half clown. I hate clowns, you know. And he just sits there, smiling diabolically at me because he knows . . . he knows that I will fall and hurt myself. All my joy disappears, and my knees and elbows ache.’
Henrik Krag pushed himself up onto one elbow next to her.
‘Is that why you’re so toxic sometimes?’
‘What do you mean? Am I?’
She sounded genuinely astonished.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think I can bear to be betrayed. Jan told me so, and he has known me ever since I was a little girl. I think he was right.’
‘Jan Podowski?’
‘The very same.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘I do sometimes. It’s strange, him not being here. Wrong, almost.’
‘I won’t ever let you down.’
‘Promise me.’
He repeated it.
The tears were rolling down her cheeks. One dripped from her chin and landed on Henrik Krag’s hand. He sat up and carefully kissed her eyelids, first one, then her nose, then the other eyelid. She tasted of salt, expensive perfumed salt. Then he held her tight, and almost started crying himself, even though the whole thing was ridiculous.
CHAPTER 51
‘We can’t ostracise people with mental-health issues from society, just because it’s more convenient for the rest of us. And I’m glad that senior management has taken the position it has. You and Simon can throw all your toys out of the pram, it won’t make any difference, Pauline stays where she is. And thank God for that.’
The Countess emphasised her statement by hitting both palms lightly against the steering wheel, glancing sideways at Arne Pedersen, who was in the passenger seat. They had been bickering for most of the trip, not seriously, but enough for the mood between them to be strained. As usual the bone of contention was Pauline Berg. Arne Pedersen ended their discussion.
‘I think we’re nearly there.’
And indeed they were. Over the hill ahead they got an excellent view of their destination. The village of Karlslille consisted of eleven houses around a pond. In sunny weather it would probably be deemed scenic. At this very moment, however, it looked grim. Drizzle fell from a depressing grey sky.
At the bottom of the hill, the Countess turned right soon after the road sign bearing the name of the village, and shortly afterwards took another right before parking in front of a two-storey house, set back a little from the road. It was the former village school, red-brick, with ‘1903’ carved in relief over the front door. The Countess got out of the car and surveyed the building. It had a dark grey slate roof. Ivy scaled the drainpipe on the gable end and reached across the gutter. From where she was standing, the back garden was, as far as she could see, very small compared to the size of the house, and enclosed by a sturdy fence. Arne Pedersen urged her on with a curt, ‘Are you coming?’ So she stayed a little longer than necessary to remind him that she wasn’t someone you could boss around.
The woman who opened the door was beautiful. She was slim and of medium height, with a face that evoked ancient Greek statues. Her silver hair reached her shoulders and billowed around her. Her age was difficult to determine. The Countess guessed her to be around fifty, but she could be older. It took a few seconds for the officers to notice the milky membrane across her eyes. She was blind.
‘Who is it?’
The voice was dark, a little rough and very obliging, and Arne Pedersen had time to think how remarkable that was, given her vulnerability, when another face appeared in the doorway. Both officers immediately took a step back, it was impossible not to.
The dog was enormous; it watched the officers with its heavy-lidded eyes, neither aggressive nor friendly.
The Countess introduced them.
‘Are you Silje Esper?’
The woman confirmed this and agreed to talk to them, without however initially inviting them in.
‘Do you have any ID? I would like to see that, please.’
She used the word ‘see’, and held out her hand. The Countess found her badge and a business card, which she placed in the woman’s hand. She ran her fingertips over them and took her time, before returning the items.
‘I’ve forgotten my ID. I apologise,’ said Arne Pedersen.
The woman gave them a beautiful smile; it didn’t matter, one badge would suffice. Then she opened the door and uttered a short and commanding stay to the dog. It instantly changed its demeanour and wagged its tail.
‘Don’t be scared of Mads, he won’t hurt you. If he nudges you, just swat him across his nose.’
The
y followed her through a utility room and a kitchen-diner. Mads followed last and did indeed nudge Arne Pedersen in the back a couple of times. Or between my shoulder blades, as he would later tell it when they returned to the Homicide Department, but that really was an exaggeration. Even so, he felt no urge to swat Mads as the dog’s owner had invited him to.
They entered the living room where Silje Esper offered them the sofa, while she herself sat down in an armchair opposite them. Mads settled down in a corner with his head between his paws and appeared to doze off. The Countess used the dog to open the conversation:
‘Some pet you’ve got there. I’ve never seen a dog so big. What breed is he? I don’t recognise it.’
‘He’s a cross between a Briard and a Great Dane, and you’re right, he’s remarkably big, but he’s the nicest dog in the world. He looks after his pack, that’s why he sometimes nudges people. He likes his pack to stay together, it’s in his genes.’
Arne Pedersen asked tentatively:
‘And what if you’re not a member of his pack?’
The answer was blunt.
‘If you’re an enemy, I mean someone threatening his pack, he’ll kill you if he can. But that’s enough about Mads. I imagine you’re here because of Philip.’
‘What is Philip’s surname?’
She answered Arne Pedersen after a slight hesitation. Philip Sander, that was his full name. But now it was their turn to talk.
The Countess explained how they had come across her telephone number through calls made to and from another number. She also briefly summarised the Hanehoved investigation as well as the burning of the hunting lodge and the building of the new one. Silje Esper listened without interruption. When the Countess had finished, she sat for a while staring into space. Neither of the officers interrupted her reverie, but Mads half opened one eye, as if he could sense tension in his pack.
‘I’ve been expecting this conversation for many years, twelve, almost thirteen, to be exact.’
Her story was surprising. Philip Sander was her boyfriend, they had lived together for more than seven years, and she recognised the telephone number immediately as she had called it often. So far, so normal, but from then on their relationship was anything but.
‘Philip lived two lives, which he kept completely separate. One here with me, and one I know nothing about. Right from our first meeting, which took place in a bank and is an awful story with a happy ending that I can tell you about another day, he made it clear that his job and what he did in general when he wasn’t with me, wasn’t something he wanted to share. Two worlds, it’s better this way. I remember him saying that so clearly. That was in the beginning. Later I grew used to it, and then I stopped asking.’
The Countess said suspiciously:
‘That sounds very . . . unusual.’
‘It was unusual.’
‘You say was, why the past tense? Doesn’t Philip live here any more?’
‘I think he’s dead. Or in prison or in hospital, but sadly . . . I can feel that he’s no longer here.’
The Countess had at least twenty questions, each more pressing than the others and almost impossible to articulate. Arne Pedersen beat her to it.
‘How would you feel about coming with us to Police Headquarters in Copenhagen? We’ll drive you back afterwards, obviously, but we have so many questions we would like to ask you.’
Silje Esper shook her head firmly. No, thank you. She didn’t like strange places. However, they were free to come here as often as they liked, and she would be as helpful as she could, though it was bound to be difficult.
‘What would be difficult?’ the Countess asked.
‘Finding out Philip’s real name. I presume that’s what you want to know.’
Konrad Simonsen was squabbling with his wife and Arne Pedersen. He was far from happy with the result of their trip to Karlslille. A dissatisfaction he shared with Klavs Arnold and Pauline Berg.
‘Didn’t you even find out when Philip Sander stopped coming home?’
Pauline Berg added:
‘I don’t believe her for a minute. Why didn’t you just bring her in?’
The Countess came to Arne Pedersen’s rescue, raising her voice, a rare occurrence. She lectured Pauline Berg:
‘Because we can’t just bring people in if they don’t want to come and haven’t done anything illegal. I would have thought they’d taught you that at the police academy.’
Then she turned to her husband.
‘You can ask her yourself, when we go back. Because we will go back, of course we will, Arne and I have known that all along. Now, the pair of you, shut up and let us tell you what little we did find out.’
Malte Borup opened the door to the office, but hesitated in the doorway. He was ultra-sensitive to tension among those closest to Konrad Simonsen, and when he sensed things were out of kilter, he would disappear. Either into a computer program or physically, if he got the chance. The Countess encouraged him to stay with a brief ‘Yes?’ He quickly explained that of the seven men in Denmark aged between forty and sixty called Philip Sander, but at first sight there would not appear to be anyone who could be suspected of spending half their life in Karlslille. Nor had anyone of that name died in the last three years. He left and the detectives took the information on board; it was what they had been expecting, although not what they had been hoping for.
The intern’s interruption had poured oil on troubled waters, and the Countess was allowed to summarise the few facts she had gathered.
Sander had lived with Silje Esper since 2002, but his postal address wasn’t in Karlslille. Perhaps he had a bedsit somewhere or maybe just a PO box, his girlfriend didn’t know. During their initial search of her house, they found several items belonging to him, but so far no personal papers. Silje Esper estimated Sander’s age to be around fifty-five years, and she was fairly certain of that, but didn’t know precisely how old her boyfriend was. Furthermore, he had grown up in Copenhagen, but again she didn’t know precisely where. Likewise she knew that he had taken final school exams, but not at which college. She didn’t think he’d had any higher education.
Klavs Arnold interrupted her irritably:
‘What about his bloody job? She can’t live with a man for—’
Arne Pedersen repaid the Countess’s support from earlier.
‘Shut up, Klavs, and let her talk.’
‘Philip Sander has a job, presumably the same job he has had for the last seven years. But Silje Esper doesn’t know where, only that it’s relatively well-paid, and that his hours are often irregular. He doesn’t own a car and tends to borrow hers when he goes to work in the morning. It explains why she has one, because she obviously can’t drive it herself, but when he uses it, he parks at Roskilde Station and takes the train. He has two mobile phones, one for private use, that’s the number we know, and one he uses for work only. She doesn’t know the number of the latter, only that the SIM card is frequently replaced.’
The Countess paused, clearly thinking something through. Everyone looked at Simonsen, as would often happen when the group was divided. He grunted and scratched his temple with a knuckle.
‘Silje Esper doesn’t come across as a very curious person?’
The Countess answered.
‘At the start of their relationship, she feared that her boyfriend might have another woman, perhaps even a whole family on the side. Back then she was both jealous and curious. But today she’s convinced that isn’t the case. She believes that the reason for the arrangement was because for all those years Philip Sander has wanted a place unknown to his employer. A sanctuary he can retire to on a daily as well as a permanent basis, should it become necessary. She also believes that he’s involved in criminal activities, without being able to specify which ones or expand on her suspicion. The bottom line is that for many years she has supported the way he has organised his life. Largely by deliberately avoiding gaining knowledge about any part of her boyfriend’s life that doesn
’t involve her.’
‘You’re saying he had a place to hide – you mean from us or from his colleagues?’
‘Both, she thinks.’
Konrad Simonsen grunted again and repeated the same gesture as before, only with the other hand.
‘But she’s willing to work with us to find out his real identity?’
‘So she says.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER 52
Living in Denmark without the authorities knowing your name, your address or your job isn’t easy. But not impossible.
It’s an absolutely essential requirement that you don’t receive government benefits of any kind. You have to be financially self-sufficient. If you have a job, you need to be paid in cash, and if you’re living off your fortune, it must be kept in cash. Nor is it possible to own property or a vehicle.
Philip Sander fulfilled all these conditions. However, alongside his life in Karlslille with Silje Esper, he had his true identity, the one the police were looking for, so he couldn’t be said to live completely off the grid.
The day after the Countess and Arne Pedersen’s visit, Konrad Simonsen turned up at Silje Esper’s house with a team of twelve officers, including the Countess.
The Homicide Department chief’s irritation from yesterday had long since evaporated. Partly because he was sure he would discover Philip Sander’s real identity fairly soon, and partly because he was delighted at finally having some real police work to do. He had tasked Arne Pedersen and Klavs Arnold with looking for Danish men in the relevant age group who had died, been admitted to hospital or sent to prison in recent months. Initially the two officers only had to come up with a rough estimate. Later, as a Plan B, this might become a line of inquiry to follow up. That left Pauline Berg at a loose end, but Konrad Simonsen had been unable to contact her; she didn’t pick up her phone, nor had she turned up for work. A situation he was forced to accept, so that was what he did.
The plan was that the Countess would be in charge of the officers searching the property for any evidence that might reveal Philip Sander’s real name. Konrad Simonsen himself would interview Silje Esper in order to form an impression of the woman, but also to get answers to the long list of questions he had brought with him.
