by Lotte Hammer
Jimmy Heeger used to live in the area around Valby Langgade Station and Akacieparken. At one point he had rented a flat there, but he had been evicted eighteen months ago. That was his last known address. Klavs Arnold dispatched his colleagues to find the man or get further information on him. Soon he was able to add the designations obsessed with weapons and potentially dangerous to the description of his alleged killer. He also learned that Jimmy Heeger had tried to join the biker gang Hell’s Angels but they, however, wanted nothing to do with him. The reason was given to the police by an informant with close links to the organisation: he’s a psycho. Something that was becoming increasingly clear to Klavs Arnold. He called home and told his wife he would have to work late; he didn’t know for how long, but probably all night.
Later that evening a couple of officers got the tip-off they had all been waiting for. Jimmy Heeger was hiding out with his half-sister in Tårnby on the island of Amager. An ex-girlfriend, high on drugs and furious because he owed her money, had snitched on him. Two plainclothes officers on loan from Vestegnens police had told her they were from the Danish lottery service and that Jimmy Heeger had won a major prize; they claimed they had been looking for him all day, and there was three hundred kroner in it for her in return for information. She swallowed their ridiculous story, snatched the three banknotes and gave them an address, not far from the motorway to Copenhagen Airport. They called Police Headquarters immediately; the woman had seemed credible, despite being high. Klavs Arnold dispatched them to Tårnby, with instructions to watch the address, but not to carry out an arrest. The man was dangerous, possibly armed, and they were under orders not to take any chances.
Jimmy Heeger was in the bar, which was where he had spent most of his time since Svend Lerche had sacked him following his fatal trip to Karlslille. Fortunately he had been given a handsome sum of money as a severance payment, as the upper-class idiot had called it, as if Jimmy didn’t realise it was in return for him staying far away from Rungsted for now and for all eternity.
He drank routinely, without joy; drinking had long since become a habit, a way to distance himself from things. He was drunk, but didn’t really feel it. Just now he had told everyone in the bar who could be bothered to listen to him that he was no lamb you could lead to the slaughter. He didn’t say who would want to slaughter him, but one look at his red, moist eyes stopped his audience from asking. That made him belligerent and he aggressively repeated his statement, people edging away from him as he did so. He ordered another beer and thought about the events in Karlslille, as he had already done many times when the alcohol didn’t seem to work.
It had gone haywire, spun totally out of control, an absurd short-circuiting in his brain that he didn’t think was his responsibility. It was as if a secret window he didn’t even know existed had opened for some terrible but also wonderful hours. Once he started with the hand vice, he couldn’t stop. He had enjoyed her screams, her pain and, not least, his own power. Afterwards it wasn’t something he was proud of; the truth was he would rather not think about it. But that was difficult, not to say impossible. The thrill of instilling terror continued to give him a buzz, and he felt a strong urge to try it again.
The officers in the Ford Ka parked in a car park diagonally across from number 11 Bredagerstien, discussed briefly if they – despite their orders – should get out and arrest Jimmy Heeger when clearly intoxicated, but not catatonically so, he staggered along the pavement opposite them at about two o’clock in the morning. They chose not to, though they could probably have apprehended him without any difficulty. Instead they rang Klavs Arnold and just said: ‘He’s here.’
Klavs Arnold was dozing behind his desk, but was instantly awake when he got the message. He immediately contacted Konrad Simonsen, as he had been told to do. It took a while before the Homicide chief picked up the phone. When he did, the Jutlander repeated what the officers had said to him:
‘He’s there. Number eleven Bredagerstien in Tårnby, he has just walked up to the flat.’
To the Jutlander’s annoyance, Konrad Simonsen’s orders were:
‘Send in the SWAT team and stay out of their way, Klavs. Leave the young ones to do their job, they’re trained for it. I’ll be there in an hour, but I won’t take over, you’re doing fine.’
Klavs Arnold did as he was told. He arranged with the head of the SWAT team that five a.m. would be a suitable time to strike. It gave the officer plenty of time to gather the men he needed and they could expect Jimmy Heeger to be fast asleep by then.
CHAPTER 84
Right from the start the head of the SWAT team made no attempt to hide that this was his operation.
He greeted the Jutlander a little curtly and asked him to wait, telling him they would bring him his prisoner in fifteen minutes. There were four cars and eleven men, all experts in the job they were about to undertake. Each was armed with the standard police pistol, a Heckler & Koch USP 9-millimetre, and each and every one exuded confidence and calm. The team had assembled a hundred metres down the street from Jimmy Heeger’s sister’s flat. It was on the first floor above a pizzeria, and an external wooden staircase led up to the flat’s front door. The head of operations had obtained a floor plan of the flat which, in addition to a bathroom and a kitchen, consisted of one bedroom and a living room with a balcony overlooking a lawn behind the building. He had explained his plan to his crew and they had reviewed it earlier, and did so again, one more time before it was done for real. Then they marched quickly down the street towards their target.
Klavs Arnold followed discreetly and joined the two men due to take up position below the flat’s balcony. He heard a loud crash as the front door was bashed in soon afterwards.
The noise woke Jimmy Heeger; he leaped from the sofa where he had been sleeping, realising what was about to happen, but aware that the door to the living room would be much harder to break down than the front door. His sister’s boyfriend had mounted eight solid hammock hooks into the frame on either side of the door, so that a nylon net could be stretched tightly across the hooks when the living-room door was closed. The net provided an effective obstacle against unwanted guests entering in a hurry, which gave his sister enough time to call the police whenever her ex-husband tried to break in because he felt like giving her another beating. Which he often did. When Jimmy Heeger had returned a few hours ago, he had put the net back up. Better safe than sorry. Then he had flopped onto the sofa and fallen asleep.
As soon as the killer was woken by the sound of the front door being forced open, he snatched his rolls of money from a compartment in his rucksack, which was lying next to the sofa, and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he found his pistol, which was also in the rucksack, a 22-calibre with a silencer, the same weapon he had used in Karlslille on Silje Esper’s dog. Then he pulled on his shoes, ran out the balcony door and jumped over the railings.
Jimmy Heeger’s feet hit the shoulder of one of the officers on the ground. The man had moved under the balcony so he wasn’t immediately visible from the living-room window of the flat. Everything happened so quickly and it was such bad luck that no one could reasonably reproach the officer, who was definitely vigilant. Yet he stumbled and fell onto the grass. Something that Jimmy Heeger, who landed with remarkable agility pretty much on his feet, didn’t. He sprang up with his pistol in his hand, and pointed it down at the fallen man’s head, ready to liquidate him.
Klavs Arnold fired three shots at Jimmy Heeger, two in the back between his shoulder blades, the last and final one to the back of his head.
The prostrate officer staggered to his feet, and looked down at the wounded man, his body convulsing in spasms that soon subsided. Then he said matter-of-factly:
‘Someone’s in trouble.’
CHAPTER 85
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was sitting in Klosterstræde in her brand-new silver Citroën C5, near her newly acquired flat, waiting impatiently for Henrik Krag, who had been allowed to leave work early and was on
his way home.
It was twelve-thirty, the sun was shining generously and the neighbourhood was surprisingly quiet, as if the lunch-time customers for the area’s many restaurants couldn’t cope with the heat and had decided to stay at home. A bee buzzed past, zigzagging down the street, looking for a flower pot or a balcony trough. She waved it away through the open car window. You’re not coming in here. A car alarm howled continuously a few blocks away. She barely registered it, but seemed troubled as she sat there, looking first one way, then another, as if she could speed up her boyfriend’s arrival.
She had called him twice to find out where he was, but both times in vain. Hi, this is Henrik, I’m afraid I can’t . . . She had ended the calls with an angry push of her thumb and concluded it probably meant he was on his way. It might well be a positive sign, but it only seemed to add to her impatience, and she inwardly urged him on, Come on, Henrik, God dammit, or Get a move on. From time to time she would wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, cursing the sun. What she needed was a packet of Kleenex, but she rummaged through her handbag without success.
At last she heard the deep growl of a motorbike, and shortly afterwards he turned into the street. She reached her hand out of the window and caught his attention. He drove up alongside her, took off his crash helmet and asked in surprise:
‘Why are you dressed up, are you going somewhere?’
She was wearing a simple lavender silk blouse and a tight pencil skirt in two layers, the inner layer white silk and the outer almost transparent ivory lace. Around her neck she wore a heavy string of pearls, which matched her drop earrings. She answered only part of his question:
‘We’re going somewhere. Park your motorbike and jump in.’
When he got in the car, he took a closer look at her.
‘You look upset, is everything all right?’
‘Not really, let me drive for a while, I just need a moment.’
‘Where are we going?’
She caught him looking at her lovingly, began to feel more energised and said, ‘Henrik, just enjoy the weather.’
She drove down Østerbrogade and when she turned off down Ryvangs Allé, she was her old self again.
‘Svend and Karina have left Rungsted and gone underground, or whatever you’d call it. They didn’t bother clearing up after themselves – I mean, shut down the hookers and the poker players. Bjarne Fabricius has gone mental, although he’s trying not to sound as if he has. Svend and Karina both feature in the Wanted section on the homepage of the Copenhagen Police. Svend has written to me using an email address only he and I know, and I’m meeting him at six o’clock. They’re leaving the country and I’ve promised to help them.’
Henrik Krag was pragmatic about the news and not particularly troubled.
‘What does that mean for us?’
‘I don’t know yet, perhaps that’s just as well, but there’s more.’
He ignored her and said:
‘I don’t get why you want to help that bastard after what he did to you . . . to us, and to me.’
She retorted, ‘Bjarne is coming round tonight at nine o’clock. It’ll be an inclusive session for us all.’
‘You mean me as well?’
‘Yes, you as well. Do you still think I don’t care what happens to you?’
Her voice was soft; it made him happy. Normally she would say something like this in a sharp, distancing tone. He sounded serene when he said:
‘I know I have to pay for what I’ve done, one way or another. I’ve known it for a long time, but I still wouldn’t change a thing. Not even if I could. Even though I’ve done things I shouldn’t have.’
They drove a few kilometres in silence, each pondering their fate, before Benedikte Lerche-Larsen said: ‘I thought you were all about living in the here and now?’
‘Yes, whenever that’s possible. I mostly try that when I don’t want to think too much.’
‘Right, then let’s do that for a few hours.’
‘OK, works for me. Is that why you won’t tell me where we’re going?’
‘Exactly.’
She stopped in Vangede Bygade outside a florist and took a thousand-kroner note from her purse. She gave it to him.
‘Go and buy me an incredibly gorgeous bouquet.’
‘Me? I don’t know anything about flowers. Which ones do you want me to get?’
‘Ask for the cleverest, Henrik. The cleverest they have.’
He hesitated. But I don’t think . . . She could still do this to him, but it was rare for her to resort to it now, and when she did, it was with a teasing sweetness that didn’t truly mock him. She tilted her head and flashed him a small smile. He gave her the finger and grinned at himself. How stupid could you get?
He came back with a beautiful bouquet of white lilies and pink roses and explained superfluously, ‘The florist helped me.’
‘Haven’t you guessed it yet?’
He hadn’t, were they about to visit someone?
‘You’re such an idiot.’
‘Yes, I am.’
Five minutes later they reached their destination. It was a yellow-brick house that looked like any other, the only exception being the five empty parking spaces in the road outside. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen parked in the central bay, then got out and grabbed a plastic bag from the boot, then opened the front door. Henrik Krag rushed after her without having time to spell his way through the sign to the left of the door.
They were warmly welcomed by a woman in her early seventies with a beautifully wrinkled face and bright, friendly eyes.
‘Benedikte! What a lovely surprise. How are you?’
They embraced each other as the woman asked:
‘And who is this handsome young man?’
‘He’s my boyfriend, Granny, and we want you to marry us. Now . . . immediately.’
Henrik Krag dropped the bridal bouquet.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s grandmother ushered them to an office where a gangly woman in her thirties was typing on a keyboard. She introduced herself as the parish clerk, shook hands with Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and Henrik Krag and then carried on with her work, as if to indicate that they were not to mind her, she didn’t see or hear anything. The Lutheran minister shook her head.
‘That’s you to a T, my darling girl. Always in a rush, never looking back. But marriage is a serious decision, and you need to have a very good reason before I’m willing to marry you in haste.’
‘What’s the best reason, Granny? We’ll go for that.’
‘The best reason is acute, life-threatening illness, and you both look the picture of health to me.’
‘It’s because I love him, and if we’re married, I can’t be forced to testify against him. As things are at the moment, that’s a real possibility, and that would be wrong. You shouldn’t be forced to testify against someone you love.’
It grew silent, even quieter than before, Henrik Krag thought; then he realised that the parish clerk had stopped typing. The minister thought long and hard. After what seemed like an eternity, she addressed Henrik Krag.
‘Beauty deceives and Loveliness is a thing of Vanity, as Blicher writes. Do you love her, my young friend? I mean truly, behind her beautiful exterior?’
Henrik Krag had no doubt about this. Yes, he did. The parish clerk said:
‘I can have an advance approval from the council and the papers ready in half an hour. They can post the marriage certificate later. What should I give as the reason?’
‘Acute, life-threatening illness. I’ve been tricked by that once before, now I can flip the coin the other way,’ said the minister.
She pointed to Benedikte Lerche-Larsen.
‘I agree, my darling girl, it’s wrong to testify against someone you love, your reason isn’t silly at all. But I think my bishop would prefer the one about the illness, and I’m going to ring him now. What’s in the bag?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen replied:
‘Champagne a
nd wedding rings, and a box of chocolates for the pair of you. May I use your cloakroom to freshen up?’
CHAPTER 86
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and her father met at Lake Furesøen in the car park outside Næsseslottet, Frédéric de Coninck’s elegant late-eighteenth-century country house. The weather was just as beautiful and sunny as it had been all day, but neither of them was tempted to go for a stroll in the magnificent park. Benedikte got into her father’s car; he had come in the Audi R8, his favourite.
You didn’t need to be a psychologist to spot that Svend Lerche was a man under extreme pressure. He looked terrible. His eyes were shadowed black from lack of sleep and worries he couldn’t handle, and his voice sounded rusty, as if he had been smoking. They greeted each other, neither heartily nor in a hostile manner, perhaps business-like would be the appropriate word. Benedikte said, and it was part question and part statement:
‘Mum and you have left Rungsted?’
Svend Lerche confirmed this and added that they wouldn’t be coming back in the near future, which even he could hear meant never, ever. He handed his daughter a fat envelope and explained that it contained the papers to give her power of attorney over the house, its contents, his two other cars, the holiday home in Dronningmølle, along with several other assets. She should, however, expect to fight the fraud squad for them, so he had included the names of two lawyers, esteemed senior partners, who had already been paid, she needn’t worry on that account. He reeled off a number of other practical items and referred constantly to his envelope. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen restricted herself to nodding in the right places or replying monosyllabically; there was no reason for a lengthy debate. When Svend Lerche eventually fell silent, she asked:
