The Tenant

by Katrine Engberg

  “Cardiac arrest?”

  “…as a result of manual strangulation. It was therefore, as presumed, definitely murder. No external indications on the body, no finger or nail marks on the skin around his neck, and it is relatively rare to see a strangulation victim without them. Nyboe thinks we’re dealing with a choke hold in which the killer held Kristoffer tightly from behind and pressed on the carotid arteries until he suffered cardiac arrest. It wouldn’t have taken more than a minute. Very professionally done.”

  “Shime-waza!” Anette yelled in something that was supposed to sound like a Japanese accent.

  “Yes,” Larsen continued. “A classic judo hold, normally used to pacify a violent subject. I’ll spare you Nyboe’s extremely technical details about cardiac arrhythmia and just give you the gist.” Larsen looked expectantly at his colleagues, as if he wanted to let the tension mount. “Our victim died as a result of manual pressure on a reflex point here at the front of the neck. It was applied very precisely by a person who knew exactly what he was doing. We’re talking someone highly skilled in martial arts, specially trained military personnel and so forth. Nyboe specifically used the word execution.”

  “Are we talking about the same perpetrator as Julie Stender?” Jeppe glanced past Larsen, deliberately avoiding his haughty face.

  “Hard to say.” Larsen adjusted his golden wristwatch thoughtfully. It looked deliberate, like someone who wants to come off as relaxed and in charge. “But would the killer not have wanted to cut his pattern into this victim? Leave his signature?”

  “Julie was hit on the head with a tape dispenser, and Kristoffer was strangled,” Jeppe said, taking over. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the same killer. We all know how unlikely it is for a new perpetrator to suddenly appear on the scene. If Kristoffer’s death was an act of revenge for Julie’s killing, it would hardly include chandeliers and judo holds. I simply don’t buy that. But if it’s the same killer, why did he use two such different murder methods? Some kind of message?”

  Falck cleared his throat hesitantly, as if he had swallowed a fly and wanted to make sure it made it back out of his throat alive.

  “Yes, Falck, what is it? Speak up!” Jeppe had no patience for his laid-back pace today.

  “I think, it looks like, the perpetrator had different motives for the two killings. The first one, Julie Stender, was very much… marked by desire. The killer tried to cut the pattern into Julie Stender’s face just like in the manuscript. Nyboe confirms that she wasn’t drugged or drunk when she died, so she must have fought like crazy…”

  Jeppe nodded impatiently at Falck, who continued calmly.

  “Kristoffer, on the other hand, was executed and then tossed into the chandelier. The perpetrator must have lured him up to the attic with some pretext or other, grabbed him from behind and killed him on the spot.”

  “And the chandelier?”

  “You said it yourself, Kørner,” Falck said, tucking his thumbs behind his suspender straps. “He likes drama, takes chances in order to achieve maximum effect.”

  “But why kill him at all?”

  “Because he knew something. Kristoffer must have seen or discovered something and, well I know this sounds absurd, but he must have been on to the killer, maybe even confronted him with what he knew. I can’t find a better explanation. He was a little unusual, wasn’t he?”

  Jeppe looked down into his half-empty coffee cup and tried to swirl the remaining Nescafé powder around in the cold liquid.

  “But if the situation is the way Falck describes—and I’m inclined to agree with him—then our killer pretty much had to know that we were coming to get Kristoffer.”

  The five detectives looked at one another. Since police radio had recently switched to the SINE network, all their radio communication was encrypted and impossible to hack.

  “I suppose someone’s been talking,” Larsen suggested.

  A charged silence took over the room. Killers very rarely wear gloves and protective clothing and hardly ever plant evidence at crime scenes. And they certainly don’t know where the police are going to turn up in a half an hour.

  Unless.

  CHAPTER 21

  “You just call me, my dear! Day or night. Promise me that, okay?”

  Esther nodded wearily and glanced down at her hands, which Lisbeth was holding in her own. For a second she didn’t understand whose hands they were. The limp flesh, the pronounced veins under the thin skin, could they really be her hands? Lisbeth and Frank, her old friends, had arrived unannounced an hour ago, bringing pastry from La Glace, offering comfort. Now, Esther needed to get them out the door so that she could finally have the glass of wine she had been craving all day. Once people retire, they have way too much time on their hands! She was touched by their gesture but wasn’t really up for any more of it.

  “I’ll certainly let you know. Right now, I just need some rest.”

  “Yes, you do! And if there’s anything at all we can do…,” Lisbeth continued. “We could come walk the dogs, you know, and you’re always welcome to stay at our place as well.” She pulled into a lengthy hug before she and Frank finally headed down the stairs. Luckily he made do with a wave.

  Esther let the dogs back in, locked the door behind her, and started to cry again. Suppressing her feelings was no easy task with all this attention all the time! She dried her cheeks and was about to pour a glass of red when there was a knock on the door. What had they forgotten now?

  She opened the door, bone-tired at the prospect of more hugs and comfort from Frank and Lisbeth. But standing outside her door were Caroline and her mother, Jutta Boutrup, whom Esther hadn’t seen for several years. Her first thought was how good they looked, those two, they’d always been pretty, then Caroline flung herself into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Jutta followed suit, and then they all stood there in the doorway hugging and crying for several minutes. I can’t deal with all this love, Esther thought. I have to insist on being alone soon.

  “Can we come in for a second?” Jutta was the first to tear herself away and regain her composure. “We just came to pick up some of Caroline’s things from the apartment. There’s a policeman with us, but he agreed to wait downstairs while we said hello.”

  “Of course, come in,” Esther mumbled. “The place is a mess, I’m sort of a mess, but it’s wonderful to see you.” She led the way into the living room and moved a stack of books off the armchair onto the floor.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “It’s a little too early for wine, isn’t it? Do you have coffee?”

  “There’s probably some left in the pot, I don’t know if it’s still hot.” Esther found a couple of cups in her dish drainer and glanced longingly at the bottle of red wine on the kitchen table.

  When she returned to the living room, Caroline sat with her legs pulled up in the sofa, leaning on her mother’s shoulder. Jutta was stroking her on the cheek like a little kid who was getting ready for a nap. Esther poured coffee and sat down on the Moroccan floor cushion.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Caro is having a really hard time right now. I suppose we all are. It’s so unreal, isn’t it?”

  Esther nodded. It didn’t get any more unreal than this.

  “And then of course it doesn’t help that”—Jutta lowered her voice—“that Daniel decided to break up with her.”

  “Mom, please!” Caroline looked at her mother, annoyed, but settled back up against her right away.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, dear.” Esther nodded sympathetically, hoping they would leave soon.

  “What about you, Esther? How are you holding up?”

  Esther was tempted to lie to avoid another wave of emotions but could not bring herself to do it after all. “To be quite honest I don’t know… I’m a mess, I guess, just taking it one hour at a time. Otherwise it becomes too much.”

  “And Gregers?” Jutta asked, reaching over to pat her hand affectionately.
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  “He’s still in the hospital, undergoing some tests, but I think he’ll be okay. I visit him every day.”

  “Oh, what horror. It’s so terribly tragic, all of it.” Jutta sipped her coffee, set the cup down, and discreetly pushed it away. “The police still don’t have any suspects? They won’t tell us anything.”

  “Not as far as I know.” Esther considered telling them about her manuscript but decided she wasn’t up to it. It was too confusing to begin to explain.

  “I’ve been thinking, I wonder if they’re not investigating Christian.” Jutta raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows suggestively.

  “You mean Julie’s dad?”

  “He’s always been, in my eyes, pathologically preoccupied with his daughter. Idolized her in such an unhealthy way.”

  “Isn’t that what parents do?” Esther smiled disarmingly at Caroline.

  “It was just too much,” Jutta said, protectively putting her arm around her daughter. “I could easily picture him jealous if he learned Julie had a boyfriend. He’s a complete bulldozer, narcissistic to the bone.”

  “Enough, Mom!” Caroline rolled her eyes without lifting her head from her mother’s shoulder. “Keep out of this!”

  Jutta gave Esther a look.

  “I advised Caroline to get professional help, but you know how stubborn young people can—”

  “Stop!” Caroline sat up straight. “For once can’t you just… shut up? I lost”—she started sobbing again—“my best friend, and you think I need a psychologist. She was murdered, damn it, murdered. Fuck this. I’m going downstairs to pack.”

  She got up, ready to stomp out of the living room, but turned around in the doorway, walked back, and kissed Esther on the cheek. When she pulled away to leave, she had left tears on her skin. Esther waited to wipe them away until she had gone.

  “Oh, my poor child. It’s so hard for her.” Jutta sighed heavily and then slapped her thighs. “Well, I suppose I ought to go down and see how she’s doing.”

  Esther stopped her with a hand on her knee. “Did you seriously mean what you said about Julie’s father?”

  Jutta looked at her in surprise. “Oh, do I ever.”

  “Have you told that to the police?”

  “I made my opinion known to the detective who questioned us, but who knows if they’re listening. There was a time when we socialized with the Stender family, but I’ve really never cared for that man. A country bumpkin who puts on fancy airs but is really just a plain brute. He and his group of aging bad boys with too much money and too much power. Disgraceful!”

  “Aging bad boys?”

  “You know,” Jutta said, lips twisting in outrage. “His circle of business connections, who go hunting and to expensive dinners with escorts and whatnot. I’ve always felt that there was something morally off about that man and his crowd. That guy, Kingo, too, even though he’s oh so famous and all the art critics love him.”

  “Do you mean my Kingo? Erik Kingo?” Esther’s jaw dropped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Esther. I had forgotten that you know him. Never mind, I’m sure he’s nice enough. It’s mostly Christian Stender I can’t stomach. Well, I suppose I’d better attend to Caroline…” Jutta got up.

  Esther walked her to the door and allowed herself to be hugged goodbye yet again.

  “Take care of yourself! We’ll be staying in town for a bit. We’re at my sister’s. Call if you need to talk, all right?”

  Esther waved and closed the door after Jutta, her head buzzing. Erik Kingo and Christian Stender knew each other, too? The wine would have to wait another minute. She got her phone, and called Jeppe Kørner.

  * * *

  JEPPE FOUND THE police psychologist, Mosbæk, sitting in his office with his hands behind his head and his legs casually crossed. He was one of those men who always wears a plaid shirt and who compensates for his receding hairline with a handsome full beard. Jeppe liked him, because unlike most of his colleagues, he actually knew how to listen. He had listened to Jeppe on several occasions when he was returning to work after the split with Therese. Their conversations blurred into the fog that made up Jeppe’s recollection of the last six months, but he had a good feeling about the man.

  “Well, Jeppe,” Mosbæk said, smiling at him. “How are you doing? Have you found the melody again?”

  Jeppe hadn’t been one-on-one with the psychologist since his last session and felt an acute awkwardness at being alone with him now.

  “Things are going fine, Mosbæk. Moving ahead all the time. Coffee?”

  Jeppe ignored Mosbæk’s no and hurried out to the coffee machine in the staff kitchenette. The previous monstrosity, which had offered mochachinos and flavored blends, had now been replaced with a streamlined, fully automatic espresso machine. It took twice as long and tasted just as bad. Jeppe selected cortado. If only he could learn to not care what other people thought about him.

  When he returned with the coffee, Mosbæk was ready, his notes spread out on the desk in front of him.

  “Should we wait for Anette?”

  “She’ll probably be here in a second. Let’s just get started.”

  “Great.”

  Mosbæk glanced down his nose at the notes, tensing his mouth like a sad clown. It looked as though he would have preferred the pages to be two feet farther away.

  “Starting with Julie Stender’s killing, if we just state the obvious: This was an organized—in other words, methodical and intelligent—killing more so than a disorganized one. A killer who thinks logically, plans his crime, and generally maintains control during the act. Carries out what he intends, without panicking. That requires robustness and a certain intelligence.”

  Jeppe sat down across from Mosbæk.

  “You’re saying, this wasn’t a drug addict looking to pick up someone’s stereo.”

  “Exactly.” Mosbæk scratched his beard. “The question, then, is what an otherwise intelligent, controlled person gets out of killing someone that way. If we just run through the seven fundamental motives for murder and use a process of elimination, then we can talk more about the killer’s behavior later, look at possible candidates and close in that way.”

  Jeppe nodded.

  “So, from the beginning, let’s just rule out profit, fanaticism, and exclusion. Agreed?”

  Jeppe nodded again.

  Mosbæk scratched some lines on a piece of paper as if he actually had a list of potential motives to cross out.

  “There are definite elements of lust-driven behavior in both killings, but since neither of the two victims appears to have been sexually assaulted, I think we can also rule out sexual offense. Desire, if you will. That leaves us with three primary motives: jealousy, thrill, and revenge. My immediate sense is that the thrill means a lot for our perpetrator. The whole staging, the knife pattern on the face, yes, the idea of bringing a manuscript to life is extremely theatrical. I would think we’re dealing with a person who is used to expressing himself creatively. A person for whom an artistic outlook and abstract thinking are not unfamiliar. The language of that text he wrote is not exactly illiterate.”

  Mosbæk pulled out a print of the text and skimmed it.

  “On the other hand, a person who was totally fulfilled through his artistic expression would not have the same urge to act it out by killing. So, we’re probably looking for someone who is a not very successful artist. And let me emphasize that the thrill cannot be the main motive in and of itself. There have to be major emotions at play here.”

  “Jealousy?”

  Mosbæk tugged on his beard, considering. “Hmm, maybe to a certain extent. Jealousy is a powerful driver. But as far as I know, Kristoffer was the only one with a potential jealousy motive. Besides, the vast majority of jealousy-motivated killings take place within families with children and therefore there is more at stake. That doesn’t mean there can’t be elements of jealousy in our killer’s motive. It just probably isn’t the leading motivator.”

  “So, w
e’re left with revenge.”

  Jeppe remembered the weeks, no, months, when the urge to seek revenge was the only emotion in his body. When each day that he didn’t go to Niels’s apartment to shoot both his wife and her lover was a victory. It seemed unreal to him now, but it wasn’t that long ago.

  Mosbæk held up a lecturing finger.

  “Revenge,” he said, “the mother of all violent emotions. A result of suppressing and holding back anger and being wronged for too long. In the text, which we assume is written by the perpetrator, he refers to himself as someone who now writes his own story. Meaning that he used to depend on other people but now has gained control over his own existence.”

  “By killing Julie and Kristoffer?”

  “Perhaps. However, I think Falck has a point with regard to Kristoffer’s murder. That it was probably motivated by necessity, because he knew something about the perpetrator. Under normal circumstances that would indicate some level of trust between Kristoffer and the killer; otherwise he would likely have come to us.”

  “Not necessarily. Kristoffer Gravgaard was an unusual young man with next to no faith in the establishment. He could definitely have had good reason to go directly to the person he suspected.”

  Jeppe envisioned the young man walking innocently up the steep stairs to the Crown Attic to confront a murderer. His own murderer. He could have shared his suspicions with the police, but for some reason he made the wrong choice.

  Who had stood there waiting at the top of the stairs?

  * * *

  “SORRY I’M LATE. I was on the phone to the Faeroe Islands. How far have you gotten?”

  Anette glanced questioningly at Mosbæk and Jeppe, who were reclining comfortably on either side of the office’s shared desk. A calm, almost meditative atmosphere prevailed in the office. It instinctively pissed her off. Both of these men were prone to wade down intellectual scenic byways and there simply wasn’t time for that.

  “We were just talking about the notion that Kristoffer might have known his killer,” Jeppe volunteered.