The Chestnut Man

by Søren Sveistrup

  Thulin shivers at the thought; still, from what she’s observed in the house there’s no hint they are dealing with cold-blooded killers. Not the way she imagines them, anyway. It’s obvious that Asger Neergaard lived here and not in the room he’d supposedly been renting from a former comrade, and he clearly had a fondness for Japanese manga featuring naked women. But that’s the most radical thing she’s found among his possessions. On the face of it, it seems to say more about his character that he liked seventies sitcoms and old Danish movies starring Dirch Passer and Ove Sprogøe; the best you could say about those was that they were all set in a sun-drenched era of green fields and fluttering Danish flags. He had played them on a dusty DVD player and watched them on an old flatscreen TV, lying on a scruffy leather sofa, but that didn’t scream psychopath or insanity to Thulin.

  The traces they’d found of Benedikte’s personality were more concerning: textbooks about the council’s powers to take children into care, printouts of paragraphs from social-welfare legislation, which had been interpreted and combed through, as well as legal journals about child welfare and similar topics. Among her belongings in several drawers in the living room there were files and ring binders dedicated to the case about the couple’s little boy, as well as to the correspondence she’d had with the authorities and her court-appointed lawyer. On almost every page she had added handwritten notes, some illegible, but all crowded with question and exclamation marks, and the rage and frustration behind them had been palpable. Yet there were also albums from Benedikte’s time at school, one with a photograph of her and Asger Neergaard in the grass outside an ugly crash barrier, as well as certificates and papers from her nursing training and various additional courses on pregnancy and birth.

  The more Thulin saw, the more she’d struggled to accept that the couple could be the killers she and Hess were investigating. It was at least as difficult to imagine that they could have managed to get the better of a vast murder enquiry for several weeks, so she’d reached the conclusion that Hess was right to be sceptical.

  Seeing the walls of his apartment at Nørrebro that morning, she’d started to think he was losing the plot. That he simply couldn’t accept the Hartung girl was long-dead. Nor had it done much to change her mind when he suggested those unorthodox visits to Genz and the secure unit. She’d reminded herself that she didn’t really know a thing about Hess or his past, but their trip to see Bekker had left her with doubts, and now she could see herself and Hess trying to speak to him again, trying to find out what he knew about the murders and Kristine Hartung.

  Right now, however, what mattered was Gustav Hartung, and when Thulin has finished rifling through the chests of drawers in the bedrooms she goes downstairs: if she drives to the Forensics Department, she can help Genz with the Lenovo laptop that seems to be proving tricky. She’s rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and is walking down the hall when a faint sound makes her stop short. An alarm is going off somewhere outside the house. The sound is slower in rhythm than a car alarm, but just as insistent. Turning back and cutting through the kitchen, Thulin reaches the corridor that leads to the abattoir itself. She opens the door, and the sound grows clearer. The vast oblong hall is unlit, and she pauses, unsure where to find the light switches. In a flash it strikes her that if the couple aren’t behind the killings, the real murderer might be somewhere in the dark. She tries to shake off the thought – there’s no reason to believe he’d come out here now. Even so, she takes out her gun and turns off the safety catch.

  By the light of her mobile phone, Thulin edges her way through the old abattoir. She moves towards the sound, passing one cold store after the next, including the one meant for Gustav Hartung. A few of them are completely empty apart from meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, but most are stacked with boxes and old junk.

  She pauses by the door to the final storeroom. The sound is coming from inside, and she is barely two steps across the threshold before she realizes Neergaard must have been using it as a gym. In her phone’s wan glow she can see battered old kettlebells, a barbell, a rickety bike and a punching bag fighting with muddy military boots and a grubby camouflage uniform for the limited floorspace. What catches her attention, however, is the stench. Although she is in a disused abattoir, none of the other rooms had smelled like rotten meat – but this one does. Scarcely has the thought crossed her mind before she notices a movement in the corner. She whips the beam of light towards it, and although the animals are bathed in white light they don’t react. Four or five rats are gnawing frenziedly at the bottom of a battered mini-fridge, which is standing in the corner next to some gardening tools and a folded ironing board. The display on the front of the fridge is flashing and beeping, presumably because the rats have bitten through the lower strip of rubber that seals the door, forcing it slightly ajar. Thulin approaches the fridge, but it isn’t until she gives the rats a nudge with her foot that they scurry off between her legs. They pause a short distance away, darting to and fro, squeaking hysterically. When Thulin gingerly swings open the door and looks inside the fridge, she has to clap her hand to her mouth to stop herself throwing up.

  94

  ‘But you’re absolutely sure? Benedikte Skans was on a night shift Friday 16 October to Saturday 17 October?’

  ‘Yup, hundred per cent. It’s just been confirmed by the head nurse on the ward. She worked the same shift herself.’

  Hess thanks the detective and hangs up, just as he’s reaching the floor that houses Rosa Hartung’s offices. It’s nearly eleven at night, and the front office buzzes with suppressed nerves and ringing phones. A few detectives are still interviewing members of staff, two red-eyed female employees are talking softly and sniffling, and there are white plastic bags of takeaway sushi scattered across the tables, which no one has yet had the time to open.

  ‘Is the minister in her office?’

  The harassed-looking ministerial secretary shoots Hess a nod, and he makes for the mahogany doors as he memorizes the passcode to the iPad he’d borrowed moments earlier in the drivers’ break room at Christiansborg.

  Thulin had been right to say the Hartung boy was more important than anything else just now, so Hess had driven from the station straight to the ministry to help dig up information about the couple’s likely behaviour and hideouts by questioning the people who’d had daily dealings with Asger Neergaard. Very rapidly, however, it had become plain that no one knew anything. The detectives had already done their jobs, and Hess wasn’t going to come up with anything new by talking to the same people himself. Neergaard hadn’t been on friendly terms with anybody, and certainly never brought up his private life, what he did in his free time or anything else that might be of interest. Instead Hess has heard nothing but descriptions of his personality. Some people thought the driver had been a little off from the get-go – weird, quiet, maybe even a little dangerous – but for Hess such descriptions bore all the hallmarks of hindsight. For hours the TV channels had been carpet-bombing the nation with the search for Gustav Hartung, giving descriptions of the alleged kidnappers, one of whom – sensationally enough – had proved to be Rosa Hartung’s very own driver. If anybody doubted the story’s saleability, they’d only have to glance down at the army of OB vans and journalists gathered on the narrow square outside the ministry, but the downside was that any statements about Neergaard’s character had long since been coloured by the media. Hess did, however, trust the parts of those statements that made it clear Neergaard was introverted and slightly simple, kept to himself, and spent his breaks smoking and making phone calls by the canal – unlike his colleagues, who preferred the warmth of the drivers’ break room at Christiansborg.

  Hess had made a visit there himself, and an older driver told him he’d repeatedly had to help Asger with the locking system in the garage where the ministerial cars were parked overnight. That alone made it seem rather improbable that he and his girlfriend had been capable of planning the meticulously contrived murders of Laura
Kjær, Anne Sejer-Lassen and Jessie Kvium.

  It had seemed more improbable still when Hess was introduced to the drivers’ digital calendar by another of Asger Neergaard’s colleagues – the Energy Minister’s driver, if he remembered correctly. The various drivers’ activities were closely tracked by the system, and it was every driver’s responsibility to note in the digital log where they were at what time, as well as what they were doing. Hess’s eye had quickly fallen on a particular date in Asger Neergaard’s calendar, after which he’d returned to the ministry. On the way he’d phoned one of the detectives dispatched to Benedikte Skans’s workplace, and that was what he wanted to discuss with Rosa Hartung.

  When Hess enters the minister’s office, it’s obvious she is worried sick about her son. Her hands shake, her eyes are fearful and red, and her mascara is smeared as though she’s tried to wipe it off. Her husband is there too, engrossed in a telephone conversation. He seems about to end it when he sees Hess, but Hess shakes his head, signalling that he hasn’t brought any news. Rosa Hartung and her husband had chosen to stay at the ministry, partly because they needed to be questioned about Asger Neergaard and partly because the staff could help keep them abreast of the current situation. Hess guesses, too, that they prefer not to be alone. At home they’d be face to face with their fears, but here they can at least feel like they are doing something – questioning the detectives about the results of each interview as it happens.

  While Steen Hartung continues his conversation, Hess looks at Rosa Hartung and points at the meeting table.

  ‘Can we sit down for a moment? I have a few questions I hope you can answer. It would be a big help.’

  ‘Do you have any updates? What’s happening right now?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no news. But we’ve got every officer mobilized, every vehicle out on the streets, and every border under surveillance.’

  He can see the fear in her eyes, and he knows she realizes her son is in mortal danger, but he has to turn the conversation towards his discovery, so in the moment it takes for her to accept that he hasn’t brought any news, he places the iPad on the table.

  ‘On Friday 16 October at 11.57 p.m., your driver Asger Neergaard wrote in his digital log that he arrived at the Royal Library to pick you up after a function. He noted in the log that he remained on standby in the foyer until 12.43 a.m., and then he wrote ‘Done for the day. Driving home.’ Is that accurate? He waited in the foyer and didn’t drive you home until that time?’

  ‘I don’t understand why this is important. What’s it got to do with Gustav?’

  Hess doesn’t want to agitate her further by reminding her that it was the night of the third and fourth murders. If the information in the log is correct, Asger Neergaard can’t possibly have made it out to the allotment gardens in time to kill both Jessie Kvium and Martin Ricks and amputate two hands and a foot before he and Thulin arrived. And now that Hess has learned Benedikte Skans had been on shift at the paediatric ward that same night, it is a crucial question.

  ‘I can’t tell you why it’s important right now. But it would be a great help if you could try to think back. Is it correct that he was waiting, and that you didn’t drive home until quarter to one?’

  ‘Well, I have no idea why it says that in his log. I cried off that night, so I wasn’t there.’

  ‘You weren’t there?’

  Hess tries to hide his disappointment.

  ‘No. Frederik – Frederik Vogel, my adviser – made my excuses.’

  ‘You’re sure you weren’t there? Asger Neergaard wrote –’

  ‘I’m sure. We’d agreed that Frederik and I would walk because it’s not far from the ministry. But then we had another chat about it a few hours beforehand. It was the same night my husband was going to be on TV, and Frederik didn’t think cancelling would be a problem, which was a relief, because I wanted to be with Gustav anyway …’

  ‘But if Vogel cancelled for you, why does the log say the driver –’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Frederik.’

  ‘Where is Frederik?’

  ‘There was something he had to do. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. But right now I want to know what’s being done to find Gustav.’

  Frederik Vogel’s spacious office is dim and empty. Hess steps inside, shutting the door behind him. It’s a nice room. Lounge-like and cosy, unlike the cold, impersonal offices of the ministry. He catches himself thinking this might be the kind of casually luxurious space women think is sexy. Verner Panton lamps, shaggy rya rugs and low Italian sofas with plenty of soft cushions. All it needed was a little Marvin Gaye, and for an instant Hess considers whether he is jealous because he’ll never have the energy to put something like that together.

  It isn’t the first time that evening Hess has wondered where the minister’s adviser has got to. He knows that detectives had questioned thirty-seven-year-old Frederik Vogel about Asger Neergaard about seven o’clock, and that Vogel had been able to offer up nothing but shock. Yet by the time Hess arrived at the ministry a few hours later the adviser was gone, apparently running an errand in town, according to the secretary. Which strikes Hess as suggestive, given that his minister is in crisis and besieged by the press.

  What Hess knows about Vogel isn’t a lot. Rosa Hartung had told him previously that he’d always been a great support to her. They’d studied political science together in Copenhagen for several years before going their separate ways, after Vogel got into journalism school. They’d kept in touch, and gradually Vogel became a friend of the family. When she was selected as minister, he was the obvious choice as her adviser. He’d supported her and her family enormously during the difficult year since Kristine’s disappearance, and he’d been a major factor in building up her courage to make a comeback.

  ‘What’s he said about your and your husband’s hopes that your daughter might still be alive?’ Hess had asked.

  ‘Frederik is very protective, so at first he was probably very worried. About my situation as a minister. But now he’s backing us to the hilt.’

  Hess noses around a little, trying to get an impression of the man whose desk is bulging with papers on the old Benedikte Skans case as well as handwritten notes about press strategies, but which otherwise contain nothing of interest. At least, not until Hess happens to nudge the mouse of the MacBook on the desk. The laptop’s screensaver begins displaying images of Vogel in various professional contexts: Vogel outside the EU headquarters in Brussels, Vogel shaking hands with the German Chancellor in the lobby at Christiansborg, Vogel in New York outside the World Trade Center Memorial, Vogel and Rosa Hartung visiting a UN children’s aid camp. But among the official photos there suddenly appear personal images of Frederik Vogel and the Hartung family: at children’s birthday parties, handball games and trips to Tivoli. Traditional family images, of which Vogel is a part.

  At first Hess tries to tell himself it’s nice that his prejudices about a heartless, Machiavellian snake aren’t being borne out. But then he realizes abruptly what it is that strikes him as odd. Steen Hartung is missing. He isn’t in a single photograph. Instead there are selfies of Vogel with Rosa and the children, or with Rosa by herself, as though they are a couple.

  ‘The minister’s secretary said you wanted to speak to me.’

  The door swings open, and Vogel’s eyes come to rest on Hess, growing vigilant as he looks from Hess to the screen, which is still illuminating Hess’s face. His coat is wet with rain and his brown hair is dishevelled, until he runs a hand through it and strokes it back into place.

  ‘What’s the situation? Have you found the driver?’

  ‘Not yet. We couldn’t find you, either.’

  ‘Meetings in town. I’ve been trying to minimize the amount of prying and exploitation those arseholes in the media can do. What about the driver’s girlfriend? Surely you’ve been doing something with your time?’

  ‘We’re working on it. Right now I need your help with something else.’r />
  ‘I’ve got no time for anything else. Make it quick, please.’

  Hess notices Vogel close the laptop with a discreet, natural-looking gesture as he throws his coat over the chair and takes out his phone.

  ‘On Friday 16 October you withdrew the minister from an evening function at the Royal Library. You’d spoken a few hours earlier and she told you her husband was going to be on TV. You said it would be fine to cancel.’

  ‘That’s probably true. Except that the minister doesn’t need my permission to cancel – she makes those decisions herself.’

  ‘But I assume the minister generally does as you advise?’

  ‘I’m not sure how to answer that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No matter. But it was you who sent her excuses?’

  ‘It was me who called the organizer and cancelled on the minister’s behalf.’

  ‘Did you also tell Asger Neergaard that the minister had cancelled and wouldn’t have to be driven home after the function?’

  ‘Yes, I did that too.’

  ‘It says in his digital log that he was working that evening. That he was on standby in the foyer of the Royal Library from around midnight until nearly quarter to one, waiting for the function to be over so he could drive her home.’

  ‘Who the hell would trust something he wrote? Maybe he needed it as an alibi for something else he was off doing. I’m pretty sure I let him know. Anyway, isn’t it a waste of time pissing around with this stuff when Gustav Hartung is missing?’