“Are you a copper?”
“I haven’t heard that word in a long time,” Anette said. She couldn’t help but smile. “But yes, I am actually with the police.”
“You’re not welcome here. You ought to know that! We handle things on our own down here.”
Anette crossed her arms in front of her chest. She vaguely remembered a story, something about a body that had once been found on the tracks by Vesterport that someone said had came from “the Colony.” This must be it.
“I’m here on private business, not for work.” That wasn’t completely a lie. Anette glanced at the multiple computer screens. “Tell me, what kind of place is this?”
“The Colony, you mean?” he said with a smile. “A secret city within the city. Copenhagen is an old city, you know, it has burned down and been rebuilt on top of the ruins so many times that there are all kinds of tunnels and spaces underneath the city. They make room for those of us who can’t stand the light.”
Anette shrugged, trying to show that she was cool with that. That she wasn’t the least bit interested in whatever type of illegal activities people pursued down here, whether it be computer hacking or drug sales.
“I’m looking for a girl named Marie Birch. She’s nineteen and used to live in a residential place called Butterfly House in Gundsømagle.”
It was impossible to read his facial expression. In fact, she could hardly say that the giant even had a facial expression. At least not one that could be made out down there in the dark.
“Nineteen? That makes her an adult. Why, did she mess up?”
Anette hesitated and then said, “Not that I know of. I’m looking for Marie because someone she knows is dead. Maybe she knows something about why, maybe not.”
The giant knew something. She could tell from the way he was standing. Son of a bitch, she could sense it! He knew Marie, maybe even cared about her.
“Three people have been murdered in Copenhagen since Monday, and the killer hasn’t been found. Marie knows the victims. She might also know the killer. I’d really like to find her before the killer does.”
He turned around, walked over to the shelf and dug around among his books. Then he approached her with a folder in his hands.
“If we’re talking about the same person, she doesn’t live here anymore.”
“But she did live here?” Anette couldn’t hide her enthusiasm.
“Again, if we’re talking about the same person. She lived in a room farther down the corridor last winter. When spring came, she moved outdoors.”
“But you know her? Is she doing okay? Has she recovered?”
The giant raised one eyebrow, his piercings clinking.
“You’re asking me, if she’s healthy? Would you look at me!”
That made Anette laugh. He laughed, too. Clearly he had warmed up a little.
“People only come down here to live if they’ve had a few hard knocks from life. Things aren’t easy for Marie, but she’s a good girl.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
He shifted the folder back and forth a little bit between his huge, blue hands. Then he apparently decided to trust her.
“She lives with the Count, out in Fredens Havn by Christiania.”
“Motherfucker!” Anette exclaimed.
“Bless you!” said the giant.
She could see his teeth shining white in the darkness and assumed he was smiling.
“Right, sorry. But I didn’t actually think I’d find her—”
“You haven’t found her yet. But if you do, and it is the Marie I know, then give her this. It’s a project we worked on together. If you don’t find her, then just throw it out.”
The giant handed the folder to Anette.
“Can you find your way out? I don’t like to show myself on the platform during the day.”
“I’ve got it. Thank you.”
Anette shuffled down the corridor she had come from and hoisted herself strenuously back up to street level where she could crawl the last few yards out into the light. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but when she was finally standing under the arch again, breathing the fresh air and looking up at the dark clouds in the sky, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. What made people live underground like that?
What sent a young girl down among the monsters of the dark?
Anette could find one plausible reason only: Marie Birch must be on the run. But what was she fleeing from? Why was she hiding?
Anette glanced down at the folder the giant had given her. It was an ordinary, worn file folder, held shut by a rubber band. She pulled the cover open a tad and saw a thick stack of papers containing what appeared to be medical terms… the current expansion to the subgroups of affective disorders… the psychiatric diagnostic categories…
Anette closed the folder again and looked down at herself. If she didn’t beat Svend and the baby home, she was going to have a hard time explaining why her clothes were dark gray with soot and dust following a peaceful midday nap on the sofa. The lying was starting to get to her.
Fredens Havn. Now how the hell was she going to make it out there?
CHAPTER 13
Jeppe made his way through the packed restaurant on Store Strandstræde twice before he saw Peter Demant sitting in the covered atrium. He was at a table for two alone, reading next to what was left of the steak he had eaten for lunch. A fire was burning in the open fireplace in the atrium, apparently solely for the lone psychiatrist and his book.
Jeppe was reminded of nineteenth-century artists in Paris. There was something melancholy about the man with the dark curly hair, sitting there alone, something romantic yet at the same time sad.
Falck had stayed at headquarters to ask the Swedish police for help locating Lisbeth Ramsgaard and to arrange the surveillance details for the remaining former staff members from Butterfly House. In all honesty, Jeppe couldn’t really face bringing Falck along, even though he wasn’t supposed to interview a suspect alone. No one needed to know.
When he was next to the table, the psychiatrist looked up from his book with a finger marking the spot on the page.
“Yes?” Peter Demant said, not unfriendly but not particularly welcoming either.
“Jeppe Kørner, from the Copenhagen Police. Your receptionist said I could find you here.”
“I’m eating my lunch.” His face was still neutral.
“Bon appétit.” Jeppe sat down. “I need to ask you some questions about the murders of your former colleagues from Butterfly House. Since there’s a risk that you might be charged in this case, and your statements could later be used in a court of law, you have the right not to answer. Naturally, I would prefer if you cooperated.”
Demant folded over the corner of his page in the book and put it down. Then he pushed his plate aside, folded his hands on the table, and nodded.
“Where were you the last three nights?” Jeppe asked.
“At home, in bed. Last night I had a video session at ten p.m. with a client who lives in France.”
Jeppe raised an eyebrow. “What’s the client’s name?”
“You know very well that I can’t give you that,” the psychiatrist said with a wry smile. “I’m a doctor and bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”
He could soon enough be required to drop that confidentiality obligation, Jeppe thought, but let it slide for now.
“How close was your relationship with the three people who have been killed?”
“It was nonexistent. I haven’t had any contact whatsoever with any of the people who worked at Rita’s place since it closed. And back when it was open, I pretty much only knew Rita. I was just a consultant and only stopped by every now and then, I didn’t work there full-time.” He spoke calmly, with a straight face.
“You haven’t stayed in touch with a single one of your colleagues from Butterfly House?”
“Why should I?” Peter shrugged. “I’m a busy man. Butterfly House was only one of several places I w
as affiliated with, and when it closed two years ago, my employment obviously ceased.”
“What about back then? What was your relationship like with your colleagues when the home was still open?”
“Listen, in addition to my own private practice, I work part-time at both Bispebjerg and Glostrup Hospitals and also function as a consultant with various clinics and journals, all that on top of my various international commitments,” the psychiatrist said, and smiled again. He looked like someone who often had to make an effort not to talk down to people. “I’m sure you can imagine how many I meet and work with in one context or another. At the risk of sounding conceited, I just don’t remember the Butterfly House personnel very well.”
“May I ask why such a busy man as yourself would choose to work for a small, private residential program like that, way out in the countryside? It doesn’t seem like an obvious choice.”
“Not fancy enough, you mean?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe I’m just passionate about my profession, want to make a difference in the lives of mentally ill teenagers…”
Jeppe couldn’t decide whether there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“What about Rita Wilkins?” Jeppe asked. “She hired you. You must be able to remember her?”
Demant poured himself some mineral water from a green bottle and gestured to see if Jeppe would like some. Jeppe waved his hand to say no.
“Rita is one of luckily many firebrands we have here in Denmark, one of the people who is passionate about improving conditions for vulnerable teens, offering better options than what the national health service can, an opportunity to heal.”
“Rita Wilkins was murdered last night,” Jeppe said. “We found her this morning.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Demant bowed his head.
“Do you have any idea who might have had reason to kill her?”
He didn’t respond right away, but started chewing on his index finger’s cuticles. The motion seemed childish and incongruent with his otherwise professional image.
“No.”
“I’m assuming that you’re familiar with Pernille Ramsgaard’s suicide?” Jeppe asked, searching the psychiatrist’s round face for a reaction.
“Of course. She was one of my patients at Butterfly House, a tragic case.”
“Do you happen to know why she committed suicide?”
“That’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss. Doctor-patient confidentiality does not end when a patient dies.”
Jeppe decided there was no reason for him to hide what he knew himself.
“Her father claims that the substandard treatment at the home contributed to her death.”
“Yes,” Demant said with a sad smile. “That’s the same crap he’s been spewing for the last two years. I feel terrible for the family, but honestly it’s tiring to put up with their continual accusations.”
“So Bo Ramsgaard’s allegations against Butterfly House aren’t true?”
“No!” He shook his head adamantly. “They’re categorically false. The professional work environment at the home was constructive, and, in my opinion, the kids there had optimal conditions to thrive and recover. Pernille’s father seems compelled to blame someone for her death. Maybe he should look to himself instead. But of course that kind of thing can lead to painful realizations.…”
“Coffee?” A young server appeared by the table. Demant smiled warmly at her.
“You’re so sweet, Frederikke. Two espressi, thank you, and as you know, milk on the side.”
“Of course, Peter.”
The server cleared his plate. The psychiatrist followed her with his eyes. Once she was gone, he continued, sounding somewhat lost in thought.
“Unfortunately one often sees—”
“Wait a minute,” Jeppe held up a hand. “What did you mean by saying that Bo Ramsgaard should look to himself?”
“Let me say this much: Pernille was a neglected child. She grew up with parents who transferred all of their own failed ambitions onto their children, pushing them ahead like prize-winning cows without seeing them for who they were, especially the father… elite gymnastics, private school, and so on.”
“Was Pernille’s family the source of her illness?”
“They were a contributing, possibly a triggering factor at least.” Demant smiled. “It is important to note that she had just been home on vacation when she decided to take her own life. But there’s never just one reason. The mind isn’t so simplistic.”
Demant drank a sip of water, then shook his head resignedly. The fireplace was making Jeppe’s right cheek burn. He pulled out his notepad and skimmed a page.
“Three years ago,” Jeppe began, “one of the social workers who worked at Butterfly House died, a Kim Sejersen—”
“He drowned in the pond by the home,” Demant broke in. “There was a summer party.”
“A party?”
“That’s what I understood, although I wasn’t there myself. So, unfortunately, I don’t know anything about the accident. I hardly knew the man.”
“Pernille was said to have been very close to Kim. He was her”—Jeppe glanced at his notepad—“case manager. Do you know anything about their relationship? Was she very upset that he had died?”
“I’ve already said more than I should.” A shadow fell over the psychiatrist’s face. “Like I told you, my confidentiality obligations are sacrosanct.”
“Let me in turn remind you what’s at stake here. Three of your coworkers have been murdered and the killer is on the loose.”
Demant sighed heavily, then said, “What I can say is something about how mentally ill teenagers generally interact with the rest of the world.”
“Well, let’s start there”—Jeppe clicked his ballpoint ready to write—“and see how far we get.”
“First and foremost, you have to understand that for many mentally ill teens, it is extremely difficult to distinguish reality from imagination. That is part and parcel of the schizophrenia diagnosis.”
“According to her father, Pernille Ramsgaard had an eating disorder,” Jeppe interrupted. “She wasn’t schizophrenic, was she?”
Demant held up his hand and continued, “Generally teens with mental illness find that their perception of reality is quite precarious. If an adult, a caregiver for example, takes a particular interest, a mentally ill teenager can easily develop the delusion that there is a deeper bond, a romantic relationship for example.”
The server placed two tiny coffee cups and a small pitcher of warm milk on the table between them. Demant poured milk into his cup and lifted it halfway up to his mouth.
“If the adult rejects the young person, no matter how considerately it’s done, the teen may feel betrayed and let down.”
“Are you insinuating that Pernille had a crush on Kim Sejersen and that he turned her down?” Jeppe copied Demant’s milk ritual and eyed the dark brown brew in his cup skeptically. It looked like it might eat the enamel right off his teeth.
Demant pretended that Jeppe had not spoken.
“When a mentally ill teenager feels betrayed, that has the potential to elicit a desire for revenge. The teen might express this outwardly or through self-harm.”
“So, what you’re saying is that Pernille Ramsgaard killed herself because she was in love with her case manager and grieved over his death?”
“I never said that.” The psychiatrist emptied the espresso cup and wiped his mouth genteelly on a cloth napkin.
“But you are saying that a mentally ill teenager’s connection to their caregivers can turn into disappointment and rage, right?” Jeppe took a hesitant sip of the strong coffee.
“I am speaking only generally, in theoretical terms.”
“Considering that we’re dealing with three murdered caregivers, that’s an interesting theory.” Jeppe set his cup down and pushed it slightly away.
“It’s not a theory. It’s merely speculation. I’ll leave it up to others to connect
my statement with the murders.”
And yet he had chosen to say it.
“If we just pretend for a moment that the theory applies, which of the young people might have felt that way? Pernille is dead, and Kenny lives in Manila, but Isak and Marie are in Copenhagen.… Could one of the two be feeling the kind of desire for revenge that you’re describing?”
“I don’t discuss my patients.” Demant made a hand gesture as if to brush it all aside. “Never!”
He drummed his hands on the table and then leaned forward as if to confide a secret.
“Remember, feelings are never simple. Revenge is inextricably linked to a bad conscience; guilt goes hand in hand with resentment at having felt pressured to do the thing one feels guilty about. A double-edged sword, which makes the bearer both victim and executioner.”
He nodded a couple of times as if to validate this statement.
“Okay, thanks,” Jeppe said, concluding that he wasn’t going to get anything factual out of the psychiatrist, and stood up. “For the time being you would probably be wise not to meet with anyone tied to Butterfly House. Or with people who are mentally unstable.”
“Uh, you do remember that I’m a psychiatrist, right?” Demant laughed briefly. “Mentally unstable people would be pretty hard for me to avoid.”
“You know what I mean. Also we’re going to put you under surveillance for the next little while, two officers. They’ll keep a discreet distance, but we can’t risk more…”
Demant stopped him with a brief nod.
“Also, I’m going to need a confirmation of your alibi from yesterday, the video call with your patient in France. I understand that it might be awkward to have to ask a patient for such a thing, but unfortunately there’s no way around that. Oh, and Bo Ramsgaard gave the police permission to review his daughter’s medical records from her time at Butterfly House.”
Demant blinked a couple of times, and said, “I don’t know where her records are. That was a long time ago.”
“Two years isn’t that long. Surely you keep digital records? Bring them to police headquarters first thing tomorrow. Can we say around eight? Is that enough time for you to locate them?”
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