“Have you been on the computer while you were tucking her in?” His tone wasn’t exactly accusatory, but still. “It’s pretty important to establish a good bedtime routine early on, so she feels a sense of closeness and security before falling asleep.”
Anette’s desire for grown-up time instantly drained out of her. Aching all over she got up from the bed, pulled the blanket gently over her daughter in the cradle, and brushed past Svend out of the bedroom.
“I’m turning in—on the sofa. And I’m bringing my computer so that I can feel a sense of closeness and security before I fall asleep. Good night.”
* * *
COPENHAGEN HAS A love affair with the sea. When you’re by the shore, you can really feel how the city has been built to unfold toward its water, make use of it, and love it. The water softens the city’s hard edges and gives them life, washes the filth away.
Jeppe lit a cigarette and pulled his collar tight against the cold. The undulating wooden boardwalk, aptly named the Kalvebod Wave, floated out over the water around him in different heights of viewpoints, benches, and play areas. An insufficient bandage to cover the eyesore inflicted on the Copenhagen waterfront by the criminally ugly and overbuilt Kalvebod Quay. Small groups of young tourists from the big youth hostel on H. C. Andersens Boulevard hung out under umbrellas along the water, laughing together in English and Italian.
When Jeppe had switched off the light in his office ten minutes earlier, it had suddenly hit him that he didn’t know where to go. He would have given anything for a quiet evening at home on the sofa, but unfortunately his home had been sold and his sofa was in a storage unit on Gammel Køge Landevej.
There were two women in his life—Sara Saidani and his mother—but right now he didn’t really want to deal with either of them.
Sara hadn’t suggested they spend the night together, and Jeppe didn’t know if he minded. Was he even ready to meet her daughters? Was he ever going to be? On top of that his mother kept calling and calling, instigating both annoyance and guilt.
In other words he had nowhere to go. Thus, here he was sitting by the water, smoking in the rain, next to Langebro bridge.
Bo Ramsgaard refused to cooperate; so far questioning him had been in vain. He didn’t let himself be manipulated into a confession, on the contrary, he was now claiming that his wife lied about him not being home, and said she was trying to discredit him because she wanted custody of their daughter. They couldn’t prove that he hadn’t been home, could they?
They couldn’t. For now he would remain in custody overnight, charged with obstructing police work and violence against an on-duty officer. Then they would just have to see if they could get him to lower his guard tomorrow.
The streets were wet and deserted in the evening gloom; people were already heading inside for the winter, getting comfortable in front of their TV screens, wrapped up in sweets and woolen blankets. Copenhagen quietly folded in on itself, preparing to hibernate. Even Kalvebod Quay thoroughfare, which usually echoed with heavy traffic, was uncharacteristically quiet.
Jeppe’s phone buzzed to life in his pocket. It was Monica Kirkskov. Just what I needed, he thought, and answered the call.
“Good evening, Monica.”
“Good evening, Jeppe.”
“What can I do for you?” Jeppe’s pants were soaking up rain and starting to stick to his legs. Being wet actually wasn’t so awful once you got used to it.
“It is I who can do something for you. Hopefully, at least. Do you remember me mentioning that I knew Peter Demant in medical school? Well, now I understand from the news that he’s missing, and wanted in connection with the murder investigation…?”
Jeppe hummed noncommittally.
“Well, it happened ten years ago, so it may not be relevant, but back then there were rumors that he was stealing medicine.” She paused for a moment and it sounded like she took a sip of something, probably wine. “He wasn’t the only one there were rumors about. Theft is a pretty widespread phenomenon in med school.”
“So, you think he was taking drugs?”
“I’m not sure. About the same time I decided to switch to history and philosophy, and I didn’t run into him anymore. I don’t know how things ended up.”
She breathed and held the air in for a moment.
“At any rate, there were rumors.”
Jeppe thanked Monica Kirkskov and wrapped up the call before it had a chance to get personal. He looked out over the water, letting his mind wander. Looked beyond the city lights reflecting on the surface of the water and into the depths, down into the dark layers, where truth lay hidden in the sediment of lies.
The whole thing began and ended with Peter Demant.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13
CHAPTER 21
For Esther de Laurenti one of the great pleasures of life as a retiree was sleeping as long as she wanted, not getting up until her dogs wouldn’t wait anymore. But on Friday, October 13, she woke up at six thirty in the morning unable to stay in bed even a second longer. The very idea of having allowed not only her home but her body to be invaded by a con artist was so awful that she felt sick. In the bathroom she took her temperature, which was completely normal, and washed down two aspirin with water from the tap. Not until after a long, hot bath did she feel well enough to take Dóxa and Epistéme for a walk. And even then, she went down the kitchen stairs.
The dogs were eagerly sniffing the lakeshore, darting to and fro on their little legs, and Esther let herself be pulled along without paying attention to the joggers, swans, or falling chestnut leaves. She couldn’t handle the thought of Alain living downstairs from her. Could she get him evicted? Should she move? But then what about Gregers?
Her mind reeling, Esther didn’t realize where she had gone until she was standing on Nørrebrogade in front of that fast food place Gregers sometimes brought dinner home from. She hesitated, but now that her feet had chosen to walk this way, she might as well take a peek inside. She tied the dogs up out front and prayed that no dog-nappers would come by. That was the last thing she needed.
The restaurant’s sandwich board sign stood in the middle of the floor and the lights were off. The place clearly wasn’t open yet. But when Esther gave the door a little push, it opened, and she stepped into the empty shop. The walls were covered with neon-colored cardboard displays featuring pictures of pita dishes at favorable prices, and sun-faded posters with Arabic text hung over the counter. The smell of frying hung heavily in the air, threatening to settle in her hair and clothes.
“We’re not open yet, not until eleven!” a young man called. He had black hair, was clad in denim from top to toe, and was carrying a milk crate in his arms. He walked past her into the back room and returned without the crate.
“We’re closed, lady. I can’t help you until after eleven.”
He paused by the front door and gestured for her to walk through it.
“Is this your place? Your… restaurant?” Esther asked, not moving.
“My family’s. Why?”
“I’m looking for someone who works here. Or used to work here.” Strictly speaking, she wasn’t looking for Alain, because he lived downstairs from her, but this seemed like the easiest way to explain it.
The young man seemed to size her up. Apparently his curiosity won out.
“What’s his name?”
“He calls himself Alain Jacolbe, but I don’t know if that’s his real name. He’s tall and in his fifties, French guy?”
She could tell that rang a bell. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave a little nod.
“Why are you looking for him?” he asked.
There wasn’t much choice other than to tell the truth, or at least some of it.
“He conned me.”
The young man nodded a couple of times. Then he went behind the counter.
“Do you want a cup of mint tea with sugar? It’s really good.” He poured tea into two little glasses and handed her one.
Est
her drank.
“Thank you. This is really good.”
“I told you so,” he teased with a friendly wink. “I know him well, Allan, gray-haired Frenchy-type dude. My uncle hired him as a cook last year.”
“So he’s a trained chef?”
“Oh, you don’t need to be a trained chef to cook burgers. I don’t know anything about his past or his private life or any of that. He was a nice enough guy in the beginning, but we ended up firing him.”
“Why?”
“There was an episode.” He drank his tea and didn’t seem inclined to expand on that.
“And when you say episode, you mean…?”
He shook his head a little from side to side.
“I’m sorry to be pestering you about this. But if he’s the same guy I’m looking for, he stole from me. I just want to know if… well, if Allan stole from you guys, too.”
“I don’t know. It could have to do with money, but I’m not sure. I’ve never seen my uncle so angry. He fired him right here in the kitchen one Friday night.”
Esther looked down at the floor. Alain’s downfall from passionate concert pianist to common crook was so steep that she felt dizzy.
The young man chuckled to himself.
“Man, it was sick. Allan took that small fryer over there—the little one that lifts up—and threw it at my uncle. The oil is so hot it melts your skin. Luckily he missed, but he had to hightail it out of here to keep from getting his teeth kicked in. He ran with his apron still on and everything.”
“You must have his information, identification number and that kind of thing?” She smiled hopefully.
“No information.”
“Were the police called?”
He smiled smugly to indicate just how preposterous he found her question.
Esther set her tea cup down on the counter. Her hands were shaking slightly.
“Well, thank you very much for your time. I have to finish walking my dogs.”
“No problem.”
He chivalrously opened the door out onto Nørrebrogade for her.
“Hey, if I were you,” he said, “I’d steer well clear of Allan. He’s bad news.”
Esther nodded and let the door close behind her, untied the dogs’ leashes, and walked back to the Lakes. After having been numb for so long, the shifting emotions she was experiencing now were so intense they made her see double. From infatuation to humiliation, suspicion, and dread, all of it within twenty-four hours. The dogs tugged impatiently, wanting to go back to the water and the birds. She let herself be pulled along like a rag doll, temporarily knocked off-kilter.
The fear tasted like battery acid in her mouth.
* * *
“WHAT HAVE YOU been saying about me?”
The old man looked at her in confusion, as if he didn’t understand what she meant.
“To the other nurses, what have you been saying?” Trine Bremen clarified, folding her arms over her chest.
He still didn’t answer, just blinked, disoriented.
“Because if you have something to complain about, it would be better to just say it to my face.”
“No,” he protested. “Wait a minute…”
“I’m tired of your bellyaching! I come in to work every day ready to do my best. We don’t have enough beds, people are lying in the hallways, and we’re still working ourselves half to death trying to provide them with safe, high-quality medical care.”
Her words hung uncommented in the quiet between them. The old man averted his gaze. Just as she had experienced it so many times before, people couldn’t handle it when problems were brought out into the open, when backstabbing was revealed and expressed out loud. They always clammed up, embarrassed.
“Next time you have something to say about my job performance, you just let me know. Thank you.”
Trine spun around and left the room, her heart pounding, a familiar lump of nausea climbing in her throat. She stomped down the hallway to the staff room, found her bag, and dug out her pill box. The benzodiazepines were round and white in their blister pack. She had taken her morning pill and wasn’t supposed to take another for a while, but the mere sight of them was soothing. She knew she was losing it, but she had no way of stopping herself. There was just no way to manage it all.
After she had been to his place yesterday Peter Demant had disappeared. Trine squeezed the pill box. He had started confronting her, had looked at her so angrily with his night-black eyes, that she had almost been afraid of him. She put the pills away and zipped her bag.
The police were looking for him. For them. She prayed silently that he didn’t turn up again for a while.
“Trine, haven’t you done the medication rounds yet?”
Jette stood in the staff room doorway, an innocent look on her face.
Trine visualized the walls slowly tipping in over Jette, toppling and burying her in dust and rubble. Layer upon layer of lies and betrayal dissolved into white clouds that filled the air making it impossible to breathe. For a moment the vision overwhelmed her: Jette, obliterated forever.
“Are you okay?” Jette asked, her head cocked to the side. No collapsed walls, no dust.
Trine didn’t respond. She wasn’t about to play along with this two-faced concern, that look, the fake smile between the hamster cheeks. She squeezed past her coworker and out into the hallway. Jette’s eyes burned into her back, fanning her smoldering rage.
* * *
AT COPENHAGEN POLICE Headquarters, the day began with a confession. Bo Ramsgaard, who had spent the night on a cot in the lockup, woke up aching in both body and conscience and immediately summoned a guard, who got hold of the lead detective. Jeppe arranged a new interrogation right away and hurried to headquarters, where he met Falck in interrogation room six and started a video recording with fingers that were trembling with excitement.
Unfortunately the confession Bo was burning to share with them was not the one they needed. Guilty and tearful, he choked down his humble pie and admitted that he had left his sleeping daughter Tuesday night and hadn’t returned again until Wednesday morning before school. He had exited via the patio door at the back of the house and jumped over the fence into the neighbor’s yard, the neighbor he occasionally slept with.
Bo realized that it was indefensible to leave his sleeping child, but he was kind of having an affair with a married woman. It was absolutely a secret and had obviously only started as a side effect of the looming divorce. He hadn’t told the police about the visit, because he was afraid that Lisbeth would use it against him in their upcoming custody dispute.
Which she would be a fool not to, Jeppe thought, switching off the recording equipment with a disappointment he couldn’t hide. Bo Ramsgaard’s so-called confession hadn’t done anything to help clear up or close the murder case. On the contrary, it had provided him with an alibi.
A call to his neighbor neatly confirmed that Bo was not guilty of anything other than getting a little action on the side, which in the context of a triple homicide case was relatively small potatoes.
They had to release him.
Jeppe returned to his office. In the hallway, he passed Sara. They were completely alone. Still, she merely nodded distantly to him as if he were some random coworker.
Fine, Jeppe thought.
In his office he removed Bo Ramsgaard’s name from the bulletin board and moved the other suspects in closer together:
Peter Demant
Isak Brügger
Marie Birch
What if they were in cahoots? They knew each other from Butterfly House and could be linked in ways the police didn’t know, doctor/patient, friends, even lovers?
Jeppe pushed the thought aside. His imagination was running wild. Not that there was anything wrong with contemplating different scenarios, but right now he was so anxious to solve this case that he was getting fanciful. It would fit so beautifully if the suspects, after disappearing simultaneously, were sitting on a beach in Venezuela holding ha
nds or something. But there was no indication that Demant had much of any relationship with either Isak Brügger or Marie Birch, and the thought of some sort of joint crusade was rather absurd.
“Can I have a moment?” Larsen asked from the doorway, holding a thick stack of papers under his arm. Without waiting for an answer, he sat down in the chair on Anette’s side of the desk. “I have exciting news. My girlfriend is in finance, so I asked her for advice,” Larsen said with a wry smile, “without revealing any details from the case, of course.”
Jeppe nodded reluctantly, the superintendent’s threat to hand the case over to Larsen echoing in his ears.
“Can you make it snappy? I’m busy.”
Unfazed, Larsen explained, “The Butterfly House books were cooked, seriously. To be very clear, it appears that they generated a large profit, which was channeled into a company owned by Robert, Rita’s husband at the time.”
“Is that illegal?”
“Not per se. The illegal part is that they made up fake expenses—wages, maintenance, medications, outings—that never existed. These all appear as entries in the books, but there are basically no receipts or supporting documentation. The financial result listed in their official account is far too low compared to their actual profit.” Larsen tucked a lock of hair behind his ear with a satisfied grin. “In other words, ladies and gentlemen, a scam.”
“How much are we talking about?” Jeppe asked, nodding skeptically.
“It could turn out to be quite a lot.” Larsen flipped through his paperwork. “The Danish health-care system reimburses psychiatric treatment centers in the Zealand region with up to 1.8 million kroner per pediatric resident per year. With four residents at Butterfly House, that adds up to a pretty penny. I’ve only looked over the accounts for 2015 and 2014 so far, but I’d be surprised if this doesn’t extend back even further than that.”
“Good stuff, Larsen. Well done.” Jeppe got up. “Keep digging, and let me know what you find. And have a talk with Robert Wilkins! I’m sure you’ve already thought of that.”
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