Rasmussen?
She got up and tentatively walked down one flight of stairs clutching her phone in her hand. Even though she knew it was nuts, she punched 112 into her phone so all she had to do was press the “call” button to connect to the dispatcher. Then at least someone would hear it if he started chopping her into pieces. Irrational as it was, it was still marginally comforting.
With trembling fingers, she pushed the doorbell. From inside the apartment voices and footsteps could be heard. Then the door opened and a man stood there, smiling at her. He was about the same height as Esther herself and at least as old, had quite a paunch under his durable blue work shirt, the buttons of which struggled to hold the fabric together, and a white stubble on his round cheeks. In one hand he held a battery-powered drill. Esther stared at him, speechless, unable to behave like a normal person.
“Are we making too much noise?” he asked.
He opened the door wide, allowing her to see past him to the bare walls and moving boxes. A woman of about the same age waved from over by a wall where she was holding a shelf ready to be screwed into place. His question was such a reflection of her and Alain’s first exchange that Esther’s mind reeled at the thought.
“We’re not the most crafty people, but the shelves need to go up,” the man said. He moved the drill to his left hand and held out his right. “Hugo Rasmussen. Yeah, just like the bass player, only I’m completely tone deaf.” He chuckled warmly. “That’s my wife, Ida, with the shelf over there. I assume you live in the building?”
“I’m your upstairs neighbor Esther de Laurenti,” she said, shaking his hand. “I… I’m sorry. I’m a bit confused. I thought an Alain Jacolbe lived here? Tall, gray hair…” She was about to say concert pianist, but managed to stop herself in time. How pathetically we cling to the lie instead of accepting a truth that hurts us.
“You mean the mover, Adam?”
“I don’t know. He was here yesterday…”
“That must be our mover.”
“So, he doesn’t live here?” Esther asked. She was trying to understand, she really was.
“We live here,” Hugo said, looking at her puzzled. “Ida and I. Well, we will once we’ve moved in anyway. The previous owners let us move our things in a couple of days early, so nice of them.”
“Good. Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up.” Esther forced herself to smile. “Welcome! This is a great place to live. You’re gonna love it. We have fun here.” She turned around mechanically and walked back up the stairs.
Hugo raised the drill in a jovial farewell salute and shut his door.
The concert pianist Alain was the same as the fast-food restaurant worker Allan, who was the same as the mover Adam, who didn’t live in the building but stole and conned money out of people. It was insane. She had to tell her new downstairs neighbors to make sure nothing was missing from their moving boxes and change their locks.
Esther took a sip of strong coffee and let it burn in her empty stomach. Fraud is the worst crime, she thought, because it takes way more than whatever is stolen. It robs the victims of their self-respect.
She found her phone and called Jeppe Kørner. He sounded short-tempered.
“Is this a bad time, Jeppe?”
“These days there aren’t any good times,” he admitted with a sigh. “I’m at headquarters. What can I do for you?”
Esther focused her shattered thoughts. In actuality, it was very simple.
“Do you know anything about a con man who claims to be a concert pianist or a cook?”
“What?” Jeppe sounded like he really didn’t understand.
“I met a…” Her stomach tied itself in knots. “I was conned. Out of money. How do I report a con man?”
There was silence. Then after ten seconds, Jeppe sighed.
“This isn’t just about your feeling bored, is it, Esther?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m relatively busy at the moment, so if this is about you not having enough going on right now…”
“Now you listen to what I’m saying, Jeppe!” Esther exclaimed, gripping her phone tighter. “The day before yesterday there was a man who pretended he was my new downstairs neighbor and he stole money from me. How do I report that?”
Jeppe’s tone softened.
“You can do it online. Go to politi.dk and file a report. It’s not hard to do. Are you okay?”
She resisted the urge to unload on him. He had his hands full with the murder case and didn’t need to be burdened with her petty problems.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“And Gregers?”
“He’s okay, too. He’s actually doing quite well.”
“Good, Esther. Take care of yourself.”
She hung up. A crying jag threatened to come over her, but she stopped it and walked to the window to look out at the dark green water, biting back her tears and shame. He was not going to get away with this.
* * *
A MILD PANDEMONIUM broke out when missing person Isak Brügger rang the doorbell at police headquarters asking for Anette Werner. He looked a little worse for wear and was seated in the cafeteria wrapped in a blanket. Jeppe contacted the U8 Ward at Bispebjerg Hospital, where the charge nurse was relieved to hear that Isak had been found, apparently in good shape. When she asked when the police would bring him back, he evaded answering.
Three people had been murdered. They needed to question Isak. Because he was only seventeen, not to mention an inpatient in a locked ward, they were legally required to have an advocate from the city present. Initially Jeppe was going to flout that legal requirement. He brought Thomas Larsen to the cafeteria with him, put a cup of hot chocolate in front of the boy, and hoped that that would set an informal tone.
“Are you feeling better, Isak?”
“I want to talk to Anette Werner. Marie said I should ask for Anette Werner.” His eyes darted anxiously back and forth between the investigators.
“I understand that, but Anette is at home with her new baby. She’s not working these days. But she’s my partner and a good friend of mine, and I promise that you can trust me as much as you would her. Tell me, Isak: Where have you been for the last day and a half?”
“Anette Werner. Marie said…”
“I understand, but Anette is not coming. So you were with Marie Birch? Your good friend?” Jeppe tried to maintain eye contact with Isak but he kept looking away.
“Marie is a good friend. I’ve always known that one day she would come and help me.”
“Help you how?”
He seemed confused by that question, as if the answer was obvious.
“Help free me.”
“Can you explain what you mean by that?”
Isak looked morosely down at his feet. “Wouldn’t you agree that if you’re committed in a hospital against your will and not allowed to leave, then you’re trapped?”
Suddenly Jeppe understood. In those instants when Isak was actually himself, he was sharp and clear.
“I would think being involuntarily committed is mostly about getting the help you need.…” Jeppe let his thought trail off.
Isak studied his feet for a long time before answering.
“People get up in the morning and put their pajamas in the laundry, take a shower, make breakfast, and bring their kids to school. They go to work and eat cake on Friday and make dinner and go on vacation. What is my life? I’m seventeen and locked up in a nursing home masquerading as a hospital. I have no privacy, no private life, no education, no future. I’m just in storage. Hospitals are for people who can be cured. I’m in jail.”
Jeppe looked down, unsettled by the young man’s pessimism. What could he say to that?
Sara cleared her throat discreetly right next to him and said, “Kørner, can I borrow you for a minute?”
Jeppe got up and left the cafeteria with a certain relief. His encounter with Isak Brügger’s hopelessness left him feeling dismayed.
“Yes, Saidani, what is it?”
“Do you remember how we talked about where you could buy a scarificator? I’ve looked into it, and actually there aren’t many places that sell that kind of thing.” Sara held up a piece of paper. “Long story short, I contacted various online sellers and came across something interesting on antiquescientifica.com. Look at this!”
She pointed to a line that had been circled in red. Jeppe read it.
… thus I can hereby confirm the purchase of one antique brass scarificator on May 5 by Danish customer Mr. Bo Ramsgaard, shipped to the following address…
“It was sent to a PO box in Østerbro and paid for using a PayPal account, which I haven’t been able to track so far.…”
“In other words, it could be a wild-goose chase,” Jeppe said. “I see… But it’s definitely interesting.”
“I’m trying to see if I can trace that payment to a name and, if so, if the name is the same. You’d better get back to your interview.” Sara walked off down the hall with the sheet of paper fluttering behind her like a kite. Jeppe watched her go. Then he returned to the cafeteria.
The somberness still hung heavy and low. Isak was sitting upright staring blankly into space.
Jeppe took a deep breath and tried hitting a cheerful tone.
“So how did you manage to escape from the hospital?”
“I just unlocked the window and jumped out.” Isak sounded almost proud.
“Where did you get the key from? Did someone give it to you?”
Isak looked down.
“Was Wednesday night the first time you ran away from the hospital?”
He still didn’t respond. Jeppe watched his tight-knit face closely, looking for twitches, side glances, anything that might give him away.
“Have you previously stolen keys and climbed out the window at night? Gone back to your room before anyone noticed?”
“I don’t think so,” Isak said, and then seemed to reconsider. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe you had errands to run in the city?”
Isak wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I was just going to meet Marie on Wednesday.”
“The staff from Butterfly House, did you hear what happened to some of them this week…” Jeppe exchanged a glance with Larsen, to make sure that he was ready to intervene if Isak should react. “What do you know about them?”
“Marie said that I should talk to Anette Werner.”
“Three people have been killed, three people you know. Do you have any information about that?”
“Only Anette Werner. I’ll only talk to her.” Isak put his hands on his neck, as if to protect himself.
Jeppe realized that though Isak might be psychotic and probably off his meds, he was also afraid of someone or something specific. If they were to get him to talk, Jeppe had to find a way to bring in Anette.
“Okay, Isak. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the hospital so you can get some clean clothes and rest for a bit. Medicine if you need it. Then I’ll get Anette Werner to come and meet us there.”
The movement came fiercely out of the blue and almost knocked Jeppe backward. Isak threw his hot chocolate right at his face and jumped out of his chair with astonishing speed. In a flash he was by the door. Larsen lunged at him and pinned his arms down.
Isak yelled and kicked.
Jeppe helped Larsen hold him. “Don’t hurt him! Hold him tight, but do not hurt him!”
“Oh, damn it, Kørner! He has a knife in his pocket. We need to put him in a leg lock.”
“No leg lock!” Jeppe tried to push his way through to the boy. “Isak, we’re not going to hurt you. Everything will be all right, I promise. No one is trying to harm you. Do you hear me?”
But his words had no effect. Suddenly Sara was squatting over Isak trying to pacify his desperately swinging hands with a zip tie.
“It was Peter!” Isak yelled the words, his face mashed against the floor. Then he burst into tears.
“What was Peter? What do you mean? Peter Demant?” Jeppe asked again and again but the boy just sobbed. “What do you know, Isak? We can help you if you talk to us.”
Isak slowly quieted down and lay unresponsive, his eyes closed.
“We need to get him back to the hospital,” Sara said.
Sara held him under one armpit and Jeppe took the other so they could stand him up. Falck and Larsen joined in. Isak hung like dead weight, and they were forced to carry him between the four of them.
“Come on, let’s move! Falck, get a car, and meet us down on the street!”
More officers joined in, alarmed by the scuffle, and they followed the detectives down to their car in a bizarre procession.
Adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, one sentence pumped repeatedly under Jeppe’s temples.
It was Peter!
CHAPTER 23
At 4:00 p.m. it started raining again, so heavily that it sounded like someone vacuuming. The water sloshed over the sides of the eaves and backed up out of the storm drains, which couldn’t keep up. Peter Demant looked out at the rain from his tenth-floor hotel room, listening as it hit the water by Kalvebod Quay. He tried to find a meditative state standing there, but truth be told, it bored him.
Wednesday night he had hurriedly packed his bag and walked through the dark, out the back door and along the water, until he was far away from prying eyes. Around midnight he had checked into the Tivoli Hotel with muddy shoes and a heart bursting with adventure. It was only fitting to stay here, a stone’s throw from police headquarters. Beautiful in all its irony. Peter had ordered the most expensive bottle of Bourgogne on the room service menu and drunk it in the hotel bed in front of the TV.
But adventure had quickly given way to reality: Peter was on the run. He was no longer safe, and those two dorks the Copenhagen Police had assigned to his surveillance team were no help whatsoever. The problem with going underground was that he had to keep himself in check, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to do that. He had an assignment that was waiting, a job to finish.
Peter watched the water, feeling more and more trapped by his own decision. A man who runs away is a mouse, but he was no mouse and absolutely refused to play that role. Time was slipping through his fingers while he stood here watching the world roll by. Yesterday had been yet another definite three, and today showed no signs of improvement. What was he going to do with himself in this twenty-five-square-foot luxury dungeon cell?
It is your fault! It’s all your fault!
Trine had sneered this at him as she beat her empty pill box against his chest. But whether she was talking about herself or the murders wasn’t quite clear to him. Obviously he had made mistakes. Anyone who works a lot messes up now and then. But his mission at least was to help, to cure.
Peter was in his raincoat before he even realized he was going out. She had summoned him, and now he was coming.
The coat hung on him like a shield, a suit of armor, and he felt his energy start to bubble. It was risky, moving around out in the world, but then he had always been a gambler. As far as he knew they weren’t even looking for him. Besides, he would die a slow, lingering death if he had to stay here.
While waiting for the elevator, fury slowly rose in him. Society has a responsibility to protect its citizens against those who can’t take care of themselves. Those who can’t tell right from wrong because they’re sick or have been damaged by childhood trauma, bad parents, or an inhibited family.
No matter how much people desperately want to believe that sickness can be treated and madness controlled, those who work with the seriously mental ill know that that’s not always the case. In some cases, recovery is not an option, and then who should be protected? The person who is sick or those around him?
The elevator doors opened with a little ding. Peter walked into the boxlike space.
He was sick of permissiveness and misunderstood humanism. In the elevator’s mirror he caught his own dark gaze
; the intelligent, probing eyes in that stupid round face. He was done feeling guilty.
Peter pushed the button and went down.
* * *
WHEN ANETTE PARKED in front of Bispebjerg Hospital, it was raining so hard that she considered staying in her car until it let up. She knew that it was audacious of her to even come here; that she might not get home before Svend and that he would be mad at her. Plus her breasts were so full she was having trouble ignoring it.
Hundred-year-old Bispebjerg Hospital had an expansive campus with well over forty hospital buildings and extensive gardens and park space. Anette was not entirely sure where Ward U8 was, so she just darted through the rain to the buildings that looked most plausible. That turned out to be a bad strategy. By the time she finally found the right place, she was soaked. She shook water from her hair and walked dripping and cursing to a receptionist desk, where a lady with green eyeglasses and a friendly smile looked up at her.
“Wow, you look like you got caught in it!”
“Boy, did I. Sorry if I’m dripping all over your floor. I had trouble finding my way.” Anette tried to wipe her hands on her wet pants.
“Most people do. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to one of your nurses, Ursula Wichmann. Is she working today?”
“One moment. I’ll call in and ask. Who may I say is here?”
“Anette Werner. I’m a… uh, a friend of Inge Felius.”
The woman adjusted her glasses and placed the call. She had a brief conversation, which Anette pretended not to eavesdrop on, and then hung up.
“She’s not in the ward just at the moment, but she is working today so she’ll probably be back soon. I don’t know if you have time to wait?”
Anette didn’t know if she had time to wait, either. She stood for a moment, trying to decide. It would be a while before she would again be able to defend spending several hours at a stretch away from her baby. At least not according to Svend.
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