His father Elbert had died of a prostate cancer discovered too late, when it had already invaded other vital organs. He had spent the last few months in the oncology department, resisting more than the doctors had predicted. He was a big man planted like an oak tree who slowly, because of his illness, had became so small and delicate that Lars could not watch him without feeling pain.
Immediately after his death, his mother Jette had also died of a sudden heart attack, and everyone thought it was because of too much pain caused by the loss of her husband. She couldn't imagine life without him and wanted to reach him as soon as possible. It had been in May, four years earlier, and Lars had buried her next to his father.
Neither of them could see Kirsten who was only born that summer, in August. He often talked to his daughter about his parents, to keep their memories alive and so that she would know what wonderful grandparents she had lost. Luckily, Hege's father and mother were in good health and they adored their granddaughter, making up for that lack as much as they could.
The intensive care unit was on the first floor, just above the entrance of the emergency department, next to two emergency operating rooms. The family members of the patients were allowed in only once a day, from two to three o'clock in the afternoon.
To access the main room where about ten patients of all ages, mostly unconscious, were cared for day and night by a couple of nurses and a specialized doctor, you had to wear special protections over the usual clothing, so that the environment remained perfectly sterile.
The door of the department, in a gray color that reflected the tone of the walls, seemed extremely solid, as it was made of a steel alloy that had the property of also being fireproof. It remained constantly closed, and it was necessary to play at an intercom placed on the left side to talk to an employee on the other side, in order to be admitted.
Lars pressed the red button and, as soon as the voice on the other side answered, he briefly explained to the intercom who he was and why they urgently needed to enter. Soon after, a nurse dressed in green shirt and pants came to open the door. He was escorted by one of the two policemen who the superintendent had put on guard of the witness.
"Good to see you again, Inspector Petersen. I didn't know you had already been entrusted with the case," said the man in uniform, immediately recognizing his superior.
The policeman was Karl Jakobsen, a large man who had been working in the police station for five years. He was a trusted guy, though of a few words. He just took a fleeting look at Lene, but didn't make any comments. He knew perfectly well who the woman was and, if the inspector had decided to take her with him, he must have his good reasons.
"It's going to be a complex inquiry. Superintendent Nielsen didn't want to waste his time. Explain to me what this place is like, with regard to security, so we can take our minds off it," Lars said as he started to look around.
They were at the beginning of a fairly wide hallway leading to various rooms, located both on the left and on the right.
"Here on the right there is the staff locker room, then the room where visitors have to stop to put some coats over their clothes, the room also serves as a store for medicines and other medical supplies, finally there is the bathroom. On the left there is the doctor's office where family members are updated on the condition of the patients and then a larger room that is divided in two by a small inner corridor. On the one hand, there are the nurses with the doctor, when they do not have to treat the patients, and on the other hand there are the beds with the patients. The two rooms are divided by a glass that allows to have a good view of what is happening on the other side, and the nurses constantly go back and forth. In my opinion, perhaps a single policeman would be enough to supervise the whole environment, as it is impossible for someone to enter here without being controlled at the entrance," said Jakobsen.
"Where's your colleague now?" Petersen asked then, while the nurse who had opened the door was already moving away to return to the patients.
"He's in the smallest room where both the doctors and the nurses on duty remain. There is no need for us to wear an overcoat there, since we do not come in contact with the patients," he replied, making sign that they followed him.
The cop had explained himself in detail, in fact everything was exactly as he had said. His colleague got up as soon as he saw them coming in, and the doctor on duty greeted them.
"How's the girl?" Petersen asked after introducing himself to Dr. Olesen, an experienced doctor, judging by his almost completely white hair.
"She's currently stabilized, but I'd say she's lucky to be alive, even if she's still in critical condition. Usually in these cases, due to the strong bleeding, death is almost immediate, but with her, because of a rare congenital malformation to the carotid artery, the blade has not been able to cut it cleanly," said the doctor reading her medical record.
"Is that what saved her?" asked Lars really amazed.
"Yes, otherwise she would have had no chance. I'm very sorry for the girl, but unfortunately in her life she must have suffered a lot already."
"What do you mean?"
"The right side of her face, with part of her neck and shoulder, is covered with scars caused by burns that seem to be years old."
"I didn't know. What could have caused them?"
"Maybe a fire," said the doctor, uncertain.
"Is she conscious?"
"No, in her condition we're keeping her sedated. She's still intubated and, as I said, she's not yet out of danger. We'll see in the next few days how she responds to treatment."
"If she survives, in how much time will she be able to answer questions?"
"Not before two weeks, maybe a few days less, if the recovery is fast, but it's really early to make such predictions," said Olesen.
"Well, for me it's all for now. Do you have any questions, Poulsen?" Petersen concluded by addressing his colleague for the first time since they entered.
"Do patients' relatives have to register?" asked Lene. Until that moment, she had remained silent, following the inspector into the ward and observing everything carefully.
"What do you mean?" said the doctor on the defensive. He didn't like women who took the place of men in purely male jobs. According to him, they were less prepared and made themselves ridiculous with their anxiety to imitate their colleagues. He usually kept his opinions to himself, but that day the judgment that he had just made on Poulsen was evident from the way he looked at her.
"Are they identified in any way?" asked the woman again, trying to clarify the meaning of what she had just said.
"We have a register where we mark the name, address and a reference telephone number of each visitor who enters the ward," replied one of the nurses, "but we don't have their identity documents shown to us, if that's what you mean. These data are provided to us on an absolutely voluntary basis."
"May I check the register?"
The nurse looked first at the doctor and then at the inspector. In front of their nod, he pulled out a big diary. On each page there was the indication of the day and below, in the space for the notes, the name of the patient who had received a visit, with the name of the person admitted, his address and telephone number.
It took Lene a couple of minutes to scroll through the previous pages, under the watchful eye of Petersen and the two policemen. Lars had just figured out what she was looking for, and he was tormenting himself that he hadn't gotten there before her. It was the second time that Lene had preceded him, it had never happened with any of her other colleagues. He wondered if he was really losing his touch, but maybe it was just that the girl had nose, even if a part of him was hoping that in that case she would prove wrong.
"Who is this Lukas Eriksson?" asked Poulsen, going back to the last page of the current day. "I see he has come to visit Jan Slovak today, but it seems to me it was the first time."
"Yes, in fact, we were surprised too. Mr. Slovak has been in a coma for two weeks and he never receives visits,
but a couple of hours ago that guy showed up," said the doctor checking the register.
Lene looked at Petersen and shut up, leaving him with the go-ahead. He was her superior and now it was up to him to conclude her reasoning. Jakobsen had stood up and clenched his fists, it seemed incredible to him that someone could have done it to him like that, right in front of his eyes, but the facts seemed to lead to that conclusion.
"What exactly did he say?" Lars asked the doctor.
"The usual things, I think. That he was an old friend of Slovak and that he had just known what had happened to him, that's why he had come," replied Olesen uncomfortably.
"Jakobsen, can you describe this man to me? Tell me how he looked like," said the inspector at the time.
"I thought he was a nice guy, about sixty, average height and build, dressed in a nice way, with short hair and a thick brown beard."
"How did he behave?"
"When he came in, he had trouble recognizing his friend, but we thought it was because the other one was in bed, intubated. He looked around several times, that's right, but he didn't do anything strange," replied his colleague, the other policeman, the one who had stood with the doctor behind the glass that separated the two rooms. He was also uncomfortable.
"Did he get close to the girl?"
"Now that you ask, I think so," said the nurse who had been in the room. "He said something like ‘poor girl’, and then he just walked away."
"Call the police station and have them check the data he's provided. We need to know if this Mr. Eriksson really exists. It may just be a fake run, but we need to make sure of that as soon as possible," Petersen told the officers.
Half an hour later it became clear to everyone that things had turned complicated. The telephone number the man had given proved to be false, as it corresponded to a butcher's shop in the port area, where no one had ever heard of Lukas Eriksson. Even the address in the middle of the city center did not seem to be correct, since the cops sent to the site had just verified that no tenant had that last name.
"Our colleagues who work at the registry office are still checking the name and surname, but they have already told us, based on the approximate age of the subject, that there seems to be no correspondence, at least with regard to residents in the city area," said Jakobsen to the inspector.
"I get it, there's probably been a problem, but the only important thing is that nothing has happened. From now on, you will identify each visitor at the entrance, asking them to show you their documents. In case that man shows up again, you'll hold him for investigation. We can't do more at the moment," said Petersen.
"But who was he?" one of the two nurses asked him very worried.
"It may be that he was really a friend of Slovak and that he just misspelled his data, or he didn't want to give it on purpose, for some reason that we now miss. In any case, it is better to be more than cautious, since you are treating the victim of a brutal attack," said the inspector to reassure them, then he said goodbye and walked with Poulsen to the exit, telling Jakobsen to follow them.
"I don't need to tell you anything more. You know the business, and you know the guy almost screwed us over. Have a sketch artist come immediately from the police station and make sure it doesn't happen again," he whispered to the officer as soon as they were far enough away from the others.
"Don't worry, I'll also let my colleagues know, when they come to take over. If the asshole gets his foot back in here, he'll find himself with cuffs on his wrists before he can take a step."
"Yes, but be extremely careful. If it's really him, he's a very dangerous killer," Petersen replied and then added, "I'll call the hospital tomorrow to find out how the girl is doing," then he opened the thick front door, letting Poulsen pass first.
Watching them move away along the outer corridor, Jakobsen thought that the inspector's young partner had a fine mind and it was good that Petersen had taken her with him.
"Do you think he'll show up again?" said Lene, once they were out.
"Even though he can't imagine we found out about him, he'd still be a fool to try and get in again. Today he wanted to check the environment and realized that there are too many people in the ward. He would never be able to act undisturbed, if he thought of silencing her forever. In any case, supposing that he's really the pastor's killer, such a risky attempt indirectly confirms that the girl must have seen something."
"How did he know that she wasn't dead?"
"He must have called the hospital for news. He's gotta be very meticulous, someone who leaves nothing to chance. Those people so organized, who plan ahead, are the most dangerous killers," said Lars who in his long career had only had in rare occasions the feeling of being faced with someone so ruthless.
"He must also have been informed about that Slovak, who then served him to enter the intensive care unit, with the excuse of being his friend," added Lene.
"In that case, he may have asked a nurse or even phoned the hospital, coming up with a reasonable story. Remind me to send one of our colleagues to the hospital tomorrow, something interesting may turn up. But now it is better to go, Torslunde is thirty kilometers away and we will have to find a hotel in the village, before going to the police precinct to be updated."
Immediately afterwards they got into the car and Petersen started the engine, activating the windscreen wipers that began to remove water from the windscreen at regular intervals. It had been raining by now for a few minutes, at first almost undetectable, but the rhythm of the drops falling from a dark sky was increasing and the cold was pungent. The roads were about to freeze, making traffic unsafe.
It happened in the same way every winter, yet car drivers never seemed to get used to the cold season. They continued to cause chain collisions, almost always due to the non-respect of the safety distance between vehicles.
Not far from the hospital entrance, a man had been watching them for a few minutes, although it might have seemed that he had only gone out to smoke a cigarette. He wore a parka to which he had raised its hood as soon as he had heard the first drops fall. He breathed large mouthfuls of the cigarette, as if he was in a hurry to get back inside. Actually, no one was waiting for him inside, he hadn't gone to see any relatives or friends, and the only thing that interested him was to really understand who those two were.
He had glimpsed them outside the ward and had immediately understood, from the way he moved, that the man had to be a policeman, but he still struggled to frame well the girl who was with him. She seemed to be a simple companion, yet something in her eyes had intrigued him, alerting him.
The stranger was calm, he could not imagine that they had already discovered the trick with which he had entered, despite this, he could not help but wonder who he was dealing with. It was one of the first dictates of the art of war: 'Know your enemy'.
It was only when she was getting into the car that he understood who she was. Her padded jacket stood up for a moment and gave a glimpse of the service gun attached to her belt. So she was part of the crime investigation team, he said to himself very pleased. A light, almost mocking smile had just appeared on his face.
He was a player, he had found out that he was since he was young, despite the fact that the profession he had chosen was much less interesting and required a certain monotony combined with a semblance of seriousness that he had to mimic carefully each time, not to be discovered.
Luckily, he had never been as compulsive as those who threw themselves into things without knowing what was waiting for them. He was more the type of chess player, he knew how to taste the expectation and predict the moves of others, so he could proudly say that he had never lost a game with anyone.
In truth, Jesper had disappointed him, revealing himself in a remote past as a coward who had escaped immediately in the face of danger, and only now he understood that perhaps he had also contributed to his momentary fall.
It had happened an infinity of time before, when still the drawing of what he would
become was not sufficiently clear to him. Fate, however, was magnanimous with the pure of heart and in the end it had allowed him to settle accounts with the past, as almost always happened to those who had extreme firmness of character and knew how to wait.
He turned a malicious thought to the address of the now dead pastor, hoping that he could not find peace, and he decided to leave the hospital.
The car driven by Lars passed by him just as he was walking down the avenue leading to the main street. They didn't even notice him, they were engaged in a discussion that seemed animated, probably about the case. The girl was not bad, certainly not his type, but the man must have some interest in her, if he had chosen her as his partner.
It would be interesting to see if she was really worth something, but he should not rush things. He slipped off his hood and entered the car, throwing on the passenger seat the false beard that he had worn till that moment to hide his true appearance from others. There were a couple more things he had to do, and then he could come home.
CHAPTER 4
"Are you sure that the two parishioners who helped the girl didn't see anything at all?" asked Lene as they were leaving the hospital car park.
They were heading towards the outskirts of the city to take the state road that would bring them directly to Torslunde.
"Quite sure, they are both elderly people and the sight of blood upset them, but they repeated several times to the policemen that there was no one else when they entered the church. Tomorrow we will question them more calmly at their home, and maybe in a well known environment, where they feel safe, they will remember some other important detail," Lars said, being careful to drive at a slow pace, so as not to risk slipping on the wet surface of the street.
When he was young, he liked the speed and the risk that it involved. With his first earnings he had bought a motorcycle with which he went around the city with friends to brag and pick up girls, but over the years he had become much more cautious both with the guide and in private life, also because of the outbreak of war.
An Old Debt Page 3