Dead Souls

by Elsebeth Egholm

In a cold voice Jeanette said:

  ‘There should be plenty of DNA on that. I hope he rots in hell.’

  62

  PETER HAD PLAYED out the scene countless times in his head, ever since he’d found the letter to the editor about fur farming and discovered what Gumbo’s photographs meant. He had imagined himself sitting there asking the questions and her answering them. He had imagined himself ignoring her frailty and her femininity and her big eyes that asked questions and propelled him back to the years with My. He would put on his authoritarian voice and bark an ‘Out with it, woman. It’s time to tell me the truth, don’t you think?’ And he had imagined her response: respect, even fear. He would see the dawning understanding in her eyes that she had been found out, and the realisation would make her put all her cards on the table, one by one.

  He had waited for this moment, knowing full well that he couldn’t have done it any sooner. She would have denied everything. Just as she had lied and deceived him ever since the day she had turned up with Miriam.

  She couldn’t deny everything now.

  And yet it turned out to be so different from how he had imagined it.

  He looked at her as she sat pressed up against the corner of his sofa. She was no longer the pushy woman who had driven over with a dream cake and stopped him on his way home to the cliff. She looked more like the woman huddling in the corner of the kitchen after Gumbo’s visit. But she wasn’t beaten. There was still a spark there. And some sexual tension as her eyes met his.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know how the hell you do it.’

  ‘Do what, Peter?’

  Her voice was hoarse from screaming and shouting on the battlefield not so long before.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He had to gather his thoughts. He started tentatively. Slowly. Of course, she wasn’t a killer, but then again, she wasn’t entirely blameless, was she?

  ‘OK. Perhaps it’s best if you just tell me what happened,’ he said. ‘What’s going on, Bella? What are you mixed up in with Alice and the others?’

  ‘The others?’

  She sounded completely innocent. He pulled out a copy of the letter and handed it to her. While she looked at it, he counted out loud on his fingers.

  ‘Alice Brask, you, Anni Toftegaard, Ketty Nimb, Ulla Vang.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me what you’re up to.’

  This time it was Bella’s turn to sigh.

  ‘Surely that’s obvious. We have opinions and we’re not afraid to back them up with action. We’re against fur farming. You saw those poor creatures. Some of them have sores the size of five-krone coins.’

  She stretched out a black-clad arm.

  ‘You love nature, don’t you? So you must hate the thought of animals caged up! You must hate cruelty to animals.’

  ‘Of course. But I hate cruelty to human beings even more.’

  He knew very well that he couldn’t oppose her like this. Their action probably did have a point, but for him this was about something else.

  She opened her mouth to add something. He beat her to it.

  ‘Melissa is dead. Nils is dead.’

  ‘Nils drowned,’ she said, sounding just as surprised as Ulla Vang had earlier. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You’re blinkered, Bella. You see what you want to see and you hear what you want to hear. Nils was garrotted and placed in the wheelhouse of a boat, which then sank.’

  She was genuinely shocked.

  ‘That can’t be true . . . But, that’s awful.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘Twelve hours ago, I found the body of Ketty Nimb’s son, Victor, in the dunes by Fjellerup Beach, where he had fled to join Magnus and Ea-Louise.’

  ‘You did what?’

  He ignored her question and carried on.

  ‘Victor had also been garrotted.’

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Wake up, Bella! Your children have been living with threats and you knew nothing. They protected you, not the other way round, while you were busy running around with your gang and making enemies.’

  He took a breath and went on while she stared at him blankly, as though someone had picked up a pair of bolt cutters, whacked her on the head and stunned her.

  ‘And somewhere out there, enemy number one is in action, killing your children. Who is he, Bella? Trawl through your memory and he’ll be there. It’s someone you know. Someone who knows your children and the other women’s children and who feels humiliated by something you did in good faith and with the best of intentions, but which was the cause of great anger. This is someone wreaking their revenge.’

  She shook her head and held up her hands as if to avert further blows. Tears gushed from her eyes and her words came out in gasps.

  ‘It’s just a group of like-minded people. OK, so we release some mink and we spray paint on some fur coats, and yes, it’s other people’s property, but that doesn’t make us killers!’

  Privately, he had to agree with her. It didn’t add up, and yet there was so much evidence to suggest that this had to be the reason.

  ‘So what’s really going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her eyes were swimming in tears; they brimmed over and trickled down her cheeks. ‘Magnus had just had enough. He’s eighteen. He wanted a different life, so he took off. That’s all there is to it . . .’

  ‘You’re living in a dream world, Bella. Gumbo said Magnus met Melissa. Melissa had received threats every year on her birthday. You yourself showed me a threatening letter you’d found in Magnus’s drawer . . .’

  He continued patiently:

  ‘He and Melissa supported one another. And the other children of the five co-signatories.’

  And who knows, he added to himself, perhaps there were more? There had certainly been more than five activists tonight.

  She shook her head. He could see she was making an effort to compose herself and think clearly. He got up and found some milk in the fridge, mixed it with cocoa powder and heated it in a saucepan, to give her time to think.

  When he came back and handed her the mug of hot cocoa, she clasped it with both hands and said:

  ‘This can’t be about animals. I refuse to believe that. It has to be something else. Something about us, yes. About our group. But not what you think.’

  ‘Then what is it, Bella? What have you done that could turn one man into your children’s killer?’

  She put her lips to the mug and sipped the cocoa carefully, with knitted brows. She stared at him and sucked him into her professed innocence, and his dream from the other morning surfaced.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to remember, Peter.’

  63

  AARHUS CATHEDRAL WAS packed to the rafters, but despite the sombre occasion, far from everyone was wearing black.

  In her blog, Alice Brask had asked people to wear bright colours to celebrate Melissa’s short life. Many in the congregation had done as she requested. Most of them, in fact, except the nuns from the convent. They sat on two pews in their white habits with black mourning bands.

  ‘We should have picked her up last night,’ Mark said. ‘We don’t have the time to consider feelings.’

  Next to him, Anna Bagger shook her head imperceptibly.

  ‘She hasn’t killed anyone.’

  Mark wasn’t so sure about that.

  ‘She’s a bloody nuisance and that business last night was clearly unlawful, and yes, she’s the brains behind it,’ Anna Bagger said. ‘But she isn’t a killer. And she has lost her daughter.’

  ‘And now she’s turning the funeral into a circus,’ Mark whispered.

  He was sure Melissa would have preferred a more low-key funeral at the convent church, but she was no longer around to express her wishes. And her mother was her next-of-kin and had somewhat more flamboyant taste than her daughter, of that Mark was sure.

  That was why the white coffin was decorated with a garish displ
ay of flowers; and all around the cathedral there were scarlets, purples and oranges. And that was why most of the bouquets and wreaths – there were so many they hung or lay on every available surface – were orgies of colour. Meanwhile the bereaved mother, who was sitting with her closest family nearest the coffin, wore a trouser suit that matched the splurge of flowers. A young boy sat next to her, no more than ten years old. His face was closed and he was absent-mindedly dangling his feet and kicking. It was Melissa’s younger brother.

  In his hand Mark held a sheet of paper: the order of service. One had been placed on every single seat. It didn’t look like anything Melissa would have chosen, either. There was a variety of items, probably from friends and acquaintances and the family. And all rounded off by a Kim Larsen song: ‘Om lidt bli’r her stille’. Soon all will be quiet. The lyrics were printed on the sheet because it wasn’t in the hymn book. He read them: ‘Fik du set det, du ville? Fik du hørt din melodi?’ Did you see what you wanted to see? Did you hear your tune?

  He casually raised a hand to the tie he had put on out of respect for the occasion and loosened it slightly. The words buzzed around his head and penetrated a space he had sealed hermetically after his illness. Fear. Uncertainty. This constant accursed envy of the healthy. No, he hadn’t yet seen everything he wanted to see. However, he had seen a lot of things he hadn’t wanted to.

  ‘We can’t arrest her today,’ Anna Bagger decided. ‘But let’s see if there’s anything here that might prove useful for us. Keep your eyes peeled.’

  Mark raised his eyes to the high ceiling. He needed sleep after last night’s raid and the preliminary interviews. And if he couldn’t have sleep, then action. He had wanted to drag Alice Brask out of bed that same night and make her face some tough questioning. But Anna Bagger had said no on compassionate grounds and of course she was right. They had to be patient. Meanwhile two young people were on the run from a madman with a garrotte, and God only knew how many more of them were out there. Teenagers in peril. Big kids who might never get to see the things they wanted to see.

  The police only knew of Magnus and Ea-Louise, but there could be more. One glance across the sea of people in the cathedral was confirmation. Alice Brask had many friends and network connections.

  The organ started. Mark felt he was about to choke. He started sweating all over and his palms got so wet they could barely hold the programme. Everyone sat very still, listening and waiting. It was like sitting in a bell jar. The room spun around and devils and angels from the frescoes traded places in front of his eyes. He got up, panting for breath, and tore off his tie.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Anna Bagger hissed in a loud voice and tugged at his sleeve to make him sit down. ‘People are looking. Sit down now, Mark.’

  But he didn’t care. He had to get out. He made his way along the pew, stepping on several toes and handbags and earning himself some glares in the process. He headed for the heavy cathedral door, threw himself against it and opened it to inhale fresh air, while behind him, he heard the congregation joining in a hymn. The only one he had recognised so far.

  He leaned against the red-brick cathedral for a while, recovering. ‘Sov sødt, barnlille! Lig roligt og stille,’ they sang inside. Sleep well, my little child! Lie calm and still. He looked around. There were still small clusters of people outside, of all ages, but most of them middle-aged. People who could be the parents of older teenagers.

  Some of the teenagers had been receiving threats for years, just like Melissa. Ever since she was ten years old. That was what Boutrup had told him, and Sister Beatrice, her friend at the convent, had confirmed it. From that perspective, the mink raids were a more recent activity. The women the police had interrogated said they had started their actions after the famous letter to the editor Boutrup had copied, so in 2005. That was six years ago.

  Mark drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. From the church he heard the words of the hymn again. Sleep, my little child! Lie calm and still now.

  It wasn’t until the cathedral bells started ringing, as the coffin was carried outside, that the bells in his own head set off:

  Six years obviously wasn’t enough if Melissa had been receiving threats since her tenth birthday. This meant it went back much further than the letter from 2005.

  He started pacing up and down on the cobblestones. They had been idiots. This wasn’t about animals or fur coats. It was about something completely different. It was about people.

  He stood for a moment watching people walk across Bispetorv. Then he sat down on a bench and waited until the coffin had been carried to the hearse, followed by close family.

  The whole congregation came afterwards. Some were probably heading home, but those who wanted to – he knew this from Alice Brask’s blog – were welcome to join her at Skovmøllen Restaurant for coffee and cake.

  He waited until he saw Anna Bagger slip out. And then, in the crowd, he spotted another figure he recognised. Small and round, her neck tucked well down below her coat collar, her eyes alert, studying the gathering just as he was doing.

  For a moment it was as if those eyes met his, and they looked at each other for a fleeting second. But it was over so quickly that later he doubted whether it had happened at all.

  64

  LISE WERGE WISHED she hadn’t seen the police officer and that he hadn’t seen her. Looking into his eyes was like meeting someone who wanted to extract information from her. And right now she wasn’t in any mood to give anything to anyone. Right now, she needed information. That was why she had gone to the funeral.

  She had hoped to see Simon amongst the mourners, but also dreaded seeing him of course. It would be his style to show up at the murdered girl’s funeral. Sitting there, soaking it all up: the mourners, the music; the thick atmosphere of death.

  Simon had always been in love with death.

  She pulled the collar of her coat around her ears to protect herself against the wind and prevent anyone from recognising her. She didn’t want to be approached or questioned. What could she say? That she was scared her brother was responsible for the girl’s death? That she had no idea where he was because her mother had kept him hidden? For however long it had been – she didn’t know.

  She trudged up Strøget with the gusting wind buffeting her in all directions. But she held firm as she always did and navigated her way through the crowds towards Salling car park, where she had left her car.

  As she walked she cursed her family to hell and back. Had it not been for the ingrained loyalty with which she had been vaccinated at an early age, she would have broken with them long ago. Then the police officer could ask whatever he wanted. And she would tell him about the depravity that went all the way back to the days of the Cardinal and perhaps even further.

  But she had stuck her head above the parapet only once before, and then it was because she thought it would be helpful. It hadn’t been perceived as such, and it was one of the reasons she feared Simon.

  She walked through the perfume department in Salling with the scents nearly choking her. She left the department store at Mister Minute, found the multi-storey car park and paid at the machine, but a tingle of unease began to spread through her. Had he gone to the funeral after all? Perhaps he had followed her. Was he about to put his arm around her neck and squeeze while no one was watching?

  Her hands were shaking as she took the ticket. Nonsense, she told herself, rushing up the stairs to the second floor where she had left her car. Utter nonsense.

  But when she was inside her car, she locked it. And it wasn’t until she had driven through the exit and was in the street that she started to relax. She turned on the radio to drown out what was going on inside her head, but it couldn’t stop the memories that came flooding back in a steady stream, like the Saturday traffic winding its way out of town.

  She had always been scared of him, even though he had been her little brother. She could have loved him and worshipped him, but only one person had th
at privilege, and that was her mother.

  A mother who couldn’t see or didn’t want to see that there was something very wrong with her adored son.

  Involuntarily, Lise touched her neck as she drove and remembered things she didn’t want to remember:

  The basement in the Woodland Snail, one dark Sunday afternoon. Her and Lone and Simon and his friend, who had sneaked down the forbidden staircase while the adults were taking a nap after lunch. Simon had managed to open the trap door under the carpet, down to Grandpa’s den. The game he wanted them to play, which involved her being strapped into Grandpa’s strange chair.

  ‘Come on, Sis. Sit down.’

  His eyes had burned with excitement. Lone and the friend had stayed in the background. The authority in Simon’s voice and his surprising physical strength when he pushed her down onto the hard wooden seat.

  ‘You need to be punished. And I’m the one who’s going to punish you.’

  Lise blinked away the tears as she drove. She didn’t know why she hadn’t resisted. But that was how it was with Simon. His voice hypnotised her and probably also the two others. She hated him, but he could make her do anything he wanted.

  She remembered the iron collar closing around her neck. She remembered the shackles closing around her wrists and ankles. She remembered Simon’s voice.

  ‘You’re going to die now, Sis. You’re stupid and ugly, and you’re going to die. That’s the law.’

  How did he know what to do? She had asked herself that question so often. But perhaps it was just something that boys knew. Perhaps it was in their genes.

  He knew how to kill her. He knew how to turn the clamp and tighten the iron collar so that the metal spike slowly began to bore its way into her neck. He knew all that and much more.

  Driving towards Djursland, she remembered the sense of her own powerlessness and the world closing itself off from her. Her eyesight fading, seeing Lone standing there, very still, like a blurred, quivering mirage. Her arms and legs starting to twitch and her bladder opening and releasing hot fluid from beneath her.