by Chris Ould
Hentze shook his head. “I don’t think you need to be concerned about someone going on a killing spree. I think Justesen may have been killed for a very specific reason.”
“You mean because he knew about Astrid Dam?”
“Yeh,” Hentze said. “I can’t see any other reason to kill a man with terminal cancer, can you? Only to keep him from telling his secrets before he dies.”
Which also meant that the neat possibility of Boas Justesen being solely responsible for Astrid Dam’s death had just come unravelled, he realised. Someone else must have been involved: there was no other way to explain it.
15
I MADE GOOD TIME RETRACING THE ROUTE BACK TO Copenhagen. The roads were dry, it was still sunny and there was just enough traffic to keep me focused on driving rather than becoming absorbed in what Elna and Rasmus Matzen had told me. That needed time to settle anyway, so in the interim I called Hentze, hands-free with the phone wedged into a cup holder on the dash.
“I thought you’d want to know what Rasmus Matzen said about the Colony,” I told him when he answered.
“Yeh, takk. How did it go?”
“Well, the useful bit was that he was pretty open about the commune in general. He says he remembers the names of some of the people who were there, and he also confirmed that Boas Justesen came out to see them. It sounded like he was a fairly regular visitor.”
“Good, okay, that is useful to know,” Hentze said. “What about Astrid Dam?”
“Yeah, Rasmus remembered her, too, but not very well. The trouble was, when I told him why I was asking about her he became pretty defensive and didn’t want to say any more.”
“In a suspicious way, do you think?” Hentze asked.
“I’ve been wondering about that, but my feeling is not. I think it was more that finding out she was dead and had been buried at Múli took him by surprise. After that I think he was worried that he could be dragged into something serious and didn’t want to say any more in case it might be misinterpreted.”
“But you think there might be more that he could say?”
“I think so, yeah,” I said. “I tried to get him to go into more detail – to give me names of other people who were there – but without any authority I couldn’t push it any further once he clammed up. I think you’d have to talk to him yourself now if you really want to get any more. Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. At least it confirms that Astrid was a member of the commune. That was something we couldn’t be sure of before, so takk for your help. I’ll see how things go here before making a decision whether to talk to Matzen myself.”
“Okay, well let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” I said, although I doubted there would be anything more I could contribute, and when we’d exchanged farewells I let the phone switch itself off.
* * *
In Copenhagen I left the rental car in a parking garage and hauled my bag a few streets to the hotel near the central train station. I’d made good time so once I’d checked in and found my room I still had forty minutes in hand before my appointment with Christine Lynge; enough to make coffee and write a couple of brief emails. There were only a few people back in the UK I wanted to tell personally that I wouldn’t be working with them any more. The others would get the information from Kirkland, along with whatever spin he decided to put on it, but I didn’t care. The people who knew me – or knew Kirkland – wouldn’t take him at his word anyway. Besides, I was out now, so what difference did it make?
When I’d finished I set out to navigate my way to Halmtorvet, a ten-minute walk west. Beyond the tattoo parlours, transit hotels and sex shops closest to the railway station the five- and six-storey buildings gained a more gentrified air. The side streets I cut down were relatively quiet: apartment blocks mainly, in pastel-shaded brick and as lean as the people going in or coming out.
I emerged from one of these shaded streets on to Halmtorvet, where the brick-paved road was edged by trees still in leaf and any number of bicycles lined up neatly below them. On the far side of the road there was what looked like a rejuvenated collection of semi-industrial buildings, but the bold green-and-yellow Politi sign on the pavement stood outside a charmlessly modern eight-storey building.
The glass entrance door bore a sign in several languages telling people to wait outside and stand at least two metres away from the building. This instruction was reinforced by a uniformed officer who was manning the entry, overseeing a line of four or five people already waiting to be admitted. Given that I had an appointment I wasn’t sure if I had a case for jumping the queue, but I knew the Danes generally liked things done properly and in order so I decided not to upset the system and to wait. I was early enough and the afternoon sunshine was bright and unfamiliarly, pleasantly warm.
Five minutes later I reached the head of the line and when the uniformed officer asked my business I gave Vicekriminalkommissær Lynge’s name and said she was expecting me. He stepped away to use his radio and after a minute or so he escorted me inside to a long reception area. There were three or four officers at booths in a counter, all dealing with forms and enquiries from the people who’d preceded me, but I was led to one side and asked to wait.
Christine Lynge emerged from a door and cast a look along the reception area. She was a tall, athletic-looking woman in her early fifties, I guessed: dressed in a well-tailored jacket and trousers. She had a file under her arm.
“Detective Inspector Reyná?” she asked when she saw me, but it was barely a question. “I’m Christine Lynge.”
We shook hands as I thanked her for seeing me at short notice, but she didn’t seem inclined towards pleasantries or small talk. “We can go upstairs to talk,” she told me and handed me a visitor’s pass on a lanyard before leading the way briskly back towards the door from which she’d emerged.
Beyond it we went up a flight of stairs and on the next floor Lynge led the way along a corridor for a short distance before opening a door and inviting me in. I’d thought she might have been taking me to her own office, but that clearly wasn’t the case. The room was simply a general purpose office with a couple of empty desks and windows looking out over the cobbled street below. Lynge gave the view a brief glance, then turned away.
“I appreciate you taking the time for this,” I said, to break the ice.
“As a favour for a colleague it’s not a problem,” she said, leaving me unsure whether she meant Hentze or myself. “As I said in my email, I have the file you requested.” She gestured me to a chair at a desk and took the other one, facing me. She placed the file on the desk, opened it and looked over the first page, as if refamiliarising herself with the details. “Lýdia Tove Reyná. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
“And you’re a Danish citizen?”
It wasn’t a question I’d anticipated. “Well, Faroese, yes. At least, that’s where I was born.”
“Which is the same thing.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” I said, unsure where this was going, but hoping that any claim I might have to Danish citizenship would help rather than hinder things.
“And this is a private enquiry, not related to any British police case?”
“No, not at all,” I said. “It’s entirely personal.”
“Okay, I understand,” she said, as if finally reassured. She leafed past a couple of sheets, then took out two or three pieces of paper stapled together. The front page bore a crest and official markings. “This is a copy of the coroner’s verdict on your mother’s death,” she said. “You know the facts?”
She gave me a look that I recognised: the one that weighs up how someone will react to what you’re going to say.
“She killed herself,” I said flatly. “I was told she cut her wrists.”
It was enough to convince her that what she told me wasn’t going to be a shock.
“Ja, I’m sorry to say,” she acknowledged. “Can you read Danish?”
“Not
so much, no.”
“Okay.” She turned to the second page of the document. “In summary, it says Lýdia Tove Reyná died 13 November 1976 at apartment 3, Nordrområdet 37, Christianshavn, Copenhagen. The cause of death was loss of blood from self-inflicted injuries. The verdict was suicide.” She passed me the papers. “You may keep those,” she said. “They are public documents.”
“Tak.”
She nodded and sat back, as if the next move was mine. I indicated the other papers in the file. “Is that the incident report?”
For a moment Lynge seemed to be in two minds, but then she sat forward again. “Yes. My colleague was able to find the file that was sent from the police department to the coroner’s office in 1976. There is a police report with some statements and also a post-mortem summary. I have only looked at it briefly, but as far as I can see there was no doubt what had happened.”
“May I look?”
“Yes, you can see it, but it’s also in Danish, of course. It is the official police record so it cannot be taken away. Or copied,” she added with a significant look. Then she stood up and moved the file closer to me. “I can leave you to look for a few minutes. Is that okay?”
“Sure, of course. Tak.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I waited until she’d left the room with a firm click of the door, then drew the file to me and leafed through the uppermost sheets. There were about a dozen pages of statements and forms, all typewritten. I had little or no idea what they said but that didn’t matter for the moment. I took out my phone and tapped the camera app.
* * *
When Christine Lynge came back about ten minutes later I was standing by the window with a view of the waiting queue of people outside the station. I’d been there for a while because photographing the papers hadn’t taken very long. The only thing that had brought me up short was one sheet with the pre-printed outlines of a female body on it: the anterior and posterior views. It was annotated by hand: two notes, one on either side of the outline with arrows pointing to single lines drawn on each wrist. I didn’t need a translation for that.
“You’ve finished?” Lynge asked as I turned.
“Ja. Tak. I appreciate it.”
She made an expression that indicated she wasn’t sure whether appreciation was really the issue. She picked up the file from the desk and I half expected her to check it, but she didn’t.
“I was curious about one thing,” I said. “There aren’t any photos of the scene. Were any taken, do you know?”
“No, I don’t think so. At that time they would only take photographs if the case was suspicious.”
“And if I wanted to see the full post-mortem report?”
“The pathologist’s report will be at the Forensic Institute, but I think you would have to apply in writing to see it. As a police officer you know what it will say, though. And for a family member…” Her expression made her reservation clear.
“Yeah.” I nodded to show I understood.
She looked at her watch. “I have to give a briefing in a few minutes,” she said. “So if there is nothing else I can show you…”
“No. Thanks.”
“Okay. Then I’ll find someone to take you out.”
16
DESPITE THE NEW INFLUX OF EMAILS THAT HAD ARRIVED during his absence, Hentze’s mind was still on his conversation with Elisabet Hovgaard when he got back to the office. There was no word from Sophie Krogh about the GPR survey at Múli, however, so he assumed there was nothing to report, which was both good and bad.
Most people were starting to pack up for the day but Remi was still at his desk when Hentze went to find him.
“I thought you’d want an update,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa.
“Are we any further forward?”
“Yeh, a little,” Hentze said. “Annika got the technical report back on the vodka bottle and cigarette butts I found near Astrid’s grave. They all had Boas Justesen’s fingerprints or DNA, which means he’s definitely linked to Astrid’s grave and therefore to her death.”
“Right,” Remi said. “So we can say we believe he killed Astrid, and probably Else, in 1974, then uncovered Astrid’s body in a fit of remorse a few days ago before hanging himself.”
“We could say it, but I don’t think it’s true,” Hentze said. “I believe Justesen was involved in the killings, but I don’t think he was alone.”
Remi scratched the top of his head in a dispirited way, then leaned back in his chair. “Go on, then,” he said. “Tell me why not.”
Briefly Hentze went through his conversation with Elisabet Hovgaard, which really came down to the one issue: whether or not Boas Justesen had been capable of killing himself.
“So, can Elisabet say with absolute certainty that he wasn’t?” Remi asked.
“Absolutely? No,” Hentze said. “But she firmly believes he was too intoxicated, and weighing up everything else, I agree. I think somebody knew Boas might talk about the killing of Astrid and didn’t want that. So Boas was killed before he could talk and it was made to look like a suicide.”
“And you think the motive for killing Justesen was self-protection – because the killer, whoever he is, was an accomplice in the death of Astrid Dam.”
“Basically, yeh.”
“And there’s no other reason he might have been killed, I suppose? I don’t know – a disagreement with someone; a debt?”
“There’s no sign of anything like that, no.”
Remi sighed disconsolately. “So you want to open a second case; a new murder inquiry on top of Astrid Dam.”
“I don’t think we have any choice,” Hentze said. “Justesen’s death is clearly suspicious now.”
“Well, that’s going to go down like a rat sandwich upstairs – you do know that, right? The budget’s blown, people are still dealing with the fallout from last week…” Remi shook his head. “I could justify the search for Else’s body as a matter of decency and for the family, but it was still neatly contained in the past. Now you want to drag the whole thing into the present with a new, unknown suspect: someone we have to find.”
“We could run the two investigations in tandem,” Hentze said. “After all, they are linked.”
“And you’ll want a team?”
Hentze had worked with Remi Syderbø long enough to recognise that this was now a tacit negotiation: an attempt to find a compromise between what he would want and what Remi could justify upstairs. In response, he gave a slight shrug. “Not necessarily. Annika and I could probably manage, although it would be easier if I didn’t have to spend half my day in meetings and answering emails about staff training and welfare…”
“Well, that’s an inspector’s lot,” Remi said flatly.
“Yes, I know. Which is why it’s not really the job for me,” Hentze said. “Maybe not even temporarily.”
“And who else is going to do it?”
Sensing that Remi was on the cusp of making a decision, Hentze decided to leave it as a rhetorical question.
“All right, listen,” Remi said in the end. “I know you think the inspector’s job is a pain and you’d rather be out doing” – he made air quotes – “real police work. So I’ll make you a deal. You can handle this inquiry with Annika if you remain as acting inspector and look after the day-to-day supervision of the department. But you can ignore the management and housekeeping stuff.”
“No meetings?”
“No meetings. Is that fair?”
“Of course. Whatever you think.”
“All right,” Remi said, relatively gratified. “Don’t take anyone off their current caseload and don’t run up any more costs than you have to. No DNA tests or facial reconstruction or anything fancy like that – at least not without asking me first.”
“Of course not.”
Remi nodded, seeming satisfied with the deal. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said. “People were starting to comment on how bored you lo
oked in the last conference.”
“Sorry. I have an expressive face, so I’m told.”
“Only when you choose,” Remi said drily. “I think I may have created a monster. You were much easier to keep in your place before you were an acting inspector.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Hentze said standing up.
“No, and I don’t want to,” Remi said. He turned back to his computer. “Go away and reply to some of your emails at least.”
Outside Remi’s office Hentze closed the door and felt reasonably pleased to have cleared a small path through the forest. And in the spirit of compromise he decided he would deal with some of his outstanding emails before he went home, but as he started along the corridor, his phone rang.
“Hjalti, this is Kass Haraldsen.”
“Hey, Kass. How are you?” Hentze said. Kass lived on Sandoy and had been retired from the police for more than a decade. Although they’d never worked closely together, Hentze had always found the man amenable and friendly whenever they crossed paths.
“I’m pissed off with being old, but that’s nothing new,” Kass said. “But that wasn’t why I called. You’ve been poking Gunnar Berthelsen with a stick, so I hear.”
“Not me personally, but yes, I suppose you could say that,” Hentze admitted, letting himself into his office. “How did you know?”
“Because the old bastard called me just after lunch,” Kass said. “He told me there might be someone asking questions about a missing Norwegian woman from the seventies, but no one could be expected to remember details from that long ago, could they? An enquiry about a missing person? What was that? Nothing.”
Hentze kept his voice neutral. “Gunnar said that?” he asked, sitting down at his desk.
“Word for word, more or less. He said it was nothing anyone with any sense would remember, not even if they had found her body now.”
“Well obviously, Gunnar remembered the report that she was missing,” Hentze said.