by Chris Ould
“Yes, let me look.”
I took the laptop out of my bag and put it on the table. Thea came to stand beside me and look at the screen as it came to life. The photo Tove had sent was already open and I let Thea take in the full picture for a moment.
“Oh, yes, I know that,” she said. “That was the front of the house. We weren’t supposed to walk on the grass.”
“What about the people?” I asked. I enlarged the view as far as it would go without losing resolution, dragging the picture so the people on the left of the group were central on the screen.
“Yes. Yes, I recognise a few of the faces,” Thea said. “I think that’s the doctor – Carl, I think was his name. Sander, maybe. Something like that…” She traced a finger along the screen. “And the nurses I remember: those two.” She pointed to one of the white uniformed women. “That one was nice.”
“Can you see Mickey?” I asked.
She looked again. “No, I don’t think so. Can you move it along?”
I did that and she leaned in a little closer to the screen, looking at the right-hand end of the row where there was a shift away from the medical staff to others.
“And him. Yes, him I remember,” Thea said, pointing to a blond man in his twenties. “His name was Oliver or Osvald, I think. He was handsome. All the girls thought so. He drove a sports car, too – like a film star. Oh, yes, that was his name: Oscar. I remember because we thought it was like the movie statue, you know?”
“Do you know what he did – what his job was?” I asked.
“No, I don’t know. It must have been something on the administration side because I don’t think he came to the rest of the house.”
“Right. But Mickey’s not here?”
She leaned in again, rescanned the line. “That might be him,” she said, but not certain.
She pointed to a man second from the end of the row with long hair, and wearing a sleeveless pullover. He was half turned away from the camera, caught in the middle of saying something to his neighbour, it seemed.
“Mickey did have long hair, I remember,” Thea said. “Yes, it could be him, but I can’t say so for sure.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how certain would you be?” I asked, thinking of Hentze’s case against Tausen.
“I don’t know. Perhaps five. It’s hard to know. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. Thank you,” I said.
I closed the laptop and Thea stood back a little way, then moved to the stove. She tested the weight of a kettle and lit a gas burner beneath it. “Would you like coffee?” she asked.
“No, thanks, I’m fine, but there is something else I should tell you,” I said. “It’s the real reason I came. The police have found human remains at Vesborggård House, near the Blue House by the lake. I think there’s a good chance they’ll be from the girl who went missing in 1976 – the one the police searched for while you were there. Her name was Inge-Lise Hoffmann. The police are still working on it, but I think they’ll want to talk to you, too.”
“Me?” She looked puzzled. “Why?”
I shifted a little. “There’s something I didn’t tell you yesterday. I probably should have done but…” I let it trail off, then started again. “Before I came to Denmark my adoptive father – Peter – gave me a camera he found with Lýdia’s things after she died. I had the film inside it developed and I’m pretty sure the photos are of you – of when you were raped.”
Her lips tightened as she absorbed that. “Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, pretty sure – I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, then looked away to process her thoughts.
“Who made them?” she asked then. “Do you know?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. But from what I saw there yesterday I think they were taken at the Blue House, and because of the body nearby I had to tell the police. The two crimes could be connected, so they’ll probably want to ask you questions at some point. You don’t have to speak to them, of course, but I thought you should know – that I should tell you.”
“Tak. Thank you,” she said, although I’d done nothing to deserve it: in fact, quite the opposite.
She seemed to look inward again for a few seconds and I waited to see if there would be anything else she’d want to say, but then the kettle came to the boil and she moved to switch off the gas.
“I ought to be going,” I said. “Unless you want me to stay – to talk – for a bit…?”
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I think it’s enough, yes?”
I thought I’d done more than enough. “Yeah,” I agreed flatly. I stood up.
At the door I paused before I went out. “I am really sorry,” I said. “If there’d been another way…”
“No, I understand. It’s okay. Really. You are a police officer after all.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes…”
I didn’t bother to finish the thought but she shook her head as if I had.
“You know, it’s really okay to forgive people,” she said. “Anyone. Even yourself.”
When she said that a phrase came to mind, but I didn’t say it; because it was glib; because it was too easy and I wasn’t sure I’d have meant it. Instead I nodded. “Yeah. Tak.”
“Okay. Just remember.” She gave me a thin smile, then turned and went back inside, closing the door.
As I reached the car my phone rang and for some reason I thought it would be Thea, but when I looked at the screen it was Tove. I didn’t feel like talking to her again at a distance so I let the phone keep on ringing as I got into the car. I’d decided there was one last place I wanted to go now, then that was it. Forgive and forget.
* * *
Tove read the email several times before calling the number it gave. On the fifth ring a man answered.
“This is Tove Hald. You sent me an email.”
A pause, then: “Yes, I did.”
“Who are you, please? How did you get my email address?”
“I’m someone who can help you if you’re still interested in Juhl Pharmaceuticals and Vesborggård House.”
“Yes, you said that in the email,” Tove said. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”
There was a moment of silence. “I worked for the company some time ago. I think I can answer your questions but it must remain confidential. If you’d like I can meet you, but it must be today.”
Tove thought about that. “If you have information I would like to meet you,” she said. “But if you don’t want to say who you are I think it would be better if we met somewhere public.”
“Of course. Wherever you would feel comfortable,” the man said.
“Do you know Café Ismael on Klosterstaede?”
“No, but I can find it. Is an hour too soon?”
“No, an hour is good.”
“Okay. I’ll find you there,” the man said. He rang off.
* * *
“I’m going out now,” Tove said, a few minutes later. She stood in front of the basketball on the TV while she checked things into her bag.
“Okay.” Kjeld leaned to one side to see the screen around her. “Want to borrow the car?”
“No, I’ll cycle. But if Jan Reyná comes later will you tell him to wait and to call me? I’ll be at the Café Ismael.”
“Sure.” Kjeld nodded. “Do you want me to tell him where you are so he can meet you?”
“No, I just told you,” Tove said, making her usual frown of irritation when someone failed to keep up. She turned to the TV and pressed the mute button. “If Jan comes before I get back, tell him to wait and to call me. I’m meeting someone who says he has information I want about Juhl Pharmaceuticals, but he’ll only speak privately, so if someone else arrives that won’t be private, will it?”
“No, no, I get it,” Kjeld said, unabashed. “Wait and call.”
“Exactly. You will be here, won’t you?” Tove said, a tad suspicious now.
“Sure. Where else would I be? At
least till tonight, then I said I’d meet Vivi.”
At the mention of Vivi’s name Tove frowned again. “She has very annoying orgasms.”
Kjeld chuckled. “You think so?”
“Yes,” Tove said, decided and shouldering her bag.
“Oh. Sorry,” Kjeld said. “But a come is a come, right?”
Tove shook her head. “That makes no sense. Okay, I’m going now. Hi.”
“Yeh, see you later,” Kjeld said. He was already reaching for the remote to unmute the TV.
41
AT KASTRUP THEY WAITED ON THE PLANE UNTIL THE OTHER passengers had disembarked before moving forward through the cabin. At the exit they paused while Annika reclaimed her pistol from the steel box it had been stored in for the flight. She reloaded the clip and put the gun back in its holster, then took up position again by Mikkjal Tausen’s right side, following Hentze as they moved along the jetway.
With his coat draped on the handcuffs he still wore, Tausen said nothing. Apart from declining a drink on the fifty-minute flight from Aalborg he hadn’t said anything at all since they’d left the ferry terminal in Hirtshals, but that suited Hentze. He’d sat next to Tausen during the flight and knew that there was nothing that could be said without inevitably being trivial and pointless, or – worse than that – significant and better kept for an interview room.
When they emerged from the gate Hentze paused and looked around. As he did so he spotted the middle-aged man in a police uniform shirt with three pips on his shoulders.
“Hjalti Hentze and Annika Mortensen?” the man asked, coming towards them.
“Yeh, that’s us.” Hentze showed his warrant card.
“Hans Bering,” the man said. “Glad to meet you. You requested a holding cell, right? Catching Atlantic 570 to Vágar?”
“That’s right,” Hentze said. “Can you accommodate us?”
“Sure, yes, no problem,” Bering said. “Follow me.”
It had always been Hentze’s suspicion that the consumer goods palace within Kastrup terminal was just a veneer of style, and so it turned out. Once through a key-coded door at the back of the main departure lounge, Hans Bering led them along a maze of utilitarian corridors where the cream paint was occasionally scuffed and scratched, and function rather than gloss was obviously the order of the day.
Eventually they came to another door, this one marked discreetly with the Politi logo. Inside there was a small office space and a further short corridor which led to two holding cells.
Hentze removed Mikkjal Tausen’s handcuffs and then asked for his belt and his shoes before leading him to the first cell, where the door stood ajar.
“We’ll arrange something to eat and drink shortly,” he told Tausen. “In the meantime is there anything you need?”
Tausen looked disconsolately around the bare cell. “No. Thank you. How long will it be?”
“The flight’s at seven forty-five this evening. Would you like something to read?”
“Maybe a newspaper.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
Hentze left the cell and closed the door, twisting the handle. Cell doors all worked the same way wherever you were.
In the office Hans Bering was showing Annika the basic facilities, which consisted of no more than a coffee machine, a phone and a printed plan of the terminal building, laminated and stuck to the desk. High up in the corner of the room there was a small TV monitor for the two cells.
“There’s a key card for the doors into the departures area in case one of you wants to go for a stroll,” Bering said. “Please don’t lose it. You can get through to our office upstairs by dialling zero and I’ll have someone come down at 19:00 to escort you to the gate. The only other thing I need is for you both to sign in.” He produced a log sheet in a ring binder and Annika signed first because she was closest.
“So, what’s he been arrested for?” Bering asked Hentze with a nod towards the cells.
“Murder,” Hentze said.
“Really?” Bering frowned, as if he might have underestimated the situation before. “Unusual for the Faroes, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately not as much as it was,” Hentze said.
* * *
Once Bering had gone Hentze finally had a chance to change his tee shirt and socks for fresh ones from his case while Annika made them coffee. As she waited for the machine to grind a third cup for Tausen she glanced up at the cell monitor screen. “Hjalti…”
Hentze looked up from fastening his boots, then at the monitor. Mikkjal Tausen was on his knees in front of the toilet, throwing up in the bowl.
“Do you want me to see if he’s okay?” Annika asked.
Tausen remained bowed for a moment, then slowly straightened up.
“Let’s give him a couple of minutes,” Hentze said, looking away. “I think the situation he’s in has just hit him.”
“You’re still sure he did it?”
“From that?” Hentze said with a nod at the monitor. “Yeh, I’d say so.” He took out his phone. “I’d better call Remi and tell him we’re here.”
* * *
All I knew about Christiania was what I’d read in the guidebook, which was basic and trite. The place where I’d entered the freetown was dominated by four- and five-storey industrial buildings, surrounded by shacks and cabins selling the paraphernalia for dope and its lifestyle. Against the backdrop of cobbled plazas and streets, graffiti and anti-establishment posters, a few tourists wandered around in the grey drizzle looking lost, or as if they’d expected more from the place: parades and protests, maybe, or radical rallies. Instead, though, the real Christianistas who walked briskly through or went past on bikes just got on with their lives. The place put me in mind of a theme park, run down and well past the end of the season; well past putting on any kind of a show. I walked on. None of this was why I was here.
* * *
“Er du okay? Leder du efter nogen?”
I recognised the tone of concern and slight puzzlement and realised I’d been looking at the house for some time. I wasn’t sure how long.
The guy who’d asked the question was in his late twenties, dressed neatly in dark colours with a leather bag over his shoulder and holding a metallic-blue bike. He was about four yards away, about to approach the house down its path.
“Sorry,” I said and tried for a disarming smile. “Do you speak English?”
I saw enlightenment. “Sure, yes,” he said across the distance between us. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, then took a couple of steps towards him. “I used to live here,” I said, glancing across to the house.
“Yeh?” The puzzlement was back, as if he didn’t quite believe it.
“A long time ago. I was a kid.”
“Ah, okay. I understand.” He looked at the house, too. It was yellow brick, with red tiles on the roof.
“Is it as you remember?”
“It’s hard to say. That’s what I was trying to work out.”
“I would say the last few years is the biggest change,” he said. “In the past it was several apartments – flats, right? But now it’s only two. I live on the ground floor,” he added by way of explanation.
“It looks like a nice place. How long have you lived here?”
“Three, no four years. But my partner has been here much longer. Maybe twelve years.”
I could sense he was back at the point of disengaging again, so I pushed it. “Listen, I know it might sound a bit strange, but would it be okay if I looked inside? Just to see if it’s as I remember.”
After a brief hesitation, he seemed to decide I wasn’t a threat. “Sure, why not?”
“Tak. That’s very kind,” I said. “My name’s Jan, by the way.”
“I’m Nicklas.”
We shook hands and he led the way towards the house, pushing his bike as far as the door, then propping it against the wall without bothering to lock it. And now that he’d committed to my company for a while longer Nickl
as seemed to relax a little. “When you lived here was it on the ground floor or upstairs?” he asked as he worked his key in the door.
“Upstairs, I think. Apartment 3.”
“Yeh, that was upstairs,” Nicklas said. “Anna or David might be there now. We can see. Come in.” He held the door open for me.
It was a communal hall and when I saw the tiled floor and the curved, banistered stairs leading up to the first floor I thought there was the faintest of memories, but I couldn’t be certain.
Nicklas went ahead up the stairs and I followed. By the time I reached the first-floor landing he was knocking on a polished, dark wooden door which looked slightly too grand for the place. There was no answer and after a moment Nicklas turned away looking disappointed.
“Nobody’s home,” he said, then assessed me briefly. “But I have a key – to water the plants and feed their cat when they are away. I don’t think they would mind. Can you wait?”
“Yeah, of course, if you think it’s okay.”
He shrugged. “To come from England. It would be sad – a shame – not to see it. I won’t be long.”
He took the stairs again briskly, then I heard a key in the lock downstairs and a called greeting to someone inside. A couple of minutes later he was back, carrying a single key on a piece of red string, presumably so it couldn’t be mislaid. He opened the door and called out again as he went a few steps inside, but there was still no reply,
Inside it was airy and light and open plan. I suppose I’d expected something more in line with my idea of Christiania as a bohemian, alternative place, but while there was a slightly unconventional style going on, with painted wooden furniture and Indian cushions, there was also a sense that any avant-garde tendencies were being kept under control in line with the more modern Danish approach.
I looked round, still only a few feet in from the door, searching for features that wouldn’t have been changed, but I didn’t recognise or remember anything about it: not even a faint glimmering like I’d had in the hall.
My new friend Nicklas waited expectantly, and partly so he wouldn’t think he’d gone to this trouble for nothing I took a couple of paces, looking round the L-shape of the sitting area and then to the kitchen past a pale wooden dining table with four chairs. Beyond that there was a corridor, presumably leading to the bedrooms and the bathroom.