by Sara Blaedel
“Go ahead and write that.”
Camilla seemed satisfied. Louise followed her out the door and watched as she finally found her bike key. “So, you got something after all.” She smiled.
“I didn’t get a damn thing more than they’re giving everyone else. They still owe me.”
“Your witness statement from yesterday is finished. You have time to read it before you leave?”
They walked over to her office, and ten minutes later Louise watched Camilla walk to the revolving door. Her heels echoed against the arched walls.
21
The loud voices out in the hall annoyed Louise. She thought about walking over and slamming the door shut, but instead she tried to block out the racket.
Her eyes stung; she’d had the office to herself all day and had spent it writing reports on the events of the previous night. The recording of the conversation between the Finn and Camilla had been transcribed. She’d read through it and marked the places of special interest for the prosecutor.
After lunch they’d discussed whether they should try to find the Finn, but it turned out that Birte Jensen, as she’d promised, had already spoken with him.
Louise drew a heavy circle around his address, which she’d written on a notepad. His real name was Finn Anderson, and he lived close to Toftegårds Square.
The voices distracted her again. “What’s going on out there?” she yelled. She walked over to kick the door shut, but as she raised her foot, she heard Michael Stig say, “He’s being brought before a judge in an hour.”
Their eyes met as she stood awkwardly on one leg. She lowered her foot and walked out in the hall, and the officers surrounding Stig retreated a step.
This isn’t a coincidence, their being outside the office, she thought. She regretted taking the bait, but now it was too late. “Who are you talking about?”
She stood face-to-face with Stig, and he looked at her as if he hadn’t noticed her before. He smiled. “Matter of fact, I was just on my way to tell you about the breakthrough on the Karoline Wissinge case. How about a cup of coffee?”
Louise wanted to kick him in the shins. Like hell he was on his way to see her—he’d planned this little charade so she would come out to him.
She was about to say no, but she surprised herself by inviting him into her office.
She dragged a cushioned chair over to her desk and pointed at it. “What happened?”
He slid down in the chair, his arm and leg dangling spiderlike over the seat and armrest. “Anders Hede was arrested early this morning.”
“Anders Hede?” The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t place him.
“Martin Dahl’s boyhood buddy from Frederikshavn. Dahl came in yesterday, said Hede has been acting strange lately. Keeping to himself, nervous. Dahl leaned on him hard to get him to say if he was in trouble again, but he kept denying it.”
Louise was having trouble breathing, as if her windpipe was blocked. Had a young, pregnant woman been killed because her boyfriend’s old friend was a piece of shit? “And?”
“They were in town Friday night, good and drunk. As you know. That’s when Hede admitted someone was threatening him, had been for quite a while. And he thought the only way out was to either give up and take his medicine or leave the country.”
“So, what, he didn’t do either?” Louise said. “Did he forget to pay again?”
Stig shook his head. “Hede claims that Klaus West had his men pay him a visit to find out who he was buying from.”
“I thought he bought from West. Isn’t that who he owed money to, back then?”
“Yeah, but the men said that West stopped selling to him a long time ago, and they wanted the name of Hede’s dealer.”
Louise held her forehead.
“The last three months someone’s been calling him, telling him he’d get hit where it hurts most if he didn’t talk.”
“So where does he get his drugs from?” she asked.
“From West, he says.”
“Is Hede lying, or did West and his gorillas forget who they sold to?”
“We don’t have any evidence that West is behind it. Anders Hede has been buying from the same source for the last two years. Every time he’s bought the same amount, and it’s always the same drug.”
“Green dust,” Louise said.
He nodded. “About nine months ago, when the first arrests were made in the drug case, a new middleman showed up. It’s the same number Anders Hede messages when he wants to buy. Always done precisely the same way. He swears he isn’t buying from other sources. He doesn’t dare to, either, after the beating he took when he was late in paying. He has no idea why they’re so riled up.”
“He could be buying somewhere else, too,” Louise suggested. “Maybe he doesn’t want to admit it because he’s afraid of getting his ass kicked again. You think they killed his best friend’s girlfriend to show him they were serious?”
Stig nodded. “Martin Dahl’s afraid that’s how it happened. We’re charging Hede as an accessory to murder.”
Louise shut her eyes for a moment and thought of Karoline’s parents. They’d lost their youngest son because one of his friends drove way too fast. And now they might have to live with the fact that their daughter chose a man whose boyhood pal couldn’t shield his friends from the type of people he was dealing with.
“Things are piling up for good old Klaus West. The sale of narcotics alone can put him behind bars for several years, plus the murders of the two reporters, and if it turns out that Karoline Wissinge is added to the tab, it looks like the king is about to fall big-time.”
“That sounds too cynical.”
“Dear little Rick. Cynicism isn’t a bad word in these circles. I’m not blaming you for your female intuition not working, but this is how the world is. Unfortunately, it’s not unlikely that West had a few of his boys show Anders Hede what happens when you don’t cooperate. It would be too simple to just kill him. This is something he’d have to live with; it would hurt more. I spoke with Jensen from Narcotics, she’s the one in charge of the investigation of the drug case—”
“I know who she is.” Louise wanted to cram all the macho opinions of broad-shouldered, athletic Michael Stig right up his ass, but she fought back her rage.
He ignored her. “We can interrogate Klaus West tomorrow. You get the first shot at him, then it’s Narcotics’ turn. But it’s not even certain he knows who Karoline Wissinge is, even though his boys are behind her murder. Probably he was just told that somebody wasn’t playing ball, and he gave the okay to have it taken care of.”
“By the same ones who took care of Frank Sørensen and Søren Holm?”
“That’s entirely possible. Suhr just formed a team to work on narrowing down who it could be.”
He stood up and walked to the door. “You seem to have a pretty good relationship with her parents. Don’t you think it’s a good idea that you explain this to them?”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked out and left the door open.
Bastard! The word popped up behind her closed eyes. It fit Klaus West, who cold-bloodedly took the lives of other people; it fit Anders Hede, a coward who didn’t dare say he had a new dealer; and it fit Michael Stig, who without blinking put it on her to tell the parents that their daughter was a victim in a case where a slap or maybe a hard right to the jaw would have sufficed. Would have scared the person they wanted to scare.
The knock on the door annoyed Camilla. She was struggling with the article about Klaus West and the secret apartment. First Høyer had exploded when she told him she had something new on the case.
“You’re not writing one word about that case!” he’d yelled so loudly that the whole building must have heard. But after she explained that the police had been there when she met with the Finn, and that it had led to finding the apartment, he calmed down a bit. “All right. This is it, though, the last article you’re writing about it.”
His hair stuck out every
which way, and his face was still gray. Camilla had nodded and promised him it would be, then she’d gone into her office and sat down at her computer.
Nothing new had come from the police, and every time she called Suhr, his phone was busy. She decided that if she didn’t hear from him before seven, she’d stop by Police Headquarters.
The person outside knocked again. “Yes! What?” she snapped.
A man Camilla guessed to be in his late forties stepped in her office. He held out his hand. “John Bro.”
If he’d heard the irritation in her voice, he showed no sign of it. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down.
Camilla leaned back. She had no idea who this man was or what he wanted, but his aura of authority interested her and kept her from throwing him out.
“I’m a defense attorney,” he said. “My client has asked me to look you up.”
Still puzzled, she shook her head. “I’m a little bit busy,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “I’ve got an article to finish. We can make an appointment later this week.”
She reached for her calendar, but before she could grab it he said, “Klaus West wants me to speak with you.”
Camilla stopped. Ohhhh, that John Bro. Finally, she recognized him. He wore a suit and tie whenever he was on TV or his photo was in the paper, but now he looked shabby in his sweater and worn jeans. The star lawyer. “Klaus West,” she repeated softly, noticing how the name filled the room. He knew she’d told the police. A jolt of fear left her nearly breathless, but she put on a brave face. “About what?”
He studied her for a moment, leaned back in the chair, and peered around the office. At the loose curtains beside the windows, the two tall bookshelves filled with dictionaries and folders of old clippings and press material. He stopped at the drawings Markus had made. They were taped to the edge of her desk, hanging down like trimming.
“My client believes you can help us.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. Instinctively her guard was up. Something was going on here; Klaus West had no reason at all to think she would help him. A bouquet of flowers wasn’t going to buy her cooperation. “I don’t know Klaus West, and he doesn’t know me.”
The lawyer eyed her. “I trust his judgment,” he said, ignoring her remark. “My client is going to be charged with two counts of murder for hire…though now it looks like three counts.”
Camilla was about to say something, but he raised his hand. “He’s being accused of arranging the sale of a large number of narcotics. These charges are very serious. Here.” He tossed a plastic folder over to her. “We’ve gone through every charge in the indictment and refuted each one. We can prove my client didn’t commit these crimes.”
“I’d like for you to speak with my boss, Terkel Høyer. This isn’t something I can get involved in.” Despite saying this, she took the folder and sat with it on her lap.
Again, he ignored her. “I have a deal for you. We’ll give you a wildly explosive story. If you’re not interested, we’ll take care of it ourselves.” He kept his voice even, neutral.
Slowly her brain began to wake up. “Take care of what yourselves?”
“Someone is using him as a scapegoat.”
Camilla had to smile at that. It was a little late to start blaming other people.
“My client is responsible for the drug commonly referred to as green dust.”
Camilla tried to break in, but again he stopped her. “And he is ready to make a full confession, once we find out how his drug keeps showing up, again and again, when he knows it’s no longer on the market. The police found some records in his apartment. They’re connected with the sale he believes was made without his consent.”
Bro pointed to the papers he’d given her. “It’s not difficult for others to take up where he left off.”
Camilla laid the folder on her desk. “If that’s actually what happened.”
“That’s precisely it. The green dust, as you presumably already know, has a very faint green color. It’s almost impossible to make it with exactly the same shade of color every time.”
“He mixed the green color in with the heroin and then cut it with talcum powder,” she said.
Bro nodded. At least she understood some of it.
“Imagine five kilos of powdered sugar, colored light green. You can come very close to replicating the color, but you’re never going to get the exact same nuance. That’s how we know this heroin out on the street is part of the same shipment my client is willing to take responsibility for. But we don’t understand where the hell it’s coming from. My client knows exactly what happened to the five kilos he converted to green dust. The last kilo was confiscated a week ago during a raid in an Østerbro apartment. Two more kilos ended up with the police earlier this year, and the rest was injected by addicts.”
Camilla sat with her mouth open. She was still certain he was making a last-ditch attempt to dodge the blame, but the story fascinated her. “And you believe him!”
“It’s not a question of if I believe him. It’s a question of what can be proven.” Again, he showed no emotion as he spoke.
Camilla shut up and let him talk.
“West is absolutely certain the green heroin being sold on the street today is part of what was confiscated. He believes the same lackeys are selling it, because several of his connections still think he’s the one they’re dealing with.”
She needed time to digest all this information. “And that means?”
“That means we need to find out how the green drug keeps showing up. It’s not difficult to imagine that Frank Sørensen and Søren Holm found out what was going on!”
“This is one damn strange story. What is it you think I can help you with?”
Camilla looked away. She still wasn’t convinced, but deep inside she heard that familiar voice chanting: This could be your story, this could be your story…
“I want you to help me find out who’s trying to pin all this on my client. Until I know who’s pulling the strings, I can’t determine if it’s something I can use in defending my client.”
“What precisely is it you want me to do?”
“I’m assuming you have sources. You could start by finding out if they know something. And my client can say that he watched you and your police friend in action at the King’s Bar. Maybe together you can loosen up some tongues.”
They shook hands and he left.
Camilla was confused. And also flattered that John Bro had come to her for help. Her heart was hammering; this is probably how soccer players felt the first time they were picked for the national team.
She closed her eyes and leaned back. Høyer’s insistence on taking over these articles was forgotten. Completely.
Louise poured herself a large glass of red wine and held it carefully in both hands as she walked into the living room. She shut off the kitchen light with her elbow.
Rain spattered against the window; the light from the streetlamp outside was distorted by the drops running down the glass. Traffic was thin. She shivered when the sound of tires on wet asphalt reminded her of how cold it had been lately. Occasional sunny days had brought spring within arm’s length, but the cheery mood was broken when the sky hung low and leaden.
She pulled her legs up under her, grabbed her phone, and tried calling Peter again. No luck, only voice mail. She tossed the phone down, took a sip of wine, and leaned her head back on the sofa. Her thoughts fluttered around like gigantic moth wings, threatening to escape.
The examination of the butterfly knife hadn’t given them all that much, but it had definitely been used to kill Frank Sørensen. They found traces of blood and tissue from his spinal cord. Flemming had driven from the Department of Forensic Medicine to Forensic Services to give his assessment. He had confirmed that the knife was consistent with his measurements of the puncture wound. The slender knife handle, however, had been wiped clean of fingerprints.
Louise forced herself to concentrate, to look
at the big picture of everything that had happened the previous twenty-four hours. Of what looked like the end of both murder cases, if it did turn out that Karoline Wissinge’s murder had been a cynical demonstration of the drug kingpin’s power.
She’d been fighting off her desperation for a while now, a vague yet urgent feeling that earlier in the evening had made their big breakthrough seem less important. Now it threatened to overtake her.
She emptied the glass, then slid down and buried her face in the soft, sand-colored pillows. And cried.
She’d been on her way to the lunchroom to eat dinner with some of her colleagues. The mood was hectic but cheerful, now that the case was nearing an end. Several of them had stopped by her office to pat her on the back and say a few words about what had happened the night before at Cafe Svejk. Occasionally she’d felt the joy and relief that comes from solving a case, yet she couldn’t let go of Michael Stig telling her to explain it all to the parents.
Outside the lunchroom, they had run into Toft, who said that Heilmann’s husband had died late Tuesday evening. Her colleagues went on in to eat, but Louise stood there thinking about how Heilmann had chosen to be with her man. And Louise hadn’t.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve and buried her face in the sofa again. Peter wasn’t dying; the situation was totally different.
Louise kept fighting off her self-recriminations until the phone rang. She glanced around, confused. It was still raining. She had no idea how long she’d been crying. It could have been the middle of the night. “Hello.”
“We have to meet tomorrow.”
Camilla sounded frenzied. Louise swung her legs down off the sofa and banged her knee against the coffee table. Her leg prickled. “What’s happened?”
“I just had a visit from John Bro, the defense attorney. Klaus West isn’t behind the two murders.”
Louise ruffled her hair and pushed her empty wineglass off to the side. “All the evidence points directly at Klaus West.” Yet she felt an unease rising behind her exhaustion.