The Running Girl

by Sara Blaedel

  “Now stop it!” Åse said, irritated, and put her hand on the arm of Klein’s blue Windbreaker. “We don’t need to listen to that stuff.”

  Even though Åse was petite and slender as a teenage girl, her light voice sliced straight through and put an effective stop to Klein’s noisy penchant for morbid similes.

  The first time Louise had met Åse, she’d mistaken her for an intern. That happened four years ago, and at that point she’d already been in the same position with colleagues up in Ålborg, so she was far from inexperienced. Besides that, she was only a couple of years younger than Louise, who’d very quickly reevaluated her view of the other woman and had gained great respect for her crime photography, which was thorough down to the minutest detail.

  “Let’s get started,” commanded Flemming Larsen with a smile, as the forensic technicians came out and said the bodies were ready for the external examination.

  They walked into the tiny prep hall all at the same time, and suddenly the small space between the white tiles and the row of white rubber coroner boots became quite crowded.

  Åse and Louise went into the women’s section and got coveralls and hair protection. Through the walls, they could hear Klein starting to talk about grill food again.

  Åse shook her head forbearingly. Klein was one of the brightest, and in all the years that Louise had known him he’d been just the same. Same blue Windbreaker, probably replaced a couple of times, but the replacement resembled its predecessor so much that one really didn’t notice the change. His humor was also the same, morbid and dark, but it helped put a distance between them and the reality around them. And then he was meticulous in a way that always made her feel that if there were clues in a case, then it was sure to be Klein who’d ferret them out. That in itself was enough to forgive his rotten sense of humor.

  * * *

  Åse was starting to unpack her camera when Louise came into the autopsy bay. The smell of burned flesh was unmistakable, and she was grateful that Klein had divided it up so that he followed the autopsy next door. Otherwise she wasn’t sure her stomach could take it.

  With her pad in her lap, Louise sat on a chair she’d pulled a little off to the side so she didn’t sit in the way but could still follow along as they got going on the external examination of the corpse.

  She called to mind Bellahøj’s photos of Sebastian Styhne and Peter Nymann, but there was nothing left of what she might have been able to recall. Before they’d gone into the autopsy bays, she’d told Flemming and his female colleague who conducted the autopsy next door about Sebastian’s full-body tattoo, which should be recognizable if it were him and if even a little of the skin remained.

  They started the exam by measuring the corpse’s length, but because of the constricted muscles in his arms and legs they had to rely on an estimate of how tall the person had been.

  “Around five foot nine inches,” said Flemming Larsen and looked at Åse for confirmation.

  She nodded that it seemed likely.

  “There are widespread third-degree burns and charring in places on the front of the body,” dictated Flemming and made sure that Louise had enough time to write it down.

  “Livor mortis on the back is very red, which suggests carbon monoxide poisoning,” he continued as Åse finished photographing the area where the skin was still visible.

  They began to go over the body for intact skin. The front side was completely burned away, but when the corpse was turned over they found small areas around the shoulders, back, and behind the thighs where the skin was preserved.

  A large operating lamp hung over the steel table, and the medical examiner pulled it down closer so they could study the skin minutely and look for defining characteristics.

  “In this instance, there’ll have to be a tattoo on the back or a tongue piercing if we’re to have any hope of finding anything,” said Flemming.

  Every other defining mark would have been burned away.

  Louise felt her mind wandering. Fatigue ate away at her, and her body felt heavy. The light in the autopsy bay was bright and reflected off the white tile and cold steel—the beginning of a headache was coming on. She squinted a little and tried to keep some of the light out.

  “Nothing,” concluded Flemming, who told the techs to go ahead and open the corpse.

  Then it wasn’t the café owner’s son after all, thought Louise, and walked out to the hall. But she stopped when she heard the colleagues in the other bay agreeing with one another that it could very well be the boy with the full-body tattoo lying on their table.

  “I’ve informed our forensics dentist. He’s ready to look at the dental records when we’ve determined the cause of death,” said Flemming as he began on the internal examination.

  The light outside was gray and dull, and only a little of it came in through the vertical blinds that hung down from the tall windows of the autopsy bay.

  “It’s amazing how intact the internal organs are,” Åse exclaimed and leaned forward.

  “Yes,” nodded the medical examiner. “They’ve been affected by the heat, but undamaged. It looks like a healthy young man.”

  He began going over the corpse from the top down. His eyes passed over the face, neck, and chest, attentive to every detail.

  “There is soot far down in the windpipe and in the bronchioles,” he concluded after a short time and looked up. “He was alive when the fire broke out.”

  “I’d like to know if he’s inhaled flammable liquids or if he died of carbon monoxide poisoning,” asked Louise, who’d come over to the table. “We need to know if the fire was deliberate.”

  Flemming nodded. With his scalpel, he sliced off a piece of the brain and a piece of the lung, and put each sample in an airtight container, which would be sent to the forensic chemists for further study. Then he gave the word that the corpse could be wheeled down to the forensic dentist’s examination room.

  “I’m afraid it’ll take a good week before we know anything,” he said apologetically and looked over at the technician. “By that time, I’m sure you’ll have found out what caused the fire.”

  “I don’t think the fire broke out from an accident,” said Åse, once Flemming had placed the airtight containers over on the table. “The boathouse was consumed by flames, almost like an explosion, and that does not suggest a fire started by a candle or cigarette.”

  Louise shrugged her shoulders. The fatigue had seriously gotten hold of her, and her head was way too foggy for guesswork. She preferred to wait for the technical studies. She closed her eyes a moment, while Flemming and Åse talked on. Everyone waited for the forensic dentist to take X-rays of the corpses’ teeth to compare them to the two dental records Louise had brought with her.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed. Ten minutes—fifteen? Maybe she’d dozed off for a moment, but she straightened up when the corpses were wheeled into the bay again.

  “Go ahead and close them up,” Flemming said, nodding to the technicians who’d come in with the corpses.

  A moment later, the dentist came over and stood in the doorway.

  “There’s a positive ID on both of them,” he said.

  Louise felt heavy. Saw the restaurant owner before her. Hope for the best, fear the worst, he’d said. Now she’d have to go to him and confirm his worst fears.

  She skimmed through her pad and made sure she had what she needed for her report, up to the conclusion of the medical examiner, which wouldn’t be available until sometime next week.

  In the little dressing room, she washed her hands and pulled her sweater over her head, before taking her jacket down from the hook. Every one of her movements had suddenly shifted to a different frequency, as if her body had gone into slow motion.

  It was hard to have to go over to New Harbor on an afternoon like this, with the weekend standing at the door, and what she looked forward to most of all was a Friday night of sitting on her parents’ sofa with Dancing with the Stars on the TV, candy in the di
shes, and a little wine in her glass.

  She said good-bye to the lab techs and waved to Klein. He and Åse stood with their bags, equipment, and paper sacks with the little bit of clothing that had been secured from the undersides of the two burn victims. Now it would go out to the Center for Forensic Services for further study.

  Flemming came out buttoning up a clean white coat.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.

  “Next week’s fall break,” she reminded him. “I’ve taken a couple of vacation days at the beginning of the week, so we’re heading down to my parents’ in Hvalsø.”

  They walked together down the hall.

  “It’s the third attempt,” she said.

  She smiled and told him how the first time had to be cancelled because Jonas wanted to go to Signe’s party, and the weekend after that was the funeral.

  “But now it looks like it’ll work out, although we’ll be leaving a little later than I’d hoped to. We must inform the survivors first. The parents in Næstved will have to hear it from the police down there, but I’m going to Sebastian Styhne’s father myself. I spoke with him last night, and he’s naturally out of his mind with worry.”

  Flemming nodded and gave her a quick hug before she took the stairs down to the foyer, where she called Willumsen and told him that the two boys had been identified. She said she was driving out to inform the restaurant owner.

  “You’re coming in here afterward,” ordered the lead investigator.

  Louise sighed and shut off her cell. She had been hoping that after New Harbor she could drive directly to the garage with the Mondeo and after that take a bus to go pick up her car on South Pier. Now she was beginning to doubt whether they’d make it to her parents’ in time for dinner.

  31

  It was Friday afternoon rush hour in King’s New Square, and people swarmed in and out of the popular department store Magasin. Louise watched them as she waited on a red light in front of the Royal Theater. She debated whether she should spend the time looking for a public parking spot behind New Harbor, so the restaurant owner wouldn’t have to have a patrol car in front of his café, but when the light changed she decided that it would take too much time to go driving around. She turned right past the Sailor’s Anchor, and the group still sat there with their cases of beer. More had joined them, and one lay sleeping on the cobblestone, as if he’d gone out like a light in the middle of a conversation.

  She coasted slowly past Hong Kong, Leonora Christine, and The Ship’s Well, then parked the car out along the bulwark, ignoring some foul comments from a group of young guys who sat there with a pack of beer and cigarettes.

  She saw the restaurant owner through the window. He hadn’t seen her yet. Went around putting glasses up on the shelves.

  A bell jingled as she opened the door. At night she hadn’t noticed it, but now she felt that it was insultingly high-pitched and piercing. He turned toward her at once, and she read his face and the reaction that came the moment he recognized Louise.

  A shadow passed across the wrinkles of his face and stilled his mouth. Fear was in his eyes, but not in the words he spoke as he came around the counter and walked up to her.

  “Anything new?”

  His tone of voice was unnaturally high, deliberately positive, but his face was stiff. He already knew what was coming.

  Louise pulled a chair out for him and sat down across from him.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you…,” she began but paused as he quietly began to cry.

  The tears ran down his cheeks—he didn’t try to wipe them away. He cried openly as he waited to hear the rest.

  “Your son was with Peter Nymann, and they died in the flames,” she continued, averting her eyes to give him room to grieve.

  They sat like that for a while. He cried, and Louise looked away.

  “How did it happen?” he whispered.

  “I’m afraid we don’t know much more just yet, but we’re hoping soon to clear up how the fire broke out. Do you have any idea what made your son and his friend sleep in the boathouse after they’d been kicked out of there?”

  The father shook his head slowly, followed by a brief, hollow laugh.

  “They said that they’d all pissed on the door handle before they drove off with their things. They were hoping it’d be the owner who’d come open up and see if they were out. But they apparently couldn’t keep themselves from going back.”

  Louise shook her head sympathetically.

  “Sebastian, damn it!”

  Now the restaurant owner hid his face in his hands and let the sobs roll through his body.

  She put her hand on his shoulder, then turned when the door opened at just that moment and a middle-aged couple came down the stairs with a questioning look to find out if the café was open.

  “Sorry,” said Louise and stood up. “Try the one next door.”

  She turned the key in the door before asking if the restaurant owner had anyone who could come and be with him.

  He sat with his fingertips pressed against his eyes, as if to block the flow of water, then he nodded and dried his wet fingers on his pants.

  “Lene’s coming in soon. She’s the one who helps me on the weekends,” he said and stood up. He went over and opened the beer cabinet, looked at Louise, and offered her a cold pilsner.

  She shook her head and heard a key being turned out in the back of the shop.

  “That’s her coming now,” he said, nodding in that direction.

  A woman around fiftyish with short chestnut-brown hair came in wearing a brightly colored scarf around her neck. She had a serious look in her eyes.

  “I saw the car outside,” she said and nodded to the street. Then she went over and stood next to Sebastian’s father, putting her hands softly on his shoulders.

  “We’ll keep you informed, as soon as we know anything about the cause of the fire,” Louise promised. “But it won’t be until the beginning or middle of next week, at the earliest.”

  She debated for a short while whether to tell him that they were investigating the murder of the person who rented part of the warehouse next to the boathouse, but decided that wasn’t information that would be useful right now.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said and placed her cell number on the bar counter, then began to walk toward the door.

  His son had just turned seventeen. Now he didn’t have the boy or his wife. Unbearable for a person to lose so much, she thought, as she drove back to drop off Svendsen’s little angel in the garage, before hurrying up to the Homicide Department.

  32

  The jersey was orange and the leather pants still the same shabby black.

  Louise shook her head when she met Sejr on the stairs. He lugged a pack of half-liter Coca-Cola in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Today the lenses of his glasses were blue, and his white hair stood straight up. He had his green military jacket over his arm and let it drag on the floor outside the office.

  He’s compensating, thought Louise. It’s a distraction technique to move attention away from his skin’s lack of pigmentation and his rather humble height. But the result was the exact opposite. It jumped out at you that he was paler and shorter than most. And older, too, she thought. Older than the kind of people who went around dressed like that. But it was exactly that part of him that she’d now come to like very much.

  “Nick Hartmann wasn’t alone in importing that fake furniture,” he declared once he’d filled up the refrigerator. “That’s stone sure.”

  She said no thank you when he offered her a cola, and instead turned on her electric kettle on the shelf behind her. Fatigue had reached the stage where she’d become overtired and the thoughts whirled around in her head and wouldn’t hang together right.

  Sejr Gylling settled in behind his computer screens.

  “I’ve just been down to the harbor with Michael Stig,” he said.

  Even though he’d tossed his jacket outside, the smell of fire
still hung in his hair and on his pants. It was unmistakable and clung to everything that had been near the site of the fire.

  “The furniture is damaged, but not burned, and there’s a lot of it down there. A whole lot. He also had his business files lying around with shipping and freight papers. Unfortunately, there’s nothing about how he channeled his business, but right now it doesn’t matter.”

  Sejr opened the briefcase and took out a ring binder.

  “On average, Nick Hartmann paid 660,000 dollars for a container. Depending on the exchange rate, that’s about 4 million kroner, and if he sold the furniture as if it was authentic, it would have brought him in three or four times as much. But that much money didn’t pass through his hands. Or else he had a Scrooge McDuck money vault hidden someplace, and I don’t think so.”

  Louise listened to him as she poured boiling water over her tea bag.

  “It’s someone else who scored the profit, and he’s only gotten a percentage.”

  “The bikers?”

  “Could be! In those circles, they at least have the means for that kind of investment, and the profit is so considerable that it’d be an attractive business for them to go into. But, in all fairness, it could just as well be others who felt tempted by a quick payoff.”

  She could see how that made sense.

  “But according to the shipping company I talked with the other day, there’d been two containers the last time.”

  Sejr nodded and emptied his cola.

  “That means he had to shell out around 8 million kroner to Hong Kong, and that’s also why I don’t think he’s been alone in this. If he had, his finances would have taken him to a whole different level.”

  “Is it even possible to dispose of so much fake furniture in that price range?” Louise asked.

  Sejr Gylling sat a while thinking about it.

  She’d been on the Web to research the cost of classic designer furniture. The Egg, which was the most expensive Arne Jacobsen chair, cost 30,000 kroner when covered in ordinary fabric and almost twice that in leather.