by S. J. Gazan
Søren shook his head.
“It was like meeting myself. Only as a ten years younger man. To begin with, I wasn’t sure if he was worth the effort. His lack of self-esteem. It reminded me of everything I had worked so hard to leave behind…”
Søren was mesmerized by her.
“But then I realized how complex he actually was. Of course, he was affected by the humiliation he had suffered as a child and, in some respects, his self-worth was like a sieve.” She looked pensively into space. “However, the interesting thing about Johannes was that he had decided to break the pattern, so in some areas he was strong and determined. He had made up his mind not to go through life like a whipped dog, even though he had been treated like one most of his childhood. That’s why I fell in love with him. He offered me a challenge outside the bedroom, but at the same time, he could handle that I dominated him sexually. It was a very harmonious relationship.
“We had been together for six months and were blissfully happy,” she continued. “Then I started talking about having children. I was shocked when I realized he didn’t want any, but we remained friends. I have always known I wanted children. We were both very sad, but the split was inevitable.” Susanne fell silent.
“Do you have any idea what was happening within the family at that point?” Henrik asked. Søren and Susanne turned to Henrik in unison, as though they had simultaneously remembered his presence.
“You mean Johannes’s family?”
“Yes.”
“I think we had only been together for around five weeks when Johannes had a falling out with Jørgen and, consequently, Janna. Johannes tried to reach out to his mother several times, but Jørgen always got in the way. It upset him, obviously. He never found the strength to stand up to his stepfather and, as an adult, his survival strategy had been to ignore Jørgen’s shit. We talked about his options. Johannes hoped Jørgen’s death might create an opening. Shortly after the funeral, he visited his mother and learned Jørgen had disinherited him. Johannes didn’t care, but it killed him when Janna insisted he was only there for the money. That night, he closed the door to his childhood home forever. Johannes told me everything when he came home…” for a moment she looked hesitantly at Søren. “I never met them myself, but…”
“And yet you sound so certain when you describe them,” Henrik objected. Søren shuffled his feet, annoyed at the interruption.
“I trusted Johannes. You could do that. At some level, he was damaged by his childhood,” she grimaced, “but he was a very fine human being. He made a real effort with people, and he would never have invented the scene with his mother. No one could have made up that story, and certainly not Johannes. He was far too… introspective.” She looked firmly at Henrik and turned to Søren again.
“I would like to pursue my question,” Henrik insisted. Susanne looked at him as though it was highly inappropriate for him to intervene and Søren couldn’t help enjoying himself.
“What if you were wrong? What if Mr. and Mrs. Kampe were well-meaning, decent people, and Johannes was the one who had gone off the rails?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Susanne stated. “I would know. And so would you.” Again she looked at Søren as though Henrik was of no consequence. “You know when you’re being played. You might choose to ignore certain signals at the time, but deep inside, you know. I believe that.”
She swallowed and continued. “Johannes may have been carrying some heavy baggage, but he had changed himself into a capable and very loving human being. Someone who had dealt with his past, who faced the future with optimism.”
“Was he bisexual?” Henrik asked bluntly. Susanne held Søren’s gaze for a moment longer, then she slowly turned to Henrik.
“No,” she declared.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. We began our relationship with complete sexual openness. No code, no core, no truth. And this applied to our sex life, too. Everything was allowed, nothing was taboo, and no, Johannes wasn’t bisexual.”
“But he wore a freaking dress,” Henrik snapped, pointing furiously to the case file lying on the table in front of him. “I’ve seen several photos of him in a dress.”
“Yes, he did. But wearing a dress doesn’t make you gay. Nor does wearing pants make you straight.” Susanne looked long and hard at Henrik’s ’80s jeans.
“Johannes got off on being dominated, and he was a transvestite. He liked going to the Red Mask wearing a skirt and full makeup. And a slightly more adult outfit at Inkognito.” Søren was aware of Henrik’s growing frustration.
“But transvestites are gay,” he snarled. Søren scratched the back of his head.
“And bikers are thugs and all pedophiles have mustaches,” Susanne Winther remarked calmly. Her gaze lingered on Henrik’s mustache, which was in dire need of a trim. “I don’t think you’ve done your homework,” she said. “Transvestites get a kick out of cross-dressing, wearing clothes traditionally associated with the opposite sex. Transsexuals are men and women who feel they have been born into the wrong body and want to switch to the right gender through a sex change operation. However, transsexuals aren’t homosexual, even though they are sexually attracted to their own sex, because… well, it’s obvious. If you’re 90 percent female and love a man, but you happen to have a dick because hospital waiting lists in this country are so frigging long, then that doesn’t make you male. Being a man isn’t just about having a dick, is it?” Again, she looked at Henrik’s jeans.
Søren was aware that the situation was about to ignite.
“We’re digressing,” he piped up. Susanne Winther looked straight at him.
“Johannes wasn’t bisexual,” she declared. “Anyway, why is it even an issue?”
“We have reason to believe Johannes was killed by a man. Certain evidence from the crime scene, which I can’t discuss with you, reveals—”
“That’s quite all right,” Susanne said.
“Er, thanks,” Søren spluttered. A pause followed.
“And to be honest,” he said, driven by a sudden urge to confide. “I started off thinking he was gay. Because of his clothes and his way of life. We’ve seen photos on the home page of the Red Mask. It’s clearly unfortunate that we…” Søren cleared his throat. “Well, that we… that I didn’t know the precise meaning of the terms. And our assumption… er… our very slender assumption… which… okay, here goes: traces of semen were found at the crime scene, and they didn’t come from Johannes.”
Henrik’s jaw dropped.
“And it looks like Johannes was subjected to a violent attack which caused his death.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Henrik shot up and jabbed his finger at Søren. “Are you out of your mind?” Henrik’s hand was an inch away from Søren’s face, and Søren grabbed his wrist.
“Sit down,” Søren said, guiding Henrik back to his chair. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re leaking information to a witness, which she might abuse,” Henrik hissed. “I’ve had it up to here with your ego trip, do you hear? You’ve lost your judgment, Søren. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I trust her!” Søren roared. Henrik and Susanne Winther were both startled. “I trust her, for Christ’s sake! I trust what I see.” Incandescent, he pointed at his own two eyes. “Don’t you get it? We’ve got nothing to go on in this case, because we only see what we saw yesterday, the same old shit. We’ve been blinded.” The pitch of his voice started to drop. “I’ve been blinded. Everyone’s lying and I can’t see a bloody thing. I’m changing tack, don’t you get it? I’m starting where there’s some clarity. And I know when someone’s lying.” He fixed his gaze on Henrik’s face and narrowed his eyes slightly. “I promise you, that I—of all people—I know when someone’s lying. And she isn’t. You’re not lying.” This was addressed to Susanne Winther.
“No,” she said.
Henrik didn’t say another word. When they took a break, he stormed out, and wh
en they resumed the interview, he sent Lau Madsen in his place. Not a problem. Søren couldn’t care less if Henrik made a complaint about him. Sometimes you just had to trust people. This also applied to the police. And Søren.
Søren escorted Susanne Winther outside.
“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. It was firm and cold, just like a ripe, washed apple. Her eyes were shining.
“Good-bye,” Søren said. “I’ll call if there’s anything else.”
“Please do.” She turned around. Søren looked at her coat. A reflective disk, shaped like an apple, dangled at the knee-length hem. She waddled across the parking lot.
Susanne had given him a name. Stella Marie Frederiksen. Stella Marie was the woman who had invited Susanne to the Red Mask. Søren had noted her name, and now he was sitting in his office staring at it, distracted by his clash with Henrik. He couldn’t work out what had prompted it. Henrik had a short fuse and had been grouchy, he thought, both yesterday and today—as though he felt guilty about something. About Anna? Or was Søren becoming paranoid? He clutched his head. Henrik was spot on. Søren preferred going it alone, or, as Henrik had put it, ego tripping. He couldn’t think of a more appropriate description of his life.
He looked up Stella Marie Frederiksen’s address and discovered she lived in the Nørrebro area, in Elmegade. He found a landline as well as a cell number. He called her landline.
“Stella here.” The telephone rang only once before she answered it. She sounded out of breath. Søren hung up. Then he got up and walked down the corridor. The door to Henrik’s office was open. Henrik sat behind his desk, hammering away at his keyboard. A red patch had spread from his cheek and all the way down his neck. Søren slipped inside and managed to observe him for a while before he suddenly looked up and glared at Søren.
“No,” he snapped.
“No what?” Søren asked.
“Don’t you dare come in here telling me you promise to share all your little secrets with me from now on. I’ve had enough.” Henrik banged his fist on the desk. “You and I are supposed to interview a suspect together, but do you know what I am? Window-dressing. You just do whatever the hell you like. You tackle one of your own team and dribble the ball across the pitch like a maniac, that’s what you’re doing.” Henrik stabbed his finger at Søren. He was livid.
“Your private life is one thing,” Henrik went on. “And perhaps we’re not as close as I thought we were. When push comes to shove, it doesn’t seem to mean anything that we’ve known each other since we were twenty. Perhaps you’re right only to let me in on major developments. Perhaps that’s just the way you are. Hermetically sealed, though we all can see that you’re up shit’s creek.”
“You’ve got secrets, too,” Søren said with clenched teeth. Henrik looked surprised.
“I’ve no secrets from you, Søren. But you’re right, it’s been a long time since I told you anything, and do you want to know why? To test you, to see if you would even notice, and do you know something? You’ve acted like it suited you just fine that I clammed up as well. And I’m cool with that. If you want us to work together like two fucking oysters, then we will. We were on the job yesterday. There was no way I could tell you that…”
“What?” Søren could feel his throat tighten.
“I’m having an affair, all right?” he hissed. “It’s been going on for five weeks. It’s a shit thing. I don’t want to leave Jeanette, but I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?” Henrik threw a glance in the direction of the open door.
“For five weeks?”
“Yes. It’s a girl from my gym,” he continued. “Her name’s Line. It just happened.” Henrik looked out of the window. Søren closed his eyes for a moment.
“Anyway, we were talking about you,” Henrik continued. “Not me. You pretend everything’s hunky-dory, but we all know it’s just a front. Everyone knows that your sudden absence almost three years ago had fuck all to do with burning out. It wasn’t the job, no way. Something happened that Christmas. I know it. But like I said, it’s your life and if you don’t want to tell anyone, that’s your choice.” He looked up at Søren and his eyes turned frosty. “But when you’re at work, it’s another matter. No one keeps secrets here, and do you know why? Because we’re a team.”
“I’m your governor, Henrik,” Søren protested.
“I don’t care if you’re the prime minister,” Henrik roared. “You can build walls between you and the rest of the world on your own time. When you’re at work, you’re part of a team. I’ve put up with it for years. You act like Sherlock Holmes, and I’m that clown, Watson, staring gormlessly at the great detective while he sits in his bay window, playing his violin, high as a kite, incapable of sharing his ideas and thoughts with those closest to him.”
Søren said nothing. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. What was there to defend?
“And it hits me twice as hard because I also happen to be your friend,” Henrik said, very subdued all of a sudden. “You’ve shut me out of your private life and your work. As if you don’t need me but would rather do everything on your own. And I don’t believe you can do everything alone, not for a second.” He fell silent, just like in the car the other day, as if he had run out of steam. He started fidgeting with his key ring. Søren closed the door to Henrik’s office. It was now or never.
“Henrik…” he began.
Henrik looked up.
“Almost three years ago…” Søren swallowed.
It took him ten minutes to tell Henrik the story. He told it staccato. Henrik’s face changed from blotchy red to chalk white. Søren didn’t know what to do with his hands when he had finished. Henrik got up and hugged him.
“Christ almighty, dude,” he said in a thick voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
And Søren had no idea why.
Just before 5 p.m. Søren and Henrik visited Stella Marie Frederiksen in Elmegade. She opened the door wearing a rust-colored sweatsuit and slippers shaped like bear paws. Her thick black hair had neon pink extensions. She looked obligingly at the two men and didn’t seem particularly surprised at being visited by the police. She offered them coffee. It wasn’t until she realized why they had come that she went pale. She had been under the impression they were there in connection with her ex-husband, she stuttered. She had gotten a restraining order against him, and a police car had been outside her house for the last three weeks because her husband was wanted by the police.
Yes, she knew Johannes well.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, lifting a small child from the floor and hugging her. The child had burning black eyes underneath thick eyelashes, and Søren instinctively wanted to reach for her.
But before he could answer she said, “Hold on a moment, please, I’ll just put on a DVD, all right? This is too much for little ears.”
When she had settled her child, they sat down in the kitchen and Søren let Henrik begin. The last time Stella Marie had seen Johannes was at the Red Mask’s September event. The atmosphere at their parties was usually great, but that Friday really had been something special and it was mostly thanks to Johannes. He tended to wear quite restrained outfits and drink beers with his friends, but every now and then he went to town and would arrive dressed up to the nines and set the place on fire. Besides, there had been a goth concert in Horsens so the Red Mask had been relatively quiet that night. Around a hundred people had been present, Stella Marie estimated, and it resulted in an airy and pleasant feel.
“Johannes stood in the corner.” She narrowed her eyes as she retraced the events in her mind. “To the right of the bar, where people tend to congregate. He wore leather, skirt or pants, and some sort of corset under a black string vest, hey, hang on…” She rocked back on her chair and woke up her computer.
“I’ve got lots of pictures from that night.”
Before Søren could say they had access to photos from the Red Mask website, Stella Marie had open
ed a file and started a slide show. Black-clad goths of all shapes and sizes emerged. Some pulled faces and showed their pierced tongues, others had been captured just enjoying themselves, beers half-raised toward lips painted black or in a fit of laughter that caused heavily made-up eyes to squint. Søren instantly recognized Johannes.
“There he is,” Stella Marie said.
“Do you know the person standing next to him?” Søren asked. Stella Marie and Henrik peered at the screen.
“Is anyone standing next to him?” Henrik asked.
Søren pointed to something black flanking Johannes. What he was pointing to wasn’t necessarily a person, but it might be. A part of someone’s back, or thigh, something dark, certainly, brushing against Johannes’s leg. The fabric seemed to be ribbed, and Søren had to concede it might be part of the background.
“We have different seating areas in the bar, crates and old chairs we cover with black cloth to create an impression of total darkness. It might be a table next to him.” Stella Marie shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly who he spoke to,” she added. “I think he spoke to everyone. Like I said, he was on a roll.”
“Does the name YourGuy mean anything to you?” Søren asked.
“No,” Stella Marie shook her head. “But it’s standard to use alibis on our scene. It’s part of the game.”
“What’s yours?” Henrik wanted to know.
“Surprise,” Stella Marie replied.
“I would like a copy of your mailing list,” he said. For a moment, Stella Marie looked doubtful.
“All right, I don’t suppose that’s a problem,” she muttered eventually, returned to her computer, opened a file and pressed print. They sat in silence and Søren studied a shocking pink hair extension that stopped halfway down Stella Marie’s back. When she turned around, she hesitated before she said: “Actually, there was one thing about that night that puzzled me.” She looked tentatively at Søren. “There was a guy I had never seen before…. And he really stood out. It’s probably not important, but I’ll tell you anyway.”