The last time it had happened was when he met Seja. He thought about the sudden awkwardness her presence brought out in him. The way he felt naked when his professional identity was of no interest, and the sudden dizzying terror about what else he had to offer in life.
Christian hadn’t responded to Höije’s ridiculous speech on respect, simply because any possible response would have fanned the flames. He would have come across as being defensive.
The phone rang. He considered letting it ring until the answerphone kicked in, but he thought it was probably Seja, and picked up. The sound of her voice made him realise that his exchange with Höije had spoiled the pleasure he would take in bringing up the trip to Copenhagen. That annoyed him all over again.
Tell had been accustomed to Ann-Christine Östergren’s unquestioning trust in her colleagues; her reassuring blend of empathy and directness. He realised that he missed her, more than he had thought he would. He didn’t know to what extent Höije had intended to disarm him, to back him into a corner and step over him. He didn’t know whether it was a demonstration of power or not.
Until he knew, he would remain alert. He would be more careful about how he presented his work to his boss.
When he did mention Copenhagen, Seja sounded pleased.
‘What fun! I haven’t been to Copenhagen for . . . Ooh, it must be ten years! But how come – I thought you said the other day you had a lot on at the moment?’
‘It does involve a certain amount of work.’
‘That’s fine! I’m happy to spend an evening in Copenhagen with or without you. But preferably with you, of course.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Neither of them spoke. Tell went over to the window and looked down at the street.
‘Christian? Is something wrong?’
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. Perhaps because she couldn’t see him. He thought about an episode of Seinfeld where George, the guy who gets everything wrong, decides to do exactly the opposite of what his instincts tell him.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just work . . . work stuff.’
Seja remained silent at the other end of the line, just as he did when he was waiting for the silence to oppress the other person, waiting for them to talk out of sheer frustration.
He told Seja what had happened with Höije. Her laugh surprised him; it seeped out of the receiver like a muted rumble.
‘You don’t think you might be overreacting slightly?’ she said eventually.
‘You don’t think you might be finding this a bit too funny?’ he said sourly, but somewhere inside he knew she was right. He was feeling the strain, as he always did at the beginning of a murder inquiry.
Before Seja had burst into his neat bachelor life, many things had been a lot simpler: the job took up his time, and nobody but himself would suffer if anything happened. These days it wasn’t just that he often found himself at work mentally, when he was sitting at home; he was also distracted by thoughts of Seja when he was at work. He kept thinking about what all the time she spent alone might be doing to her, what all the broken promises and cancelled plans were doing to their relationship. It was a paradox in itself: his constant feelings of guilt made him even more fiery and unreasonable.
But just hearing her voice . . . the walls of resistance he had built up came crashing down: she wasn’t angry, disappointed, upset, about to leave him.
It’s as though you walk around with some kind of imagined guilt; you don’t really know what it consists of or where it comes from, you just know you have to fix it, Beckman had once said. Perhaps she was right. She had added that she found it incredibly tiresome.
‘Where are we staying?’
Christian took the phone into the kitchen; he had stuck the address of the hotel on his fridge door.
‘A small hotel in Christianshavn.’
‘How appropriate.’
‘The tourist office recommended it.’
‘In that case it must be close to Christiania too. Years ago I always used to go to a place near Pusher Street to buy the most wonderful hand-woven cloths for next to nothing. I wonder if it’s still there.’
‘I really, really hope you’re joking.’
Seja laughed. ‘Of course I am. It’s not as though you’d let anyone forget you’re a police officer. Although I have to admit that you’re unusually good company for a policeman.’
He read out the train times and heard the start-up tones of her computer.
‘Sweetheart, I really have to go now – things to do. Shall we meet at the station first thing tomorrow?’
‘OK,’ he said.
A line from a song by Lars Winnerbäck had stuck in his mind for some reason, and Christian thought about it now: I would get trapped in my loneliness again, if you left me now.
He ended the call and, to his surprise, realised that he was disappointed that she wasn’t coming over to stay the night.
22
Copenhagen
People’s reactions to the loss of a family member never ceased to amaze Tell. All the indications were that Alexandr Karpov had already been informed of the violent circumstances surrounding his ex-wife’s death, and yet it seemed as if it were only now, while talking to Tell, that he was able to absorb what had happened.
He rubbed his forehead, then sat down to pull himself together. When he took off his glasses, exposing the dark, lined skin around his eyes, he suddenly looked ten years older.
‘I just can’t . . . I haven’t been able to believe it. This couldn’t have happened to Ann-Marie. It’s impossible . . .’
‘Sadly that isn’t the case.’
Tell had given the man a little time to compose himself. The Karpovs had been divorced for a long time, but that didn’t mean the thought of never seeing her again was painless.
‘Who would want to murder her? It’s absurd.’
‘As part of the ongoing investigation, I do need to ask you some questions, including the matter you’ve just raised. Can you think of anyone who would want Ann-Marie dead?’
Alexandr Karpov stroked his sparse beard. The distant look in his eyes suggested that he was still reluctant to accept the facts.
Tell tried a different approach. ‘What was she like? Can you describe her?’
Karpov gave a violent start, as if he had been woken by a loud noise. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s all still so difficult to understand.’
‘I realise that.’
‘What was she like? Well . . . she was a passionate person, I would say.’
‘About what?’
‘About . . . a great many things. She was very dynamic. She was passionate about beauty, art . . . Have you visited Glyptoteket before, Inspector?’
‘No, I’ve never been here.’
‘And you’re not particularly well informed on the subject of ancient art?’
‘No.’
Karpov had got to his feet; although his legs were clearly still shaky, he seemed to gain strength from his latest idea as he guided Tell out of his office, ignoring the policeman’s feeble protests.
‘You asked me who Ann-Marie was. If you’re going to understand her, then I have to give you an idea of what she did.’
So Tell allowed himself to be steered around several of the museum’s exhibition halls, starting in the basement with the Ancient Art of the Middle East. Closely woven mesh covered every source of light, leaving the underground rooms in darkness punctuated by small pinpricks of light.
Karpov talked about his fascination with finding out how people created societies at different times and in different places.
‘Many of these cultures were enlightened and influential. This area, for example, has been referred to as the cradle of civilisation,’ he said, running his hand over a map on the wall. ‘Mesopotamia – “the land between the two rivers”. This is where the first urban societies were formed. The wheel was invented, the measurement of time, written language or cuneiform script. Man began to do
cument his reflections on his relationship with the world and with higher powers.’
The museum was still open to the public, and it wasn’t long before Christian spotted Seja, who had taken the opportunity to look around. He felt obliged to introduce her.
Karpov smiled. ‘How nice – you’re combining business with pleasure. Have you seen anything exciting? Perhaps you’d like to join us on our tour, Seja?’
‘That would be very interesting.’
Tell carefully avoided Seja’s teasing glance. He had briefly explained the reason behind their visit when she asked during the journey down. There was no point in letting her get too involved in his work. The last time their professional roles had collided, she had written several articles linked to his investigation. It wasn’t an episode he looked back on with any fondness.
As Karpov sank down into his armchair after their tour, it struck Tell that the man was nowhere near as conservatively dressed as an academic in a position of authority at a major museum would presumably have to be. But his appearance did tally with the cliché of the absent-minded professor: the scraggly, ill-kempt beard, spectacles perched so close to the end of his nose that they looked as if they might tumble to the floor at any moment. The white hair, half-heartedly combed over his bald pate. The dark-blue corduroy trousers which bore witness to the fact that Karpov had once been much more robustly built. Now they were flapping around his legs, drawn tight around his waist with a belt, the end of which dangled down over his flies. He must have been at least ten years older than his ex-wife.
When Karpov rested his forehead on his hand, Tell thought he was going to burst into tears. But he didn’t make a sound. Tell waited. The surprising enthusiasm Karpov had summoned up during the tour had no doubt been a way of distracting himself, a way of pushing aside the powerful emotions that were overwhelming him once more.
‘I’ve got so much on at the moment . . .’ Karpov murmured. ‘But I’d still like to show you some of the work Ann-Marie was involved in over the past few years. She’d begun to develop an interest in—’
‘Alexandr.’
Tell let his hand fall slowly to his thigh. ‘I’m sure I will need your help with matters relating to Ann-Marie’s work, but right now I need to ask my questions in the order that I choose. I’d be grateful if you could just try to answer as honestly and fully as possible.’
‘Of course.’
‘You and Ann-Marie had been divorced for seven years, is that right? You seem upset about her death.’
‘Too upset, you mean? I don’t think I heard anything resembling a question there.’
‘My question is: what kind of contact did you and Ann-Marie have over the past seven years.’
‘We had ended our marriage in every legal and practical respect. I moved out of the apartment in 2001 and came to Copenhagen. This was a more convenient arrangement anyway, since the majority of my work is based here. We haven’t seen each other very often since then. Occasionally we would have dinner when Ann-Marie was visiting the archaeology department here, or when I happened to be in Gothenburg. We spoke on the telephone from time to time. We were good friends. We got on well.’
‘Did you draw the short straw?’
‘I’ m sorry?’
‘Was she the one who wanted a divorce?’
‘Is that important?’
‘I don’t know. But as I said, I would appreciate it if you could simply answer my questions. Please assume that everything I ask is important.’
Karpov sighed. ‘Well, I suppose she was the one who brought it up. It’s such a long time ago, I hardly remember how it began.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I didn’t want our marriage to end, no. But there was never any conflict – I must emphasise that. I gave her the apartment and the things that were important to her. I wished her no harm.’
It was as if Karpov had only just realised that he could be under suspicion. Bewilderment was writ large on his face.
With striking agility he leapt out of the deep armchair and went over to a grey display cabinet with frosted glass doors. Tell heard clinking and thought perhaps the man was in need of a strong drink, but Karpov returned with two glasses of sparkling water.
‘I’m sorry if I sounded a little abrupt just now,’ he said, offering Tell one of the glasses. He took a couple of sips and briefly closed his eyes. ‘To be honest, I’ve been surprised at my reaction over the past few days, Inspector. Naturally I’m shocked that she’s dead, who wouldn’t be? She was an innocuous person – no, that’s the wrong word – but she was a good person. Well-liked, hard-working. I’m sure you’re right; my feelings for Ann-Marie haven’t faded entirely over the years. I haven’t remarried. It took me a couple of years to grasp the fact that we were never going to be together again, that this business with the divorce wasn’t just some whim on Ann-Marie’s part. And by that time I had got used to being alone, I suppose. I’d got used to a different life, where work comes first. And we didn’t have any children.’
Tell nodded; he could empathise. ‘And you knew she’d met someone new?’ he asked gently. ‘The man who was murdered in her flat.’
Karpov was silent.
‘Did you hear the question?’
‘Yes . . .’ he was still reluctant to answer. ‘I sensed it at quite an early stage.’
‘What, that she’d met Henrik Samuelsson? How did you sense that?’
‘Henrik Samuelsson, so that was his name.’
Tell tried to suppress his impatience. ‘You met him?’
‘He came to an event; it was the unveiling of an Egyptian sculpture donated to us by a French collector called . . . Well, that doesn’t really matter – anyway, it wasn’t open to members of the public. Ann-Marie was here at my personal invitation, and she brought this young man as her guest. She mentioned that he was on the foundation course – he was one of her students.’
‘She didn’t give any further explanation of why he’d come?’
‘She said it was some kind of study visit.’
Tell noticed Karpov’s cynical smile.
‘But you didn’t believe that?’
‘For God’s sake, they were staying . . .’
His voice died away. A strand of white hair flopped down over his forehead and his chin sank towards his chest. Tell couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
‘They were staying . . .?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘They were staying together? At a hotel? You checked whether they were staying at the same hotel, or even in the same room?’
Karpov let out a shrill laugh, temporarily robbed of the dignity he had earlier possessed. Now he was just another jealous ex-husband who had spied on his former wife. He pulled himself together. ‘I must admit I did check on where they were staying, and they’d booked a double room. But there was really no need. It was obvious they were together.’
‘Henrik lived with his partner, Rebecca. Their house was broken into three days ago. We believe the burglars were searching for something specific, and that this could be related to the murder in a way we don’t yet understand. What’s your view on that?’
‘I know nothing about it.’
Beneath the comb-over, Alexandr Karpov’s scalp was shining in the glare of the ceiling spotlight.
‘Did you let Ann-Marie and Henrik know what you thought about their affair?’
Tell had overstepped the mark. A chill passed through the room as Karpov peered over the top of his glasses, like a disapproving headmaster.
‘You are talking to me about my ex-wife in order to find out more about what kind of person she was. You said that was the purpose of this conversation. So why do I suddenly feel as though I am being interrogated? Because if you are intending to interrogate me, I insist on being informed of this in advance. And if that is the case, I wish to contact my solicitor.’
‘If I regard you as a suspect, I’ll certainly let you know.’ Tell loosened his tie as discreetly as he coul
d. ‘I apologise if you feel under attack. However, I would still like to know where you were on the night of the second of May. This is a purely routine question.’
‘At home, in my apartment. In bed. Asleep.’
‘Is there anyone who could confirm that?’
‘Of course not.’
Karpov’s rapid change of demeanour had made Tell lose his train of thought. ‘You can’t think of anything else in your ex-wife’s behaviour that struck you as strange?’
‘No. As I said, we had very little contact. The last time I saw her was at the event I just mentioned. That was last winter, about six months ago. And before that . . . we had dinner in Gothenburg after I’d given a lecture, so a year ago. Hos Pelle, that was the name of the restaurant. Good, traditional food.’
Karpov reached across the desk and grabbed a pack of tissues from the windowsill. He wiped his nose carefully, as if he needed something to do with his hands.
It was time to call a halt. Tell tucked his pen into his top pocket, a signal which made Karpov stand up quickly, holding out his hand. ‘I’m here if you think of anything else.’
‘Thank you.’
Tell ran down the stairs, and was soon out in the street. The siren of a passing ambulance mirrored his growing sense of urgency.
The demonstration was slowly disbanding as Seja and Tell arrived. The drum still echoed rhythmically, but the cluttered trucks that had made up the procession were rumbling slowly down towards Nyhavn and protestors were drifting away. A banner had been left behind, propped up against the statue of Kristian V in Kongens Nytorv: Don’t panic – it’s organic.
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