“Can she tell us a little about the house? What did it look like?”
But Abeiuwa couldn’t remember anything. She just wanted to get as far away as possible.
“Can you stay a little?” she asked Samuel. “The doctors will most likely want to talk with her afterwards.”
Samuel looked at his watch. “I can stay another hour, then I need to go to work.”
Sanne nodded and smiled at Akeiuwa, who was still lying in bed with the blanket covering the bottom of her face.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m going to speak to the doctor. Could I have your number in case I need you again?”
Samuel scribbled his cell number down on an old bus ticket and sat down next to Abeiuwa’s bed. Sanne hurried out of the room and down the corridor, asked for the doctor who had treated the girl.
While a nurse went to find the doctor, Sanne found a water fountain and filled a plastic cup. Fatigue slowed her down; her eyes were gritty with exhaustion. She took a sip of water, scanning a row of bright portraits on the wall above the fountain. Was that Professor Lau? She read the text on the small paper sign next to the picture. Professor Lau, Head of Ophthalmology at Gentofte Hospital from 1978. In the photo, he was younger, more slender. His hands were folded on his lap, almost feminine. She recalled his fleshy paws from the other day, the glass eye that nearly disappeared between his fingers.
“Ah,” the voice came from behind her. “I see you’ve met Professor Koes?”
Sanne only just avoided spurting water all over the younger doctor when she turned around. He was tall, with horn-rimmed glasses and a side part in his thick brown hair. He had a slightly arrogant bearing.
“Koes?”
The doctor nodded at the picture next to Professor Lau. An older man with a black comb-over, the sides shaved above the ears. He had bushy eyebrows and an impressive moustache.
“Koes founded this department back in the 1930s.”
“No, the one next to him, Lau. I met him on Tuesday.” She cleared her throat. “You received Abeiuwa?”
The doctor nodded, put his hands in his pockets. “Someone performed a very delicate enucleation on her only a few hours ago.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
The doctor looked over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Enucleation, in layman’s terms, is the removal of the eyeball. The muscles that enable the eye to move are severed. Lateral rectus, inferior rectus . . .”
Sanne held up a hand. “Okay, thanks. The muscles are severed?”
The doctor sighed. “There are four. After that, the eyeball is attached only by the superior oblique and nervus opticus.”
“The optic nerve. But none of them were severed?”
“No. If we assume that the plan was to remove the entire eye, she got away before he got that far. I must add — it’s wonderful work. The incisions in the muscle tissue are neat and clean.”
Chapter 33
Debriefing in Lars’s office. Yesterday’s catastrophe was imprinted across the ashen, exhausted faces. Toke walked in, just back from the hospital where he had been to see Lene. He looked around the circle, despondent, and then slumped into the only available chair.
Lars allowed silence to descend. He had worked all night and morning with a restless energy unleashed by the amphetamine’s release of noradrenaline and dopamine into the nerve tissue and of serotonin into the synaptic vesicles. But without any kind of usable result. The perp had gotten away. At some point over the course of the morning, sitting with a cup of coffee in the canteen, it had dawned on him. It wasn’t enough that the rapist had worked out that it was a setup, that Lene was bait. In Assistens Cemetery, he had whistled to make sure that Lars wouldn’t lose his trail. The only saving grace was that Lene hadn’t suffered any serious injuries. A mild concussion, a gash on the eyebrow that had been stitched. That was it.
He’d be held accountable, he knew that. It was his responsibility. His team waited for him to say something, get the ball rolling, but his reserves were depleted. Even the amphetamine was useless now; it only sucked him dry. His legs bounced up and down at an insane pace.
“Okay,” he finally said, forcing his legs to calm down. “A police op that goes wrong is always front-page news. We have to expect that the press is going to be all over this now. Be careful who you speak with and what you say. If you’re contacted by the press, refer them to me.”
No one spoke. Kim A scratched the back of his ear, smiled to himself. Toke’s eyes were glued to the floor between his feet.
“Why doesn’t a club like that have cameras recording people leaving?” Lisa asked.
Frank shrugged. “The entrance is where you get trouble.”
Something flashed through Lars’s mind, an electric impulse that sent a shock through his tired, beaten-up body. He attempted to block out the conversation around him, the scraping of the chairs against the floor. Cameras. Video surveillance. Light. He looked up.
“There are no cameras filming people leaving Penthouse, but the 7-Eleven on the corner of Nørregade and Nørreport . . . I wonder, wouldn’t there be a camera there?”
“How would that help?” Frank stared out the window.
“Yes, dammit,” said Lisa. “Both Stine and Lene walked down Nørregade past Nørreport. If the perp followed them from Penthouse . . .”
Lars headed down to the canteen. It was empty at this time of the day. Just inside the door, a female officer he didn’t recognize was sitting with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. They nodded to each other. The rubber soles of his Converse stuck to the linoleum floor, producing a small, soft smack every time he raised his foot, a series of kisses following his every step. It couldn’t be later than ten in the morning, and with the amphetamine in his bloodstream, his hunger was suppressed, but he thought he should have something. He hadn’t eaten much the previous day. At the counter, he chose a greyish hamburger patty with potatoes and caramelized onions. He paid, poured a glass of water from the pitcher by the counter, and sat down at one of the tables at the very back. An abandoned copy of Ekstra Bladet had been left open on the neighbouring table.
He tore open the small blue and red salt and pepper sachets and sprinkled them generously over his food, vacantly studying the vegetable of the day. The two gherkins glistened under the fluorescent lights.
He started eating, grabbed the paper. The front page was filled with a large picture of a girl in a very low-cut dress. A black bar covered her eyes, but her clothes and surroundings revealed her profession. The headline in bold, black type: “Hookers on Vesterbro: ‘The Sandman can come and get us.’” He flipped to the pages the cover story referred to. A large spread summarized the case, describing Mira alongside a huge picture of the most recent victim in her hospital bed at Gentofte Hospital. She was nineteen years old and came from Benin in West Africa. The girl in the picture didn’t look a day over seventeen. Her right eye was covered with a large white dressing. She looked scared and in shock.
When he folded up the paper, he realized he had finished eating. Using his tongue, he removed the last strands of meat from between his teeth. No flavour remained, just a greasy feeling running all the way down his throat. He emptied the glass of water in one go. How was Sanne doing? He really should thank her for that dinner. Was that on Monday? Five days ago already.
Ulrik appeared, walking toward him through the canteen with firm, purposeful steps. Some people just knew when their presence was unwanted.
Ulrik nodded, pulled out a chair, and sat across from Lars. “Mind if I sit here?”
He didn’t want to speak to Ulrik. Today least of all.
“I heard about yesterday,” Ulrik began.
Lars pushed the cutlery around on the empty plate. His legs bounced up and down under the table. He nodded at the paper. “I see he’s been at it again? And the papers have already given him a name: The Sandman.”
&n
bsp; “What?” Ulrik glanced at the Ekstra Bladet next to Lars’s plate. “Oh, yes, poor girl. But we were . . .” He leaned across the table, lowered his voice. “I’ve read Toke’s report from yesterday and . . .” He stopped, fidgeted in the chair. “Why don’t we go up to my office?”
Lars took a deep breath, forced his heart rate down. Was he going to take him off the rape case too? “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“I see. Well, the fact of the matter is . . .” A single drop of sweat trickled down Ulrik’s temple. “A complaint has been filed against you — your way of leading the investigation.” He went red, lowered his voice. “There are people on your team, people with seniority, who believe the case is crumbling. Leads not being followed up on . . .”
“Kim A,” Lars mumbled. “You know what this is about. You were there.”
“It’s actually not that simple. Frank and Lisa have signed it too. Kim A isn’t stupid. I have to respond to this.”
Lars clenched his fist under the table. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Ulrik’s fault. Still, he had this urge to hit somebody right now. Hard.
“Lars, I’m trying to help you.” Ulrik put his hands on the table, his palms open.
He had to get out, get some air. He got up, sent the chair backwards with a violent kick. It slid across the floor, clattered into the table behind him. The female officer by the door looked up, startled.
“Do whatever the hell you have to do.”
Then he strode toward the exit without looking back.
Chapter 34
Lars staggered into his apartment. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was trying to suppress the memory of the sounds from Maria’s bedroom the other night, but the creaking and moaning kept on going in the back of his head. The hyperactivity was abating. His head ached, his jaw was tender. And he was tired. Every single fibre in his body screamed for rest, oblivion. Speed comedown. He needed a piss; his bladder was about to burst.
Lars threw his jacket down on the floor and went into the bathroom. He lifted the seat. A splashing in the toilet bowl. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and almost took a step back in shock. His skin was ashen, and the large dark bags under his eyes gave him a hounded look. His hair was flat and lifeless. He needed a shave.
Lying on the edge of the sink was an exhausted toothpaste tube; the screw cap, with its hardened rim of grey paste, stood on the other side of the faucet. When would she learn to clean up after herself? He put the toilet seat down, and washed his hands. Then he grabbed the empty toothpaste tube, and stepped on the garbage can pedal.
Nestled in among rolled-up toilet paper, toothpicks, and crumpled Kleenex smeared with makeup, was a used condom.
He had to lean against the wash basin with both hands; the tiles buckled. This was not something he should get involved in; it was her life. But his body didn’t agree. He chucked the toothpaste tube into the garbage can and let the lid drop. Then he turned on the cold water, splashed water on his face, and spat in the sink: a viscous, bloody glob slowly ran down the drain. His throat tasted of iron. The fatigue returned. There was a hammering in the back of his head and then everything went black.
“You have to wake up, Dad. Now.” Maria was tugging at him. Were those tears in her eyes?
The blanket of fatigue wouldn’t lift. The headache hit him. His mouth tasted of blood, metal. Bad breath.
“Hmm?” He pulled his arm back, drew the comforter over his head.
It was torn off again. Crimson light penetrated his eyelids.
“Dad!”
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Somewhere in the apartment, someone was quietly and persistently sobbing.
He opened his eyes, saw Maria in front of him. Mascara and eyeliner drew grimy lines down her cheeks. But it wasn’t her crying?
“What’s going on?” he mumbled.
“It’s Caroline. She was raped. Last night.”
“Has she been to the hospital?” Wide awake, he got up. The blood drained from his head. He swayed back and forth, but his calves tensed against the edge of the bed and kept him upright until the blood returned. He picked up his pants and a sweater from the chair by the wall and got dressed.
Maria was shaking. She had moved to the edge of the bed, collapsing as he pulled the sweater over his head.
“We have to take her to Rigshospitalet. Does she know the person who did it?” Lars buttoned up his pants.
“Could it . . . be him, Dad?”
That one sentence was like a blow to his body. Lars had to lean against the wall so as not to double over.
“Where is she?” he managed to stammer.
Caroline was curled up on the couch in the living room.His daughter’s friend was almost unrecognizable. Her long blond hair was matted. She kept moving her fingers through it, scratching, messing it up. She stared out the window, rocking back and forth. Her green eyes were vacant, the skin around them bruised and swollen. Her nose was crooked. She sobbed, wiping the tears on her sleeve.
They sat down on either side of her.
“Caroline?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You have to go to the hospital. I’ll call for a patrol car.” Caroline didn’t answer; she just rocked back and forth, staring into space. Lars looked at the dense pattern of wounds and gashes across her scalp, the caked blood in her hair. “She hasn’t had a shower, has she?”
“I don’t know,” Maria answered. “She didn’t call me until noon . . .” She bit her lip, then glanced at her friend. “But the skin on her fingers was all wrinkled when I arrived.”
Lars got up, patted his pockets. Where did he put his cell?
“Stay with her. I’ll call.”
It had to be in his jacket in the hallway. He was there in two bounds, picked up his jacket, and pulled out the cell in one motion. Lars asked the duty officer to send a patrol car to his address and returned to the living room.
“Has she had anything to drink?” he asked. “We need to get some water in her.”
Maria nodded, got her friend to stand. Lars could hear the tap running while he put his socks and shoes on.
Four minutes later they were down on Folmer Bendtsens Plads, Maria with her arm around Caroline, Lars half a step ahead of them. He tore open the back door as soon as the patrol car pulled up and helped Maria get Caroline into the back before he climbed in after them.
“Rigshospitalet. Centre for Victims of Sexual Assault,” he said. The tires screeched as the officer behind the wheel pulled out sharply and shot across Nørrebrogade. It had started to drizzle.
The duty nurse took one look at Caroline, now leaning on Maria, and said, “I’ll get a doctor. Two seconds.”
Christine Fogh emerged almost immediately. She nodded at Lars, then smiled at Caroline and Maria.
“Hi, my name is Christine. I’m your doctor. Could you please follow me?” Her voice was soft and calm. Subdued. She helped Maria with Caroline, held her on her other side. They went through the first door on the left and into the windowless room where he had interviewed Louise Jørgensen on Tuesday morning. Christine directed Caroline to an examination table covered with a sheet of paper and fixed with two stirrups at one end.
A young nurse entered with a trolley.
“I’m going to examine you now,” Christine said. “And Line is going to take some tests. We’ll be careful. Have you been in the shower?”
“I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,” Caroline whispered, “but it wouldn’t go away.”
“That’s okay.” She stroked Caroline’s hair, gave Lars a pointed look over the rim of her glasses. His gaze wavered. What did she want?
“Dad, really. Get out.” Maria shoved him toward the door.
Of course. He mumbled an apology and hurried out.
Inside the reception room on the other side of the corridor, he sat down on one of the low pine chairs with a lig
ht green cover. The ceiling light had a cold, yellowish tinge, making it difficult to make out any details clearly. On the way here, he had been able to concentrate on Caroline, on what needed to be done. But now, the thoughts descended on him. Caroline would never have set foot in Penthouse. She would never have met him if they hadn’t come up with the idea of using Lene. He’d chosen that exact route through the city.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. Let it wash over him.
He had no idea how much time had passed when Maria opened the door a crack.
“Do you want to ask her some questions, Dad? She wants to speak to you.”
He got up but couldn’t look Maria in the eyes.
“No more than a few minutes,” Christine said when he walked in. She was leaning against the wall.
He pulled up a chair, sat by the headboard. Caroline turned and looked at him. She attempted a smile.
“I’ve given her a sedative,” Christine said. Maria went to the other side of the bed, grabbed Caroline’s hand.
“Caroline, I know this is difficult,” he started, “but I have to ask you a few questions about last night. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes,” Caroline nodded. The movement was hardly noticeable.
“Good.” He tried smiling. “Where did it happen?”
“In Nørrebro Park.” Her voice was hoarse from hours of crying. “I was going to get some cigarettes . . .”
He noticed Maria’s ashen face out of the corner of his eye.
“Nørrebro Park — where exactly?”
“Behind the playground with the airplane, by the side street Bjelkes Allé. He pulled me into the trees by the basketball court.”
Lars nodded. He knew the place.
“I’ll send someone to check it out.” There wouldn’t be much to find. After an entire day, the crime scene would be contaminated by children, dog walkers, and joggers.
“What did he look like? Did you get a look at his face?”
Caroline shook her head. “He was wearing a cap. And black clothing. It looked like a tracksuit.”
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