Lars found himself more or less in the middle of the crowd, his legs pumping. He was filled with a total sense of freedom. Everything inside him was bursting with the knowledge that he was doing something, that he was a part of something. The leaders of the demonstration had secretly planned for the demonstration to occupy the old shelter for the homeless, Abel Cathrines Stiftelse, on Abel Cathrines Gade. They’d even arranged to have ladders there so people could climb in through the second-storey windows. That night was a party, an intoxicating collective of colours, music, and people. Lars blissfully jumped from group to group, had a few drinks here, took a drag on a joint there. Suddenly he found himself in the corner of a small room with a pretty redhead. The music and the voices faded into dull blasts from a distant world. They kissed hard and awkwardly, their hands wandering over each other’s clothes. But the restless energy tore him away, kept him moving aimlessly around the building, then out into the neon-illuminated night. Whatever happened to the girl, he never found out; he never saw her again. But he frequently returned to the occupied house to see concerts by ADS and Under For.
Lars stubbed out his King’s in the ashtray, followed the smoke that rose up toward the ceiling in lazy billows. Outside the twilight was about to lapse into night.
Sanne was silent, her face was hidden in the shadows.
“The point,” he said, trying to catch her eyes, “is that during the entire occupation there was not a single confrontation with the police and everyone left the building voluntarily several months later. But to this day there’s still bad blood between the police and the squatters.”
Sanne blinked, drank a little of her wine. It was clear that she had difficulty understanding him, but she tried.
“Does Kim A know about all of this?”
“I don’t know.” Lars shook his head. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he had ploughed through all the records to find something on me.”
Sanne nodded, rubbing her temples. “But if you didn’t do anything then surely you’re not in the police records?”
He smiled indulgently.
Sanne tried to laugh. “A police officer with a past as an anarchist? There’s a first for everything.”
“Anarchist? I was a punk and a bit on the fringes when it all began,” he said. “At night, I went home to my mom and did my homework. That’s not very rebellious, is it? But I’m glad you can laugh at it.” He took his glass, emptied it, and grabbed the bottle.
“More Chateau l’Évangile?”
“You’re out of your mind.” She laughed, held out her glass. “How did you end up joining the police then?”
Lars poured more wine for both of them, took his glass, and swirled it around.
“Yes, why did I? After the occupation of the building called Allotria — you’ve heard about that, right?”
Sanne nodded. “I was born that year, but of course I’ve heard about it. Squatters digging a tunnel under the street and leaving the house under the very boots of our colleagues.”
Lars shook his head, smiled. “Well, everything started getting more violent, then. You’ve heard about toilets being thrown at the police from the windows of occupied buildings, Molotov cocktails . . . When that started, I pulled out. I’d started playing music and spent a lot of time on that.” Lars took an almost imperceptible pause. He’d revealed enough already; better to slam the door shut now. “I moved to New York, lived with my dad for a year — went to eleventh grade in a high school over there. I came home, was called to the conscription board when I finished high school and hoped I’d get out of the army. But there was really no way of getting around it.”
“You could have been a conscientious objector?”
“That’s what my mom said too. She was furious. But I was tired of the alternative scene. I was way too stoned all the time. So the military became an easy way out, a clean break. And when I’d completed my service, a job with the police didn’t seem like such a big leap.”
Sanne nodded, pulled her feet up under her, and looked at him above her glass. “Have you got a spare cigarette?”
Lars lit her cigarette. The ember pulsated in the darkness between them, lit up her eyes. Her pupils were large, burning into his.
Outside, an S-train zipped into the station. Farther away, the cars roared down Nørrebrogade. The Ring Café was open now; they could hear shouting and bottles clattering. They sat close on the low sofa.
“What was that about work? In the car . . .”
Sanne shook her head, put a finger to her lip. “Shh. Not now.”
He looked at her, almost as if in a trance. Her face drew closer. The cigarette smoke rose from her hand. The front door opened in the hallway below, and they heard steps shuffling on the staircase. Dark eyes with a little too much makeup burned into his; her tongue carefully slipped out and wet her lip. He was just about to say something, when her lips touched his. A flash of skin and light.
His head began dancing in triple time. He opened his mouth, kissed her back, and closed his eyes.
Then the door slammed in the hall, and a sobbing filled the apartment. Sanne shot back on the sofa, dropping the cigarette. They both dove to the floor, searching for it. Maria stepped into the living room, her face grimy from smudged makeup. She was shaking.
“Maria, what happened?” He was up, his arms around her before the sentence was finished. Sanne had found the cigarette and got back on the sofa, pushing her hair back. Maria snuggled up to him.
“What happened?” he asked again.
Maria shook her head. “Just hold me, Dad.”
He held her shivering body close. He could still taste the kiss on his lips. Sweet. Light.
Sanne got up, picked up her purse from the floor, and checked its contents with her fidgeting fingers.
“Well, I’ve got to —” She nodded at them and slipped toward the entrance.
“See you tomorrow,” he shouted after her. Then the door slammed, and he was left with his daughter in his arms.
A few minutes passed. Neither of them said anything. Then he craned his neck back, attempted to lift her face so he could see her eyes.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at Christian’s?”
Maria’s shoulders twitched. Tears mixed with snot. He rocked her back and forth until she calmed down. Then he moved her over to the sofa and sat down beside her. He stroked her hair.
“There now, dry your eyes. What’s the matter?”
Maria shook her head and wiped her nose. Lars got up to fetch some paper towels. When he came back, she was staring at the two half-empty glasses. She looked up at him.
“What have the two of you been up to?”
“Police stuff.” He handed her the paper towels.
“And red wine? Honestly, Dad.”
He shook his head. “It’s not good for a teenage daughter to know everything.”
Chapter 46
The duty officer called just as Sanne stepped out of the entrance to Lars’s building. She switched off her cell and threw it in on the passenger seat. She climbed into the car without even thinking about the couple of glasses of wine she’d had. She put the siren on the roof and drove off.
Now she was crawling through shrubbery and down the bluff toward the crude tent at the edge of the small lake in the middle of Østre Anlæg Park. The white concrete walls of the National Gallery of Denmark rose up on her left. A group of police officers stood around the tent at the water’s edge, congregated by a single yellow cone of light. One of the police generators sputtered in the darkness, drowning out the faint drone of traffic on Øster Voldgade and Sølvgade.
Ulrik turned as she arrived. He still hadn’t said anything about the interview with Langhoff.
“Sanne, glad you could make it. I called your place and spoke to Martin, but he didn’t know where you were.”
Sanne mumbled something i
n reply, hoping Ulrik couldn’t see her blushing.
“Is it him again?” she asked, forcing herself to focus.
Ulrik nodded, pulled her along down to the water’s edge and into the tent. Frelsén waved. Bint shook her hand. A couple of officers she didn’t know stood on the other side. The naked body of a blonde woman was lying in the middle of the circle, half-submerged in the dark lake. The light gave her skin a strong yellowish tone. Small waves lapped up against her almost hairless genitalia and the tattoos on the lowest part of her stomach, leaving trails of seagrass and waste on her abdomen and thighs. The body had the same small hole by the groin that Mira’s body did and the same entrance wound from the fatal bullet above the left breast. Empty eye sockets stared up at the roof of the tent.
Sanne remembered the horror on Abeiuwa’s face. It could just as easily have been her.
“Another prostitute?” she said.
“The tattoos would suggest that.” Frelsén sounded tired. Apparently, they wouldn’t have to listen to his usual spirited, slightly inappropriate commentary tonight. “They should also help us with her identification. The body and bone structure is Scandinavian. She’s presumably Danish, around thirty-five years old. So somewhat older than the first girl and the African who escaped.”
“Abeiuwa.” Sanne turned to Ulrik. “Who found her?”
“They called from the museum.” Ulrik nodded toward the white colossus. “The Danish Bankers Association was having its annual meeting tonight. One of the guests was out stretching his legs. You can see the remains of his buffet dinner over there.” He pointed at a tree close to the water’s edge.
“When did he find her?”
“Around ten o’clock, so just under an hour ago. The park closes at eight.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
Ulrik shook his head. “I let him go home. He’s one of the chief executives of Nordea. He was completely beside himself. You can speak to him tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “I’ll speak to him. And I’ll be nice.”
“The killer drove her up to the entrance of the museum,” Ulrik continued, “dragged her over the fence, down the path, and down the bluff here. Bint found the tracks.” He pointed. It was the same path she herself had taken.
One of the officers whispered to his colleagues, “She could have shaved properly down there.”
“She did, as a matter of fact.” Frelsén pointed at the body’s genital area. “Observe the small tears. They’re from pubic shaving a few hours prior to the time of death. But not all the body’s cells cease functioning when you die. Some can continue for hours, days, and, in favourable instances, even weeks. So often it can appear as though the hair has continued growing, but it could also be caused by the skin shrinking, revealing the hairs growing on the inner layer — before they emerge from the skin, that is. Morticians often need to shave male corpses before interment.”
The officer spat in disgust, looked away. A sudden weariness threatened to knock Sanne over.
“What’s that on her hand?” she said. The body’s hand was positioned at an unnatural angle. Sanne crouched down, tentatively held the wrist. It felt strange, like hard rubber. She lifted the hand. The skin was torn, as if someone had been filing around the wrist.
Sanne looked up at Frelsén.
“Yes.” He placed his gold-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. Suddenly there was some life in his weary eyes. He hunched down beside Sanne, examined the wrist. “That’s odd. For the time being, I would say she’s been bound with a coarse rope, shortly after the time of death. The tissue is destroyed, but there’s no trace of blood vessels.”
“Who would tie up a dead body?”
Behind him the paramedics were on their way down the bluff with a stretcher.
“Yes,” he said and blinked. “That is precisely the question. Who would do that?”
Chapter 47
When the bloodwind has raged, only the essence remains. Mahler. Cabbage soup. Urgrund. Mother is dead. She lay screaming in her old room until the end. Everything that must not be said comes raging out. She fades away, collapses as the words flow out of her. Father is Grandfather, Grandfather is Father. Now he finally knows the truth: Grandfather and Father. He understands where it comes from, the power that roars inside him. When he looks down between his feet, straddling the continental plates, he sees a point turning on its own axis: dark red, pulsating. Incredible, blazing heat. It radiates a frightening force; everything melts before the Urgrund. The flesh falls from the bones, the blood boils. The body secretions spit, rise in columns of white and yellow steam. The eyes drip, run sizzling out of their sockets. This is life’s primordial force, so infinitely greater than anything he has ever before experienced. So vigorous and omnivorous that everything must bend to its iron will. That is the bloodwind. The fissure is open. It can no longer be closed. Nothing can contain that which wants out. He is the servant of the bloodwind. This house — these beams, stones, and trusses — is the seat for the all-consuming Will that will brand the world. To be its instrument makes his chest swell with pride. He who could not see the bloodwind’s pure, unthinking workings. The naked instinct consuming everything in its path. Now he is bearer of the wonder. The rebellion, the girl’s insubordination, all was part of a greater plan. They too have had their role to play. And this knowledge makes his burden easier to bear. For the Will should know it has not been easy to release the children, to hurt the ones you love. But when the purpose is clear, its pure workings shine, he can bear everything. He looks at Sonja and is filled with love. She is the only one left now. Hilda had to go, like Karen and the others before her. The cabbage soup steams on the table. He pushes the plate across to her. Eat, my girl. I miss them too. But we must all make our sacrifices. And the bloodwind has shown me that we will soon be complete again.
Sie sind uns nur vorausgegangen
und werden nicht wieder nach Haus verlangen!
Wir hohlen sie ein auf jenen Höh’n
im Sonnnenschein! Der Tag is schön
auf jenen Höh’n!
Monday
June 23
Chapter 48
The sounds of morning from the street: a drunk throwing up outside the Ring Café, the S-train whizzing into the station, birds singing in the courtyard. Maria was in the shower. Lars opened his eyes. He had not felt drunk yesterday, but now he felt a sharp pain shooting behind his eyes. No more drinking cheap red wine.
Last night came back to him. Images of him and Sanne on the sofa. The story about the occupation of Abel Cathrines Gade had more or less been the truth. But why had he not told her about the demonstrations afterwards? About the street fighting, the drunken feeling as the cobblestone flew out of his hand, sailed across the sky toward the police lines? About the adrenaline-pumping high he got from running from his future colleagues, a bandana covering his face? The romanticizing of street partisans? The drugs?
He coughed, tried to focus on the previous night. He and Sanne kissing, Maria coming home crying. He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself up on his elbows. He wondered how both of them were feeling today.
The shower stopped. Maria poked her head out the door, humming. Her hair was wrapped in a pink towel, her body covered by a larger blue one. Small drops of water trickled down from the wisps of hair on her cheek.
“Did you sleep all right, Dad?”
He grunted, then sat up. He was still amazed by how quickly his teenage daughter could move from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other.
“Are you okay?” he asked drowsily.
“For sure.” Maria smiled. “Remember, I’m going to a party at my classmate Christina’s tonight.” She disappeared into her room.
He considered asking about the party, but his cell rang. He swung his legs out of bed, answered the phone.
“Lars.” He felt like a smoke, even though he knew it wou
ldn’t do his headache any good.
“Toke here.” Toke paused on the other end, but Lars didn’t answer. Toke sighed, then continued. “Yesterday Kim A and Frank tracked down someone from the group outside the 7-Eleven. You know, the kids who met Stine near Nørreport the night she was raped. His name is Jesper Lützen. He’s twenty-three years old and works at” — Toke flipped through the pages — “Cosmo Film. It’s probably one of those jobs where you don’t really get paid. Kim A and Frank spoke to him last night. He was on a shoot.”
“And?” Lars’s tongue was thick and sticky. He could do with some water. Or juice.
“The guy on the video — the one we thought was following Stine — got into a cab straight after.”
“So he didn’t follow Stine?”
“Not according to Jesper.”
“We’ve got the time-stamp from the video from Danske Bank . . .” Lars grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and tried putting it on without taking the phone away from his ear.
“Kim A and Frank are already working on the cab drivers.”
“I’m on my way.”
Lars hung up. Unbelievable. Kim A and Frank had been working on their own.
“Would you mind putting some coffee on?” he shouted to Maria. “I’m just jumping in the shower.”
Half an hour later he went out into the street. The sun shone from a cloudless sky. Maria was going out to a classmate’s to study, but she had plenty of time. She was probably upstairs in the apartment with her feet on the table. He patted his pockets. He must have forgotten his cigarettes up there. He turned around and took one step back when he saw the Ekstra Bladet placard outside the corner store.
The House That Jack Built Page 21