by David Hewson
‘Forensics called. The samples from the boiler room were contaminated. There won’t be any DNA profiles today.’
Lund said nothing. Looked at the photos on her desk. The boots.
‘OK,’ Meyer told him. ‘We’ll go back to the boys’ flat.’
Svendsen sighed.
‘We were there all night.’
‘We didn’t look hard enough.’
They left. Lund kept staring at the boots. The phone rang. It was the medical examiner. Wanting to see her.
Pernille waited on her own in the apartment with the flowers, the police tags and Nanna’s clothes.
By midday she was ready to go crazy. So she drove to the school, saw an embarrassed Rektor Koch, then the charming, quiet, sad-eyed teacher Rama.
Learnt one thing only: the police held Oliver Schandorff and Jeppe Hald overnight.
Then she waited in an empty office, listening to the young voices outside in the corridor, dreaming she could hear Nanna’s bright tones among them. Waited until Lisa Rasmussen came crying, running, throwing herself into the wide open arms of Pernille’s gaberdine raincoat, shaking with emotion, sobbing like a little child.
Her hair was blonde like Nanna’s. Pernille kissed it and knew she shouldn’t. These two were friends. Sisters almost sometimes. These two were . . .
Pernille let go, smiled, stopped trying to rationalize something that was beyond comprehension. A child was a brief and blissful interlude of responsibility, not a thing to be owned. She’d no idea what Nanna did outside the little apartment above the garage. Didn’t ask. Struggled not to think about it.
But Lisa knew. This short, slightly tubby girl trying so hard to be as pretty and clever as Nanna, and never quite succeeding.
Lisa dried her eyes, stood in front of her. Looking awkward. As if she’d like to go.
‘There are things . . .’ Pernille said. ‘I don’t understand.’
Silence. The little blonde girl shifted on her feet.
‘Was Nanna upset by something?’
Lisa shook her head.
‘What about Oliver? Was he involved?’
‘No.’
A petulant teenage note in the denial.
‘So why do the police keep asking about him, Lisa? Why?’
Her hands fidgeted behind her back, she leaned against the desk, said with a pout, ‘I don’t know.’
Pernille thought of the policewoman, Lund. Her quiet persistent manner. Her large and shining eyes that never seemed to stop looking.
‘But you went to the party together. Did she say anything? Did she seem . . .’ Words. Simple ones. Simple questions. Lund’s way. ‘Did she seem different?’
‘No. She didn’t say anything. She was just . . . Nanna.’
Don’t get angry, Pernille thought. Don’t say what you think . . . You’re a lying little cow and it’s written all over your plain fat face.
‘Why did she say she was staying with you?’
The girl shook her head, like a bad actress in a bad play.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’re friends,’ Pernille said, wondering . . .is this too much? Do I look hard? Do I look crazy?
Said anyway, ‘You’re friends. She would have told you her plans.’ Voice getting louder, chestnut hair waving. ‘She would have told you if there was something.’
‘Pernille. She didn’t. Honestly.’
Shake the child. Scream at it. Yell until she says . . . What?
‘Was she angry?’ Pernille asked. ‘With me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have to tell me!’ she cried, voice beginning to shatter. ‘It’s important.’
Lisa didn’t move, grew calmer and more sullen with every angry rising note she heard.
‘She . . . didn’t . . . say . . . anything.’
Hands on the girl’s shoulders, staring into those defiant stupid eyes.
‘Tell me!’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Lisa said in a voice flat and devoid of emotion. ‘She wasn’t angry with you. She really wasn’t.’
‘Then what happened?’ Pernille snarled.
Shake the child. Slap her cheek.
‘What happened?’
Lisa stood defiant. A look in her eyes that said: do it then. Hit me now. It won’t make a difference. Nanna’s still gone.
Pernille sniffed, wiped her nose, walked out into the corridor. Stopped at the flowers and photos by the lockers. Nanna’s shrine. Sat down among them. The third day. Petals falling. Notes slipped from their fastenings. Everything fading into a lost grey distance beyond her vision.
She picked up the nearest piece of paper. A childish scrawl.
It read, ‘We will never forget you.’
But you will, she thought. You all will. Even Lund after a while. Even Theis if he can manage it, placing his boundless, shapeless love in the boys, in Anton and Emil. Hoping their young faces will obliterate Nanna’s memory, supplant it with enough devotion to hide the pain.
Figures flitted quickly past lugging satchels, carrying papers, chatting in low tones.
She watched and listened. In these plain grey corridors her daughter once walked. Still did in a way, in Pernille’s imagination, which made the hurt more keen. Grief should be an absence, a void, not the physical thing she now felt. Nanna was lost to her. Stolen. Till the thief and the deed became clear her death would mark them all, like the tumour of some cruel disease.
They were locked in the present, no way out. She got to her feet, walked up the steps, stumbled, fell.
A hand reached out. She saw a face, dark and kind.
‘Are you all right?’
The teacher, Rama, again.
She took his arm, grabbed the handrail, got to her feet.
They all said that and never wanted the answer.
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I’m not.’
She wondered what Nanna thought of this handsome, intelligent man. Whether she liked him. What they talked about.
‘Did Lisa say anything?’ Rama asked.
‘A little.’
‘If I can—’
‘Help?’
They all said that too. Reached for the same words. Perhaps he meant it. Perhaps it was one more trite sentiment, spoken automatically like a prayer.
Pernille Birk Larsen walked out of the school wondering if Theis was right. She was being stupid. The police were looking. Lund ought to know her job.
The woman from the estate agency gazed up at the scaffolding, the sheeted windows, the piles of material stacked by the door.
‘It’s got to be sold quickly. I want it gone.’
Theis Birk Larsen was in his black jacket, his hat, his rigger boots and red overalls. Work outfit, though work, the thing that seemed so important, now escaped him. The business was in Vagn Skærbæk’s hands. Vagn could do the job. There was no choice.
‘Of course,’ she agreed.
‘I’ll take what I paid. I just want rid of it.’
‘I understand.’
He kicked the scaffolding.
‘The materials are included.’
Children played in the street. Kicked footballs. Laughs and shouts.
He watched them, envious.
‘It’s a lovely house,’ the woman said. ‘Why not waita few months?’
‘No. It has to be now. Is that a problem?’
She hesitated.
‘Not really. You saw the survey?’
She pulled out a sheaf of documents. Birk Larsen hated paper. That was Pernille’s job.
‘The survey shows dry rot.’
He blinked, felt sick and powerless.
‘The insurance must cover that.’
She didn’t look at him, shook her head.
‘No. It doesn’t. Sorry.’
A breeze struck up. The sheets flapped in the wind. Two kids on bikes rode by trailing kites from their hands.
‘But . . .’
She pointed a manicured fingernail at the contract.
‘It says there. No cover for dry rot. I’m sorry.’ A deep and awkward breath. ‘If you sell now you’ll lose a lot of money. In this condition . . .’
He stared at the place, thought of all the lost dreams. The boys in their rooms. Nanna peering out of the top window now covered in black sheeting.
‘Sell the damned thing,’ Theis Birk Larsen said.
Troels Hartmann was on his hands and knees, painting with the toddlers in the kindergarten.
Morten Weber came to crouch beside him.
‘Troels,’ he said. ‘I hate to interrupt your fun but the photographers have left. You’ve other places to go.’
Hartmann drew a childish yellow chicken on the paper, got squeals of delight from the kids around him.
Smiled.
‘Are they fun too, Morten?’
‘They’re necessary.’
Hartmann pointed a finger at the young faces on the floor.
‘These are the voters of tomorrow.’
‘Well, let’s come back tomorrow then. I’m more interested in anyone who’s got a vote today.’
‘They made us a cake.’
Weber frowned.
‘A cake?’
Two minutes later they sat alone at a table away from the teachers and the kids.
‘Try the cake, Morten.’
‘Sorry. Can’t.’
‘The diabetes is a front. You wouldn’t touch it anyway. You’re so self-righteous.’
They were close enough for a crack like that, he thought.
‘What about this reporter?’ Hartmann asked.
‘You mean Erik Salin?’
‘He’s on my tail, Morten. Why? Who is he? How did he know about the car?’
‘He’s a sleazeball looking to make a bit of money. Take it as a compliment. He wouldn’t waste the time if you weren’t in with a chance.’
‘How did he know about the car?’
Weber squirmed.
‘You think someone in the office leaked it, don’t you?’ Weber asked.
‘Do you?’
‘It had crossed my mind. But I can’t imagine who.’
Hartmann pushed away the cake and his plastic cup of orange juice, listened to the kids giggling over their paintings.
‘I’ve every confidence in our team,’ Weber said a touch pompously. ‘All of them. Haven’t you?’
Hartmann was about to answer when his phone rang.
He listened, looked at Weber.
‘We’ve got to go.’
Striding through the long echoing halls, around the central court yard, Hartmann was livid.
‘Where the hell is she?’
‘She’s going to call in a minute.’
Rie Skovgaard met him at the front door, was struggling to keep up as he marched towards their office, Weber following on behind, silent, listening.
‘Eller says Poul Bremer made her a better offer. She’s not taken it yet. She wants to know our reaction.’
‘Our reaction is she can choke on it.’
Skovgaard sighed.
‘This is politics.’
‘No it’s not. It’s a beauty contest. And we’re not playing.’
‘Listen to her. Hear what she has to say. We could compromise on a few things . . .’
She stopped Hartmann outside the office door.
‘Troels. You have to calm down.’
He cast his eyes around the inside of the Rådhus. Sometimes it looked like a jail. A very comfortable prison.
Skovgaard’s phone rang.
‘Hi, Kirsten. Just a second. We’ll be with you soon.’
Call ended, she looked at Hartmann and said, ‘Be polite. Keep cool.’
He was walking already. She lost it. Slapped him on the shoulder, yelled, ‘Hey!’
Her voice was hard and shrill.
‘Shut up and listen to me for once, will you? If we have Eller on our side we win. If we don’t we’re one more tiny minority begging for crumbs at Poul Bremer’s table. Troels . . .’
Leaving again. Her hand gripped his blue lapels, dragged him back into the shadows.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying? You can’t get a majority on your own. You don’t have the support.’ She calmed down a little. ‘Nothing can change that now. It’s a fact.’
Hartmann held out his hand for the phone.
‘Be calm,’ she said and gave it him.
Hartmann called Eller. Small talk, then, ‘I heard about you and Bremer. Well, that’s the way it goes. There’s no point in getting upset about it.’
He closed his eyes and listened. Talk of doors remaining open, offers that weren’t quite final. The insistent, expectant tone never changed.
‘I guess there won’t be an alliance, after all,’ Hartmann said. ‘We should have coffee sometime. Take care. Bye.’
Skovgaard was white with fury. Weber was gone.
‘There. How calm was that?’
The medical examiner was a long-winded man with a tanned face and a white beard. All the way to the morgue he talked about making cider.
‘They’ve got good apples in Sweden. I’ll give you the recipe.’
‘That’s lovely.’
They walked in, both pulled on gloves, and went to the table.
‘This is an unusual case,’ he said, lifting the white sheet.
She looked at Nanna Birk Larsen’s body. Cleaned up now and showing the post-mortem marks.
‘The blood in her hair clotted long before she hit the water. There’s bruising on the arms and legs and down her right side.’
Lund looked. Thought she’d seen enough.
‘Come here,’ he ordered, pointing to the right thigh.
‘We’ve been through this.’
The leg was covered in cuts.
‘Abrasions?’
‘No. Feel her skin.’
Lund did. It felt like skin.
‘There’s redness around the wounds,’ he pointed out. ‘When a body’s been in the water that disappears. But it comes back after a few days.’
Lund shook her head.
‘They’re sores,’ he said. ‘She was kept on a rough surface. Maybe a concrete floor.’
‘The school basement has a concrete floor.’
She touched the lesions. Thought about the hidden room with the bloody mattress and the drugs.
‘How long was she like this?’
‘Fifteen to twenty hours.’
Lund struggled with this information, tried to picture what it meant.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. There was a series of rapes with several hours between them. But no DNA we can find so far. He must have used a condom. There’s nothing under her nails or anywhere else.’
‘Because of the water?’
He nodded.
‘That’s what I thought. But she was in the boot of the car. Look at her hands.’
He lifted up each one.
‘Someone cut her nails.’
He let the hands fall back onto the white sheet. Lund picked up each in turn, took a close look.
‘There are traces of ether in her liver and lungs,’ he said, reading from a report. ‘So she was drugged. Perhaps several times. This was all planned. He knew what he was doing. I wouldn’t . . .’
He paused, as if unsure of himself.
‘This isn’t my field but I wouldn’t be surprised if you found he’d done this before. There’s a . . . method to it.’
Lund took the report from him.
‘Does that help?’
She shrugged.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll send you anything else that comes along. Oh . . .’ He smiled. ‘And that recipe for cider.’
Lund went back to her office. Buchard was arguing with the bald lawyer outside the door. Struggling to keep hold of Oliver Schandorff and Jeppe Hald. The lawyer would be going in front of a judge to get them freed soon. From the look on Buchard’s face the chief didn’t have much hope of winning that particular argument.
&nb
sp; Eller closed the door behind her. Sat down, placed her broad hands on her broad hips and said, ‘That was some trick you played I must say.’
‘No trick, Kirsten.’
‘I hope not.’
He waited.
‘I said no to Bremer. Don’t think that was an easy decision. It’s not a word he likes to hear.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘It wasn’t much of a choice really. We’re natural partners. He’s just . . .’ She smiled. ‘The bastard who pulls all the strings.’
Still he said nothing.
‘I hope you can live up to our expectations,’ Eller added. ‘My neck’s on the line.’
‘Your group . . .?’
‘. . . will do as I say. Now . . . shall we get down to business?’
Five minutes later, around the table in a meeting next to the campaign office, the negotiations began. Policies and appointments. Funding and media strategies. Rie Skovgaard took notes and made suggestions.
Hartmann and Eller cut the deal.
Meyer was back from searching the student flat again.
‘Did you release those kids?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll have to bring them back in.’
Lund scanned through some of the photos on the desk. Nanna’s wounds. The boots.
‘I don’t think they did it,’ she said.
‘I’m sure they did.’
He had a memory card reader with him. Meyer placed it on her desk and plugged the cable into the PC.
‘Take a look at this.’
The computer recognized what it was being given, fired up a window.
Shaky video came on the screen. The Halloween party. Kids in costume. Drinking beer. Screaming. Acting the way kids did when they knew no one was watching.
Lund watched. There was Jeppe Hald, bright, quiet Jeppe, star pupil, head boy. Screaming at the lens, drunk or doped or both.
Lisa Rasmussen in a short tight dress, sashaying, much the same.
‘Where’d you get this?’
‘Jeppe Hald’s room. He recorded it on his mobile phone then saved it on a memory card.’ Meyer looked at her. ‘So he could watch it on his computer.’
Lund nodded.
‘I don’t think he’s as bright as that school says,’ Meyer added.
‘Stop!’
Meyer froze the frame.
Nanna in her black witch’s hat. Nanna alive and breathing. Beautiful, so beautiful. So . . . old.
She didn’t look drunk. She wasn’t screaming. She looked . . . bemused. Like an adult suddenly surrounded by a bunch of infants.