I took a deep breath and managed to stay in my role of the distressed heroine, using my memories of all the beatings, humiliations and abuse that so many men had inflicted on me over the years. I trembled like a leaf and sobbed while snot ran from my nose and fell in cool drips from my chin. While I desperately longed for a Kleenex, it dawned on me that my mascara, thank goodness, would be completely smeared by now. In the morning I had ensured that I did not use the waterproof kind; it would be better if it looked like I had not planned to cry that day.
And now, while the truth dawned on neighbors who stood in a closed circle around me as if I was an exhibit in a gallery, I fully accepted that Verner really was dead. He lay on the floor in the living room and was finally finished with physically and mentally terrorizing me or other women. One more down; still more to come.
I was now ready for the next stage in my carefully rehearsed drama. I tore myself away from the neighbor’s embrace and ran to Verner’s lifeless body, while I earnestly shouted his name. I threw myself over his body and made sure my tears and snot thoroughly contaminated the crime scene around his face; not that I thought it was necessary to have so much mess. With loud, despairing and desperate sobs I laid my head against his chest:
“Verner, Verner Verner! Come back! Don’t leave me! I cannot live without you ... Oh, Verner!”
Gently, one of the neighbors tried to pull me away from Verner’s dead body. It was still a bit warm, and smelled more of Verner, than the smell of death and decay that would soon spread. But, as the talented actresses I had closely studied, I fought against them and clutched his body tightly as if he was a lifesaver in a violent storm. Now it was time for a little more of my lines:
“Nooo! Verneeerr!”
So I started again, and the neighbor gave up and let me lie stretched out over the corpse; it was important that everyone saw that I was completely beside myself with grief over his death. Soon the paramedics would come and they would see my despair and desperation; as would the police when they arrived. There had to be no doubt, neither from my behavior or nor my reactions that could arouse suspicion that this was a murder and that I had something to do with it. Who me?
I can’t quite remember what movie I had learned it from, but I lifted his head a little while I was reassuring myself that there were some neighbors close by. With trembling fingers, I gently stroked his face as I sought to create the impression that I was recalling the tender and loving moments. But, in fact, I thought about how he was on that first evening when he had alleged that he often made women cry when he fucked them. He asked if I was ready for the best sex I ever had experienced and said it with a superior and arrogant tone, full of pathetic pride. In my mind, I thought that he it would just be a dick like everyone else; how could his be so very different?
In reality, he cared little about my pleasure and the only thing he wanted was to pump his sperm deep into me, hearing me scream with delight at how very much of a man he was. Then he would be happy and satisfied. Proudly, he told me that he had repeatedly been described as the best lover a woman could ever have. He was such an arrogant fool and he even went so far as to say:
“You ought to be grateful that I even bother to fuck you! There are women standing in line to be fucked by me!” he proclaimed.
Inside, I laughed at him, but even though it may seem perverse and a little sad, suggesting the size of my own ego, I could see myself in him; I was just a less conscious version. I recognized the lust for power, the urge to possess, and yet seem unattainable. To be popular and be able to twist one’s selected target around one’s little finger as easily as anything was something we both longed for; something he truly felt he could do. But I knew that, for me, it was just a completely natural part of my personality.
When I think back, I can easily imagine that some of the women cried after sex with him, but not because of his skills in bed. They howled at the pure relief and gratitude that it was finally over and they could stop faking it.
I let my mind clear and went back into my role. Now I was the truly desperate woman who had lost her perfect man. As the actress now stood up there was no attempt to wipe her face and the tears still flowed. This part of the show was for the benefit of one of the police officers who had now arrived at the scene.
“Name?”
“Marie Tofte-Nielsen.”
“Peter Hansen. I’m a detective from station 1 in Copenhagen. What happened here?”
He brought me a little way away from the body as he nodded, listened and apparently accepted my explanation. However, he seemed short-tempered and suspicious so I regularly broke down in tears and asked for a sip of water and a Kleenex before I was able to continue my explanations.
He was a little round guy with a moon face and if he had been wearing white he would, with his coal-black eyes slightly red nose and pale, almost invisible eyebrows, looked entirely like a snowman. But, in ordinary clothes, he was a type that would easily disappear in the crowd, on a gray rainy day. He had black jeans on that wrinkled in the groin area because his stomach hung over his waistband and pushed then down. He wore a cheap shirt with blue squares and a dark blue polyester sweater that barely covered his fat gut.
His hands were dry and wrinkled, with yellow calluses on his right thumb and index finger, indicating that he used that hand the most. His nails were ragged and the cuticles red and irritated; his sparse hair rose like flying brown cotton candy in the wind. There was dried ‘sleep’ in the corner of his eyes and something that looked like the remains of bread with poppy seeds between his yellow, crooked teeth.
I did not like him, but then I don’t like men in general. In my experience, men mostly primitive creatures that are controlled by the cock that they think with. All their decisions are based on their own selfish desires and they need nothing else. Just like my decisions, but I’m not born that way; they have caused me to become like that.
His appearance suggested that he had already reached the pinnacle in his career. He looked like he did not have much to make him happy in his life, besides trying to prove he was worthy of his rewards because he worked hard. He looked like one of those toys you can knock over again and again, but they always right themselves again. They were called Weebles and I decided to call him that - to myself, of course - while he questioned me about Verner. Meanwhile another policeman spoke with the neighbors.
So the Weeble asked his questions. How long had I known Verner? Had he shown signs of illness before? What time was it when I came to the apartment? He asked what we had done and what we had talked about. As well as possible, I tried to answer all the questions, while I also played the shocked and grief-stricken lover. In reality I wanted to tell the horrible little creature to fuck off and ask his pitiful questions elsewhere. For a moment I wondered if he should be the next, but then I thought about how difficult it would be to beat a policeman to death without getting the whole force on my heels. Quickly, I put the idea aside ... for now.
I told the Weeble that the previous Thursday, when we had last been together, that Verner had seemed confused and exhausted, and complained of chest pain. We had quarreled because we should have been going out to eat with some friends, but he had canceled it and said that he would rather sleep. Before I left I had asked him to go to bed and take his temperature and call the doctor if he had a fever. Then I added:
“But that’s men in a nutshell. On the one hand they think a cold will kill them, but on the other hand, they never call the doctor while they stand with one foot in the grave.”
This was said in between numerous big sniffs and each time I made him wince; this, of course, made me snuffle and snort even more. My comment about the doctor was accompanied by a small teasing smile before I again broke down and took a Kleenex from the box I had made him reluctantly hold. But I had seen another side to this insignificant little policeman, he was someone who seemed to have as little sympathy for his fellow m
an as I did, maybe even less. Whatever I said, he simply replied with um or uh huh. He had certainly not gone into the police because he wanted to take care of others.
At that moment the neighbor’s dog, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Molly, decided to crash the party. With ears dancing in the air she came out of the neighbor’s apartment and peered down the passageway, saw me and flew with joy toward me. When it reached up to me it jumped onto its back legs so its ears swung like propeller and its pink tongue played in the air. I could not stand the dog, but it was now part of my stage set.
In a completely synchronous movement, as if we had agreed in advance, the Weeble and I were squatting down and reaching out to stroke the dog. Our hands came together just above the dog’s neck and our heads shot up. We went from having focused on the dog to make eye contact and recognize a love for dogs in each other’s gaze. God I was good.
There was a further awkward moment while we decided whether, in the situation, we could afford to throw professionalism to the wind and enjoy the dog, or whether we should stand up and be serious. For a moment I forgot what I was doing and smiled and the Weeble got a surprised and questioning look in his eyes, as if he wanted to know if I could really drop my grief so easily just because of a dog.
I stood up, turned away to return to the role of the grieving and helpless woman and sighed deeply, sobbing a few times before I looked down at him. He was busy scratching the dog behind the ear; Molly had obviously got a new friend and was enjoying it fully.
“When I came in today `sniff’ ... he was still sick; he could hardly say anything ...` sniff’ ... and then I said that I would call the doctor ... `sniff’ ... but he said it just felt like a sore throat, and it was probably the flu and would not kill him … `sniff’”.
Again I took a bunch of Kleenex and broke down in tears, forcing the Weeble to wait until I had gathered my composure again. Sniffling had begun to bore me, so finally I blew my nose long and hard and continued:
“I can’t believe he’s gone. We have had our problems in the past, but in recent times it had got better and better. He didn’t drink so much and we spent more time together. We even talked about me moving in here again.
The poison I used had been bought on a holiday a year ago; it’s always good to be prepared. I had a stopover in some banana republic where one could buy a deadly palm extract. The substance could not be detected; at least I hoped not. All the sources I had studied, both where I bought it and on the web – only in public internet cafes - claimed that it could not be detected in the body. Without other possible causes of loss of death than a heart attack, the death would be put down to natural causes and the case closed.
Verner was known to sniff coke, drink too much and always be partying, and the body cannot withstand that in the long run. Many celebrities have died at a young age because of a dangerous lifestyle so it was likely that it could also apply to Verner, even if he was only a failed reality show participant.
I was pleased to hear that there would be meetings in bankruptcy court or with lawyers to deal with his estate. I knew he had a daughter he had not had contact with for several years, and I hoped she would inherit what he had. I certainly did not need Verner’s money.
Weeble finished fussing over the dog and went over to talk to the other detective while the neighbors stood around like a school boy who had not been picked for the football team. They had seemed happier while the policeman spoke with them, giving them a reason to be there. I mumbled something about needing some air and after I had assured the police that I would come back I went along the hallway, down the stairs and out of the building. A cool fresh wind tore at my cheeks and quickly dried the last tears. It was autumn, close to winter; I would have a wonderful Christmas this year. Maybe Santa would give me some more Louboutin shoes if all this was quickly sorted out?
I smiled a little to myself; real women are always happy when they get new shoes. There is something comforting about coming home with a pair of beautiful new shoes, putting them together with all the others or wearing them on for the first time and walking through the crowds, knowing that you look like a millionaire dollars. For me it’s like having a valuable collection of books or art, for me; sometimes I go into my dressing room and just sit and consider the various shapes, styles and colors. This makes it easier to think when I have something to consider like a new target.
Suddenly my daydreams were interrupted and I had to jump back into my role in a hurry. The Weeble had come from behind me without a sound, the creep he was. I’m sure there was a smile on my face; and in his eyes there was a clear glimpse of suspicion while they eyes searched my face.
“We called the doctor who will issue a death certificate. You are free to leave, but I must call you if there are any further questions.”
I nodded and sighed then sought to explain my smile, I told him that I had been far away in happy memories from my time with Verner. He looked at me with a look that probably was supposed to be compassionate, but he was not nearly as good an actor as I was. He might love small dogs, but his eyes were cold. Though he did not seem particularly intelligent I knew that, around Peter Hansen, I had to tread carefully.
5
Peter Hansen was greeted by a colleague when he came in the door and headed towards his desk. Philippe Alandra seemed to want to talk to him, but Hansen tried to avoid his gaze and go around him. However, it was impossible as Alandra reached out an arm and blocked the hallway.
“Was it Verner Damgaard? There have been some Tweets already.”
Hansen was irritated just by the sound of Alandra’s voice. No man should be allowed to look so good, sound like Antonio Banderas and be skilled and well-liked. It was too much! Now Alandra’s muscular and tanned arm in his short-sleeved shirt grabbed Hansen’s shoulder in a collegial gesture, but Hansen shrugged it off. He saw Alandra as a smug idiot, so friendly that he bordered on the sycophantic. One would be unusually naive to always be kind and welcoming, unless it was a facade, but there was not anything to suggest that was the case.
“Yes, he collapsed from a heart attack. According to his girlfriend.”
Peter Hansen took his notepad from his pocket and checked.
“Marie Tofte-Nielsen. I don’t think she’s known for anything, although she seemed like a fake bitch. Could easily have had a hand in it I’m sure.”
“He was so funny! What a loss. I was really pleased to see that show he was in ... what was it called?
“I’ve no idea and I don’t feel bad. That’s entertainment for the brain dead.”
The snipe was lost on Alandra who looked up at the ceiling with a distant expression in his warm hazel eyes. He had fallen into a reverie, and was apparently after information on its internal hard drive.
“I have to write a report. We can talk later.”
Hansen’s voice barely disguised his disgust as he tried to get past, even if it was not so easy because they stood between two desks and Alandra’s hand was back on his shoulder.
“Hello?” tried Hansen with a sharp voice.
Alandra looked at him, his expression still remote. Then it dawned on him that he had been miles away and he released Hansen’s shoulder and patted his own heart.
“Sorry. I am a little affected by his death; he was one of my favorites on TV. To die so young is a shame, but he lived hard. Me and Sigurdsson drove him home from a bar once. He was with three other show people and they had been there for a while. I think they had been drinking and taken something. They were totally wild, but it was fun.”
He smiled at the memory, and revealed a string of well-kept white teeth.
Hansen finally edged past him, thinking he’d love to push Alandra out in front of a truck that could make him less attractive and get him to shut up. Hansen was not a man who was very interested in grammar and spelling, but sometimes he wanted to point out the errors in Alandra’s reports just to ma
ke it clear that the man was not fucking perfect.
When Hansen had almost reached his desk, it was as if Alandra had suddenly thought something and shouted, “Hey!” Hansen pretended he hadn’t heard, sat in his black office chair and pushed his mouse to wake the computer.
“If you need help with anything in this case you just have to ask,” said Alandra. “It would be an honor to help get this sorted out.”
Hansen muttered his thanks, but it was clear that the request would never be made.
At the Christmas party last year two female colleagues, ones which Hansen had previously respected, had sat on Alandra’s lap and giggled girlishly while he pontificated in Spanish; neither understood, but they obviously thought it was charming. Hansen thought it cheap and the two women fell significantly in his esteem. Since when was Spanish gibberish more interesting than a hard-working cop?
Alandra gave up and turned to talk to another colleague on an issue they were working on together and then turned back toward Hansen.
“Oh, by the way. If you go to his funeral, I will be pleased to go with you.”
“I don’t know yet whether I will.”
Peter Hansen looked at his notes to seem busy so Alandra would leave him in peace. He read them through and it all seemed a matter of routine; there was nothing there. Nevertheless, there was just something about Tofte-Nielsen and he knew he wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but his feeling was that her grief had been very carefully rehearsed. He had no evidence for it, but he had looked closely at her face.
Besides the fact that she was a beautiful woman, there was something about her that reminded him of people who had received Botox injections. Their facial expressions were stilted compared to others as if something had congealed or become frozen. Her eyes were not so sad and her mouth not as trembling as he had seen in other people that were grief-stricken. He had seen so many and perhaps that was exactly why his gut feeling was so strong. He just didn’t quite know yet how he should go about doing something about it.
Dead Men (Marie and Lotte Book 1) Page 4