Dead Men (Marie and Lotte Book 1)

by Mette Glargaard

  He looked at the watch; it was five o’clock and no one would wonder why he would be at work this early so he got up. He put his clothes on, gathered his keys and wallet and almost ran out the door and down to his car. He got in and started the engine with what would have been a roar, had it not been a tiny city car of the cheapest brand. He got it into gear and drove to the station.

  There was more to this woman. He was so sure. This dream was his subconscious telling him, that she was dangerous and that there was more to find out about her. He was gonna find it. Link it together. Piece the puzzle. And then blackmail her. This was the opportunity of his life. He could already see himself on a nice beach, maybe Thailand as he’d said to her, with the white sandy beaches, surrounded by small, brown, sexy women, eager to please him and fulfill his every desire. His cock moved and he pressed his hand against it as if to put it to rest and tell it to be patient.

  Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the station. Normally it took him half an hour, but at this time of day, there was almost no traffic and he could sneak his car through red lights. He greeted the night watch at the reception and went into the office and turned his computer on. Then he went to the kitchen to start the coffee and found out, someone had beaten him to it, it was already made. He rummaged through some of the cabinets and found a few biscuits and chocolate cookies. They would have to do for now. He brought the coffee and his loot to the computer.

  He pulled a database onto his screen; the social case database. This was the one where all social cases regarding youngsters were recorded if the police had something to do with it. He found the woman’s social security number in his papers and typed it in, eager as a boy unwrapping gifts at Christmas. His hand even shook a bit and he held his breath while the computer worked through thousands of cases to match the number against whatever was in there.

  He almost let out a victory shout when the computer returned the result: When she was twelve her mother had been beaten to death by her father and he burned the house to the ground after seeing what he had done. Or so the report said. Peter Hansen saw through it. This was no innocent young girl. She might have witnessed her father beat her mother to a pulp and then decided to get revenge. He was sure, that the sneaky little bitch had set the house on fire.

  A thought popped into his mind. Was she actually serial killer? Were there more cases than the two he knew about? If she was then she’d be a lot more dangerous than he first thought and he would have to proceed with caution. He tried to find out more by googling her name and even though Tofte-Nielsen was an unusual name he found nothing beyond the recent press reports on the death of the second-rate TV star; there was no digital trace of her.

  He sat back in his chair and let out a little satisfied sigh, in his mind this was further proof that she had something to hide. She had never been a member of a sports club, been on a chat forum, joined a social website, done political work for her high school or worked in a company with a website containing names and pictures of employees. Most people leave a digital trace, but the Tofte-Nielsen bitch was non-existent.

  He could tell from her file in the social case system, that she had left the youth home at the age of twenty and had had no contact with the place since. She had reported to the social worker a few times that all was well and the system had let her go, confident that a healthy young girl was sent out into the world. He found the name of her youth home and googled that along with the years where she had been living there and surprise, surprise – or not - there had been a young man, age twenty one, who hanged himself, only six months before she left the place. There was of course, no connection to her, but he knew better. He was sure that she had a finger in this.

  Like a little boy unsure of his own capability, he used his fingers to count years from the time she left the home till she was a widow … the first time. Peter Hansen was sure that, married or not, she had made herself a ‘widow’ several times over the years. He remembered his dream and saw the creature’s face and teeth and shuddered.

  So from the time she became a widow till the death of Verner, was ten to twelve years unaccounted for. He pulled up the unsolved murder case database for those years, covering all of Denmark, since he thought she was too clever to kill twice in the same place. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he went through murders for men age twenty five to sixty five and there weren’t a whole lot of them; most were something that could be related to motorcycle gangs or organized crime from the description of the victims. However, there was one case that caught his eye - a forty-five year old man in Southern Jutland, close to the German border.

  A wealthy man with his own investment company, he was found dead in his home in a truly gruesome manner. His head had been severed from his body, his feet had been cut off … and there were no clues. But as he read the statements from people interviewed regarding the case, it became clear, that this man had had a mysterious mistress, rarely seen in the community. People guessed that he visited her somewhere more often than she visiting him. Some had guesses that he was in a swingers club that turned into a cult and the murder was a ritual. He turned his eyes up and shook his head; people were so naive sometimes.

  Only one neighbour had seen a woman leave his home once. She was described as very beautiful, short blackish hair and with a body language that shined both confidence and arrogance. She got into a car and drove off three months prior to the guy’s death. Hansen got so excited that he almost spilled his coffee all over the keyboard and he had to wipe it with a napkin; he was breathing a little faster and sure that his suspicions were correct: She was indeed a serial killer - a very rich, very sadistic and very clever serial killer.

  But no one had guessed this before. No one knew and so she was all his. He suddenly felt paranoid because he had plans to blackmail her and didn’t want anyone to find that connection. He made a print of every file that had to do with her, sent copies to his own private email address and then deleted the traces on his searches on the police systems. Normally everything that got deleted was registered, but this was old and of minor importance, so was sure no one would bother to look into it.

  Feeling content, he put the cup down and stretched his arms into the air and his legs out under the table and let out a really satisfied sigh. He looked at the clock and it was only seven am. In just half an hour more people would show up, but Hansen needed time to plan. He went back out and in the reception he told the female officer there, that he wasn’t feeling well and that he would take the day of and call tomorrow if needed.

  Then he went home to his urine stinking apartment to plan the rest of his life.

  19

  The phone rang, and I pressed answer; my thoughts elsewhere.

  “Yes?”

  All I could hear was moaning and my first reaction was disgust. I could feel my stomach tighten. Then I realized who it was and I breathed deeply to fill my body with peace and make my voice comforting and reassuring.

  “It’s okay, Lotte. I’m here. Just take it easy. It’s okay.”

  The sobs became higher before turning into tears with whimpers, the sound of a small child in want of its mother.

  She tried to say something, but she was overwhelmed by her emotions and continued to cry. I comforted and reassured, telling her it was okay and that I was there for her. I was surprised by a crushing pain in my chest, and for a moment I thought I was about to have a heart attack. I almost fell to the floor as it dawned on me that it was a reflection of Lotte’s pain that I was feeling.

  I felt an overwhelming urge to hang up, but I breathed deeply and slowly. I’m not a compassionate woman. What was going on? How was it possible for a woman who feels little to no emotion to suddenly feel not just sympathy, but empathy?

  My breathing was shallow, and I felt dizzy. My stomach clenched and, for a moment I was back in that tunnel, with a feeling I hadn’t had in years. I felt such anxiety and I was frig
htened of myself because I suddenly felt as one with Lotte and her pain.

  I took more deep breaths and calmed my nerves as I sought to sever the link between my head and my heart. I asked Lotte where she was and she said she was at home. I told her to wait there, hung up, and hurried out the door. Fifteen minutes later I was at her door and after she let me in she fell into my arms, as if the world had collapsed.

  I checked myself for any emotional reaction; none. I breathed a sigh of relief; I was back to my normal self. No empathy for Lotte; just the quiet sober Marie. I felt safe and comfortable with her.

  Although I embraced Lotte as she cried I hoped her mascara was waterproof so it wouldn’t mark my Gucci blouse; one of my favorite vintage blouses. It was stupid of me to wear it there, but I reminded myself that she was my friend and I was there to comfort her.

  A sudden thought caused my skin to tingle: Lars. He had attacked my friend and so now he had to die. I kept Lotte close to me as I felt a smile form on my face; she would certainly have not understood the emotion behind it.

  After a while of holding Lotte in the hallway while she sobbed, I led her to her couch; the tacky and cheap furniture Lotte seemed to favor so much. Sometimes I adored the differences between Lotte and me, but I will never begin to understand her love of her ugly and tremendously uncomfortable couch and chairs. Lotte had a romantic side I just couldn’t relate to.

  “Tell me. What happened? Just take your time.”

  “It’s just because he’s so stressed out right now. I don’t know how to help him!”

  She began to weep again so I held her hands as I sought to hush her sobs.

  “Are you so sad because Lars is stressed, Lotte?”

  “He hit me!”

  She howled, as if someone is dying. And someone would die soon, that was for sure.

  “What happened?”

  “He gets so angry at the smallest things. I think I bought the wrong food at the supermarket, and it is so important that he gets the right diet, now that he is so stressed.”

  I was tempted to ask why he did not buy his own shit if it was so important to him, but right now it was probably best to keep my mouth shut and just listen.

  “He threw a pack of butter at me. In his anger he grabbed my arm hard and slapped me. The pain is in my arm from how hard he grabbed me.”

  I rolled her sleeve up and felt a wave of dangerous rage flash through me. Her arm was full of bruises, not just today’s. I could see the imprints of fingers in several places: some were blue, some yellow, some almost black. I gasped.

  “Lars did this?”

  She nodded and looked away in shame, attempting to hide her guilt.

  “Why do you seem ashamed, Lotte?”

  “I feel so stupid that I can’t seem to help him. It provokes him sometimes when I am so stupid. I buy the wrong thing, I say the wrong thing; I don’t think I love him in the right way!”

  Again she cried. Tears rippled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She hid her face in her hands, and I pulled her to me, holding her and told her that all would be well again.

  When she had calmed down a bit, I looked her in the eye and told her that it’s not okay to physically take one’s frustrations out on another. When you love someone, you should treat them with huge respect and not hurt them. I could tell she knew I was right, but just like so many women before her, she found it easier to accept the blame than see the truth. Seeing the truth would be tantamount to a choice between love and one’s own integrity.

  Most women learn that the two things cannot exist simultaneously, and that they must choose: Give up your integrity, or remain unloved. Call me a feminist if you like, but I believe that men throughout history have oppressed women, often with God as their strongest argument. A powerful fantasy character determines whether there is anything wrong in being who you are. One cannot blame the men for the role they play, they are victims of the culture they live in, just as women are. But there’s always a choice. And because many men do not act out of love, it is up to me to change things.

  20

  Lotte was reluctant to admit Lars had beaten her. But she eventually told Marie the whole story without holding anything back. She was ashamed she’d been a bad girlfriend to Lars. But she was wrong; his abuse was due to him and not Lotte.

  The shame and humiliation made her body want to curl up like a fetus, and she just wanted to get away and never be found. When examining past relationships she could see that she had misjudged every man she’d been with. It was all so wonderful and fun the first few months; but slowly and almost imperceptibly something happened. Every single time. Lotte had mined her memories to recall what she’d fallen for in the first place and in doing so she could recall no red flags that would alert her to the danger of her new love, nothing to suggest how he would be later on in the relationship.

  When all was said and done there was no one in the world who would understand her as well as Marie so maybe she could help Lotte understand her situation. Although Marie was wealthy and always looked like a million dollars, she’d known her share of men who didn’t exactly have ‘daddy potential’. None wanted children, but it seemed logical that if they treated her kindly they would also be good fathers.

  This time Lotte had been so sure that it would be different, and yet it was so much worse. It seemed unlikely that there could be something wrong with all the men Lotte had met, so was it not more reasonable to assume that the error was hers? She argued with Marie that Lars was busy and stressed and Lotte had not been a supportive enough girlfriend. Marie insisted that Lars should take responsibility for his actions. It was unacceptable to take out his stress on Lotte.

  When all was said and done, she and Marie just couldn’t agree on who was to blame for all the trouble, and Lotte was frustrated with her.

  “I don’t care whose fault it is! Lars is just stressed out and needs to get away and relax, and he will get better and be good again. I know! He’s the sweetest, kindest and most humorous man I’ve ever known.” Lotte nearly hissed.

  She was exhausted from crying and trying to get Marie to understand why it was not Lars’ fault. Lotte gave a yawn and Marie took that as a signal to the end of the conversation.

  “I’d better get going. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you better. I’m not the best at helping those who are sad.”

  Marie flashed Lotte a resigned look and then they gave each other a light hug. When Marie was gone Lotte sat on the couch and thought about Lars, about how he beat her. She had tried to help him but it never seemed to be enough.

  The doorbell rang as she was heading to bed; it was Lars. When Lotte greeted him at the door he noted the teary and swollen face with mascara smeared on her cheeks. His shocked expression quickly changed to an angry dissatisfaction.

  “Lotte! Why do you look like shit?” he said, pushing past her.

  She immediately felt guilty that she didn’t look better. Attempting a smile she looked at him and tried to radiate vitality. She just wanted to snuggle with him and feel loved and secure, but Lotte did wonder if something had happened because of the way he responded to her. She was about to reply but, apparently, it was not fast enough for him.

  “Why aren’t you answering? Aren’t you glad to see me? I come here to surprise you, and then you look like just a little ugly slut who cries because someone has taken her lollipop. How do you expect me to react when I come here and you’re so ugly from crying?”

  “Sorry,” said Lotte quietly and looked away. She felt so thankless. She should have jumped with joy that he’d surprised her like this.

  Her stomach twisted in a knot; a sensation that might have alerted her to something being wrong. Lotte, however, was used to ignoring her instincts and this time was no different.

  “Do you need anything? A beer? Coffee? Tea?” she asked.

  “I want you to be happy to see me!”r />
  “But I am very glad to see you!” Lotte said. “I love you,” she added, but she was worried that it sounded more like an afterthought than a loving affirmation.

  Her body felt tense and her hands were clenched as though she were bracing herself for an impact. She moved closer to Lars and was about to give him a kiss and sit down, but he looked at her with his jet black eyes and a mouth thin as a single stroke of an artist’s brush.

  Suddenly his arm went flying towards Lotte and her first thought was that it was an accident, that his movement was an expression of frustration. But the arm met her with such an impact that she was thrown backwards. Her flailing attempts to grab hold of something to steady her fall were futile and she knocked over a lamp sending it flying through the air. The back of her head hit the base of an Ikea bookcase, but even the particle board proved stronger than the muscles in her neck. Her head was forced forward and her chin hit her collar bone; bone against bone. She let out a dry rattling scream and then all went black.

  21

  Marie was sitting by the bed when Lotte opened her eyes. The smell of disinfectant told her immediately that she was in the hospital. The walls had a sickly pale green color, only adorned by a framed print with blue flowers. For some reason it occurred to her that hospitals were not the primary target group for interior designers; it did not look like a place where patients would get better. If she had to give the wall color a name it would be Active Euthanasia.

  She tried to move, but thousands of needles drilled into her head, neck and hand. She gave a little noise and sank back in bed, framed by the snow-white linen. Marie was close by with an expression of worry on her face. Then Lotte remembered what had happened.

  The memory washed over her like a relentless wave and her stomach contracted in shock and dismay, her hands clenched so tightly that her nails dug sharply into the palms of her hands. She recalled hitting the book case with her head but now felt that her hand was in pain; she couldn’t remember anything happening to it. Perhaps she hit the coffee table as she fell? Maybe the paramedics did something to her hand?