Vertical wrinkles appeared on Bent Krum’s head. Not especially attractive. ‘I’d like to remind you that she already has disappeared. Of her own free will, it should be noted!’
Carl turned to Assad. ‘Did you get that, Assad?’
He raised his pencil in confirmation.
‘Thank you,’ Carl said. ‘That was all.’
They stood up.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Krum said. ‘Got what? What just happened there?’
‘Well, you said the gang had an interest in Kimmie Lassen disappearing.’
‘No, that’s not at all what I said.’
‘Did he not, Assad?’
The little man nodded vigorously. He certainly was loyal.
‘We have all kinds of indications that suggest it was the gang that killed the siblings in Rørvig,’ Carl said. ‘And I’m not just talking about Bjarne Thøgersen. So we’ll probably meet again, Mr Krum. You’ll also be meeting a number of people that maybe you’ve heard of, and maybe not. In any case, they’re all interesting people with good memories. Like Kåre Bruno’s friend, Mannfred Sloth, for example.’
Krum didn’t react.
‘And a teacher at the boarding school by the name of Klavs Jeppesen. Not to mention Kyle Basset, whom I interviewed yesterday in Madrid.’
Now Krum reacted. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, grabbing Carl’s arm.
Carl looked disapprovingly at the hand, and Krum swiftly removed it.
‘Yes, Mr Krum,’ he said. ‘We’re aware that you have a considerable stake in the gang’s well-being. For one thing, you’re the chairman of the board of Caracas, Pram’s private hospital. That alone may be the main reason you can sit here in such gorgeous surroundings.’ He gestured at the pier’s many restaurants and further out across the Sound.
There was no doubt that in a moment Bent Krum would be making a few frantic calls.
But then the gang members would be nicely prepared by the time Carl came to visit. Maybe even tenderized.
Assad and Carl walked into Caracas like a couple of narcissists interested in exploring the place before they got a little fat sucked out here and there. The receptionist stopped them, of course, but Carl pushed determinedly on towards what resembled administrative offices.
‘Where is Ditlev Pram?’ he asked a secretary, when he finally found the sign that read: DITLEV PRAM, CEO.
She already had the phone in her hand to call security when he flashed his police badge and gave her a smile that even Carl’s down-to-earth mother would have found irresistible. ‘Excuse us for barging in, but we have to speak with Ditlev Pram. If you can get him to come here, he’ll be pleased and so will we.’
She didn’t fall for it.
‘Unfortunately he’s out today,’ she said authoritatively. ‘But can I set up an appointment for you? How about the 22nd of October, at 2.15? Does that work for you?’
So it wasn’t Pram they’d be talking to on this trip. A damned shame.
‘Thanks. We’ll call,’ Carl said, pulling Assad with him.
She was going to warn Pram, no doubt about it. She’d already stepped out on to the terrace with her mobile. Sharp secretary.
‘We were sent down here,’ Carl said, pointing towards the prep and recovery ward as they passed the receptionist again.
Watchful eyes followed them, and they returned each glance with a friendly nod.
After they’d passed the surgical wing, they stood a moment and kept an eye out in case Pram showed up. Then they headed past a number of private rooms, from most of which classical music came streaming out, and reached the utility wing where less well-preserved people were wearing less prestigious uniforms.
They nodded at the cooks and finally wound up in the laundry, where a lot of very Asian-looking women seemed utterly terrified to see them.
If Pram found out that he had been down here, Carl ventured to guess that these women would disappear within the hour.
On the trip back Assad was very quiet. Only when they reached Klampenborg did he turn to Carl. ‘Where would you go if you were Kimmie Lassen?’
Carl shrugged. Who could tell? After all, she was pretty unpredictable. Apparently she had truly mastered the art of improvising her way through life. She could be anywhere.
‘We both agree that she would have a great interest in Aalbæk not looking for her any more. I mean, she and the rest of the group weren’t exactly the best of chumps.’
‘Best of chums, Assad. Chums.’
‘The homicide division says that Aalbæk was at something called Damhuskroen Saturday evening. Did I tell you that?’
‘No, but I’ve heard it.’
‘And he left with a woman, yes?’
‘That, I hadn’t heard.’
‘Which means, Carl, if she killed that Aalbæk, they are probably not so happy, the others in the gang.’
That was probably putting it mildly.
‘So there’s a war between them now.’
Carl nodded wearily. The last twenty-four hours were beginning to settle not only into his head, but also his entire nervous system. Suddenly the accelerator seemed impossibly difficult to press down.
‘Don’t you think she would go back to the house where you found the box so she could get hold of the evidence against the others then?’
Carl nodded slowly. That was definitely one possibility. Another was that he pull over and take a nap.
‘Shouldn’t we then drive over there?’ was Assad’s conclusion.
They found the house dark and locked up. Rang the doorbell a few times. Found the telephone number and called. They heard ringing inside, but no one picked up. It seemed rather pointless. In any event Carl couldn’t muster the energy to do anything more about it. For God’s sake, elderly women were allowed to have a life outside their home’s four walls.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Carl said. ‘You drive so I can take a nap.’
Rose was gathering her things when Carl and Assad arrived at headquarters. She wanted to go home, so they wouldn’t be seeing her for another two days. She was tired, having worked hard Friday night, Saturday and part of Sunday. They weren’t getting any more for that nickel.
Carl felt exactly the same way.
‘By the way,’ she said. ‘I got hold of the university in Berne, and they found Kirsten-Marie Lassen’s file.’
So apparently Rose had made it through her entire list, Carl thought.
‘She was a good student, down there in Switzerland. There were no problems, they said. Aside from her losing her boyfriend in a skiing accident, it was a highly successful stay, according to her records.’
‘A skiing accident?’
‘Yeah, it was a little strange, the woman in the office said. The story did get quite a bit of attention. Her boyfriend was a fairly good skier. Not someone who normally skied into an off-piste area with so many crags.’
Carl nodded. Dangerous sport.
He met Mona Ibsen in the police headquarters courtyard. She had an enormous bag slung over her shoulder and gave him a look that said no thanks even before he opened his mouth.
‘I’m seriously considering taking Hardy home to stay with me,’ he said, low-key. ‘But I feel I know too little about how it might affect him psychologically, as well as us at home.’
He looked at her with tired eyes. Evidently that’s what was needed, because when he followed up by asking her out to dinner so they could discuss what consequences such a big decision could have for everyone involved, the answer was positive.
‘Well, I suppose we could,’ she said, giving him one of those smiles that always hit him so hard in the abdomen. ‘I’m hungry now, as it happens.’
Carl was dumbstruck. Didn’t know what to say. He simply looked into her eyes and hoped that his charm would do the trick.
After they’d sat for an hour over their meal, Mona Ibsen gradually began softening up, and his whole being was overcome with such blissful relief and submission that he fell asleep, his head lolling on to
his plate with a thump.
Nicely positioned between the tenderloin and the broccoli.
36
On Monday morning the voices were silent.
Kimmie awoke slowly and looked around her old bedroom, confused and empty-headed. For a moment she thought she was thirteen again and had overslept. How many times had she been thrown out of the house with no other nourishment for the day than her father and Kassandra’s scolding and door-slamming? How many times had she sat in class in Ordrup with a rumbling stomach, dreaming herself far away?
Then she remembered what had happened the day before. How wide-open and dead Kassandra’s eyes had been.
That was when she began humming her old song again.
After she’d dressed, she carried her bundle downstairs, shot a quick glance into the living room at Kassandra’s corpse, and sat in the kitchen, whispering menu suggestions to the little one.
She was sitting like that when the telephone rang.
She raised her shoulders slightly and lifted the receiver hesitantly. ‘Yes?’ she said in an affected, hoarse voice. ‘Kassandra Lassen speaking. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’
She recognized the voice on the first word. It was Ulrik’s.
‘Yes, my apologies, but you are speaking with Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen. Perhaps you remember me?’ he said. ‘We believe that Kimmie is on her way to see you, Mrs Lassen. And if that is the case, we ask that you be careful and be sure to let us know the very moment she steps through the door.’
Kimmie looked out of the kitchen window. If they came from that direction, they wouldn’t see her if she stood behind the door. And the knives in Kassandra’s kitchen were exquisite. Could slice through tough as well as tender meat as though it were air.
‘I believe you should use the utmost caution if you see her, Mrs Lassen. But indulge her. Let her in, and keep her there. Then call us. We’ll come to your rescue.’ He laughed cautiously to make it sound plausible, but Kimmie knew better. No man in the world could help Kassandra Lassen if Kimmie showed up. That had already been proven.
He gave her three mobile numbers Kimmie didn’t know. Ditlev’s, Torsten’s and Ulrik’s.
‘Thank you ever so much for the warning,’ she said, and meant it as she wrote down the numbers. ‘Dare I ask where you are? Would it even be possible for you to get here quickly, if necessary? Wouldn’t it be better if I called the police?’
She could just see Ulrik’s face. Only a major Wall Street crash could make him look more concerned at that moment. The police! A nasty word in such a situation.
‘No, I can’t imagine it would,’ he said. ‘It can take up to an hour for the police to arrive, you know. That’s if they even bother to react. That’s how it is nowadays, Mrs Lassen. It’s not like in the old days.’ He emitted a few mocking sounds designed to convince her of the dubious effectiveness of the police. ‘We aren’t far from you, Mrs Lassen. Today we’re at work, and tomorrow we’ll be up in Ejlstrup at Torsten Florin’s. We’ll be on a hunt near Gribskov Forest, in a grove that belongs to his estate, but we will all have our mobiles on. Call us, no matter when, and we’ll be there ten times faster than the police.’
‘Up in Ejlstrup at Florin’s,’ he’d said. She knew exactly where.
And all three at once. It couldn’t get any better.
So there was no need to rush.
She didn’t hear the front door open, but she heard the woman calling out.
‘Hi, Kassandra, it’s me! Time to get up!’ the voice boomed, making the windowpanes vibrate and Kimmie freeze.
There were four doors in the hall. One led to the kitchen area, one to the loo where Kimmie was now, one to the dining room, and through that to ‘My Room’ – where Kassandra’s stiff body lay – and the fourth door led to the basement.
If the woman valued her life, she would choose any door but the one leading to the dining room and living room.
‘Hi!’ Kimmie called back, yanking up her knickers.
The steps outside the loo came to a halt, and when she opened the door, Kimmie found herself staring into a pair of confused eyes.
She didn’t know the woman. Judging by the blue smock and apron she was busy putting on, she was a home help or housekeeper.
‘Hello. I’m Kirsten-Marie Lassen, Kassandra’s daughter,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Unfortunately, Kassandra is ill. She’s been admitted to the hospital, so we won’t need your services today.’
She grabbed the housekeeper’s hesitant hand.
There was no doubt that the woman had heard Kimmie’s name before. Her handshake was quick and superficial, her eyes watchful. ‘Charlotte Nielsen,’ she replied coldly, peeking over Kimmie’s shoulder towards the dining room.
‘I think my mother will be returning home on Wednesday or Thursday, and I will call you then. In the meantime, I’ll look after the house.’ Kimmie felt the word ‘mother’ burning on her lips. A word she’d never used before for Kassandra, but which seemed necessary now.
‘I can see it’s a little messy here,’ said the maid, casting a glance at Kimmie’s coat draped over the Louis XVI chair in the hall. ‘I believe I’ll do some tidying up, all the same. I was supposed to be here all day, anyway.’
Kimmie blocked the dining-room door. ‘Oh, that’s kind of you, but not today.’ She put a hand on the woman’s shoulder and ushered her towards her coat.
When the woman left she didn’t say goodbye, but her eyebrows were raised.
Better get rid of the old dear, Kimmie said to herself, vacillating between digging a grave in the garden and cutting up the body. If either she or Kassandra had owned a car, she knew a lake in northern Zealand that surely had room for another corpse.
Then she stopped, listened to the voices, and remembered what day it was.
Why go to all that trouble? they asked. Tomorrow is the day when everything comes together.
She was just about to go upstairs when she heard glass shatter in ‘My Room’.
Seconds later she was standing in the living room, matter-of-factly ascertaining that if the housekeeper got her way, she, too, would be lying beside Kassandra in a few seconds with an equally astonished final expression on her face.
The iron bar the woman had smashed the door with whizzed past Kimmie’s head. ‘You killed her, you crazy person! You killed her!’ she screamed over and over, tears welling in her eyes.
How in the world could Kassandra, of all the rotten creatures on the planet, have commanded such devotion in a person? It seemed completely unfathomable.
Kimmie backed her way towards the fireplace and the vases. You want to fight? she thought. Well, you’ve come to the right place.
Violence and volition go hand in hand. Kimmie knew all about that. They were two of life’s elements that she’d mastered to perfection.
She grabbed an art deco brass figurine and weighed it in her hand. Properly thrown, its gracefully poised arms could pinion anything. A human cranium was no match.
So she aimed and threw, and then stared in shock as the woman knocked the statuette aside with the iron bar.
It planted itself deep in the wall and Kimmie retreated backwards to the door, hoping to make a dash upstairs to where her pistol was, safety latch off and ready. That would have to be the fate of this proud fool who was challenging her.
But the woman didn’t follow her. Kimmie could hear crunching steps on the glass shards and moaning, nothing else.
Kimmie slinked back to the living-room door. Peering through the slightly open door, she saw the woman fall to her knees before Kassandra’s lifeless body.
‘What has that monster done?’ the woman whispered. She might even have been crying.
Kimmie frowned. During the entire time they’d carried out violent assaults on people, she’d never seen signs of grief. Horror and shock, yes, but this soft feeling called grief she only knew from herself.
Kimmie pushed the door further open to get a better view, and the woman’s head shot up as it creaked.
The next instant she charged her, the iron bar raised above her head. Kimmie slammed the door. Totally astonished, she ran up the stairs to get her pistol. She was going to put an end to this. Not kill her, just tie her up and neutralize her. No, she wouldn’t shoot her. She simply wouldn’t.
Just as Kimmie was running out of steps, the woman behind her screamed and howled and finally flung the iron bar at Kimmie’s legs, bringing her face down on to the landing.
It took only a second to get her bearings, but it was already too late. The stocky, young woman stood over her with the iron bar pressed against her throat.
‘Kassandra spoke of you often,’ she said. ‘ “My little beast”, she called you. Do you think I was pleased to see you in the hall? That I thought your being here meant anything but trouble?’
She put her hand in the pocket of her smock and pulled out a beaten-up Nokia. ‘There’s a policeman named Carl Mørck. He’s looking for you, did you know that? I have his number right here, saved in my directory. He was so kind as to give me his card. Don’t you think we should give him the opportunity to come and talk to you?’
Kimmie shook her head. Tried to seem shocked. ‘But I’m not to blame for Kassandra’s death. She choked on her port while we were sitting there talking. It was a horrible accident.’
‘Really.’ The woman clearly didn’t believe her. Instead she shoved her foot brutally into Kimmie’s chest and pressed the end of the bar hard against Kimmie’s larynx as she searched for Carl Mørck’s number. She almost impaled Kimmie’s neck.
‘And I bet you did nothing to help her, did you, you slut?’ the woman continued. ‘I’m certain the police would like to hear what you’ve got to say. But don’t think it’ll help you. What you’ve done is written all over your face.’ She snorted. ‘ “Admitted to the hospital,” you said. You should have seen yourself when you said it.’
She found the number and Kimmie kicked, hitting her squarely in the groin. She kicked again, making the wild-eyed woman lose her grip on the bar and hunch forward as though her back had been broken.
Disgrace Page 35