Eggers called in the address. “We’re going in,” he told the shift supervisor. “But it looks peaceful enough.”
Janus sighed, opened the car door, and lowered his nice, black, totally inadequate shoes into the muddy slush. “Does anyone even live here?” he asked. The place was all mud, with construction-site trash everywhere, for sale signs in most of the windows.
“At least there’s light,” Eggers growled. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
The street door was open, a bit unusual nowadays. Eggers knocked on the door of one of the ground-floor apartments. After quite a while, a thin dark-haired woman opened the door. She stared at them with an intensity that made Janus uneasy.
“Yes?”
Eggers told her who they were and showed his ID. “We had a report from a passenger on the metro who saw someone fall from a balcony in this area. Have you noticed anything unusual?”
A whimpering came from within the apartment. It sounded like a baby.
“Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door in their faces. Eggers and Janus glanced at each other.
“She looks a little tense,“ Eggers muttered.
Then the door opened again, and this time she held a very small baby in her arms. “Sorry,” she said. “We just got home from the hospital and it’s all a bit new to him.”
The baby made a low murmuring sound, and Janus instinctively smiled. Lord. Such a tiny little human. No wonder his mother wasn’t too pleased about the disturbance. She was looking at the baby, not at them, and even Eggers was thawing out a bit, Janus noticed. There was something to this mother-and-child thing.
“Like I said, we just want to know, have you noticed anything?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It couldn’t have been here.”
“There was a van over here a little bit ago,” Eggers said.
“Yes,” she replied. “It was the plumber. There’s something wrong with the heat, and now we have the baby … we have to get it fixed.”
“Sure, of course. Well. Have a nice evening.”
The woman nodded and closed the door.
“I bet that plumber was after a little undeclared income,” Eggers said.
“Yeah. But it’s not our business right now.”
They walked back to the car. The snow felt even wetter and heavier now. Janus wished he’d at least brought along an extra pair of socks.
Taghi was elated when the police left. It was as if he’d forgotten all about threatening her with a knife a minute ago.
“It was the plumber …” he said, in a strange falsetto mimicing her voice. “Fuck, you were good! They totally swallowed it.”
It took a moment for Nina to answer. “Get out, Taghi,” she said. “Don’t think for one second that I did it for you.”
He came down like a punctured balloon. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little crazy, I think.”
“Just leave. And don’t call me again.” She remembered her cell phone and got him to fish it out of the toilet bowl.
“It doesn’t work anymore,” he said.
“No. But I’m not leaving it for anyone to find.”
All the way across the bridge Chaltu sat with her eyes closed, praying, as if she didn’t dare hope she could make it without divine intervention. Nina let her off at the University Medical Center in Malmø and tried to make it clear to her that she should wait until Nina had left before saying the only three Swedish words she knew. Chaltu nodded.
“Okay, secret doctor,” she said.
Nina looked at her watch. 11:03. With a little luck her mother would already be in bed when she got home.
The snow turned slowly into rain. The gray slush around the building in Ørestaden was melting into the mud. The blood of Torsten Brahge mixed with the rain seeping into the sheetrock, which eventually grew so pulpy that not even Beni in Valby would be able to find a use for it.
SLEIPNER’S ASSIGNMENT
BY GEORG URSIN
Frederiksberg
We are in Frederiksberg, which is a district of Copenhagen.
It is a colorful district, with old streets, quiet residential areas, large parks, a castle, a zoo with wild animals that the cautious fear, and theaters offering dramatic productions. As well as nooks and crannies where the law is trod upon and crushed.
One of these nooks is a lunchroom. It is large, low-ceilinged, and grubby, and patronized by a lively but not always amiable clientele. Sleipner sits at one of its many tables. He sits alone. That’s nothing new. For long periods of time, in fact, he sits there every day, mostly by himself. He is thirty-eight years old, stronger than most but not brutal, and has a heavy face with innocuous features. The articles of clothing he is wearing are wrinkled. The shoes are comfortable to put on and take off, but otherwise they are nothing worth mentioning. His hair is of no specific color and can look a bit greasy. He has almost always been a bachelor.
Over the years he has had a number of occupations and has left them, either because they were not independent enough or because he was asked to get out. Now he is a private detective. Because he cannot afford to rent a place of business, he uses his regular table as an office. Those in his crowd know they can find him there. Because there aren’t many in his crowd who have need of a detective, he also provides other similar services.
Most of the time his facial expression remains unchanged. A sleepy mask, seemingly unable to convey either alertness or boredom. Therefore, and perhaps for other reasons, practically no one seeks him out for the pleasure of his company. When someone approaches him and begins a conversation, it is professional in nature. Once in a while a client sits down across from him and begins to present him with a problem, but his only reaction is an acknowledgment of the greeting, should there be one, with a “Hi” and a serious glance. When the problem has been described, he might ask a few questions, then he keeps his mouth shut while thinking. When he has finished thinking, he offers his assistance and sets a price, which includes an advance. For the most part the amounts of money are small. His crowd seldom can afford more. When they have the means, a rare occurrence, usually they don’t have the desire.
Today he has no clients. He has been served the cheapest item the lunchroom offers. It consists of smoked fried pork with boiled potatoes and parsley gravy. In addition to numerous thin slices of dark, heavy Danish rye bread. Not only is it the cheapest meal on the menu, it also is the only one served ad libitum, all you can eat. Sleipner often takes advantage of this by ordering it in the morning and devouring it for hours, such that it fills him up for the entire day. It has been a few hours since he ordered, and he is about finished. He concludes with a glass of draft beer, very cheap and, as his crowd puts it: fortified with water.
Just as he finishes, a client comes along. It is a man he knows, but not well enough to know his real name. Sleipner knows only that he goes by the nickname of Bruiser.
Bruiser claims to have a problem. Sleipner doesn’t ask what it is about. In the initial stage of the meeting he limits himself to gazing around the room. This maneuver is based on bitter experience. He knows that when someone sits at his table, the many people who have noticed his guest and recognize him can say to themselves and others: “I saw with my own two eyes that he hired Sleipner.” Sleipner also knows that those who have such knowledge can contrive to hold the guest responsible for intentions the guest may not have, and to make Sleipner an accomplice.
But no one seems to take an interest in Bruiser’s visit to Sleipner’s table today. At nearly all of the other tables, men and women are sitting and having a good time together. Many of them are either stocky, corpulent, or obese. They are loud and resolute, and each wears clothes exhibiting very little harmony, especially regarding the choice of colors. Their attention seems to be concentrated more on their own distinctiveness than anything else.
Sleipner relaxes and lets Bruiser continue his confidential account. Bruiser speaks without passion, which after a while Sleipner begins to wonder about, s
ince people with problems usually express their worry. Suddenly he realizes that Bruiser isn’t seeking counsel, he is threatening Sleipner. Someone has stolen something from Bruiser, who now is twisting Sleipner’s arm to retrieve whatever has been stolen.
Sleipner shows no sign of how he doesn’t care for this type of stunt. He keeps his cool and tells himself that it would be stupid to resist because Bruiser would likely be quite dissatisfied, which in Bruiser’s case means vengeful and crude. For the time being, Sleipner nods sympathetically at Bruiser, who explains that the stolen goods are securities that he wants back immediately.
Bruiser doesn’t say that Sleipner has no choice but to help. He doesn’t say that Sleipner must do it for free, either. In fact, he says only that he assumes that Sleipner will take care of this matter for him, and that he will be paid to do so. Sleipner is certain both that the payment will be no more than a trifle and that it would cost dearly to refuse the difficult man across the table from him.
Therefore Sleipner says he will do it, and that all he needs to know is the type of securities and who stole them. Bruiser answers that the thief is Pistol, a nickname by which the crowd knows him because he occasionally carries a pistol, and that the securities are mortgage papers of considerable value. Sleipner is handed a list of the mortgages.
Sleipner sees no reason to continue the conversation. Bruiser concurs and walks off. Sleipner sits for a while afterward and takes stock of the situation. Then he stands and walks over to a neighboring table where a broad is drinking cheap champagne mixed with English porter, which is, according to many, a very agreeable mix when grown accustomed to. He has no intention of sweet-talking the broad. He merely asks her if she knows where Pistol is staying nowadays. The broad says that Pistol is moving in with Rattlesnake. She also tells him where Pistol has been living. Sleipner takes the opportunity to milk her for Bruiser’s real name and where he lives. Finally, Sleipner unleashes a small, grateful smile, something he rarely does because he seldom has reason to, and he leaves.
Sleipner walks to the address where the broad claims that Rattlesnake lives. The building is in a rear courtyard. It is four stories high. Rattlesnake’s name is on the intercom’s resident list, fourth floor. Sleipner refrains from pressing the button, because he will get nothing out of announcing his arrival. He lays a heavy hand on the front door’s handle, and it opens practically by itself. Then he takes the stairs up to the fourth floor, he stops and listens. He hears nothing from inside the apartment and considers walking in without talking to anyone. But he doesn’t like that idea, and more than anything he feels relieved when he suddenly hears there is someone at home after all. He recognizes the voices of both Pistol and Rattlesnake. And goes quietly back down the stairs.
He takes a close look at the building’s façade. It is a strange façade, because it is every bit as impressive as those of many of the buildings out on the district’s streets, and it is hard to see why this type of luxury exists in a rear courtyard. But such is Frederiksberg. The façade has cement angels and gargoyles. In addition, a large area is covered with Virginia creeper.
It is little trouble for Sleipner to clamber up such a façade. Since childhood he has climbed all kinds of places, and here it goes very quickly. He reaches the fourth floor unwinded, plants a foot on a gargoyle, puts his arm around an angel, and takes good hold of the creeper. Then he looks in through a window and sees nothing inside except for a packing box and some papers lying on top. It is obvious that Rattlesnake and Pistol are pulling up stakes and moving to a better place.
Sleipner lets go of the angel, pulls a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket, focuses them on the papers, and tells himself that if he’s not mistaken, and he is sure he is not, these papers are the very mortgages that Bruiser talked about.
Then Rattlesnake appears in the doorway to a neighboring room. Sleipner recognizes her immediately. Her nickname doesn’t originate from any resemblance to a snake, but rather because she is every bit as terrifying as one, which makes her easy to pick out. She grabs the papers and disappears with them.
Shortly after, Rattlesnake steps out in the courtyard. Pistol, carrying the documents, trails her. They walk through the courtyard toward the street and disappear without noticing Sleipner hanging on the façade. He is very pleased that they didn’t see him.
When they are out of sight he makes his way down to the ground. He follows them.
The couple pick up their pace out on the street, chatting gaily as they walk to a bus stop and stand facing traffic, therefore not noticing Sleipner’s arrival. He stands at a distance from them, making sure that he is concealed behind a man as big and broad as a heavyweight boxing champion.
Then the bus comes, and Sleipner hurries to get on before the other two. He walks quickly toward the back of the bus, sits down, and holds a hand in front of his face to avoid being recognized. Rattlesnake and Pistol sit in front of him and begin discussing their next move. He overhears that they plan to sell the mortgages to an economic consultant with whom they have an appointment at three o’clock. Rattlesnake says that she needs to shop for something, and that she will be done before three.
The two get off the bus and walk into a department store. Sleipner rides further, then he gets off and, knowing the address, heads straight for the consultant’s office, where he asks the young lady behind the reception desk if the boss is busy. He is not in and will not be back until a little before three, the lady says. Sleipner asks if he may wait; permission is granted. He sits in the reception area and gazes wearily into the air. The lady walks into a kitchenette. She closes the door and bangs some utensils around. Sleipner gets up, treads heavily to the outer door, opens it, and slams it shut. Then he walks as quietly as possible into the boss’s office, shuts the door softly behind him, and inspects it. There are several articles of furniture and quite a bit of printed material. An enormous velvet curtain hangs in front of a window.
Sleipner sits down in a chair and remains quiet. Twenty minutes later he hears voices in the reception area and therefore assumes that the consultant is back. Sleipner stands, hides behind the curtain, and sits on the windowsill.
The consultant comes in. Soon, Rattlesnake and Pistol join him. They say hello to the consultant and ask how he is doing, and the consultant answers that he is doing fine, and he asks them the same question and they give him the same answer. They all look as if they expect to quickly wrap up a profitable transaction.
The consultant reviews the mortgages and says that it’s good work and he would like to buy them, that it can’t be detected that the mortgages are forgeries. The couple says that it’s because Bruiser did the work.
“He’s really good at that sort of thing,” Pistol says.
The three of them agree on a price for the mortgages. Pistol writes on the documents that they are hereby assigned to the consultant.
The consultant wants to give the sellers a check, but they smile coolly and ask for cash, which they receive. The sellers leave. The consultant walks out, leaving the mortgages behind on the desk. The receptionist closes the outer door as she leaves.
Sleipner gets up off the windowsill, sits on the edge of the desk, and counts the mortgages. There are thirty-two. He slips them under his arm and leaves the office.
That same evening Sleipner sits at his regular table. He is very relaxed, as if he isn’t afraid of anything. He passes the time with some Danish beer. Then Bruiser shows up, sits down across from him, and demands to know how it went, even though Sleipner has had only a short time to complete the assignment. Bruiser enjoys doing this—making people toe the mark, giving them an order and asking them the next day if they’re done yet.
Sleipner says that it went well, that he has the mortgages.
“Hand them over,” Bruiser says.
“First I want my money,” Sleipner says.
“Not a chance,” Bruiser says. “First the mortgages, then the money.”
“You get nothing before I have my money,
” Sleipner says.
Bruiser pauses a moment and thinks. His counterpart’s resolute attitude has given him a sense that something is abnormal about the situation. That Sleipner has some particular basis for being so stubborn, or he has gone insane, which does not make matters easier. Bruiser, therefore, changes his tactics.
“Okay,” he says. “Here’s your money. Go get the mortgages. Right now.” Bruiser removes a thousand-kroner note from his wallet and waves it around a bit, as if it is fish bait.
“Fine, now all I need is forty-nine thousand more.” Sleipner is completely cool.
“What do you mean, another forty-nine thousand kroner?”
Bruiser looks at his table companion with sorrow and amazement, an expression that he uses occasionally as a warning that abuse and harm may follow. Sleipner recognizes this warning and swiftly deflects the danger.
“I’ll explain it all to you,” he says. “I got the mortgages. I found out they were forgeries, and that you’re the one who made them. If I notify the police about it, you’ll do time. But I won’t say anything to the police if you buy them from me. It’ll cost you fifty thousand kroner. You pay now, I deliver later.”
“Wrong,” Bruiser says. “If you tell the police I did the mortgages, I’ll tell them you stole them. Theft is a crime.”
“You’re the one who’s got it wrong,” Sleipner answers. “Theft, according to the penal code, is a crime involving something of value. If the stolen goods have no value, there’s no crime. Since the mortgages are forgeries they’re invalid, and therefore worthless.”
“It’s like this,” Bruiser says. “The police won’t believe you if you tell them I did the forgeries.”
“They’ll figure it out soon enough. They have fingerprint and handwriting experts.”
The decisive words have now been spoken by Sleipner. Bruiser is silent. He resembles a masculine version of the goddess of revenge as he pulls out forty-nine thousand kroner. He slides them and the previously shown thousand-kroner note over to Sleipner, who slips them into his inside pocket and stands up.
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