by Lotte Hammer
‘I’m not really sure how much your father has had a look at his hand to check him out – I mean, literally, ha-ha . . . You’ll have to talk to him about that yourself.’
The joke fell flat as she simply ignored it. Jan Podowski continued:
‘Do you think he’ll win?’
He stressed his question with a gesture at the TV screen, which was showing a close-up of the young man deep in thought. His exposure had risen noticeably since Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had left the table. She glanced up indifferently at his face, but was surprisingly precise in her assessment.
‘No, not unless he’s exceptionally lucky. That country boy is too strong, he’ll eat him up at the end. But he might get to second place.’
‘Second place is still good.’
‘Second place makes you a loser, and you’ll have to talk to him alone. He’s been slavering over me for hours, I can’t stand him.’
The waiter came over and Jan Podowski ordered her drink on her behalf. It gave him time to think. Then he got straight to the point.
‘OK, we’ll have a chat with him when he’s done. We’ll give him five grand and set him a couple of the usual web challenges, as well as book him on an online course, which he must pass. If he completes those within a reasonable time – let’s say two months – we’ll keep him on, otherwise we’ll drop him. And I’ll make it clear that you’re not part of the deal. Do you agree?’
She nodded half-heartedly, as if it had nothing to do with her.
‘I guess so.’
The waiter brought her drink, which she immediately sent back; the bartender had forgotten to add ice. The room filled with scattered applause; the country boy had dispatched the third finalist with a gutshot straight. Jan Podowski remembered his earlier decision to praise her and said casually:
‘You played really well, by the way, you’re getting good.’
She turned to him, instantly on guard.
‘If you’re making a crass pitch for my prize money, I intend to keep it all for myself, just so you know. I’ll give you a grand, if you keep your mouth shut to Svend, but that’s it. All you’ve been doing this evening is knock back the booze.’
Her prize money hadn’t even crossed his mind; in fact, he had forgotten all about it, but she was right, the money rightfully belonged to her father, and he would undoubtedly lay claim to it if he ever found out. Not because of the amount, he wouldn’t care less about that, it was the principle that counted. Svend Lerche paid their wages; Podowski had no idea how much Benedikte earned, but she was on the payroll, and so her father was entitled to any profits she generated during working hours.
‘That’s for you to sort out. I won’t say a word, unless he asks me directly. But he can easily find out for himself by checking Casino Hafnia’s homepage tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think so, a regrettable error will occur. My name won’t feature.’
‘Oh, is that what took you so long?’
‘Yes, it took a little time to arrange.’
‘So your trashy girlfriend was just a cover story?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen shrugged. The waiter placed her drink in front of her, this time with ice. He tried a light-hearted remark, she blanked him. Then, without warning, she placed one hand on Jan Podowski’s arm. Her voice grew more intense.
‘Did you see the news yesterday?’
‘Yes, some of it. What did you have in mind?’
‘That Homicide chief, I don’t remember his name, but he has taken over the investigation into . . . well, you know what I mean.’
More than a year had passed since the incident in Hanehoved Forest, and it was the first time she’d referred to it to him.
‘His name is Konrad Simonsen, and he’s a Detective Superintendent in Copenhagen. What about him?’
‘Nothing special. Just . . . well, I don’t like it.’
‘Are you scared?’
She nodded and then said quietly, ‘Yes, I’m scared. Aren’t you?’
‘Nah, not particularly, not any more. I was nervous immediately afterwards, but now I don’t think there’s much to be scared about. However, I do know it’s not a subject we should be discussing here. Not under any circumstances.’
‘No, of course not, you’re right. What about Henrik? Are the two of you in touch?’
‘No, we’re not and we won’t ever be, so stop it, Benedikte. You can drive me to Roskilde after all when we’re done here. We can talk in the car.’
She agreed reluctantly to his suggestion.
They followed the poker game for a while in silence. The final result dragged. The two combatants had a roughly equal number of chips, and it had been like that for a long time. Jan Podowski was bored rigid and Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s mind was elsewhere. He interrupted her thoughts.
‘I’m going outside for a fag.’
She sized him up critically from head to foot as he struggled to his feet.
‘If drinking doesn’t kill you, obesity will . . . unless cancer gets you first. What does your girlfriend say? Has she started looking for a replacement?’
He had seen it before and wasn’t hurt. She had opened up ever so slightly, revealed a tiny bit of herself, and this bitterness invariably followed soon afterwards. She was like that, poor girl.
CHAPTER 11
The Easter weather was showing its best side, but the man who was walking down the residential road in Rungsted that Saturday morning had little interest. His quick steps echoed on the pavement and only an occasional, fleeting glance at the neighbourhood’s road signs revealed that he wasn’t local but had memorised his route from a map.
The regular sound of his footsteps briefly made a postman look up from his letters, and then an angrily barking dog pursued him for as long as its territory extended; apart from that no one took any notice of him. He got the distinct impression that this was an area where people minded their own business and didn’t poke their noses into other people’s affairs, and he concluded matter-of-factly that the residents in this neighbourhood were the decent sort. He himself was a man who preferred to live in the shadows and curiosity made him uncomfortable, even when he was just a visitor. Being too visible meant big problems, if not now, then later. He stamped his boot extra hard to underscore his thoughts; this was his philosophy, and he had stuck to it his whole life. But those who confused his reticent nature with weakness and a lack of resourcefulness were mistaken; Bjarne Fabricius was not someone whose hands would ever tremble under pressure. He was a dangerous man and over the years many people had learned that lesson the hard way.
Less than ten minutes later he reached his destination. He stopped for a moment in front of the garden gate and carefully assessed his surroundings. The detached house lay well back from the road, the red brickwork in good condition under the green, salt-glazed roof tiles; the house was neatly built into a sloping hillside and staggered across three levels. Two panoramic windows faced a white-painted terrace, the garden looked expensive but dull, and in the rendered-brick garage he had just passed were two cars; one a white Porsche, the other a black Audi. The water of the Øresund sparkled behind the house in the sunshine, blue and lazy with its miniature container ships industriously following their courses; from a distance they looked immobile, as if anchored. Beyond them the Swedish coastline lay on the horizon.
He opened the gate and entered. Yellow and white daffodils paraded in even clusters along the garden path up to the front door, and on impulse he bent down and picked one. He sniffed the yellow flower, but realised to his disappointment that it was unscented, and placed it next to the others. He rang the doorbell. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen opened the door; Bjarne Fabricius’s smile was broad and possibly genuine.
‘Benedikte, good to see you. I was hoping you would be in.’
He embraced her before she had the chance to get away. She let her hand glide across his shoulders and concluded that he was fit and healthy, despite being fifty. His muscles were hard and well developed.
Bjarne Fabricius furrowed his brow; coincidences always made him suspicious.
‘An accident – what happened?’
She took him by the arm and led him alongside the house while she told him.
‘Nothing serious, he slipped in the bath and hurt his foot, there was a lot of fuss involving an ambulance. Forget it, it doesn’t matter. By the way, my mother asked me to show you round the house, she’ll be here shortly, but don’t worry, I said no.’
‘Thank you. So tell me, do you like your new home?’
She shrugged.
‘It’s OK, but then Klampenborg was OK too. Let’s sit in the back garden and admire the sea view, or you can have a look at Svend’s orchid collection – it’s his and the gardener’s latest hobby.’ She gestured towards two greenhouses diagonally to their right and added: ‘But I’ll be staying outside, orchids stink, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Bjarne Fabricius mulled it over, then opted for the greenhouses. He took an interest in flowers. She added:
‘If you want anything, I’ll call Jan.’
‘Good old Jan Podowski, so he’s still alive and kicking, eh? Well, the devil doesn’t come for his own while they’re still green. Do you think he could get me a glass of iced tea?’
‘I was rather thinking, while we’re wandering around, a bottle of beer or a soft drink? A glass is too much hassle, you can have iced tea later. I believe my mother is about to organise a spontaneous display of refreshments on the terrace.’
‘Oh, God. In that case, I’ll wait. Incidentally, will Jan be there to review the accounts?’
‘Some of the accounts, and the same goes for the accountant. But neither of them will be present for everything.’
‘As opposed to you?’
‘For the first time, yes. That’s the plan, but who knows if Svend might change it at the last minute? It’s happened before.’
‘Or I might.’
The remark didn’t provoke her. She replied with a smile, ‘Yes, or perhaps you might.’
Bjarne Fabricius thought that it was very difficult not to like her, in stark contrast to her father. When they reached the greenhouses, she let him go ahead and continued on her own. He looked after her, and then called her back.
‘Benedikte, show me those orchids.’
CHAPTER 12
The greenhouse was hot and suffocating, and Bjarne Fabricius realised that his hostess hadn’t exaggerated the unpleasant smell. They wandered slowly down the centre aisle, Bjarne walking ahead as he studied the flowers around him. He stopped in front of an extra-large specimen, hanging from a branch and forming a star with its five pink petals.
‘Do you know anything about orchids?’ he asked the girl.
‘Bugger all.’
He slowly turned his head towards her and said in a chilly voice:
‘I don’t like it when people swear at me.’
Benedikte smiled disarmingly and corrected herself immediately:
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. But no, I know nothing about orchids, except that there are thousands of species, and that those hanging from trees are called epiphytes, I believe. And I also know that if you pick one to put in your hair, Svend will blow his top.’
‘Hmm, in that case I’d better not. Tell me, how are your studies going?’
‘Slowly. I’m in my fourth term, and I should be in my fifth. And I need to sit an exam very soon.’
‘Why are you not in the fifth term? Is it difficult?’
‘Not particularly, but don’t forget, I work almost full-time for you. And then Svend keeps sending me on all sorts of extra courses, which take up time.’
‘I didn’t know that. What kind of courses?’
‘Well, I’m studying business administration and I spend most of my time at Copenhagen Business School, but I guess you already know that. The extra exams my father wants me to pass are a mixed bag, it’s almost as if he’s making it up as he goes along. Accountancy, IT courses – lots of them, he was completely obsessed by them for a while – advanced image- and sound-processing was another one. At the moment I’m doing corporate law at the Faculty of Law, and he has also mentioned that I ought to be able to speak French, but so far he has only talked about it. It’s beyond me how speaking French benefits your business. But perhaps you can give me a sensible explanation, given that Svend won’t – after all, you pay half my wages.’
‘I thought he was only interested in your knowing probability calculation and statistics.’
‘I already know those. That was pretty much all I did in sixth form. He taught me himself, way beyond sixth-form level. It wasn’t much fun, but I admit that it was effective. Besides, those subjects form a core part of my degree.’
‘So you can take over the day he no longer wants to run everything?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen hesitated; she sensed a very slight change in his tone of voice. The question wasn’t nearly as casual as it sounded. She deflected it carefully.
‘I can handle a fair bit, but I’m sure I’ve much to learn.’
‘Such as loyalty.’
If he had hoped to shock her, he was disappointed. She looked him straight in the eye and said with a smile:
‘Yes, that too. But it will be very hard.’
‘How many girls do you and your mother run on the side?’
‘Four, and we’re thinking of expanding to six or seven during the year.’
He couldn’t help but admire her. The reply had come without hesitation and without any hint of fear. He knew very few people could master that art. After all, she was stealing from him as well as her father. He turned and walked a few more steps as he resumed his study of the flowers. He could hear that she followed him and smell her perfume among all the other olfactory traces in the room. Without turning around, he said quietly:
‘Do you know what happens to little girls who get too greedy?’
‘The same thing that happens to big men who obsess about the small stuff. They fall apart.’
He laughed and then discarded all politeness.
‘You were on the cover of Poker Player, mentioned by name and everything. You were all tarted up, so you must have known where the paparazzi would point their cameras. Tell me, what the hell were you thinking?’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It was a mistake. And Svend completely agrees with you. It’s not much fun being yelled at for half an hour. I hope you’re not going to yell at me too.’
He was impressed by the way she managed not to lie, while at the same time giving the impression that her father had reprimanded her. But he hadn’t seen the magazine, not yet, though Bjarne would make sure that happened very soon. He hated publicity, most of all in print, no matter how insignificant the poker magazine was in the overall media scheme of things.
‘No, yelling isn’t my style. That girl they found in the woodland lake, the one who has caused so much commotion, was she one of yours?’
He already knew the answer to that too; he was merely interested in whether she would lie about it. In which case she was more stupid than he had taken her for.
‘It was an accident.’
‘Of course it was an accident. Did you help kill her?’
‘Yes, I did. Do you want the whole story?’
He nodded, and she told him, matter-of-factly and pragmatically, without making excuses. He had turned to face her and was watching her while she spoke. When she had finished, he asked in a neutral tone:
‘And what’s your conclusion?’
She shrugged her shoulders, not sure what he wanted from her. Yet his cold, direct gaze demanded an answer, and she said tentatively, ‘My conclusion is that I’m scared. And that I’m alone. Svend would never lift a finger to help me; my mother is too stupid, even if she wanted to, which incidentally I highly doubt.’
‘And is that all you have learned?’
‘No, I
’ve also learned that poker and women are each a brilliant idea when run separately, but not together, and that much more discretion is needed. We ought to drop the hookers and concentrate on the Poker Academy. There are plenty of customers for that sort of money-laundering operation, if it’s managed efficiently, and ours is. Very useful to you, I would imagine.’
She echoed what he himself had believed for years, but there was no way she could know that. He asked without emotion:
‘What do you know about my other activities?’
‘Absolutely nothing except that they’re extensive and that my parents’ little corner shop is only a small part of your operation. Nor do I want to know anything, I’m not that stupid.’
He abandoned the subject, pleased with her answer.
‘But your father disagrees with your business strategy?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. And he’s in charge, not me. Which is how it’ll stay. Unless you force him, of course.’
Bjarne Fabricius shook his head, slowly but firmly. ‘How could Svend help you with your little accident? That is, if he wanted to.’
Again he had changed the conversation, and again she answered without hesitation:
‘By convincing you to get rid of Henrik and Jan, of course.’
‘Henrik Krag and Jan Podowski?’
He narrowed his eyes and pondered her suggestion only to shoot down the idea.
‘You’re consistent in your train of thought, I grant you that, but no. It could very easily end up backfiring, and we would be facing two problems rather than just the one. Or more accurately – I would be facing two problems, whereas you just have one.’
‘If a killing is linked to us, we might have to shut up shop, or at least be forced to undertake a major restructuring. Surely that’s also your problem?’