by Lotte Hammer
The Countess looked around as if she hadn’t noticed how tightly they were squeezed in until now, then she smiled.
‘Of course we can. And perhaps we could break for five minutes, I want a cup of coffee and some fruit.’
As is often the case, a five-minute break in Denmark meant just under half an hour. Konrad Simonsen was the last to arrive, a bad habit he had acquired over the years, based on the egotistical, but usually correct, assumption that meetings wouldn’t start until he turned up, and then he was saved the hassle of waiting for others. Malte Borup was sitting on the chief’s usual chair at the end of the conference table, as he was leading the presentation. Nonetheless he started by apologising. Konrad Simonsen seized the opportunity to wrong-foot him. Malte studied computer science at university and had a tendency to blind them with techspeak.
‘Perhaps you could give us the short version, then we can read the long one later on in our own time?’
The student intern accepted the suggestion; after all he had no real choice, as Pauline Berg archly remarked. She was ignored as she usually was when she was rude, and Malte Borup hurried to start.
Frode Otto was born in 1960 in Næstved, where he also grew up. After leaving school he was apprenticed to a blacksmith, and qualified in 1982, the same year he moved to Sydhavnen in Copenhagen. He never had a regular job as a blacksmith, and during the next ten years lived in several different towns in Denmark, including Odense, Køge and Copenhagen. During that time he got involved in various petty criminal activities, swindling, fencing stolen goods, a couple of break-ins, some stolen cars, but apart from the bank robbery in Struer, nothing major as far as the police were aware.
From 1993 to 1995 he was in prison, and in 1997 he was convicted of assault after he carried out a nasty attack in Assens. In 2000 he was employed at Kolleløse Manor, and didn’t appear to have done anything unlawful since then, apart from taking part in a pub brawl in 2005, which resulted in a three months’ suspended sentence. His only known hobby was wrestling, and he had been a member of several wrestling clubs across Denmark, depending on where he lived. In 1987 he reached the final of the Danish championship in his class.
Konrad Simonsen added:
‘I spoke about him to Adam Blixen-Agerskjold and his wife . . .’
Pauline Berg interrupted:
‘His wife is called Lenette, Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold. You spoke to Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold and her husband about Frode Otto.’
The Countess grinned and sided with her.
‘She has a point, Simon.’
Klavs Arnold and Arne Pedersen rolled their eyes at each other. Simonsen flapped his hand as if dismissing a fly, and started over as he slowly and formally stated both names, and pointed out that the sequence had been chosen at random. Then he continued:
‘Frode Otto regularly spends the first weekend in odd months, that is January, March, May and so on, in Copenhagen. Or rather, he says he does. He claims to be visiting his sister. The problem is, he doesn’t have one. He leaves Saturday afternoon or early evening, and returns to the estate approximately twenty-four hours later. It has been going on for as long as Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold and her husband can remember. I would like to know where he goes and what he does, so we’ll watch him the next time he goes visiting his sister . . .’
He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers and carried on:
‘. . . which will be in eight days, if my maths is up to scratch. Who wants to handle that?’
Klavs Arnold thought about it quickly. His Saturday with Pauline Berg had been cancelled, the forester wasn’t free that day after all, so the trip had been postponed to 2 May, the very day Frode Otto was due to drive to Copenhagen. But one was in the morning, and the other towards the evening, so he should be able to do both without any problems. He volunteered, and interjected at the same time:
‘Rapists don’t usually stop at one victim unless they’re caught, so could there have been more?’
‘Good point. You, Countess, look into that. Review all unsolved sexual assault cases from when Otto was eighteen, that is from 1978. Also try to check out his holidays if you can. I have an email from Adam Blixen-Agerskjold listing any foreign trips he remembers Frode Otto taking, but it’s probably incomplete. Pauline, you can assist, if you like.’
‘And what if I don’t?’
‘Then help Arne when he tries to dig up something from Frode Otto’s old cellmates, or Klavs when he checks out any information we might get from the wrestling clubs.’
‘Can’t I get my own area of responsibility?’
‘No! Incidentally that hairband, Countess, did you get anywhere?’
‘Yes, I learned a lot, but nothing useful. It was made in China, imported by Fair Fashion in Ballerup and distributed to thousands of shops across the country. I made a file note, if you’re interested in the details.’
Konrad Simonsen clearly wasn’t; he rounded off the briefing.
‘Frode Otto is obviously our priority right now, if only because we have no other sensible leads. If there is any way we can get him for the rape, we will, of course, but at the same time, it’s worth bearing in mind that he may well have nothing to do with the murder of the African woman. If he did kill her, there are lots of things I can’t currently explain. You probably feel the same, but let’s hang on in there until we know more.’
No one objected to that.
Konrad Simonsen was lying on the sofa at home in Søllerød, relaxing after dinner; the Countess sat in an armchair so close to his head that she could stroke his thinning hair. A book, Femmes en guerre, was resting on her lap. She opened it, but changed her mind and laid it over the armrest, ready to be picked up once she got off her chest something that had been troubling her since the meeting at Police Headquarters. She carefully asked:
‘If Frode Otto has information about our murder inquiry, will you do a deal with him regarding the rape?’
Konrad Simonsen looked genuinely surprised. He sat up.
‘This isn’t America, we don’t do deals, you know that better than anyone.’
‘Except that we do. We’re just more subtle about it. We work a little less hard on one investigation and put our backs into another. Besides, it’s highly unlikely we can get him for the rape of Hannelore Müller. Not without physical evidence. We can’t even be sure that it’s him.’
‘Where are you going with this? Frode Otto might know nothing useful, or he may be the killer; surely it’s way too early to tell. Not to mention doing deals, as you call it.’
‘Stop pretending the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. I know you too well, Simon.’
He mulled it over; she gave him time by flicking through her book. Eventually he said:
‘As a last resort, I’ll go to Germany and talk to the girl. If that doesn’t give me anything, I see nothing wrong in using the rape to pressure him for information, if we can, and if he has any in the first place. Are you satisfied?’
She wasn’t, she merely pretended to be. Then she reached out and poured herself a cup of coffee, opened her book again and started telling him about France.
CHAPTER 21
‘Benedikte!’
Henrik Krag’s jaw dropped when he opened his front door and recognised his visitor. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen smiled tight-lipped and ran her hand through her hair to shake off the raindrops. She said in a business-like tone:
‘We need to talk.’
The flat was small enough for her to take it in quickly. A narrow hallway with a kitchen at one end and a living room at the other; opposite the front door a lavatory and a bedroom. Classic 1970s brutalist social housing where the architecture was secondary to manufacturing neat concrete modules. The living room was furnished with a small dining table right inside the door, and dominated by a sofa and armchair, which faced the television at the other end. A door to the balcony and a panoramic window with a view of the next high-rise block took up half the end wall, and the floppy beige curtains either side o
f the window were in dire need of washing. As was the window.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen entered the living room. A woman her own age was sitting on the sofa, glowering at her. Cheap clothing, rhinestone on one canine, metallic eyeliner and white eyeshadow, peeling nail polish and bleached yellow hair with dark roots.
‘What are you looking at?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen ignored her and turned to Henrik Krag.
‘Perhaps your girlfriend could go for a walk so we can talk in private.’
Without awaiting his response, Benedikte opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony. Grey storm clouds rushed westwards, blowing an occasional gust of wind heavy with fine droplets. She wiped the moisture from her forehead with her sleeve, zipped her jacket up to her neck and shuddered. It was a short, black leather jacket with a diagonal zip and quilted collar, offering little protection against the elements. Shortly afterwards Henrik Krag opened the door for her, his girlfriend had gone.
She went inside and flopped onto an armchair, having first taken off and thrown her jacket over the armrest. Then she took an envelope from her bag, pulled out the printout of the picture from Hanehoved Forest, and placed it on the coffee table between them. Henrik Krag bent over it as though it were poisonous. He said hesitantly:
‘Someone took a picture of you when we carried that stone.’
‘Someone took a picture of us when we carried that stone,’ she corrected him.
‘But how did that happen? And who sent it?’
She explained the situation and answered, to the best of her ability, his subsequent questions. Until he started to repeat himself.
‘I don’t know what we can do. It’s the third time you’ve asked me. And I guess we can’t do much apart from wait for him to call and then we’ll find out what he wants from us.
‘April the twenty-fourth at ten a.m. . . . that’s this Friday?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen nodded.
‘I’ll be at work then.’
‘No, you won’t. You’ll be with me when I take that call.’
Her eyes flashed at him and he gave up protesting. Of course he would be there.
‘What does Jan say?’
‘If you’re referring to Jan Podowski, then he’s not saying anything. He’s dead.’
Henrik Krag was shocked, and Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had to explain all over again. However, he eventually returned to their present dilemma. He pointed to the printout still lying on the coffee table between them.
‘Her death was an accident. We didn’t mean to kill her.’
‘I’m sure she appreciates that.’
‘No, what I’m saying is, it can’t cost us that much. Prison time, I mean.’
He had begun sweating around the bridge of his nose and wiped it off with his sleeve. She shook her head without putting him straight.
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘There’s no need to drag you into it. We can say that you stayed in the car.’
‘And how long do you think you can keep lying to Denmark’s most professional lead interrogators? One hour, two hours, ten hours? But I appreciate the thought. Any chance of some coffee?’
While Henrik Krag made the coffee, Benedikte Lerche-Larsen sniffed around the living room, taking it in. The laptop was an older model, a Dell, at least six years old. However, the television looked new. His furniture was ugly and threadbare, the carpet stained and the cable from the ceiling to the lamp over the dining table was shortened with a loop and held in place with a pen. On the windowsill she spotted the little gold box in which she used to keep coke, but she was done with that crap, at least for now, so he could keep it. Then she checked his DVDs, and discovered they were all Danish. She looked around for books, but found none.
When he brought the coffee, she was back in the armchair. He placed a mug in front of her, she thanked him and declined his offer of milk and sugar before taking off her boots, tucking her legs up under her on the seat and pointing to his DVDs.
‘Do you only watch Danish films?’
His gaze flitted to the shelf as he replied.
‘I prefer them.’
She took a sip of her coffee, screwed up her lips in disgust and said: ‘You can’t read, can you?’ She nodded as she made the statement, and then abandoned the subject.
‘Why don’t you answer your phone? I’ve called you a million times.’
‘My mobile was stolen.’
‘Then buy or steal another, I need to be able to get hold of you.’
At that point her own mobile rang. She took it out of her bag, was about to press Ignore, then saw the name on the display and changed her mind. Bjarne Fabricius wasn’t a man you avoided if he wanted to talk to you. She took the call and asked him to wait a moment, putting her other hand over the mobile.
‘It’s about an appointment I have tomorrow, but I would prefer to discuss it in private.’
This time it was Henrik Krag’s turn to head for the balcony. It was more than ten minutes before she summoned him by tapping on the window. They sat down as before. He picked up the conversation where they had left off without commenting on the interruption and promised he would get himself a new mobile. Only it would have to wait until the end of the month when he got paid. She shook her head in despair. A lock of red hair tumbled over her forehead, which she brushed aside. She found her purse, chucked a business card onto the table, followed by three five-hundred-kroner notes. Henrik Krag protested.
‘That’s way too much, I only need five hundred max.’
‘Then buy yourself some decent coffee as well. Besides, it’s a loan.’
She sounded weary rather than sarcastic, as if her thoughts were elsewhere after the telephone call. He had an eye and an ear for such things – her voice was flatter than before and she was less animated. She glanced at her watch, a gold vintage Cartier. It was after nine and growing dark outside. She reached for her boots.
‘Time for me to go. I have an exam tomorrow that I’d like to pass.’
‘In April? I didn’t think . . .’
‘It’s a resit, I was ill the last time.’
Her voice had suddenly turned sharp. He stood up, flapping around her pointlessly as she put on her boots, and talked nonsense about how seeing her had been nice. She made no reply until her hand was on the front door in order to let herself out, then she said casually:
‘You don’t happen to know a man called Frode Otto, do you?’
He grabbed her shoulder quickly, almost brutally. It was pure reflex in response to the name, there was no thought behind it. Nor when he spun her around and grabbed her again.
‘Don’t go out with him! He’s dangerous, and I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t care . . . just don’t do it. Never, ever.’
Her reaction was surprisingly understated. She placed her free hand on top of his on her arm and let it rest there for a long second, as if warming the lid of a jar with the palm of her hand before untwisting it. Then she removed it, without anger, almost gently, and let him have it back.
He stressed again: she was to stay away from Frode Otto, and it wasn’t up for discussion. With one hand on his chest, she pushed him back into the living room, and they sat down. She massaged her shoulder, but didn’t comment on his grabbing her.
‘If it’ll calm you down, I’ve no idea who Frode Otto is. Except that he appears to have contacted both my parents and . . . tell me, do you know who Bjarne Fabricius is?’
‘Yes, he’s the big boss. He owns your father. And lots of other people, Jan told me. But I’ve never met him.’
‘Count yourself lucky. So this Frode Otto – whoever the hell he is, but perhaps you can explain that to me – would appear to have called and threatened Bjarne as well as my parents, as far as I can work out, which is pretty much the dumbest thing he could have done, but that’s his problem. Unfortunately, it sounds as if Mr Otto knows more than he ought to know, and I gather you can tell me a little about what that is.’
�
��He and Jan were mates, they went way back. They did each other favours.’
‘What kind of favours?’
‘Frode Otto let Jan use his hunting lodge in the off season. I mean, he didn’t own it, but he was the caretaker at the manor house that owned the hunting lodge, and . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘And every other month, by way of payment, Frode got a free . . . well, a free fuck. But there was a problem. Jan himself told me it was messed up. Really badly messed up.’
Henrik ground to a halt again. Benedikte’s voice rose an octave.
‘Messed up how? Do I have to drag every single word out of you?’
Henrik explained.
‘He was rough with the women, often very rough. Usually he only got those we were getting rid of anyway.’
‘What makes him contact us, especially Bjarne Fabricius whom he shouldn’t even know? He says we owe him money, can that be right? And he demands that his visiting arrangement, or whatever we call it, continue.’
‘I know nothing about the money, but I wonder if he fixed the cabin? Jan torched it, you probably remember that. But you need to stay away from him, Benedikte. I’ve seen a video of how he . . . behaves when he’s with the girls. He’s a pervert and he’s dangerous.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen thought about it for a long time. Henrik Krag sat in silence, looking at her quizzically, until she finally reached a conclusion.
‘Frode Otto might be dangerous, but he’s pissing off someone who is even more dangerous, and if he took that photograph of us, we’ll kill him.’
Henrik Krag shook his head firmly.
‘Forget it. I’m not killing anyone.’
‘You already have, that’s why we’re here now.’
CHAPTER 22
‘Bplus.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen smiled as her tutor reviewed her exam, and she shook his hand and thanked him like a schoolgirl. He took her by the elbow with his other hand, and her smile broadened. Everything was as it should be; there was a chance he would be teaching her next term, if her father insisted on her taking more legal modules. Eventually he let go, and she marched off without caring about her two fellow students sitting behind her, waiting to know how they had done.