by Lotte Hammer
‘So the lodge was constructed at another time, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, I bet you it was.’
She laughed, naturally, for the first time in years, it felt like. Then she nudged him with her hip.
‘Wow, we make an awesome team.’
CHAPTER 33
Early in the evening of Saturday, 2 May, Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and Henrik Krag were sitting in a basement in a house on Parkovsvej in Charlottenlund, one of Copenhagen’s most desirable northern suburbs. The room they were in was about twenty square metres and dominated by a bed, which took up roughly half the floor space. Apart from the bed, there was little else in the room except for a wardrobe and a bureau with a small television on top. The room had two doors, one leading to the hallway, the other to a cramped lavatory and bathroom. They were sitting at opposite ends of the bed. Henrik Krag pointed to the bathroom door, and asked a little nervously:
‘Who is he?’
When he had arrived a little earlier, Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had been sitting with a man he didn’t know. The man was in his forties, of small build, with drooping eyelids and an inscrutable expression in his eyes. He wore a suit and black, highly polished shoes, and he didn’t return the greeting when Henrik Krag, rather tentatively, had said hello. Instead he got up and went into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen replied dismissively:
‘Someone you want to forget about.’
‘Is he foreign?’
‘Polish, I think, stop asking questions.’
‘All right, if you say so. What about the girl, where’s she?’
‘No idea. My mother has taken care of it, so I guess she has the night off. Why, does it matter? By the way, do you know if this is one of those places where Jan installed a camera?’
She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper; there was no need to involve the Pole in the bathroom in that discussion. That is if he even spoke enough Danish to understand what she was talking about. Henrik Krag shook his head, not so far as he could recall. He had another look around. There wasn’t much to see. No, he was sure there wasn’t a camera.
‘So we’re not being recorded?’
‘Jan would use clocks or teddy bears, those American nanny cams you can buy online, and there are no clocks or teddy bears here, so we aren’t being filmed.’
The answer seemed to satisfy her, because she asked:
‘Do you miss your motorbike?’
He gave a light shrug, reluctant to show her how upset he was at having had to part with it to raise his share of the money. It was the same when last week they had paid the hundred thousand kroner to the CNN Freedom Project at Købmagergade post office, as their anonymous blackmailer had demanded. She had needled him about his motorbike then. He asked:
‘Has he sent you your first task?’
She forgot all about the motorbike and concentrated on herself. Her face was almost ugly when she sneered:
‘We have to find out who that evil bastard is.’
She looked like she had sucked a lemon.
‘So what do you have to do? You promised to call me when you got your email.’
‘I have to volunteer for a fortnight at some soup kitchen for losers in Stengade on Nørrebro. Volunteer! There’s no volunteering about it.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’
Her eyes flashed and he apologised without meaning to, her reaction was so strong. He thought that their anonymous tormentor must know her well, since he had sentenced her to this particular punishment. He changed the subject.
‘What’s the plan once he gets here?’
‘The plan is that you do as you’re told, and don’t ask stupid questions.’
He heaved a sigh. He knew what such plans involved, but he was the one who had insisted on being here, so he could hardly complain.
They were alerted when Frode Otto’s green Golf parked in front of the basement window and blocked out most of the already sparse light. A car door slammed and two legs walked past. Henrik Krag took out a knuckle-duster and slipped it on his right hand, but had to remove it again when Benedikte Lerche-Larsen hissed at him and made it clear that it was overkill.
Soon afterwards, the estate bailiff marched into the room without knocking, as if he owned the place. When he saw the couple on the bed, he froze, then checked out Benedikte Lerche-Larsen for a few seconds, before addressing Henrik Krag.
‘OK, she’s a fine catch, but I want her for free as well. I don’t care if she normally costs extra, and I don’t want any hassle if there’s a bit of wear and tear afterwards. So get lost. But tell your boss, I’m still waiting for his reply, and my patience is running out.’
He made a bee-line for Benedikte Lerche-Larsen and grabbed her by the arm.
‘Right, doll face, I’ve been looking forward to this.’
Henrik Krag leaped to his feet and punched the man in the shoulder as hard as he could.
‘Get your filthy hands off her, she’s not a tart.’
At first Frode Otto looked stunned, as if his brain couldn’t quite take in what was going on; he didn’t react to the pain from the blow. Then he lunged with surprising speed at Henrik Krag and floored him without much effort, landing on top of the younger man. Henrik Krag felt his elbow being twisted to breaking point in an arm lock, but he could do nothing except hammer a few clumsy and ineffective blows at his opponent’s chest. He screamed, which initially seemed pointless, but then he felt Frode Otto slacken his grip on him and go limp. He leaned back his head. The Pole in the suit was standing silently over him, pointing a pistol with a silencer at Frode Otto’s forehead, smiling faintly. Upstairs, on the ground floor of the house, two voices began a loud row over who had burned the gravy.
Henrik Krag got up and massaged his sore elbow, while the Pole took out a couple of strong, black cable ties from his inside pocket with his free hand. He gave them to Henrik Krag, never once taking his eyes off the man on the floor. Frode Otto scowled up at the barrel of the silencer, but he didn’t move. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen commanded calmly:
‘Put them around his wrists and tighten them, so that his hands are fixed. Tie them in front, and don’t get between him and the pistol. Afterwards find his jacket, it’s probably in the hallway, where you’ll also find his car keys. Bring his jacket in here, then go outside and start the car.’
Henrik Krag obeyed orders and enjoyed tightening the cable ties until Frode Otto winced.
CHAPTER 34
‘Where are we going?’
Henrik Krag had just turned off the Hillerød motorway at the Farum exit and was now continuing left down Slangerupvejen. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen, sitting next to him on the passenger seat, didn’t reply, and he didn’t ask again. He studied the landscape to get his bearings, without it making much difference. They had to be somewhere in Nordsjælland, that was pretty much all he could work out.
When they approached Frederikssund, Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s instructions became more frequent. Right here, next left. They reached a cluster of buildings he thought must be a hospital. He didn’t have time to read the signs, but noticed the Red Cross logo in front of the letters. She told him to drive all the way around the building and down a relatively narrow lane between two houses. He did as he was told, and pulled up in front of an entrance. She pointed to the end of one of the houses. Frode Otto started protesting, straining as hard as he could against his plastic ties with no other effect than inflicting some nasty-looking stripes on his wrists. Henrik Krag and the Pole had to drag him out of the car. A difficult job as the man was kicking and squirming despite the pistol being pointed at him. He screamed at the top of his lungs when they pushed him through the open door of the building. The Pole hit him hard in one kidney, and that made him calm down a bit. Henrik Krag asked Benedikte:
‘What did the sign say?’
‘Crematorium. And he can scream all he likes. There’s no one here at weekends.’
The room they had entered
was light and inviting, furnished with a couple of chairs along one wall. Another was decorated with a black crucifix, neither too big nor too small. A conveyor belt with metal rollers led from the door diagonally across the room up to a hatch to the oven. Next to this a row of buttons was mounted below some dials. There was a beige curtain which could be closed, but wasn’t. On the conveyor belt, as close to the hatch as possible, was a good-quality, glossy white coffin.
Frode Otto started screaming again when he saw the coffin, which seriously annoyed the Pole. He thrust a hand between the estate bailiff’s legs and squeezed his testicles while with his other hand he tapped his ear: quiet, please. It worked. From then on Frode Otto kept his mouth shut. The Pole took out a mobile from his inside pocket, dialled a number and grunted a short, incomprehensible word when the caller answered. Henrik Krag could feel the heat from the oven, even though he was some distance away and the hatch to the fire was closed. He put two and two together and asked, shocked:
‘Are you going to burn him alive? You can’t do that. You just can’t.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen replied angrily.
‘Will you stop asking questions? Just wait and see what happens.’
A few minutes later two men entered the room. One was Bjarne Fabricius, the other a crematorium employee. Bjarne Fabricius greeted Benedikte Lerche-Larsen in a friendly manner and thanked her gallantly for the pleasure of her company the other night. Then he took a seat on one of the chairs alongside the wall. The message was clear: this wasn’t his show, he was only here to watch. Nor did the crematorium employee want to get more involved than absolutely necessary.
He handed a Phillips screwdriver to Benedikte Lerche-Larsen, who immediately passed it on to Henrik Krag, who thanked her, though he had no idea what to do with it. The crematorium guy went up to the oven, pressed a button; the hatch slid up and the heat billowed into the room like a burning wall. Then he pressed another button and the hatch was lowered until it slotted in place with a clunk that echoed heavily between the walls.
‘Red button up, green button down. Don’t touch my settings. It’s at the correct temperature.’
He repeated this in a lecturing voice, then he left. As he passed Frode Otto, he held up his palms to him as if to say, regrettably, these things happen, better luck in your next life, mate.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen commanded Henrik Krag:
‘Give me one of your socks.’
He did as he was told; balancing on his right foot, he twisted off his left trainer and pulled off the sock in one swift movement. He held it out to her, but she had second thoughts and didn’t take it.
‘No, that was stupid, hold it yourself.’ She turned to Frode Otto and said harshly: ‘Open your mouth!’
He obeyed her, ashen-faced and terrified. His viciousness had evaporated, fear had taken over. Henrik Krag scrunched up his sock and stuffed it into Frode Otto’s mouth. Frode Otto snorted, he was struggling to breathe.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen gestured to Henrik Krag to unscrew the coffin lid, then she walked right up to Frode Otto. She stroked his cheek.
‘What a pity, I would have liked to hear you scream, but unfortunately we’re in a hurry.’
The statement was illogical, but no one appeared to notice. She walked the few steps to the coffin and opened it.
‘And who do we have here? Oh dear, you’re nothing but skin and bones, I think it’s about time that you left this earth. Tell me, would you mind some company on your journey?’
She walked back to Frode Otto and informed him cheerfully:
‘Mrs Skin and Bones doesn’t mind. There’s room for two, but what do you say? Can you live with it as well?’
She was the only one who laughed, a short, dry cackle at her own witticism, while she squeezed shut his nostrils with her thumb and forefinger. Frode Otto emitted various strangled sounds. His face grew scarlet, his eyes bulged in their sockets. Finally she released him.
‘Right, then we’re agreed.’ She turned around. ‘Let’s get him inside. Face down, so he can get to know his hostess before he goes to hell.’
Frode Otto wriggled and kicked as best he could, so the Pole and Henrik Krag had to employ maximum force to execute her order. Bjarne Fabricius watched Benedikte Lerche-Larsen as the men struggled with the estate bailiff. When she became aware of his gaze, she smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
After Henrik Krag had screwed the coffin lid back on, he asked, almost pleadingly:
‘Please can I go?’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen shook her head firmly.
‘Roll him along the conveyor belt and count to ten. Then you can take him out.’
The Pole smiled with approval. This was a first, he hadn’t seen this one before.
Frode Otto had grown old from his trip in the coffin. The darkness, the fear, the heat, his close contact with the dead body, had aged him, turning his skin grey. On Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s command, Henrik Krag relieved the man of both his handcuffs and the sock in his mouth. Nevertheless, the terrified estate bailiff kept pressing himself up against the wall, his lips quivering and his eyes wet. He was broken.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen yelled at him:
‘Bloody hell. Did you shit yourself? Fuck me, it stinks.’
She pinched her nostrils as she dived into her handbag and found a small, white plastic jar with a screw lid. She opened it and rubbed some lotion under her nose, then handed it to the Pole, who copied her.
‘Listen, you stupid bastard, these are the rules. If I think you’re lying to me, you’re going straight in the oven, and next time it’ll be for real. If I think you’re not lying, I might let you live. Do you understand?’
Frode Otto nodded. Yes, yes, he understood, no lying. He struggled to utter the words, stammering and cowed, and it was difficult to tell whether he actually understood, or whether he was just saying what she wanted to hear, ready to do whatever she wanted. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen would appear to have her doubts too. She spoke slowly, as if emphasising something very difficult.
‘So this isn’t about whether you lie. It’s about me thinking you might be lying. There’s a difference.’
He assured her that everything he had said was the truth.
‘I haven’t asked you anything yet, you moron.’
He reached beseechingly for her hands, he would tell the truth, for pity’s sake, he would. And then, without prompting, he started talking in a disjointed manner, but not without making some sense.
It was as Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had suspected. Frode Otto had been an old friend of Jan Podowski, whose silence had kept him out of prison, and so Frode Otto had let him have the use of the hunting lodge in return for a free hooker every two months. He had also made sure that a replacement cabin was built when the old one was torched. When Jan Podowski died, Frode Otto had called his friend’s bosses, he couldn’t remember their names, and tried to extort money in return for keeping his mouth shut about the dead girl in the lake. But he would never, ever say anything, she had to believe him, not a word. He was due to be interviewed by the police in Copenhagen the following Monday, but they wouldn’t get anything out of him. Or about that business in Jutland, because they couldn’t prove anything.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen interrupted him sharply.
‘What business in Jutland?’
Well, he had raped a girl, a German, but Jan Podowski hadn’t been involved, he would rather watch the football. Otherwise Frode Otto had restricted his activities to his holidays abroad, six girls in total, but no one suspected him.
It took some time before Benedikte Lerche-Larsen could make head or tail of his story, and initially she didn’t comment on it. She was more interested in other subjects.
‘Did Jan ever talk to you about card games? Some kind of card club?’
He denied it, heart-breaking in his pleas for her to believe him.
‘Does the name Svend mean anything to you?’
Yes, that was the name of Jan Podowski’s
boss.
‘What about Ida?’
No, he didn’t know an Ida. She furrowed her brow. Now think carefully. He pleaded his case again, swore that he didn’t know anyone called Ida. It was clear that he was telling the truth: he didn’t know any Ida, nor was he Ida. She tried Bjarne, yes, he was also his friend’s boss, the ringleader Frode Otto thought, and he would never phone him again, ever.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen thought about it briefly, then she went over to Bjarne Fabricius and spoke to him for a while without the others being able to hear what was said. The conversation ended with Bjarne Fabricius stepping into the centre of the room and taking over. He said in a conversational tone of voice to Frode Otto:
‘This is where we find out if you’re really going in the oven. No, don’t speak, just listen. You see, I’m in two minds; on the one hand, I don’t want you to go home and carry on with your life as if nothing had happened. On the other hand, torching you will probably create more problems than it would solve, so I’ve decided on a middle way.’
He explained his middle way in detail; Frode Otto accepted without protest. Bjarne Fabricius concluded:
‘In that way we’ll know where you are, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that we can’t get at you in prison, because nothing could be easier, even if you choose solitary confinement. It’ll make it a little more difficult, but we’ll get you in the end.’
The estate bailiff nodded. Bjarne Fabricius continued:
‘There’s another option for you, and that’s almost more entertaining. You could try to do a runner, abroad or some village on Bornholm, the opportunities are endless. And it would give you a chance, no doubt about it. Now you don’t look like a man I can discuss percentages and probabilities with, so let’s just say that your chances are small. Sooner or later we’ll sink our executioners’ claws into you again, and then we’ll take a second trip up here. But next time you won’t be screaming when we drag you inside, and do you know why?’
Frode Otto shook his head miserably.
‘Because we’ll start by ripping out your tongue.’