by Lotte Hammer
‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘Your two German suppliers . . .’
Silje interrupted angrily.
‘I mean, which of your colleagues have you been talking to? Wait, what was that noise? Answer me? What was it?’
‘It was me releasing the safety catch on my pistol. If your dog takes even a tiny step towards me, I’ll put three bullets in its head. And don’t think for one moment that I’m working alone, no one in the police does that. All you’ll gain from this is a dead dog and a charge of attempted murder, so if I were you, I would think very, very carefully right now.’
Silje Esper took her advice and reached the right conclusion. Her resigned ‘Sit’ to Mads settled the dog.
‘Get him out of here and close the door.’
‘How did you find out about me? Was it the money?’
‘Partly that, but it was a number of things. Your neighbours didn’t recognise the bust you made of your boyfriend, for example. There are other reasons, but we’ll talk about them later. Now get that dog out of here.’
The blind woman slammed the door after the dog, and leaned wearily against the wall; she closed her eyes, her head turned upwards, theatrically. The Countess ignored it, and said coldly: ‘Give me his name.’
‘Jan, his name was Jan, and he’s dead.’
‘His surname, please!’
‘Podowski. Jan Podowski.’
CHAPTER 54
It was a spring like no other Henrik Krag had ever experienced. Everything was different, beautiful and hideous, wonderful and crazy, out of control like a runaway train, and he had no idea where he would end up. But he was happier than he had ever been. It was because of Benedikte Lerche-Larsen, pretty much everything was because of Benedikte Lerche-Larsen; he thought about her constantly and counted the days or the hours until their next meeting.
There’s always next time, was what she had said that lovely, miserable night they had spent together. Since then the sentence had ballooned in his mind while he gradually pushed his humiliation to the back of it. Next time . . . It didn’t matter so much that his first task was unpleasant. A task that must be got through as quickly as possible, and then forgotten. Next time, next time – better to think about that, and he could shout it out into the wind as loud as he wanted to; no one could hear him now while he drove.
Two days previously, Ida had called Henrik Krag to give him his first task:
Skovbrynet Station at the steps leading to the platform. I repeat Skovbrynet Station. A gang of hooligans hang out there, they bother people. You are to give them a thorough beating so they never show their faces there again. Wednesday or Thursday evening is best. You have one week.
Ida had repeated it, although there was no need, he had already understood. When she interrupted him explaining this, he shrugged. It couldn’t be helped. He had hoped for a task like Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s, her first one obviously, some kind of volunteering or at least something where no one would get hurt. But it was not to be. He had no hope of negotiating with Ida.
He had checked out the place the same evening he got the message, and found it without any difficulties. Skovbrynet Station turned out to be a small station on the Farum line between Bagsværd and Værløse not far from Ring Road 4. The location wasn’t bad, given the nature of his task: far from the nearest houses and well shielded by big concrete pillars, some supporting the railway bridge, others the Hillerød motorway, which crossed close by on an even higher bridge. There were no cameras, except on the platform itself, and in the just under thirty minutes he spent in the area, he counted only sixteen people entering or leaving the station. He didn’t see the yobs Ida had referred to in her message, and he wondered why anyone would choose to hang out in such a deserted spot, yet at the same time he trusted that Ida knew what she was talking about. Before he went home, he memorised the train departures in both directions: 02, 22, 42 towards Farum, 03, 23, 43, going to Copenhagen, which was perfect and made 05, 25 and 45 good times to strike.
*
He had picked a complicated route going through Copenhagen, out via Strandvejen to Klampenborg, and then left through Lyngby and onwards to Ballerup on Ring Road 4. He had hoped it would give him time to adjust to his mission, prepare himself mentally, but it was not to be. He thought about Benedikte most of the journey, as usual. He slowed down his motorbike, slowly turned right at Bagsværd just before the lake, then took the first side road, where he stopped and parked.
He had a good look around and noted to his satisfaction that the road was deserted. He took out the baseball bat from his panniers and balanced it in his hand a few times, sensing the weight distribution and the striking power as though he were in a shop and considering buying. It was quite a few years since he had last used it. He unzipped his biker jacket halfway and stuck the bat inside to the left with the broader end tucked in his trousers and the handle diagonally to the right – in less than a second he could raise it to strike. Then he slipped his knuckle-duster onto his left hand, and walked with a confidence he didn’t feel down the last short stretch to the station. His earlier thought came back to him: it was just a matter of getting it over with, that was all it was, nothing more.
Henrik Krag walked faster while thinking that he would soon be heading back, and that the youngsters deserved what he was about to do to them. They had been bothering people, that was what Ida had said, and she was probably right.
He knew the type, pissed halfwits, high on lighter fuel, morons shouting out after people, probably the elderly. No, not probably, definitely. Henrik Krag couldn’t stand anyone being mean to old people. It made him angry. They should be left alone, not harassed, mocked or pushed about by a gang of noisy thugs. The thugs were about to get a well-deserved kicking as payback for all those old people they had terrified. He tried imagining his grandmother lying helpless in the street, crying, reaching out in vain for her stick. It was difficult, and the image disappeared when the road bent to the right and the station appeared in front of him. He heard laughter – high-pitched, bright girl’s laughter. As he got a little closer, he stopped to take in the scene. Two boys were practising on their skateboards, a girl was sitting watching their efforts on the steps leading to the platform while another boy was sitting astride his moped. He, too, was watching the skateboarders. Four teenagers; Henrik Krag had feared there might be more. Now it was four, only four, and that wasn’t too bad. Even if one of them was a girl. It could have been worse.
The element of surprise was entirely on Henrik Krag’s side, and he made full use of it.
As soon as he was away from the concrete pillar, he pulled out his baseball bat. Five long strides brought him to the young men with the skateboards. He had already picked the bigger as his first opponent. With both hands and as much force as he could produce, he smashed the bat against the boy’s collarbone and heard it snap. Then he lashed out at the boy’s mate, small and weedy with unwashed blond hair and a back-to-front baseball cap. The bat broke the bone in his upper arm, and a well-aimed kick to his testicles floored him.
Another two paces and Henrik Krag was at the side of the stationary moped driver. He pushed him hard against the steps. The moped went over and the handlebars hit the girl’s foot. All four of the teenagers were screaming, but none of them did anything constructive, let alone fight back. He tucked the bat into the back of his trousers. Then he looked at the boys and decided enough was enough. The girl, who was half standing, half sitting against the concrete wall, was screaming hysterically. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her away from her whimpering friends and thought that the worst was yet to come. There was no point in dragging her round, he could just slap her where she was. He pushed her up against the wall and let go of her. She was terrified and sobbing.
‘Please don’t hit me!’
Don’t talk to her, don’t look at her, God dammit, you idiot, just do it. You don’t know her, she could be anyone, it doesn’t matter. She’s the one who pushed your grann
y over.
The girl was blonde with a freckled face, a nose ring and a small, black rune of uncertain origin tattooed on her cheekbone near the hairline. Henrik Krag steeled himself and said:
‘Close your eyes and count to twenty, and nothing will happen to you.’
She did as she was told. Counting out loud, as if to prove that she was obeying him, one, two, three, four . . .
He clenched his hand with the knuckle-duster, but couldn’t go through with it. He satisfied himself by slapping her across the face with his other hand.
CHAPTER 55
On Thursday, 28 May Henrik Krag was given a small present by Benedikte Lerche-Larsen. It wasn’t expensive or particularly imaginative, but she had taken the trouble of wrapping it up – an act he wouldn’t normally associate with her, and for that reason it delighted him even more.
She picked him up from Ishøj Village at the car park behind the community hall where he had agreed to meet her at four o’clock. He got into the passenger seat. She handed him the present with a casual gesture as if it was no big deal and he was just one of many people to whom she gave things. Henrik Krag thanked her, surprised, and unwrapped it. It was a small plastic penguin, barely five centimetres tall, with a red heart on its white tummy and an egg at its feet. He held it up towards the light.
‘That’s really nice. But why did you give it to me?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘It’s nothing. Just a silly penguin. Would you like to drive?’
She was in her father’s Audi and knew that he would jump at the chance. They swapped seats, Henrik by getting out, Benedikte by wriggling across to the passenger seat. As they drove out of the car park, she said gently:
‘I’m glad you’re here, Henrik.’
He didn’t know what to say, not even when a little later she added:
‘Her name is Pandora. The penguin, I mean. I’ve decided that.’
The village faded away in the rear-view mirror. There were now fields on both sides, some scattered farms, otherwise just a vast, green blanket. There wasn’t much traffic, so they had the road to themselves. Then Henrik Krag remembered that he didn’t actually know where they were going. When they had spoken that morning and he had given her the address, she had sounded enthusiastic: she had discovered something in the last few days, and she was excited about telling him, but she hadn’t said what exactly she had found out. It was too complex to explain on the phone, she claimed, so he would have to wait.
He glanced at her. She sat with hands folded and her face turned to the window, apparently oblivious to him, and he thought maybe he should have expressed more appreciation of his penguin.
‘Where are we going, by the way?’
‘To your place.’
That made no sense. In that case, they might as well have met there. But he didn’t say so. Perhaps she had simply wanted to pick him up, he could think of no other explanation.
‘Please tell me what was so important? I’m really excited.’
‘Yes, you are. Tell me, have you completed your first assignment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it tough?’
‘I didn’t think you wanted to know about it.’
‘No, I don’t. But was it?’
He hesitated.
‘Not massively, but it wasn’t nice either. Like you in the soup kitchen, I think you could say.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that kitchen,’ she said haughtily. ‘It helps a lot of people who live a hard life. What about assignment number two, have you got it yet?’
‘No, not yet. Why do you ask? Earlier you were adamant that you didn’t want to know—’
She cut him off abruptly, but in a completely different tone of voice, more optimistic.
‘I know what I said. I was just curious, forget it. Now, listen. I think I might know how to find the printer that printed the picture we were sent. Have you ever heard about the forensic printer-tracking program, also known as the yellow-dot marking technique?’
‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘Me neither, until I went to a lecture last Monday. Does the CIA mean anything to you?’
Their backgrounds and experiences differed widely, he knew that better than anyone, and though he appreciated the way she would explain to him things about which he knew nothing, he was annoyed when she just assumed he was ignorant about subjects when he wasn’t. He tried hard not to snap:
‘Yes, of course. It’s the American intelligence service.’
‘That’s correct, and now listen to this. I’ve been reading about it on the internet all day, and it turns out that we might be able to get a lot of data about the printer used for printing our picture. If we’re very lucky, not just the type and serial number, but also when it was sold and to whom.’
‘That sounds great. How?’
‘What do you think I wanted to talk to you about? It was pure coincidence that I even heard about it. I was at a lecture on international law, where the lecturer – he’s the one I called a nerd in my text message – told us, almost as an aside, how the Americans, that is the CIA, right back in the early 1980s, persuaded the leading laser printer manufacturers to secretly print almost invisible yellow dots on every piece of paper printed. The idea was to make life more difficult for criminals, but that’s what the authorities always say when they want more information about their citizens.
‘The manufacturers took up the suggestion, which is simply to repeat a faint pattern of tiny, yellow dots on every page that comes out of the printer. The dots will then be interpreted in a fifteen-by-eight-inch grid, where the pattern can be translated to the year, month, day, hour and minute that page was printed out, and – this is of most interest to us – the printer’s unique serial number. I know it sounds like a conspiracy theory, but it’s the truth.’
‘It sounds like gobbledygook to me. I understood only half of it. Can you give me the super-short version?’
‘Wait and see when we get back to yours. It’ll be easier to understand then. I’ve bought everything we need.’
‘Which is?’
‘A powerful blue LED torch and a good magnifying glass. I’ve already tried it out and it works, but you have the picture we were sent and that’s where it gets interesting, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve thrown it out?’
She sounded panicky. He reassured her: the picture was back home in his cupboard.
About fifteen minutes later they entered his flat. Henrik Krag left his guest in the hallway and hurried to the living room where he quickly picked up the clothes scattered about the place – socks, shirts, a towel thrown across the television, underwear on the sofa. He chucked everything into the bedroom and carried yesterday’s cups and plates to the kitchen. To begin with he thought she waiting outside to give him a chance to tidy up. But she wasn’t. She called him to her. She had taken out the torch from her handbag, and swept its strong, blue light across the hangers, the small chest of drawers, a pair of worn-out trainers, and everything else he kept in the hall, which she claimed was the easiest room to black out. He didn’t argue with her, and they got to work.
‘The darker the better. Go and get your duvet, we’ll put it along the bottom of the door, and then we need to cover the letterbox opening with newspaper. Do you have any sticky tape? You also need to turn off all the lights in the flat and close the blinds.’
He did as he was told while she continued to issue orders:
‘Fetch the picture.’
He had put it in a plastic folder; she took it out and placed it, almost reverently, on the chest of drawers. It lay there ominously between them. He could tell from her movements that Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s infectious enthusiasm about her project had seeped away; she grew palpably less eager as the moment of truth arrived. She took out a palm-sized, rectangular magnifying glass from her handbag. Henrik Krag was intrigued.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘From a magnifying lamp. I had the good luc
k to find one in a vintage shop in Østerbro. The owner even helped me dismantle it. Right, let’s see if there’s even something to magnify. Turn off the light.’
She switched on the torch and aimed it at the paper.
‘We’re looking for tiny, blue dots, and you need to look outside the image, on the white areas.’
‘I thought you said the dots were yellow.’
‘They are, but not in blue light, then they become blue and that makes them much easier to spot. That’s the reason for the torch. They’re easy to see. They’re everywhere.’
‘Not for me. I can’t see anything.’
She turned on the light and explained:
‘The pattern is repeated like a sheet of stamps, so now we need to isolate and highlight a single area. But it needs to be exact. So we’ll do one each, first you, then me, and afterwards we’ll compare them.’
‘Do what?’
She had come prepared. Yet again she delved into her handbag and handed him a ballpoint pen and a squared A5 pad on which she had drawn a grid of fifteen-by-eight-inch square-lined.
‘Look for seven dots in a column, that’s the dividing line. And it’s always there. Then look either side of it, left and right.’
She pointed, and gave him the magnifying glass.
Henrik Krag turned out to be surprisingly adept at spotting patterns. He finished his grid in less than a minute. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was considerably slower finishing hers, but when they compared them, the results matched.
‘What happens now?’
‘Now you turn on your laptop. I’ve found a program called yellowDotSystem, where we can convert our pattern to a time it was printed and a unique printer number. Apart from the number, we’ll also find the manufacturer of the printer, including the specific model. It’s usually numbers and a couple of letters.’
‘But how do we find the owner? I don’t get that bit.’
‘By using a hacker, and I have a handful of those among my poker players. Why don’t you make us a cup of coffee in the meantime?’