The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  ‘Bloody fight for her, you coward. Don’t just go around feeling sorry for yourself.’

  He didn’t remember even telling her about Benedikte Lerche-Larsen. Maybe he hadn’t, perhaps she had guessed, it was easy to underestimate her.

  ‘How can I fight when she’s not there?’ he said despairingly.

  ‘Is she dead or has she left the country?’

  OK, so it had been a guess. ‘No, Mum, she’s not dead.’ He opened another beer, his fifth, and thought wearily that perhaps it would be better if she were. It would certainly be easier.

  ‘Then if you want her, you’ll have to find her. It’s either that or drink yourself to death like me.’

  His mother laughed, a surprisingly attractive sound, not the kind of laughter you would expect from her. It took a little while before he realised that she was right. He tipped the rest of his beer into a potted plant. She smiled when she saw it, then she drained her glass.

  CHAPTER 59

  After the incident with the dog, the relationship between the Countess and Silje Esper soured. The Countess had no doubt that, given the opportunity, the blind woman would have ordered her dog to kill her had she thought she could gain anything from it. The Countess had to mobilise all her experience in order to carry out subsequent interviews in a professional manner.

  She discussed the case at length with Konrad Simonsen, and decided that she would interview Silje Esper in her house in Karlslille, rather than at the police station, which – in view of the situation – would have been more appropriate. However, the fact that Silje Esper was blind weighed heavily on the decision. It was quite simply easier to interview her in her own home. Furthermore, the Countess wasn’t interested in an official recording, at least not for the time being. There were things she would rather not have on the record. Despite this, the logistics of their conversations, compared to their earlier talks, had changed considerably. The Countess now arrived with two officers. One was a dog handler who together with Silje Esper contained Mads in his van before the Countess even got out of her car, a procedure she adhered to, without fail, despite the blind woman repeatedly assuring her that her dog posed no threat to anyone.

  However, putting the tension to one side, the Countess’s interviews brought results. They came slowly, but they were crucial. The woman’s own life had also been scrutinised under a microscope at headquarters, once it had become clear that she had been lying to the police.

  When the Countess resumed interviewing her, she began with the relationship between Silje Esper and Jan Podowski.

  ‘You have a brain-damaged son, who is cared for at Sankt Eliza Pflegewohnen in Rinteln in Germany. Is he the son of Jan Podowski?’

  Silje Esper nodded; the Countess reminded her of the Dictaphone and asked her to speak up. Yes, that was correct, Frederik was Jan’s son.

  ‘Go on.’

  Silje Esper and Jan Podowski had had a brief affair back in 1986 when she was married and lived in Middelfart. She became pregnant while she and her husband were undergoing fertility tests at Odense University Hospital, tests that concluded her husband’s sperm quality was too poor for him to father children. The marriage had collapsed, she had moved to Copenhagen, where she lived with her son for a number of years in the Vesterbro area. The Countess interjected:

  ‘You didn’t contact Jan Podowski?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Initially because I thought Jan might not be Frederik’s father. But later, there was no doubt, I could tell from looking at Frederik. By then I had grown used to living on my own . . . without a man around, I mean. It wasn’t until later, after the accident, that Jan contacted me. He already knew that he was Frederik’s father, or rather, he had guessed. He told me that he had been keeping an eye on me and Frederik from time to time, without us knowing.’

  In 1996 Silje Esper crashed her car with her son and a friend of his in the back. It happened on Ballerup Boulevard, and she had been mildly intoxicated and speeding. The consequences of the accident were tragic: Silje Esper was blinded, her son severely brain-damaged, and his friend was killed. Jan Podowski had contacted her while she was a patient at Herlev Hospital, worried about his son and . . . Silje Esper smiled a sad smile, which didn’t reach her blind eyes . . . Yes, he was also worried about me.

  On her return to Police Headquarters, the Countess reported back to the others in the Homicide Department.

  ‘They found a residential care home in Germany for Frederik Esper. He reacts to light, sound and pain, but he’s unable to communicate or move in a co-ordinated manner. He can’t recognise anyone, and can only grunt when, for example, he’s in discomfort. He’s strapped to a wheelchair all day, he’s doubly incontinent and is fed through a tube. Sankt Eliza is a very good place for people suffering from such conditions as Frederik’s, but it’s also very expensive. Approximately three thousand Euro a month, of which the Danish state pays about half, but even after that it was much more than Silje Esper could afford.’

  Klavs Arnold voiced everyone’s thoughts:

  ‘But not for Jan Podowski?’

  ‘No, not for Jan Podowski. His work brought him into contact with large sums of money . . . yes, I’m quoting Silje Esper here. When he met her for the second time, if I can put it like that, he was already siphoning off a little extra for himself whenever the opportunity arose, but once he had a family to provide for, he systemised his skimming. Silje Esper claims she doesn’t know the name of his employer, and I believe her. However, she does know how much he stole, and it was a considerable amount, roughly fifty thousand kroner per week.’

  Arne Pedersen whistled.

  ‘And she has no idea what he did for a living?’ Konrad Simonsen asked.

  ‘She had her suspicions. Brothels and illegal gambling, she thought. But she stresses that she’s merely speculating. Apart from a few indiscretions from Jan Podowski over the years, there was nothing concrete. She can’t recall a single episode where he told her anything directly.’

  ‘Is that all? Given how long the two of them lived together, it sounds highly unlikely that she knows absolutely nothing about Jan Podowski’s work.’

  It was the tenth time, at least, the Countess had heard this statement, not to mention all the times she had thought or said it herself. But the fact was that it was the case, whether or not anyone believed it; or at least it was for now. She planned on another trip to Karlslille during the week; there were still loose ends to tie up. And there were two more pieces of information she had yet to tell them, and these might be significant.

  ‘The man Jan Podowski worked for had three cars, one of which one was an Audi R8 and another a white Porsche. It’s not a bad starting point; there can’t be many people in Denmark who own two such cars at the same time. And there’s another interesting fact. Jan Podowski worked regularly on his computer on something he referred to as his pension pot. He didn’t want to tell Silje exactly what it was, but he saved the results on a USB stick, which he kept hidden, she’s sure about that. Only she doesn’t know where.’

  Konrad Simonsen grunted contentedly, the bit about the cars was especially pleasing. He asked Arne Pedersen to follow up that line of enquiry, adding:

  ‘It sounds as if we need another search, do you think Silje Esper will allow it? If not, we’ll need a warrant.’

  The Countess thought she would agree to it, and Konrad Simonsen made a brief note on the pad in front of him. He told them to carry out the search first thing Monday, and for the Countess to lead it. She nodded, then he asked:

  ‘So they came up with the pottery scam? Tell us about it.’

  The Countess began. Jan Podowski and Silje Esper had a big problem: all the money Jan Podowski made was in cash and illegal. It constituted a considerable risk as far as the Revenue was concerned, but more importantly it stopped them from making legitimate savings arrangements so that Frederik Esper could stay where he was for the rest of his life. Before she was blinded, Silje Esper ta
ught pottery at evening classes and other venues, anywhere she could find work. After the accident the couple bought the house in Karlslille, renovated it, and Silje Esper set up pottery production in her studio. Her pottery skills had survived her blinding and many of the items she made were indeed sold, but definitely not at the prices she had told them her fictitious German buyers had paid. The result was, of course, that she – once the taxman had taken his share – was able to build up an apparently legitimate fortune, or rather some savings that could see the light of day.

  The Countess had finished, but Arne Pedersen queried something which, to him, seemed baffling.

  ‘Why did Jan Podowski live a double life? I mean, why did he invent Philip Sander? As far as I can see, he wouldn’t need to do that in order to launder the money.’

  ‘No, not immediately, and perhaps not at all. Silje Esper thinks it was primarily so that he had an escape route, not from the authorities, but from his employer, if he was caught with his hand in the till one day. If that were to happen, he could quietly retire as Philip Sander and enjoy his life in Karlslille. Oh, by the way, there’s one thing I forgot to tell you.’

  Konrad Simonsen, and he was possibly the only one, could tell that she had forgotten nothing, but deliberately left it till the end.

  ‘I’ve promised Silje Esper not to broadcast her German pottery arrangement. There’s no need for the state to know about her son’s money, and I assume you all agree.’

  ‘No, I definitely do not.’

  It was Klavs Arnold speaking; the three others looked at him in surprise. The Countess said slowly, in a hostile tone, without hiding her astonishment:

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Definitely not. Everyone thinks the state is some big monster eating our money, but who do you think pays for the care of all the other traffic accident victims in the same condition as Frederik Esper, who haven’t got the benefit of a private luxury care home?’

  The Countess asked sharply:

  ‘And you’ve never accepted a bit of cash in hand for all those extra jobs you did when you lived in Esbjerg?’

  ‘And what gives you the right to bend the rules whenever it suits you?’ Klavs Arnold retorted.

  It was a minefield. Arne Pedersen got busy looking out of the window; no one should expect him to join in. The Countess and Klavs Arnold sat poised, like two fighting cockerels between rounds. Konrad Simonsen raised his voice and asked in an ominous tone that clearly indicated he would like to see some discipline in the ranks: ‘Did you tell Silje Esper that we would be willing to overlook her fortune if she helped us?’

  The question was naturally addressed to the Countess.

  ‘Not as directly as that, but it was implied.’

  Her reply was fluid, to put it mildly; this could mean anything, something that Klavs Arnold was quick to point out. But he fell quiet and awaited his boss’s verdict. After a period of consideration, which was purely for show, Konrad Simonsen announced:

  ‘We’re not the Revenue, and it’s essential that we can be flexible when we need to be. We’ll forget about the money, Klavs.’

  Klavs Arnold made no reply.

  Konrad Simonsen repeated his statement, while looking straight at the Jutlander. That did the trick. Klavs Arnold echoed irritably:

  ‘We’ll forget about the money, Simon.’

  CHAPTER 60

  The Countess’s theory that few people in Denmark owned both an Audi R8 and a Porsche turned out to be right. There were only two, of whom one was a sausage producer who lived in Herning in Jutland so Jan Podowski could not have worked for him. Besides, his Porsche was light blue. Arne Pedersen informed Konrad Simonsen that the other man lived in Rungsted.

  ‘His name is Svend Lerche, he trained as an engineer, he’s in his early fifties, and is now the CEO and joint owner of something called the Poker Academy.’

  ‘And what does that do? It sounds a bit dodgy.’

  ‘It seems legit. Lerche hires a number of people who play poker online on his behalf. I’ve checked with the Revenue and they say everything is in order. Accounts, employment contracts, it would appear to be a legal business. He has a restraining order against him sought by a member of staff at a tax office, someone he threatened about a year ago; apart from that he’s clean.’

  ‘So no illegal gambling?’

  ‘Poker isn’t gambling, it’s only the legislation that defines it as such. In the long run poker success is about skill and nothing else. Even so Silje Esper might still have thought it was illegal gambling.’

  Konrad Simonsen wanted to know the address; Arne Pedersen walked back to his office, a little annoyed, and found it on his computer. He had been on his way home to start the weekend, and besides, how many people called Svend Lerche could possibly live in Rungsted? Simon could easily have looked it up himself. When Arne came back, he handed his boss the address.

  ‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’

  The Countess, who had just entered her husband’s office, agreed. However, Konrad Simonsen was of the opinion that he could find the time to visit on Sunday morning. It was worth a try. In response to his quizzical look, Arne Pedersen paused. He didn’t have the time, unfortunately, but that was just how it was. He had promised to take his twins to a football tournament, and it would eat up all of his weekend. His boss accepted this; he might send a couple of other officers, he said. The Countess and Arne Pedersen exchanged a quick smile; it was obvious to them that would never happen.

  ‘By the way, as you are here . . .’ the Countess addressed Arne Pedersen ‘. . . it’ll just be you and me and a couple of officers on Monday. I’ve cancelled everyone else. Silje Esper called an hour ago to tell me something interesting she had remembered. Once, when Jan Podowski was working on his pension pot, by which I mean his USB stick, she could smell paint. So perhaps all we have to do is check any paint tins in the shed. That’s a traditional hiding place.’

  CHAPTER 61

  It took Henrik Krag four days to pluck up the courage to follow his mother’s advice to contact Benedikte Lerche-Larsen. He did so on a Saturday, which was dull from the moment dawn broke. The sky merged into a uniform grey mass, the sun was nowhere to be seen. The only mitigating circumstance in the gloom was the mild temperature, and at least there was no wind.

  Henrik Krag studied the house, and looked up again at the windows of Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s first-floor flat. He felt exactly what he was: a stranger, unwelcome. It was nine in the morning, and he had yet to observe any activity. Not even on the ground floor where her parents lived, and where he had often been inside when he was an employee. He had never been upstairs; today would be his first time. First and possibly only time, if she even let him in that is, he thought, and immediately reminded himself that he had nothing to lose. Things between them couldn’t get worse than they already were, and the last nine days had been pure hell. Rather finish it for good, so that he could get on with his life. He had repeated this exchange with himself several times. Even so he hesitated on the pavement where he was standing, clutching his bouquet of flowers.

  He had forgotten that you could smell the Øresund from here. But now he remembered it. Not that it made him feel any better. He braced himself, marched the few steps towards the gate and then came to a standstill. If she had a visitor, it would be even worse; the thought was unbearable. Or if Svend Lerche chased him away. Perhaps he would be better off going home and forgetting all about it.

  He didn’t make up his mind until he saw her curtains part and a middle finger being held up for a few seconds.

  When he reached the house, she had already opened the front door to her flat. He entered carefully, his pulse racing as if he had run a hundred-metre sprint. He found her in the living room, where she waited in silence. A quick look around her flat gave an intimidating impression of class, style and a lot of money. As he had expected. He walked up to her, unable to help himself. It was clumsy: his hand on her upper arm, on her shoulder, then on her back while he
was holding her flowers in the other. She didn’t react, just stood there, putting up with his intimacy without any expression like a statue.

  Tentatively he took a step back and offered her the flowers. She tossed them aside with an indifferent gesture. They landed on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, the cellophane wrapping crackling briefly in protest. She turned slightly, so she was facing him directly, and folded her arms across her chest. Her gaze was blisteringly cold, direct and confrontational, barely restrained anger in her voice, ominous like kettledrums in a symphony. She stressed every word.

  ‘Your touch is disgusting. Besides, I’m tired of your body, I know your muscles inside out, and there’s nothing more to discover about you. I’m done with you for good. Not even your stupidity surprises me any more.’

  The insult hit hard. Henrik Krag’s face reddened. He couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen continued:

  ‘Why did you watch my movie?’

  He bowed his head and flung out his hands. She repeated the question in a higher pitch and added:

  ‘I want to know why, tell me or get out.’

  At least he was honest, but it was hard going. The words came in embarrassed half statements mixed with long, awkward pauses and interspersed with pleading looks at her to understand without him having to elaborate. In vain – she showed no mercy, and he stuttered on, red-faced, stammering and humiliated, until at last she cut him off.

  ‘And what did you think was so wonderful to look at? The bit where I lie on my stomach like a boned chicken, while the camera devours every skinfold, every hair follicle, even the tiniest drop seeping out of me? Oh, yes, I’ve watched it myself, but in contrast to you, the shame nearly made me throw up. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Or so I thought until I found out that you’d been salivating over the performance. That was even worse. So is that the kind of thing you get off on, Henrik?’