by Lotte Hammer
He shook his head silently. She continued roasting him.
‘Look at me, and don’t stand there like a beaten dog. Does it turn you on, knowing the whole world can look inside me? Answer me!’
Before he had time to say something, she added, her voice saccharine and vicious at the same time:
‘Stroke of luck you turning up today, Henrik. Because tomorrow my boyfriend and I are going to Milan, and we’ll be there for a few weeks or five. We can send you a postcard, a really intimate one, the kind you like.’
Rejected, contemptible, wretched, soiled. Henrik Krag loathed himself, and hoped she would throw him out since he couldn’t leave of his own accord. But then suddenly – it was the last thing he had imagined – her arms were around him.
‘Don’t say anything.’
The request was welcome; he had a lump in his throat, and didn’t know if he even could. They stood like this for a long time, until she broke the silence.
‘I made up the bit about the holiday and the boyfriend.’
Again they stood for a long time. Silently she freed herself, almost. She held onto his forearms.
‘What took you so long, you coward? I’ve missed you so much.’
He told her about his mother; honesty was his best policy. She laughed, but not scornfully.
‘Do I get a kiss? Or do you have to ring your mum first to . . .’
He smothered her words with his lips.
The flowers were picked up and put in water; she poured him juice from a jug on her dining table. She had already put out two glasses; he hadn’t noticed that until now. She smiled, when she saw him wondering about it, and then she asked:
‘Any news from Ida?’
‘Yes, she called the day before yesterday. She was pleased with my first task, and I’ll get my second one on Monday.’
‘How can Ida know how you carried out your first task?’
He took the newspaper page from his inside pocket and unfolded it.
‘It was on the front page of Bagsværd Bladet last Wednesday.’
The headline was Four youngsters brutally attacked at Skovbrynet Station. She skimmed the article.
‘Where did you get the newspaper?’
‘Gladsaxe Library.’
‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
He shook his head. What was the point? Then she looked at her watch. He knew what it meant, but right now he could handle anything, including her not having any more time for him.
‘Are you nervous? About the next task, I mean.’
‘A bit, it’s bound to be worse. But I’m trying not to think about it, and so far that seems to be working. There have been so many other . . . I mean, with you and everything.’
‘Are you allowed to tell me about it?’
‘I haven’t been told yet.’
‘I prefer not to know what it is until it’s over. Possibly not at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m scared, I think. Also because somehow it’s harder when you’re not the one doing it. I mean, if you had been told about my . . . second task, I don’t think I would have been able to go through with it.’
‘That might have been for the best.’
‘If I can do it, so can you.’
She sounded a touch sharp, and he quickly added:
‘I’ll do my bit, you can be sure of that. But does it mean that we can’t see each other until it’s over? It could be a long time.’
It didn’t. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen flicked through her diary.
‘Tonight is absolutely impossible, and I’m on duty today. I simply have to study tomorrow, and Monday and Tuesday are also . . .’
She shook her head in resignation. Henrik Krag asked with interest:
‘What kind of duty?’
‘I promised to do a couple of day shifts at the soup kitchen. It’s not a permanent thing, they’re just really short of people at the moment.’
It was rare for her to blush.
‘Are you surprised? You know I liked it there. I’ve already told you.’
He didn’t reply, instead he said: ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Me too. Why don’t you come back early tomorrow morning, and we can bathe together?’
‘Bathe? You mean in the sea?’
‘No, are you mad? Don’t you have a shower in the morning?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So do I. And perhaps you could pick up some fresh rolls on your way. If you get here early, we could have two or three hours together. That gives us enough time to look for a flat.’
He was speechless; he just stared at her, not sure if he had heard her right. She kissed him briefly.
‘Can you be here at seven?’
He could.
CHAPTER 62
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen received Henrik Krag in a diaphanous negligee of silk and chiffon, under which she was naked, having neglected to put on any underwear. In the living room, as he waved the bakery bag containing the fresh rolls, she posed for him. Just briefly, almost in jest, in profile against the light from the window, and with practised bashfulness: a downcast gaze as if she didn’t dare meet his eyes, her shoulder pulled up so it covered her chin, a protective forearm across her breasts, modest yet coy. Aren’t I beautiful? or Catch me if you can – his choice, both were true. Then she laughed, a touch self-consciously, and he got his kiss, a long kiss, with her soft arms around his neck. She removed his hand.
‘Patience, breakfast first.’
She gestured to the dining table, which was already set. Then she freed herself, took the bag and sat down.
‘OK, I can’t really blame you for staring. My timing is bad. But I have found some flats I want you to look at first. Hold on.’
She got up and disappeared into another room. When she came back, she had put on a dressing gown and was holding her MacBook. Together they looked at flats for sale in Copenhagen, expensive flats. She talked, compared one to the other. The one on Amerika Plads was modern with underfloor heating and two bathrooms, but only had two bedrooms and that was possibly not enough. The flat on Christianshavn, however, now that was on two floors and the terrace was great with a view of the canal; the question was, of course, whether the neighbourhood was a little too lively, she thought one might tire of that eventually. As usual he didn’t know what to say. The all-important question, whether he would be moving with her, he didn’t dare ask. It was not until she commented on a flat with basement storage and said, ‘You could keep your motorbike there in winter,’ that it was clear he hadn’t been mistaken. He asked cautiously:
‘You mean I’m moving in with you? That we’ll be living together?’
‘Yes.’
No more than that, yes, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was utterly overwhelming. And insane. He had a thousand questions and didn’t manage to ask a single one of them.
It was a wonderful breakfast and, for a time, he completely forgot their promised shower. Slowly he began to comment on the flats, and they discussed them amicably for a little while. At length they agreed on two, and he promised to go home, look them up on his computer and think about them. Later they would view them. She said:
‘I’ll send you the addresses, so all you have to do is click on the link.’
The implication: so he wouldn’t have to try spelling them. He thanked her, it was nice of her.
‘When do you think we’ll be moving?’
‘Soon, four weeks max, preferably sooner. When you have completed your last task, and we can put all that crap behind us, hopefully. I also need to sort out a few things with my father. But soon. What do you think?’
He said that as far as he was concerned they could move in tomorrow. And that he couldn’t understand why she wanted to live with him. The truth was he was scared that she might be having him on. She grabbed his hand across the table.
‘You don’t have to worry on that account, Henrik. I don’t. Now let’s go and have that shower.’
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She was controlled in her passion, and at no point during their lovemaking did she let go completely. Most of the time she kept her arms around his neck as though she would fall into a void if she didn’t. She moaned into his ear, short gasps, which she bit in half so they would not take control of her. When they happened to turn so that the spray from the shower hit her face directly, she pulled away. Afterwards they soaped each other, gently and slowly. When the shower was over, she took out a couple of towels from a cupboard. She smiled, trailed her fingers across his face, patted his cheek. Then suddenly she stopped, listened and opened the big bathroom window, which until then had only been ajar. They both looked down. The French doors into her parents’ flat were now open.
She was patient with him, caressing him, and using her mouth. When he was ready again, she turned around, rested her forearms on the windowsill, thrust her groin backwards and pushed him into her. In contrast to earlier, this time her groaning was uninhibited, as loud as she could manage, like a tennis player on overtime. Then suddenly she stopped and pulled away from him. He heard the garden gate.
‘Shit!’
‘What is it, Benedikte?’
‘We have visitors, that’s what it is.’
Henrik Krag stood next to her, leaned forwards and looked out.
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
‘But?’
‘But one is a Homicide chief from Copenhagen.’
CHAPTER 63
The Countess accompanied Konrad Simonsen to Rungsted on Sunday morning. It was a short drive from their home in Søllerød and besides, the more she thought about Svend Lerche, the more he intrigued her. A company that hired poker players to play online? Now it could be entirely legitimate, of course, but there were lots of reasons why it might not be. You didn’t have to be a financial crime expert to suspect that.
She parked her car behind a motorbike, a Harley-Davidson, an impressive piece of engineering. Looking at the clock on the dashboard, she said:
‘A quarter to ten on a Sunday morning, it’s a bit early, isn’t it?’
Konrad Simonsen, who was in the passenger seat, struggling with his seatbelt, grinned.
‘For a routine question that could easily be dealt with by a phone call tomorrow, it’s completely unreasonable.’
They got out of the car without commenting further on the situation. Though they had both been with the police for more years than they cared to remember, they still from time to time derived quiet satisfaction from showing the wealthy, the elite, the successful, that despite their powerful connections or their riches, they had to defer to a police badge and the name of the Homicide Department. It was good to live in a country where everyone was equal before the law, and it did those who lived on the sunny side of society no harm to be reminded that ultimately they occupied the same world as everyone else. There were limits to this harassment, but they lay well beyond being woken up a little early on a Sunday morning.
They stopped in front of the gate and took time to study the house. The Countess commented like an estate agent: ‘Between twenty to twenty-five million kroner, even after the collapse of the property market. If it was mortgaged to the hilt a couple of years ago, I’m sure the collapse would make Svend Lerche technically insolvent.’
Konrad Simonsen didn’t comment, but asked:
‘What’s that noise . . . it sounds like someone . . .?’
He chuckled softly; the Countess listened too and shared in the joke.
‘Someone’s clearly awake by the sound of it. Shall we?’
She pointed to the gate, and they entered. The noise stopped when they had walked a few steps up the garden path.
Konrad Simonsen had his warrant card ready when Svend Lerche opened the door. He held it up and snapped it shut immediately.
‘Are you Svend Lerche?’ the Countess asked.
‘I am, yes. What’s this about?’
The man’s face was inscrutable, neither relaxed nor nervous, but something else again, something the officers rarely experienced. With that absence of expression and body language, it became clear after only five seconds – he was a true poker player. Konrad Simonsen said:
‘We would like to talk to you, would you mind letting us in?’
Svend Lerche’s reply came half a second too late to be a casual response.
‘Why don’t we sit outside on the terrace. After all, it’s such a lovely day.’
It was obvious to the two officers that the poker CEO had no wish to co-operate. His attitude was closed, reserved, negative.
When the three of them had sat down on garden chairs on the terrace, Konrad Simonsen took out a picture of Jan Podowski from his inside pocket and unfolded it in a leisurely manner. The picture was grainy and of poor quality, copied from a driver’s licence which had been issued more than fifteen years ago, but it was all they had been able to find. He placed the picture on the garden table in front of Svend Lerche.
‘Jan Podowski, we have some questions about your former employee.’
The officers held their breath as they waited for the reply; it could go either way, but it was clear that Svend Lerche knew Jan Podowski, he barely looked at the picture. Finally, the poker boss made up his mind and shook his head vehemently.
‘I know no Jan Podowski, and I’ve never seen that man before.’
‘Don’t lie to us.’
The Countess sounded irritated rather than angry. Her tone said: Listen, let’s not waste each other’s time, it doesn’t benefit any of us. Konrad Simonsen thought this was the moment the man would get up and tell them he would only continue this conversation in the presence of his lawyer. Two seconds later Svend Lerche responded predictably true to form, although with a slight variation:
‘I see no point in talking to you when you don’t believe anything I say. You can see yourselves out.’
Konrad Simonsen stood up and held out his hand.
‘That was certainly a short conversation. But goodbye for now, Mr Lerche, we’ll meet again sooner than you think, and I’m already looking forward to it. Meanwhile, I wish you well.’
Svend Lerche wondered briefly whether to return the handshake, then decided to ignore it.
CHAPTER 64
Silje Esper hadn’t had a good death. She had been taped to a chair in her living room, and her fingertips – and the toes of her left foot – crushed. Probably with a hand vice, pliers would not have been able to do this. Her left eye had been gouged out. And then she had been strangled. Her face was turned up to the ceiling, mouth wide open in a silent scream, and her remaining blind eye bulged from its socket. There was blood everywhere – on the floor, on her clothes, in her hair. The Countess shook her head sadly.
‘Dear God.’
She held Arne Pedersen back when he made to move closer. He said:
‘I just want to see if some of the stains on her clothes are paint, they look like it from here.’
So did the Countess and she let him go. Arne Pedersen walked up close to the dead woman and leaned forward to check. He confirmed it, yes, it was paint, red paint on her sleeve in between all the blood. The Countess said:
‘You make the call; I’ll go and check on our colleague.’
They had arrived a few minutes earlier to discover an officer bent double outside the front door, throwing up in the flower bed to the left of the steps. The police had been contacted by Social Services when a carer who had turned up to clean for the blind woman had looked through the window. The Countess and Arne Pedersen had entered the house despite the officer’s warning.
The Countess helped the officer into his car, but told him not to go anywhere. Arne Pedersen joined her shortly afterwards.
‘Her dog is dead in the kitchen, two shots to the head, and in the shed someone has tipped the contents of a tin of red paint over the floor.’
‘Only red?’
‘So it would appear, but I didn’t go inside to check, the technicians will have
a fit if I do. Anyway, the entire circus is on its way. Melsing himself is turning up.’
‘What about Simon?’
‘He’ll be here in three-quarters of an hour. It would seem we’re not the only ones looking for that USB stick, don’t you think?’
The Countess agreed, yes, she thought so too.
‘She couldn’t tell them anything except about the smell of paint, poor woman. And yet they carried on all the same.’
Monday proved to be a long day, and it was after five in the afternoon before they were able to leave Karlslille. They would have to await further information from the autopsy report, and the result of forensic investigations as well as their own police work, interviewing the neighbours, the public and so on. Konrad Simonsen managed to extract only one piece of information from Kurt Melsing, the head of Forensic Services, and its implication was chilling. Fairly soon after Melsing had arrived at the crime scene, the Homicide chief insisted on speaking to him. Konrad Simonsen ushered him out of the house, so they wouldn’t have an audience and asked in a low voice, dreading the answer:
‘I know that this isn’t your department, Kurt, but you’ve seen many more bodies than the rest of us put together. Was she killed before or after yesterday morning, are you able to tell me anything about that? I really need to know. Otherwise I wouldn’t have dragged you out here.’
‘Why don’t you ask the doctor?’
‘I have, but she’s new, and refuses to say anything until she gets the body on the slab.’
‘Well, that could take twenty-four hours at least. But I can, totally off the record, tell you that the death occurred before yesterday morning. Quite definitely. Friday evening would be my estimate, but definitely before Sunday.’
Konrad Simonsen slammed his fist into the palm of his hand in anger. Yesterday morning he had visited poker boss Svend Lerche and shown him a picture of Jan Podowski. He had been working on the theory that the visit could have been what triggered off the woman’s death but this news from the head of Forensic Services had ended that theory.
Kurt Melsing wasn’t a stupid man; he could join the dots. His manner was quiet, and you had to know him extremely well to see that he was almost as upset as Konrad Simonsen.