The Tenant

by Katrine Engberg

  Especially for Irene, Jeppe thought. It was clear that Ulla Stender was accustomed to having to defend her marriage. Had there been some gossip in small-town Sørvad when Mr. Stender married his secretary only five minutes after his wife was buried? Ulla Stender looked like a little child who wants to crawl under the table to get rid of the unwanted attention.

  “How long has Julie been living in Copenhagen?” Jeppe changed the subject and flashed Anette a warning look.

  “Six months,” Ulla said. “She moved here in March to settle in the apartment and find a part-time job before school starts in the fall.”

  “Was she… raped?” Christian Stender’s raw voice cut through the room like a fork on a plate. Rape, the worst thing a father could imagine for his daughter.

  “There was no immediate sign of sexual assault.” Jeppe sat motionless and observed the couple as he spoke. “But the perpetrator did use a knife.”

  The father exhaled heavily and lowered his head again.

  “And I’m afraid he cut her…,” Jeppe said, ignoring the sharp look on Anette’s face.

  “We don’t know why, or exactly how, but some of the acts of violence took place before death occurred,” he continued. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you. If you have any idea what that might mean, it’s important that you share that with us.”

  Ulla Stender put her hands over her mouth and shook her head in shock.

  “We have a team at the national hospital standing by to offer you emergency crisis counseling if you… I have the number here.”

  Christian Stender raised his head, eyes wide open. His face had turned the same pale color as the wall behind him. Then he threw up.

  They had to cut the questioning short and lay him on a sofa with a bucket in front of him, but when he lost consciousness between two heaves, they put him in a recovery position on the floor and summoned an ambulance. His wife was taking shallow, rapid breaths as if she had just run up a steep staircase. Before the ambulance doors slammed shut Jeppe managed to warn her that the police would need to speak with them again.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Anette protested as the ambulance pulled away from the curb.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why tell those poor people that the perp sliced into their daughter when she was still alive? That’s totally inappropriate. It’s not like you to be so insensitive.”

  “We need to know if it means anything,” Jeppe protested.

  “Yes, but for Pete’s sake, give them some breathing room for now! They’re still trying to process that she’s dead.”

  “I’m the lead investigator, I don’t have to defend every little decision. It’s not like you were being particularly respectful yourself,” Jeppe said, kicking irritably at a rock and missing. An urge to destroy something welled up in him, and he had to restrain himself from picking up the rock and throwing it through the windshield of the nearest car.

  Anette looked at him as if he had some nasty disease.

  “I don’t give a damn who’s calling the shots,” she said. “Knock it off with the power plays, or whatever that was.”

  “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “Chill! You’re just not acting like yourself. Forget it!”

  She turned and walked back into the building. Jeppe stood watching the ambulance drive off until his anger subsided.

  * * *

  JEPPE WALKED PAST the stairs and into police headquarters’ inner courtyard, whose gloomy colonnade could darken even the fairest of summer days. He needed some air before returning to his colleagues in Homicide upstairs. The grass between the pavers sparkled in the afternoon sun, taking the edge off the harshness of the courtyard. It was growing so long, it could almost be mowed. Was it really impossible for the City of Copenhagen to find funds to weed it?

  Anette was right. He was in a rotten mood. His lower back hurt, and he reminded himself to call his doctor and beg him for yet another OxyContin prescription.

  But the dismal mood wasn’t from his back pain alone. Confronting other people’s infidelities obviously still affected him more than it used to. Christian Stender’s apparent affair with the secretary while his wife lay dying was repugnant to him, almost like a personal affront.

  “You’re simply the best. Better than all the rest.”

  Tina Turner’s tribute echoed from inside his temples, transporting him back to New Year’s Eve. Therese had been prettier than ever. That’s how he remembered it now, at any rate—unable to recall what she had actually been wearing. It wasn’t her clothing that made her beautiful, and it was the distance between them and his growing insecurity that made her unattainable. They had taken a taxi into the city, in plenty of time to hear Queen Margrethe’s televised address, as is custom at all Danish New Year’s celebrations. They were each looking out their window at the snowfall.

  He had neglected her; he knew it. Been away too much, too busy with his career, trying to avoid the defeats and difficulties at home. But everything will be different now. He had taken her hand. I’m going to spend the new year focused on our future family, I’m going to put all my energy into it. We’re going to succeed! There’s nothing more important in my life than us.

  She had gently pulled away and asked the driver to turn up the music before she looked back out the window. He had turned from her to watch the melting droplets on the glass while Tina Turner filled the car with positive affirmations.

  The New Year’s Eve party had been Kafkaesque from the get-go. He stood there with his champagne and looked at the woman he loved right next to him, his wife. But somehow she wasn’t his wife anymore. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten through the evening, but by the time the clock struck midnight, he hadn’t touched her even once. The kiss she gave him tasted of duty. He knew it was over.

  He wasn’t even surprised when she came to him a little after twelve with a story about a girlfriend who was spending New Year’s Eve alone, how she felt sorry for her. She was going to visit and comfort her; it wouldn’t take long. People were surprised when she left, but they were too drunk to be concerned.

  He put on his coat and went after her. Followed her slender back all through downtown, like an actor in a bad melodrama, at the same time falling apart and amped up on adrenaline. When she walked through an unfamiliar door, which he knew didn’t belong to the girlfriend, he counted to ten and then rang the bell. Niels, it said next to the doorbell. Niels. She opened the door without the least trace of remorse and asked him to leave. That had been the worst part—that she wasn’t embarrassed, conciliatory, or worried about him. You should go now, Jeppe! Walk away!

  Then she shut the door.

  He had walked through the partying city to the apartment of his best friend, Johannes, and his husband, Rodrigo, and knocked on the door. Uncomprehending, spurned, decimated. He stayed on their sofa for two weeks, calling in sick at work, wrapping himself up in a cave of wool blankets. Johannes and Rodrigo looked after him like you would a child and cried the tears he was too paralyzed to cry. They listened to the story a thousand times and supported him, until he was able to stand up again and to some extent face the world.

  All of her things and most of their furniture had disappeared from the house when he finally went home. The walls were empty but for sad outlines where shelves had been removed. The only thing left in the living room was their worn-out sofa. On that he lay down, unmoving, like a sponge in a brine of unhappiness, sucking until not a drop was left.

  Eventually Johannes came and knocked at the door. When it didn’t open, Johannes broke a basement window, came in and pulled him up and into the shower.

  Winter and spring had come and gone. Now it was August and Jeppe had gone back to work. He had just received the divorce decree in the mail. It was on the coffee table as a humiliating reminder that she had moved on, and he was alone.

  CHAPTER 7

  Esther de Laurenti kicked off her shoes and poured herself a glass of red with the dogs ju
mping around her feet. If only she had a good bottle of Syrah. Today seemed too horrible for her regular everyday cabernet. Standing at the kitchen table, cashmere jacket still on, she took a big gulp, closed her eyes, and let the blissful sensation spread through her whole body. Ahh!

  Kristoffer was peeling vegetables at the sink. He had waved when she came home but had not asked about the hospital visit. He knew her. She needed a little while to get settled.

  In the living room, she sat heavily on the sofa. The dogs instantly jumped up, licking her face and putting fur all over her jacket. The apartment smelled of freshly baked bread—probably one of the skillet breads Kristoffer had been experimenting with lately. The aroma was so comforting that Esther started to cry. Heavyhearted is the most incisive expression, she thought. That’s exactly how I feel. A gravestone in my chest. She drank again, petted Epistéme until the dog mellowed out on the sofa and leaned her head against the backrest.

  In the taxi on her way home, the radio news had mentioned the murder of a young woman downtown. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact they were talking about her building, her tenant. Her Julie. Because it was Julie who had been killed. No one had said so yet, but Esther knew it with the same certainty one knows that a Swiss train will depart on time. The cabdriver had turned down the volume and tutted at the world gone wrong. She sat in the back seat, feeling guilty.

  “We’re having rack of lamb and a warm fava bean salad. Is that all right?” Kristoffer stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a worn kitchen towel, his gaze averted self-consciously as always when he spoke.

  “That sounds lovely, dear. Thank you!”

  He went back to the kitchen, and she heard clattering pots and dishes. The pampering didn’t feel right. She shouldn’t sit there amid the smell of food and freshly baked bread, feeling relaxed when there had just been a murder two floors below. Today was for wallowing in loneliness, binge drinking, and crying all night. That would be infinitely more appropriate.

  Could it really be Julie? She had been such a nice tenant, calmer and tidier than Caroline. Not as pretty, perhaps, but charming in a way that wasn’t only due to her youth. Rebellion and hidden sensuality lurked at the corner of her girlish smile. Julie had been a repressed rebel, a quiet sea full of secrets and creepy-crawlies. Esther had recognized it and felt an urge to take her under her wing and help her on in life, give her a better start than she herself had had. Not as an ersatz mother, but as a fellow sufferer, one who had been beaten down by life and moved on.

  Julie had often sat on the kitchen windowsill and chatted or listened while Esther practiced her scales. Once in a while she had helped serve and do the dishes when Esther was entertaining guests.

  Kristoffer turned on the blender, startling Epistéme, who jumped down off the sofa. He was probably making dukkah to go with the lamb. Or maybe a pesto? Esther emptied her glass just when it occurred to her that Julie and Kristoffer had helped in the kitchen together at several of her dinner parties.

  She had to ask Kristoffer how well he actually knew Julie. She had to reevaluate her whole project. She had to decide if she was going to tell the police that she had murdered Julie.

  She takes a walk in the evening. Has fun staring right in the eyes of men passing her. Especially the ones who are with women. It is the easiest way in the world to make a man lose his composure. You just have to look at him without casting down your eyes. To a man, a direct gaze means that you want to either fuck him or kill him. She loves seeing how uncomfortable it makes them. She’s in control; it’s free fun. But she’s the one who goes home alone.

  One evening she passes a man on the narrow sidewalk. He has broad shoulders, wears glasses, and walks by himself, with a secretive smile. She tries to catch his eye, but he doesn’t notice her, just keeps moving. She catches herself glancing after him.

  The next day she sees him again on the opposite sidewalk and recognizes him straight off. He still doesn’t see her. It annoys her. She heads home, her feet throbbing in the high-heeled sandals. Happy summer couples are all around her; the city is full of love. She senses a warm hand on her shoulder, turns around, and sees the man standing close. Smiling. All of a sudden she feels shy and has to look down.

  “Here!” he says, slipping her a little scrap of paper before walking on. The paper reads:

  STAR CHILD

  Nothing else, just that. Handwritten in all capitals and black ink. She reads it aloud right there in the street and feels something come loose in her body. When she looks up, he’s gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  “In other words, Julie Stender didn’t have many friends her own age?” Jeppe shifted uneasily on the flimsy café chair in Esther de Laurenti’s kitchen and sneaked a peek at his watch. It was just after eight at night. The day had been long and full of information, some of it vital, some of it wild-goose chases, but at the moment it was hard to tell which was which. He had asked Anette to hold the debriefing at the station and agreed to meet at Oscar Bar afterward to take stock of the investigation.

  Right now, he was glad to be talking one-on-one with Esther de Laurenti. She stood by the sink, washing the dishes with a pink sponge while they talked. Her reaction to the news of the victim’s identity had been sad but controlled, as if it only confirmed what she already knew. Jeppe sensed she was holding something back. Something she really wanted to tell him but didn’t dare.

  Esther refilled her glass from a bottle of red wine, which seemed to have a permanent home on the kitchen table, and raised her eyebrows to offer him a drink as well. Jeppe whipped his finger side to side, declining the offer, and waited patiently as she drank.

  “Julie was the type of girl who preferred to socialize with adults,” she finally answered. “Not because she wasn’t interested in people her own age, but I think they bored her a little.” Esther’s speech had grown slurred and damp-sounding, but she was surprisingly articulate given the amount of wine she must have consumed.

  “Of course, she spent a fair amount of time with Caroline and her boyfriend, but Julie couldn’t really avoid being a third wheel with them. Have you found her, incidentally—Caroline?”

  Jeppe considered for a moment how much information he wanted to share.

  “Her phone is out of range, but a witness spotted her and her friend at a campsite in Bromölla this morning. Caroline’s Visa card has been used at the camp, so we’re fairly confident it’s them. The Swedish police will transport them back to Copenhagen.”

  Esther exhaled, clearly relieved, then drank a little more.

  “I was born here; did you know that?” she asked. “In this very building. My parents took it over in 1952 and opened a pub on the ground floor. The Pelican. My mother ran the bar, my father played billiards with the customers. Not a sheltered childhood by any means, but fun. The whole street threw a goodbye party when my mother got too old and had to close the place. This isn’t just a building to me.”

  Jeppe paused for the minimum amount of seconds needed to change the subject without being impolite.

  “What is Daniel like, Caroline’s boyfriend?” he finally asked. “I understand he’s from Sørvad as well, so he and Julie must have known each other…” He left the observation hanging there, halfway between a question and an implication. Esther picked right up on it.

  “Oh, you can forget about that!” she said. “Daniel is a good boy.”

  She leaned her head back to let the last drop of wine roll onto her tongue. When she set down the glass, she looked indignant that it was empty.

  Jeppe hesitated. Irritation was often the first sign that he was getting nearer to something painful. And painful was always important. Were they closing in on the thing she didn’t want to say?

  “Who is”—he glanced unnecessarily at his notepad—“who is Kristoffer?”

  She stiffened. “Kristoffer is… my singing teacher. And friend. I’ve known him for four years. He’s…” She got stuck, looking at her dishwashing-shriveled fingers a
s if searching for a flip switch that could silence any further questions.

  “Did he and Julie know each other?” Jeppe tried.

  His eyes followed hers down to a hole in one of her stockings. The kitchen fell silent as she sought the right words. After a few painful seconds, she peevishly wiped her cheeks, impatient with her own tears.

  “You have to understand that Kristoffer is different,” she said, her words suddenly flowing as easily as her tears. “I mean really different—a little autistic, a loner, if you will. He’s an introvert, reserved, but that doesn’t make him dangerous. Do you understand?”

  Jeppe nodded without understanding much other than her protectiveness. Was this what she had been hiding?

  “He’s complex but insanely gifted,” she continued. “An artistic child prodigy. He started at the music conservatory at the age of nineteen but dropped out because he wanted to focus on his own music. Do you know how many applicants they get every year? He’s unique. And reliable, always on time, he looks after the dogs and me. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, do you hear?” The more she talked, the less certain she seemed.

  “Did he and Julie know each other?” Jeppe asked again.

  Esther held her breath for a second and then spat the words out: “Yes, damn it, they knew each other. They knew each other well.”

  * * *

  DURING THE SHORT walk from Klosterstræde to Oscar Bar—his and Anette’s regular after-work hangout, Jeppe called Therese. He didn’t even know why, just needed to hear her voice. She didn’t answer. The last time he had reached her, she had told him not to call anymore and hung up. He wondered how long it would continue to hurt every time he heard her voice over the phone and how long he would keep seeking out that pain.

  Next to Copenhagen city hall was a little square where people in summer clothes spent the mild evening chatting casually at bistro tables. From their high pedestal, the statue of the two lur blowers regally watched over the consumption of rosé and draft beer, as if they were just waiting for the right moment to break out into some historic horn blowing.