They go for a walk together in the summer night, along the canal, hand in hand. They don’t talk; just smile at each other and laugh every now and then at the absurdity of the situation. She asks him his name, but he gently holds his index finger over her lips and smiles at her. Not tonight, pretty one, not yet. We have all the time in the world.
He’s older than her. She doesn’t care. She already knows they’re connected by something stronger than time and place. He walks her to her door and sends her upstairs, blowing her a kiss. No empty promises, twin souls in time and space. She has no doubts, not until the next morning. Will she ever hear from him again? Is she the only one who feels this way inside, like she’ll die if she doesn’t see him again soon?
Seven days go by. Seven long days she faithfully walks and walks the streets. She’s about to give up hope. On the seventh night she turns the corner and sees him standing in front of her door.
Smiling.
Esther had chosen Julie because she reminded her of herself, had killed her on the paper because she fit her idea for the novel. But who knew the book was about her? Esther gasped for breath. Several times in the last hour she had felt like her chest was in a vise and she couldn’t inhale fully. Just as had been the case when she was working and the stress levels in the department were at their highest.
Esther put down the page and emptied the used tissues from the pocket of her bathrobe. She couldn’t shuffle around like this all day. She had to get dressed and go to see poor Gregers in the hospital. Was it Victor Hugo who had required his butler to hide his clothes when he was writing so he had to walk around in his dressing gown until the book was done? What was she going to do with her manuscript?
She pulled out another sheet of paper.
The girl and the man walk up to the apartment without exchanging a word. That’s exactly what we are, she thinks: a little girl and a grown man. She fumbles with the keys, insecure and nervous; he stands calmly behind her watching with his twinkling eyes until she gets it unlocked. She regrets the mess but doesn’t apologize because she senses that it would seem childish. He doesn’t look around; he looks only at her. A part of her really wants him to leave, and yet he must never leave.
“Coffee? Wine?”
He shakes his head and sits on the armchair’s wide armrest.
“Take off your blouse.”
The voice is mellow and strong. She shivers. Is this what it feels like? Love. Like the flu and butterflies in your stomach and a roller-coaster ride all at the same time?
The blouse is tricky and gets stuck as she pulls it over her head. She can feel herself blushing behind the fabric, wanting to die. I’ve never felt like this, she thinks. Never. When she finally succeeds in getting the blouse over her head, he’s sitting with the knife in his hand.
Smiling.
Esther went to the kitchen, pushed aside a couple of dirty plates, and rinsed the coffee grounds out into the sink. She had asked Kristoffer to stay away for the time being, and the dishes were piling up. How could the scenario she had composed a month ago have become reality? Someone had read her manuscript and decided to live it. Could that really be true? She still had a hard time believing it.
The obvious answer lay right in front of her in the kitchen sink: Kristoffer.
He knew Julie, was possibly in love with her, and had unlimited access to all the papers here in the apartment. Could he have read the story and had reason to want to hurt Julie? Maybe she had rejected him?
But that was sick. The murder was sick, committed by an insane person, not by Kristoffer. Not by the Kristoffer she knew.
When she had emptied out her office at the university in January and held the decade’s most extravagant retirement party, she had been relieved. Friends had asked her if she didn’t feel like there was a void in her life now that she no longer had a job to go to. But Esther had never been happier. Being done with all the departmental baloney and spoiled students was no loss. Now she could finally write the book she had always wanted to write. No more academic articles! She had started on the plot and characters with childlike pleasure. When Julie moved in, she immediately recognized her fictional victim. The pretty small-town girl with the checkered past, almost too obvious, and yet with inexplicable aspects, which made her interesting. The dead mother and dominant father, the strong will behind the quiet smile, the longing in her eyes. She was complex. Now she was dead.
Esther returned to the living room and found her phone. It could not be a coincidence. She had to tell the police.
CHAPTER 14
The man with the glasses leans back and regards the young woman lying in front of him, her long hair flowing around her head. She’s done struggling now and moans only a little. She wears no makeup; her face is childishly clean and bare. Ready for him. His muse, his white canvas. He feels a ripple in his scrotum, a lift in his midriff. The knife is pointed and sharp with a solid handle that has been worn soft by contact with his hands. He draws out the tension for as long as he can. The moment when the point of the blade first penetrates the milky skin is his favorite. The skin gives in and then splits, dividing under the small knife in his powerful hands. Line after line, cut by cut.
“Fucking hell! Who writes perverted puke like this?” Thomas Larsen said, unable to contain his indignation.
“Obviously a relevant question,” Jeppe said, looking up from the paper. “The text is part of a manuscript that Esther de Laurenti is writing. She’s the owner of the building where our victim lived and was murdered.”
“But what does that have to do with the case?” Larsen spoke with his arms crossed. “She took her inspiration from a criminal case like thousands of other wannabe mystery-writer types. Ugh, just ugh!”
Various colleagues agreed. Saidani shook her head in disapproval, and Falck’s gray eyebrows moved uneasily.
“What’s of immediate interest isn’t so much who wrote it but who has read it,” Jeppe continued, and then waited in silence for a moment until the others had calmed down. “You see, the manuscript was written three weeks ago.”
He let that sit for a moment.
“We have about forty pages of the rough draft of a crime novel describing in detail the killing of Julie Stender, which, as you all know, took place the day before yesterday.”
Chairs squeaked and feet fidgeted uneasily.
“The manuscript was just handed to me half an hour ago, so I haven’t read it closely yet. But Esther de Laurenti says that she modeled her victim on Julie, and that the actual killing—what she knows about it so far—mimics her fictional killing, including the knife-work pattern on the face. In the manuscript the murderer is a man the victim meets on the street and falls in love with. It is Esther’s retelling of something that Julie experienced in reality and told her about. Unfortunately, Julie didn’t tell Esther much about the man, so she can’t help us ID him. We only know he is quite a bit older than Julie, he is of average height, and he wears glasses.”
“Who had access to the manuscript?” Saidani asked.
“There was a printed version of it in Esther’s apartment, the one I’m holding now. Anyone who’s had access to the apartment has had access to the manuscript.”
“Kristoffer Gravgaard,” Larsen said, wasting no time in pointing out the obvious. “He has keys to Esther de Laurenti’s apartment and comes and goes as it suits him. He read the story and decided to make it happen for real!” Larsen’s irate energy spread through the room.
Jeppe held up his hand to stop him.
“You haven’t heard the whole thing yet. Esther de Laurenti belonged to an online writing group with three people in it.” He checked the names on his notepad: “Erik Kingo, Anna Harlov, and Esther de Laurenti. They regularly use a Google Docs page to share their writing and comment on one another’s work. It’s functioned as a sort of motivation, de Laurenti explained to me. She uploaded two sections of her crime novel. The first was twenty-five pages long and shared on July fifth. That part describes the vict
im moving to the city and meeting a man. The next fifteen pages, where the actual murder takes place, she posted on July thirtieth. That means that the recipe for the murder was sitting online for a week before the actual murder.”
“Did anyone besides the writing group know of it?” Anette asked from her regular spot by the wall.
“That’s what we need to find out.”
“Anything online can be opened and read if you know how.” Saidani sighed pessimistically. “The question is rather who knew that the text was about Julie Stender? The girl in the book doesn’t have a name as far as I can see.”
“Good point, Saidani. I got Esther de Laurenti’s computer for you. Find out everything you can about the writing group and their correspondence with one another.”
Saidani nodded, her curly ponytail bobbing. Out of the blue it struck Jeppe that she would be pretty if she let her hair down.
“We need to focus on the people we know have had access to the text,” Jeppe continued, “but also determine if anyone else may have gained access to their Google Docs. The members of the writing group are active on the discussion pages hosted at the Danish Authors’ Society website, and there was also an interview with Erik Kingo in the last issue of Forfatterbladet, their authors’ journal, in which he mentioned the writers’ group.”
“So in principle anyone might have read about the group and with a little technical savvy gained access to the manuscript?” Anette interjected. “You know, Christian Stender also visited Julie and could have read the text…”
Jeppe pointed to the board behind him.
“In principle, yes. But for now let’s focus on the two people we know for sure have read—”
“What about”—Larsen interrupted angrily—“focusing on the one person we know with certainty who had motive, opportunity, a relationship with the victim, and access to the manuscript?”
“I’m not saying that Kristoffer Gravgaard is no longer a suspect,” Jeppe said, pointing at Larsen. “You keep investigating him and his background, then Falck can read through the manuscript and compare it with the murder, so we can have a full overview of the details. Saidani will get Esther de Laurenti’s computer from me, and Anette and I will head out to the Forensics Department to find out if there’s any new technical evidence. Any questions?”
“Is it just me or are we overlooking an important detail?” Falck reclined, fingers interlaced over his gut, which bulged cheerfully between striped suspenders.
“What do you mean, Falck?”
“Well, it may well be that I’m a little old-fashioned, but the way I see it, the most obvious suspect seems to, for some reason, have been acquitted from the get-go.”
“Get to the point, Falck, please,” Jeppe said, looking away in irritation.
“Esther de Laurenti, for crying out loud. What the hell is wrong with you guys? The murder took place in her building, according to her manuscript, and while she was home. Why isn’t she being questioned right now?”
“Um, because she’s a hundred years old and weighs, like, ninety pounds,” Larsen replied sarcastically.
“She’s sixty-eight and in better shape than most of us. What kind of weird age discrimination is this?” Falck continued.
“In other words,” Anette said, laughing, “she overpowered and disfigured a strong, young woman who was a head taller than herself? With a small knife?”
Her laughter spread. Falck slapped the table in anger.
“Knock it off, you guys! Do people lose the ability to fully utilize their limbs when they turn sixty, or what? She could have used ether or something. It’s asinine to just give her a free pass from the beginning, though.”
“You’re right, Falck,” Jeppe said, knowing he had a point. “We’ll keep an eye on her. Just start with the manuscript.”
“Good!”
The room got quiet—but quiet like those seconds between a lightning strike and the subsequent thunderclap. Charged. A lack of evidence and divergent theories are not the optimum combination for solving a crime. Jeppe had an urgent sense that he was losing his grip on his team.
He slapped the manuscript down on the table in front of him.
“Now can we get on with it then?”
* * *
JEPPE AND ANETTE made their way down to the parking lot in silence. She was quiet, and he didn’t bother asking why. Just unzipped his windbreaker and sat down in the passenger’s seat. After a couple of minutes of driving, Anette yanked on the gearshift, causing the car to jump.
“Well, you haven’t exactly gotten easier to get along with since your divorce, Jepsen! I know it’s hard. But can’t you leave your private tribulations at home where they belong and go back to acting like a grown-up?”
As if he were an inconsiderate teenager who had left his dirty laundry on the floor and drunk the last of the milk! Jeppe bit his lip. The worst part of it was that he knew she was right. He had a hard time keeping a cool head, a hard time listening to the intuition he normally relied on. It felt like his brain had been wrapped up in cotton wool and the skin around his vital organs simultaneously peeled away. Foggy and oversensitive at the same time. Maybe it was the OxyContin, maybe just the after-swell of grief. At any rate, it wasn’t something he intended to discuss with Anette.
“Did you have a chance to talk to Caroline’s mother?”
Anette seemed to contemplate whether she was going to let him off so easily, but then apparently decided to show him some mercy.
“Yup, I had a chat with her while you were with the de Laurenti lady. She knew all about Julie’s relationship with her teacher and was happy to share. The Boutrup family used to be really good friends with the Stenders, but the fondness seems to have cooled.” Anette was eager to tell the story and forgot about her irritation.
“Christian Stender downplayed the affair a bit when he told you about it. It was quite the scandal in small-town Sørvad. Teacher seduces local businessman’s innocent daughter. The same businessman, no less, who married his secretary right after his first wife’s funeral. That family has provided most of the gossip topics at the local hair salon for more than a decade.”
They changed lanes on the congested H. C. Andersens Boulevard, which led the inner-city traffic right by the statue of Denmark’s famous poet, and Jeppe tried to remember when he had last seen City Hall Square not under construction. Had it been twenty years?
“The teacher’s name is Hjalti—not Hjalte—Patursson and he’s from the Faeroe Islands.” Anette drummed the steering wheel with her pink fingernails while she spoke. “He earned his teaching degree in Copenhagen and moved to Aarhus in Jutland because he met a woman, whom he married. The relationship fell apart, and Hjalti started teaching at the school in Sørvad, where, according to Jutta, he fell head over heels in love with the then-fifteen-year-old Julie Stender. He was about forty, himself, but simply couldn’t hide his feelings for the girl. Jutta described a toe-curling meeting in the drama club, where he openly stared at Julie, clearly infatuated. Tried to touch her when he handed out papers and that kind of thing. Word was that Christian Stender got him fired.”
“But that sounds relatively harmless, doesn’t it?” Jeppe rolled down his window, inhaling summer air and car exhaust.
“It was anything but harmless! He fucking slept with her, that sleaze! They had had sex before her father discovered it and had him thrown out of town.”
“Okay, so it was a scandal, you say. Young girl, sleazy man, furious father, and so on. But that was six years ago. Surely it can’t have anything to do with the murder, can it? Could Julie’s former lover”—Jeppe grimaced at his use of the word lover to describe the man who had taken such grievous advantage of a young girl—“have decided to seek revenge?”
“You haven’t heard the best part yet.” Anette was clearly getting ready for the big finale.
Jeppe glanced over at his partner in the driver’s seat. She looked back with her eyebrows raised. Bispeengbuen overpass flickered by behind her.
“Oh no. You’re not saying that…?”
Anette nodded with a satisfied pout.
“Yup. Julie Stender, age fifteen, got pregnant with her teacher’s baby and had a secret abortion. She missed school for quite a while, officially because she was suffering from depression, but she confessed the truth to Caroline later. It’s starting to look like something, right?”
Jeppe felt an unanticipated tingle of energy. “We’d better put a call through to the Faeroe Islands and have a little chat with Hjalti Patursson.”
CHAPTER 15
Ydre Nørrebro turned into the strange no-man’s-land between Brønshøj and Vanløse; a dreary middle-class ghetto of apartment buildings with mullion-free windows and discount supermarkets. The address was Slotsherrensvej 113, a two-story redbrick complex. They parked in front of the NCTC forensic department. The first waves of closing-time workers were on their way out of the building, and people were chatting cheerfully over their parked-car roofs. They were headed home to their barbecues with cold beer and easy conversations about which kind of ketchup to put on the table and whether the kids could stay up for another half hour. Jeppe and Anette moved against the current.
Crime Scene Investigator Clausen was standing at the top of the stairs inside the building talking on the phone when they arrived. He waved them in and walked off down a long hallway, still deep in his conversation. At the end of the hallway, he held the door open to a big shared office and signaled for them to go in. Along one wall there was a row of computer screens and a long workbench. Several faces glanced up from their virtual worlds of white light and nodded at them. The air was hot and stuffy. Jeppe unbuttoned his collar and wiped the palms of his hands on his pants.
Clausen finished his phone call with a few grunts, led them over to his desk, and pulled out a stack of glossy photos from a brown envelope.
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