The Tenant

by Katrine Engberg

  Unless another body turned up before tonight. One could always hope.

  * * *

  “OH, FOR CRYING out loud!”

  The juice machine rumbled perilously and started blinking to indicate that something was jammed. Sara Saidani opened the lid and fished around in the vegetable mash with a spoon until she unstuck the lump of ginger root that had caused the problem. When the machine was humming again the way it was supposed to, she went back to feeding it kale and apple slices until she had a pitcher of foamy green liquid. Not surprisingly, her Homicide colleagues had protested this monstrosity and the health dogmas it represented. But Sara insisted that if they could keep their behemoth of a coffee machine, then she, who never touched caffeinated beverages, could surely be allowed to park her juicer in a corner of the staff kitchenette.

  She was washing the innards of the machine when someone knocked on the doorframe. At first she didn’t recognize the man in the doorway. Then it occurred to her that she had seen him at a summer party where he had been playing soccer with the children of the staff. One of the fingerprint boys from NCTC, was his name David?

  The man held up one of the forensic techs’ manila envelopes.

  “I promised Clausen I would drop this off here for Kørner. It’s evidence from the Julie Stender case, a blouse.”

  “Kørner isn’t here right now, and Werner’s out, too, but you can just leave it with me.”

  He handed her the envelope and nodded at the juicer. Seemed like he didn’t want to go just yet.

  “Are you always this healthy?” he asked.

  “Well, we can’t all die of hardened arteries, can we?” She put the envelope on the table and took a sip of her juice.

  He squinted in a couple of drawn-out blinks, as if his eyes were dry. “You wouldn’t share a glass, would you?”

  Sara was busy. The last thing she needed was an awkward Forensics guy looking for someone to talk to.

  “There’s kale in it—and spinach—so, you’ve been warned!” She took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it.

  He accepted it with a grin, standing slightly too close to her.

  “Mmm, it’s good. Is there apple in it, too?”

  Sara nodded aloofly. Nerds never understand the concept of personal space, she thought tiredly. She moved a couple of steps away and picked up the envelope from the table.

  “Thanks for this. Kørner told me that it’s the blouse that was stuffed in Julie Stender’s mouth to keep her quiet.”

  “We found it in Kristoffer’s apartment.” He spoke with green juice at the corners of his mouth.

  Sara opened the envelope and peeked in. The sight of brown stains on the fabric made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  “Damn it that we didn’t get a chance to question him again before he was tossed into the chandelier. I would have liked to know how he ended up with this.”

  “He probably kept it as a souvenir?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you still think Kristoffer killed Julie?”

  David Bovin shrugged, suddenly deflated, as if to indicate that that part of the investigation wasn’t his business. He walked over to the sink and set his glass down.

  “I’m just going to wash my hands. Then I have to get going.”

  “Do you honestly believe Kristoffer was implicated in Julie’s murder?” Sara spoke to his back and watched him take a double load of soap and scrub all the way up to his wrists.

  “Did you know that the bacteria we have on our hands are just as unique as our actual handprints?” He spoke like he hadn’t heard her question, friendly enough but on a totally different planet. “No two people have the same bacterial combinations. When we wash or disinfect our hands, it only takes two hours before our bacterial culture is completely reinstated.”

  “Okay, exciting.” Sara rolled her eyes at his back. “I have to get back to work. You’ll find your way out?”

  Without waiting for his response, Sara strode out of the kitchen and into her office. She had spent most of her teenage years in internet cafés and had had enough conversations with awkward brainy guys to last a lifetime. Besides, she had a half hour at most before she needed to rush out to Christianshavn to pick up her daughters from day care and preschool. She sat down at her computer.

  Half an hour ago she had received the phone records from Kristoffer Gravgaard’s data plan and she was in full swing decoding it. On the list was an incoming call from an unknown number yesterday at 4:08 p.m., a few hours before his death. The number had turned out to be tied to a prepaid phone card and therefore couldn’t be immediately traced. So now Sara was going through the call lists to see if the number appeared more than once. There could very well be some connection between the call and the murder: an appointment made.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw David Bovin jog past her door heading for the stairs. He paused in the doorway and winked awkwardly a couple of times, but she pretended to be absorbed in her computer screen.

  * * *

  THE BOX OF cabernet sauvignon was empty. Esther tipped it forward, backward, and upside down without getting more than a few drops out. It was a leftover from a potluck party she had hosted a while ago, and she was none too proud that she had kept it, let alone drunk it. She ripped open the cardboard and pulled the bag out to squeeze it dry. Ended up with only a single sip. Well, then she would have to drink water. She let the water run for a moment and then drank directly from the tap. It did not alter her wine craving.

  Esther squatted down and looked all the way to the back of the cabinet she normally referred to as the wine cellar. Aside from a crumpled grocery bag, it was empty.

  She got up and opened the liquor cabinet. Behind the mahogany door there were dusty bottles of liqueur that she used for desserts: crème de menthe, Drambuie, Kahlúa. She removed them, one by one, and put them down on the floor until she finally reached the marvel: a magnum bottle of good Portuguese Douro that she had hidden away for a special occasion. Carefully she lifted out the bottle with both hands and only just resisted the impulse to hug it.

  The first glass she drank standing at the kitchen table. The second she brought with her into the living room, where she collapsed onto the peach-colored plush. Someone was taking over her life, incriminating her and ruining what little she had left. Carrying out the text of her book, Kristoffer’s death, the tape dispenser planted on her desk. It was hard not to take it personally! Esther emptied her glass and got up to fetch another, enjoyed the familiar buzz between her ears and the feeling of well-being, which wasn’t in any way lessened by her rickety knees.

  Now was when she should stop. Should have, could have, would have. She poured herself another glass, all the way up to the rim, and opened her computer. The tab was still open in her browser. She clicked on the Google Docs icon and drank so the wine sloshed over the edge and she had to wipe drips off her chin with her fingers. The page opened without difficulties—the police had obviously not shut it down yet—and the unfamiliar text laughed at her again.

  What was this about? Could someone have decided to kill her friends because they thought she had written a bad book? It wasn’t even finished yet, for Pete’s sake, much less published.

  What do you want? she wrote, and then immediately deleted it. You can’t just write to a crazy person in the middle of a murder case. But what if the crazy person writes first? Wouldn’t it be dumb not to answer?

  She sat with her fingertips on the keys, looking at the blinking cursor, feeling the anger welling up in her. She counted to twenty, fifty, one hundred.

  Then she began to type.

  He knows he went too far. That he made a fool of himself. Killing Kristoffer was a mistake. It was rash. In an attempt to create confusion, he has given himself away. He knows he has left behind evidence and that they will find him soon. He is stupid! A little louse who ruins other people’s lives to enrich his own. But it is over now. He thought he had the situation under control, that he was pulling th
e strings, but in reality he is sitting in a barrel on his way over Niagara Falls, and he is the only one who hasn’t noticed it yet.

  Esther looked at her words. Wished she could pour poison into them so that their recipient—the murderer of poor Kristoffer, poor Julie—would be blinded and die when he read them.

  He is abandoned and alone, a poor, little person whom no one loves or could ever have loved, not even his own mother. Who could care for a freak like him, a sick, stunted soul?

  She emptied her glass, feeling dizzy. Then she clenched her teeth and pressed Share.

  CHAPTER 23

  The usually charming square of Enghave Plads in Copenhagen’s most colorful and diverse neighborhood, Vesterbro, was a crater of felled trees and never-ending subway construction. Young skateboarders and alcoholics on benches had grown accustomed to the mess long ago and bit by bit reclaimed their space. Like ants that tirelessly find new paths when the old ones are stomped out. But Jeppe was no ant. He pulled his arms in tight as he passed the temporary wooden walls surrounding the construction site to avoid his suit jacket being messed up by the wet posters. The oppressive afternoon heat had given way to a gentle summer rain, and the puddles made the place look even bleaker than usual.

  It never ends. Every time one project is done, meddlesome city planners come up with something new the city can’t do without. Copenhagen is a woman who never settles down, Jeppe thought, with new appreciation for his peaceful residential neighborhood just over the hill. In his hand, a bottle of mediocre champagne he would surely drink most of himself. Since he had not been able to get out of the dinner, he might as well enjoy a few hours of escapism.

  As always, Istedgade was aquiver with neon lights, exotic fruit stands, large African families, fast cars, and cargo bikes transporting kids. Groups of young people flowed just as matter-of-factly in and out of hipster bars as old-school brown pubs. A trash can had been tipped over and spread greasy shawarma wrappers across the sidewalk.

  Jeppe wondered when Johannes and Rodrigo decided to move from their penthouse by the canal in Gammel Strand into a ground-floor apartment in this neighborhood. But they seemed happy with the motley atmosphere, the apartment’s painted wood floors, and the little staircase from the living room out into the communal courtyard, where they could sit and chat with their neighbors. He wondered if his own neighbors had gotten a divorce like him. He hadn’t seen them in six months, at least.

  Johannes opened the door in a rush of frying smells and good cheer and gave Jeppe an affectionate hug before accepting the champagne.

  “I’m so glad you came! I know the timing isn’t ideal for you right now.” His mellow, husky voice, which was his most prominent characteristic, affectionately enveloped Jeppe and made him feel at home. As always.

  “I can’t stay long. This case is driving me crazy… We’re not getting anywhere, bodies keep turning up, and the superintendent just chewed me out.”

  “I know. I’m just glad you were able to make it at all.” Johannes studied the label on the bottle. “Real champagne, from the supermarket! You went all out.”

  “Hey, every little bit counts.”

  “So they say.” Johannes laughed and put his arm around Jeppe’s back. “Come in and meet the others. We’ve just sat down.”

  The mirror in the entryway flashed Jeppe’s tired face back at him before Johannes ushered him into the dining room to sounds of clinking glasses and laughter from the long table. He checked that his phone was in his inner pocket, ringer off but set to vibrate in case of any news about the case. He wished yet again that he had had the guts to back out of this dinner, but Johannes always did so much for him. And he could still make it home and into bed by ten.

  He saw her right away. Her hair fell in loose curls over those tan shoulders. Immersed in conversation with Rodrigo, she didn’t look up. The realization hit him in two waves. First as a straight right to his diaphragm, then as a confusing warmth that spread from his gut out to his fingertips, ending in an involuntary smile.

  Anna Harlov, of course! It couldn’t be any different now that he thought about it. Johannes and Rodrigo had a constant parade of artists and fashion and theater people passing through their home, kissing cheeks and exchanging pleasantries. He often joked about being the only public employee allowed to enter these hallowed halls. In truth, it was a wonder that he had never encountered her here before.

  She leaned toward Rodrigo, laughing, and Jeppe felt a pang of irrational jealousy. He walked along the row of silk-covered backs, nodding and smiling and shaking hands with those who looked up. At the far end of the table, he found his seat, squeezed up against a radiator and next to an overweight man wearing black nail polish.

  Jeppe poured himself a glass of lukewarm Riesling, scanned the other guests and hoped that Anna Harlov’s husband wasn’t here before he stopped himself from thinking silly thoughts. The man next to him asked him something that included the word exhibition, but the rest of the question was swallowed by the room’s bad acoustics. Jeppe smiled, hoping that was enough of a response. The man turned his back on him and spoke to a woman with a black pageboy instead. Apparently not, then.

  Johannes chimed on his glass.

  “My dear friends, it’s so wonderful to see you all! I actually hadn’t planned on celebrating my birthday, but then I didn’t want to miss the chance to be guest of honor. So now I’m using my advanced age as an excuse to get drunk with you all. We’ll skip the introductions, right? Talk to each other instead. Cheers, everyone!”

  When Jeppe took his eyes off Johannes, he found himself looking into Anna’s. She looked at him in surprise from the other end of the table, clearly astonished to see him here. He was just happy that she recognized him. She made a gun shape with her hand and pointed it at him questioningly. He shook his head with a laugh and pointed to his wine glass. Off duty. She held the eye contact for a good many seconds. Then she smiled.

  Jeppe’s ears buzzed; he looked down and aligned his cutlery unnecessarily. When he looked up again, she was back to talking to Rodrigo.

  The plump man next to him turned out to be an old dancer. Who would have thought it? He now worked as a choreographer and seemed pleasantly surprised that Jeppe was able to ask relatively relevant questions about dance and theater. Most people think I sew costumes. Jeppe told him about his year at the theater school, where he aspired to become a musical star and also got to know Johannes. Ha ha, so young and naive, the things one imagines when one is eighteen. A puffed rice cracker with lobster mayonnaise turned into cotton in his mouth and he washed it down with wine because the water pitcher was empty. He sought out Anna’s eyes and found them every once in a while.

  The man next to him complimented Jeppe for his decision to leave the stage in favor of an honest career, a proper job as a police officer. A dance studio is a world of wounded souls, who close in around themselves in mutual affirmation. Jeppe poured them both wine and nodded absentmindedly. He knew he ought to go home now, but he was trapped by the radiator and by bodies and couldn’t get out. His telephone was silent.

  Zodiac sign?

  He leaned closer to the man next to him.

  “Cancer!”

  “Cancer? I knew it! Sensitive inside your hard shell, family man, security addict. Good thing you didn’t become an artist.”

  Dishes of springy greens and edible flowers, some meat that disappeared before Jeppe got to taste it, then cheese and port and a smoking break. Jeppe went out to get some fresh air and escape from yet another conversation he couldn’t hear. He banged his knee hard on a table and knew how drunk he must be when it didn’t hurt.

  A handful of people were standing in the courtyard with wineglasses, smoking and talking loudly over “I Feel for You” playing from the sound system in the apartment. Anna stood with a cigarette and a jacket over her shivering shoulders. Her dress was white, her bronze summer legs looked soft and smooth. A loud guy with wine-stained teeth and wet lips was leaning over her so eagerly that he
spilled wine on his suede shoes.

  Jeppe joined a group standing around Johannes’s agent, whom he knew briefly, and tried to follow the conversation. A joint was passed around. Rodrigo stuck his head out and yelled something about dessert, and people put out their cigarettes and slowly made their way back inside. Except for Anna, who stood there smiling.

  How could anybody be so beautiful?

  Had he thought it or said it out loud? Everything swam before his eyes and he felt a little sick. Why had he insisted on drinking so much bloody wine just because it was sitting in front of him? No self-control!

  Anna tilted her head back and looked up into the August sky.

  “Why are there so many shooting stars in August?” she asked.

  Clear diction. She had obviously controlled her alcohol consumption. He glanced at her blurry contours and mumbled something about a comet and its meteorites without feeling quite sure that was the correct answer. She reached both hands out to him.

  Now is the time. Now you turn around and leave, Jeppe. Find a cab home. Her eyes! To bed, get up early and solve this darned case. Her breasts! Her soft, round breasts! In his hand, firm and heavy against his own chest.

  He noticed how the throbs from his erection and his wounded knee were competing for attention and realized how dry his mouth was.

  “Come!” she said, and pulled him backward into the dark.

  * * *

  ESTHER SAW THE starry sky from her bedroom window and was filled with an overwhelming sadness. It is no coincidence that the heart has become the symbol of love, because when someone loves and loses, grief sits in the chest, just to the left. Esther put her hand on her sternum. Empty like a black hole that pulls everything into it, turning it into nothingness.

  Dóxa and Epistéme whimpered restlessly—she had better take them out before bed. Just a brief tour down to the canal to let them wet the cobblestones; she was tipsy and not in the mood for a longer walk. She clipped the leashes to their dog collars—they were too tired to be really excited—and put on a long woolen cardigan over her sweats. Made her way gingerly down the crooked steps of the staircase and propped the front door open with the mat. The dogs pulled eagerly down toward the canal and she followed them, heavy with melancholy. Once, seemingly a lifetime ago, innocence and hope had still been strong in her and the air of a Copenhagen summer night could make her dizzy with happiness. Those days seemed lost forever.