The Tenant

by Katrine Engberg

  Technically speaking, a person who has been missing for only a few hours cannot be classified as missing. But the coincidence between Erik Kingo and David Bovin having vanished and now Esther de Laurenti disappearing did not bode well.

  The rain picked up. It was starting to drip down his collar, small cold raindrops over the skin of his neck. Under the shelter of the café’s leaky awning Jeppe dialed the superintendent’s number. She answered after the fifth ring.

  “Did you find him?” she asked sleepily.

  “No. But now Esther de Laurenti is missing, too. She hasn’t been gone that long, but something is wrong.”

  “Can it wait until morning?”

  “No. We need to look for her.”

  “Okay, I’ll let the chief know. See you at headquarters in half an hour.”

  Jeppe hung up. With every drip that landed on his neck it hit him more and more just how wrong this looked.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 12

  CHAPTER 30

  Sunday morning at the stroke of eight, a bearded young man in a knit cap turned his key in the lock and opened the café, Java Junkie, in the ochre-colored shop front at Klosterstræde Twelve. Ten minutes later, the first patrons of the day appeared. They walked down the stone steps to the door below street level, placed their orders, and sat on the rustic wooden barstools by the window. The young man casually scratched his knit cap and got to work making their coffees.

  Jeppe and Anette slumped side by side without talking to each other. What they needed more than anything was a night of uninterrupted sleep, but for the lack of that, a decent cup of coffee would have to do.

  Esther de Laurenti was still missing. At one a.m. they had requested a locksmith, opened the doors of all three apartments at Klosterstræde Twelve and confirmed that the only residents home were a couple of very hungry, distraught pugs who had pooped on the floor in the entryway and lain down to sleep next to the leavings. The search was in full swing; Jeppe and Anette couldn’t contribute to it. But they also couldn’t do nothing. Anette had suggested going out to the police team’s soccer practice in Valby to see if Bovin turned up. Jeppe was contemplating whether it would be worth the trip.

  The bearded barista served their coffee to the soundtrack of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, but couldn’t otherwise be of much help. He knew Esther and the other residents of the building—tragic about that girl, what was her name again?—but hadn’t seen any of them all week, which he has already told their colleagues repeatedly. He inquired nicely about the old guy and looked genuinely pleased to hear that Gregers was doing better.

  The sun had come out again and shone in slanted rays down between the buildings. At the police’s request Esther de Laurenti’s face had made it onto the front page of the morning paper with the eye-catching headline: “Retiree Kidnapped—Has the Knife Monster Struck Again?” And below that “Police Helpless—Copenhagen in Shock.”

  Being hopeful was becoming harder and harder.

  Late last night Saidani had managed to get ahold of Erik Kingo’s publisher, who had been at a reception at the Icelandic embassy and thus somewhat discourteous. Kingo, as it turned out, was on a brief PR trip to Budapest for the weekend. The publisher grudgingly agreed to call the Hungarian publishing house and was, after more calls back and forth and quite a bit of grumbling, able to verify that Erik Kingo was not only in Budapest—alone—he was also at that very moment eating dinner with Nobel Prize–winning author Imre Kertész himself. He was due to fly back to Denmark late Sunday afternoon, and the publisher promised to inform him that he would be met at the airport by the police and taken straight to questioning.

  Jeppe dipped the cookie that had come with his coffee into the brown milk foam. He hadn’t had a chance to go home and shower and knew that he smelled of sex. Normally he wouldn’t have had minded wearing his conquest on his sleeve and flaunting it to the world, but at the moment, being reminded of Anna constantly rubbed his guilty conscience the wrong way.

  Thank you for taking care of me, Jeppe!

  The thought of Esther’s frightened eyes, her gratitude for his help, the horrors she might be going through—the whole thing nauseated him. He should have been faster, more decisive. He had betrayed her trust and his job. Had been thinking more about Anna than about keeping a person safe, whom he knew was in danger. Instead of protecting her, he had pushed Esther into the arms of the killer, and the guilt was gnawing at him. At the same time, much against his will, visions of Anna’s body kept reminding him of the lust that she had reawakened. Ashamed and horny at the same time, topped off with exhaustion and anxiety. Jeppe had had better days.

  The café’s entrance chime sounded and he leaned away from the door to make room for three young men with brightly colored T-shirts and instrument cases in tow. One of them had long hair gathered into a bun on top of his head and a guitar case slung on his back. Jeppe glanced at Anette and then back at guitar guy. He had seen him before, not in person, but on a picture, hanging on the board in his office. Daniel Fussing, Caroline’s now ex-boyfriend, was standing next to them with his friends ordering coffee, laughing and tipsy. The mourning period for two murdered friends didn’t last long in that crowd.

  Jeppe looked at Anette again. She crossed her eyes and went back to drinking her coffee with a resigned sigh. Daniel had an alibi for Julie’s murder on Tuesday evening and had therefore sort of slipped from their attention. Jeppe had never actually spoken to him himself. He watched the young men, who were kidding around at the counter and fist bumping the barista, who they seemed to know. Daniel’s guitar case was covered with festival stickers and sayings written in different-colored tape.

  Woodbines, Jeppe read, Cph girls and Roskilde love. Right next to a peace-sign sticker was the word Satori in yellow and green tape. As far as he knew, that was Japanese and meant something like “enlightenment.”

  Jeppe drank from his paper cup and let the caffeine clear his cloudy brain sip by sip. Christian Stender still maintained his guilt without commenting further. He looked guilty—and profoundly sad—but still wasn’t talking before his lawyer came. It was confusing, it was disheartening. The only one happy about his arrest was the relieved superintendent who was finally able to bring good news to the chief. The fact that Esther de Laurenti was missing was being downplayed and her depressed state of mind was mentioned more than once. It was more than insinuated that her disappearance had nothing to do with the murders. The perpetrator had confessed, and they had him under lock and key.

  But Jeppe didn’t give a rat’s ass for that confession.

  Satori.

  He didn’t realize what he was doing until his hand rested heavily on Daniel Fussing’s shoulder.

  * * *

  THE GREEN GRASS of Valby Park was still wet from last night’s rain. On the slippery lawns by Valby stadium, the police soccer teams were practicing as they did every Sunday morning year-round. Groups of men and women wearing shorts and brightly colored sashes did warm-up running drills and circle passes in groups of seven or eleven. Most of them with mud stripes on their legs.

  Anette Werner stopped for a second and studied a men’s team, bodies all in peak condition, doing stretches. She had driven here straight from the café and was enjoying the suburb’s wide-open fields and fresh air. Out here it smelled of freshly cut grass, and colorful kites were flying in the sunshine over the treetops. Having to work on a Sunday wasn’t all bad. Usually Sunday mornings were sacrosanct at the Werner household—as sacrosanct as can be when one of the two works for the police. Svend would have let his homemade bread rise overnight in the fridge and then he’d bake it in the morning; there would be ample time for reading the papers and the only stress factor would be who put his or her feet up into the other’s lap first. But not today.

  She asked one of the players where the A team practiced and was pointed into the actual stadium. She thanked him and started walking with one last discreet glance at the men’s upturned rear ends.

  Inside the stadium
the mood was more serious. In the middle of the field, between the empty seats of the low bleachers, a handful of fit athletes were arguing loudly. One was grabbing his head, another flung his arms up in the air, and a third raised his cell phone to his ear and turned his back on the group. Anette walked hesitantly toward them, past the CLEATS ONLY ON THE FIELD! sign.

  “Excuse me, hello.”

  A tall guy with dark curly hair glanced up.

  “I’m looking for David Bovin from NCTC. Have you seen him?”

  All of a sudden the whole group was looking at her. The guy with the dark curls exchanged a look with one of his teammates and then said, “That’s exactly what we haven’t done. He didn’t even cancel. It’s not like him.”

  “Hey, aren’t you a detective at headquarters?” A guy with short legs adjusted the elastic strap holding his glasses firmly to the back of his head while he spoke. “What do you need Bovin for on a Sunday?”

  Anette ran a hand through her hair and looked away.

  “Do you have a coach somewhere?”

  “Under the scoreboard, the guy in a blue Police Sports Association tracksuit, who’s talking on his phone.”

  Anette could feel the officers watching her as she walked across the muddy field.

  The coach wrapped up his call, shook her hand hurriedly, and informed her that he was expecting another call any minute. She stopped him before he had a chance to explain that they were short on players for the game.

  “I’m looking for David Bovin. I understand he plays here on the A team.” She glanced out over the field, trying to disregard the coach’s unusually yellow teeth. “He has some information about a pending murder case, and we haven’t been able to reach him since Friday afternoon.”

  “Then you know more than I do.” The coach spat on the ground. “We didn’t know he was missing until he failed to show up here an hour ago for the warm-up.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “If I did, those ten men out there wouldn’t be standing around yelling, so, no.”

  “Is he usually reliable?”

  “Uh, yeah.” The coach gave Anette a mystified glance. “He always shows up, one of our best players. If not, he wouldn’t be on the team at all. I mean, he’s both a civilian and too old, ought to play for the old boys’ team. But when I saw him play, I picked him up on the spot.” The coach shook a filter-less cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lit it, then held the pack toward Anette, who declined with a polite headshake.

  “Nice guy?”

  “Sure! Spends a ton of time on the club, does volunteer work and that kind of thing. Coaches a group of foster kids up north once a week. Doesn’t get a cent for doing it, even pays for the transportation himself… I just don’t understand what’s keeping him.”

  “Foster kids?”

  “Orphans. We have a lot of ’em in this country even if no one talks about it. And they too need exercise and fun experiences. It’s a cause that’s close to Bovin’s heart. He used to be one himself.”

  The coach’s phone started ringing, and he raised a finger to Anette to signal that their conversation was over. She grabbed his arm before he had time to turn away.

  “What do you mean he used to be one?”

  The coach put his hand over the receiver. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to take this—”

  “Bovin was an orphan himself?”

  “I don’t know the details or for how long, but yeah, he said he grew up in an orphanage.” He started talking into his phone again, hurrying away from her. “Yes, Michael, I’m here. So, what do you say? Can you come?”

  Anette held on to his arm; she had to jog to keep up with him.

  “Where? Do you know where?” she asked.

  The coach plugged his free ear and spoke louder into the phone.

  Anette had to yell over his conversation. “Then what about the orphanage he coaches? Those kids that he teaches to play soccer once a week. Do you know where that is?”

  The coach lowered his phone midsentence and glared at her.

  “North of town, for crying out loud. I don’t know what the place is called, but I think it’s in Kokkedal. And if you stay here even a minute longer, I’m going to put you on the field to play!”

  Anette hurried out of the stadium.

  * * *

  WHILE ANETTE WAS searching for David Bovin, Jeppe parked a tired and unmotivated Daniel Fussing in interrogation room six, fetched a pitcher of water, and checked in with Thomas Larsen, who was leading the search for Esther de Laurenti, only to receive the discouraging news that there wasn’t any news. Nothing from the Emergency Management Agency divers, nothing from the helicopters, and no witnesses. It was as if the ground had opened up and swallowed her.

  Back in the interrogation room, he had to wake Daniel, who had put his head down on the table and gone to sleep. When he opened his red-rimmed eyes, he instantly asked about his guitar. Jeppe pointed at the guitar case in a corner and folded his arms over his chest. Daniel Fussing made him want to chastise and scowl. Made him feel old.

  “Well, Daniel, this has been quite an eventful week. Two of your friends were murdered and you went on a binger?” Jeppe checked to make sure the Dictaphone was running.

  “Was that a question?” Daniel looked disoriented.

  “If someone didn’t know better, that might seem a little, what should we call it… insensitive?”

  “Not that it is any of your business, but we played a gig last night. I could certainly have canceled, and I almost did, but, you see, it is actually my job. Just like you being a police officer. Just as legit. But unlike you, I don’t get paid if I don’t show up. And to be completely honest I needed to forget it all for a few hours. To just feel normal again, you know?”

  Jeppe looked down at the empty notepaper in front of him. When had he become the square adult with the real job instead of the aspiring artist he himself used to be?

  “It may well be that it sounds insensitive,” Daniel made air quotes with his fingers, “but everyone treats me like a fucking pariah, avoiding me if at all possible. And if they’re forced to be with me, they look at me all pitiful and whisper behind my back as soon as I’m gone. It’s like having fucking Ebola.”

  Jeppe poured Daniel some water and watched him drain the glass in one go. “I understand that you have broken up with Caroline. May I ask why?”

  “Why, you ask. Have you met her?” Daniel fingered the glass as he spoke.

  “Nice girl.”

  “Very nice, super pretty. It just didn’t work out. I’m totally fucked right now. The last thing I need is an equally fucked, jealous girlfriend.”

  “Did Caroline have any reason to be jealous?” Jeppe could see Daniel considering whether he thought the police had any right to that information and clarified. “I’m thinking specifically about Julie Stender. Did Caroline have any reason to be jealous of her?”

  Daniel picked at the bun in his hair. It was his turn to look down at the table.

  “Look, it’s not like I’m dying for this to get out. There’s no reason to upset Caro any more than she already is. But, yeah, Julie and I hooked up sometimes, when Caro was away. I mean, I pretty much lived with them. You know, stuff happens when you have a little wine, smoke a joint. It only happened a few times, and obviously it’s not something we broadcasted. She was sweet; the sex was good. Oh, fuck. It’s heartbreaking.”

  Daniel put his head in his hands and sat for a bit. Then he rubbed his face vigorously and looked up again.

  “Honestly, we talked a lot more than we screwed. About our crazy families.”

  Crazy families? Jeppe flipped back through his notepad.

  “Caroline did mention that you and Julie had some good conversations about your family background…”

  Daniel smiled a smile that looked like it pained him.

  “We both lost our moms when we were kids and if it makes sense to talk about clubs that you’re either a member of or totally exclude
d from, then this club is one of them. Nothing prepares you for being abandoned by your mother. I was eight when my mom died, and I still think about her every day. You never get over it. It doesn’t even get better. Julie and I understood each other.”

  “What was your impression of Julie’s father?”

  The father who was sitting at this very moment in an interrogation room in the same building conferring with his lawyer. Who had confessed to murdering his own daughter. Jeppe tried to keep his voice casual, the question open.

  “Hmm, Christian is kind of old-school macho. You know, firm handshake plus that Stay five paces away from my daughter look. Julie told some pretty crazy things about him.” Daniel shook his head and laughed. “For a long time I believed her stories—”

  “Like what? I mean, what kinds of crazy things?”

  “That he beat her mother, for example. When she was little and her mother was sick. Julie used to crawl into the closet in her room and sing to herself when she heard the IV stand being thrown down on the tiled floor. Later she admitted it was something she’d seen in a movie. Julie was full of stories and they didn’t always match up with reality. That’s what can happen when you grow up without a mother. You fail to develop the moral compass that the rest of the world steers by.”

  Jeppe wrote moral compass on the blank page in front of him.

  “So in reality her father wasn’t so bad?”

  “Christian Stender cares about having the right friends—politicians, media personalities, artists—and about his life seeming super successful, but really he’s just a hick. The kind of guy who’s happiest in clogs but buys expensive suits in order to fit in to a world that is never going to accept him anyway. That kind of guy.”

  “But he loved his daughter?”

  Daniel nodded. “According to Julie he loved nothing but her and I think that she was telling the truth about just that.”

  Julie dead. Kristoffer dead. Esther de Laurenti missing. A sudden nausea rose within Jeppe, and he had to swallow several times before he could continue.