The Tenant

by Katrine Engberg

  “I heard he was pretty angry when he discovered Julie’s affair with her teacher. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Oh, that Faeroese guy. Yeah, that was fucked up. I mean, that was fucked up, too. Got him fired and threatened to kill him. Guess they needed a scapegoat.” Daniel looked out the window at the sunshine in the round inner courtyard. Seemed like someone who would rather be anywhere other than here.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The townsfolk were meant to think that she was a virgin, pure as the driven snow. I’m sure the teacher thought that, too. But Julie had gotten off to an early start. Lost her virginity behind the bike-parking shed at school when she was thirteen. That’s what it’s like being young in a small town, we screw around, because there’s nothing else to fucking do.” He chuckled hollowly.

  Jeppe smiled at the joke. Then he cleared his throat.

  “Did she also tell you that she got pregnant?”

  “Yes, but not until years later… Such a shitty situation. She was only fifteen.”

  “Right. With the teacher…”

  Daniel looked at him in astonishment. Then he laughed aloud.

  “Julie was really fucking something. I miss her so much.” He poured himself some water and drank it, then sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter now that she’s dead. No reason to keep that secret anymore… That Faeroese teacher was totally crazy about her, so she slept with him after she discovered she was pregnant. Only that one time. She was several months along when it happened, but he never suspected anything.”

  “But why?”

  Daniel raised one shoulder toward his ear and then let it drop.

  “As a distraction. So her pops could direct his anger at someone other than her. Julie could be pretty cynical.”

  Apparently cynical enough to trick Esther de Laurenti into believing whatever version of the story it had suited her to tell. Esther had been protective of Julie’s abortion story the way only a loyal friend would when she feels she’s been entrusted with something valuable. Julie had lied to her, even though she could have found in Esther a rare fellow sufferer. Jeppe felt an acute sadness at the thought of the lonely young girl who hadn’t trusted anyone other than the person who ended up murdering her.

  “Also, I have a confession,” Daniel muttered.

  “Yes?” Jeppe raised his head sharply and looked at the young man. More confessions! How much guilt and shame could one murder case involve?

  “I sent a letter to the Faeroese guy and told him about the baby,” Daniel admitted.

  So the anonymous letter to Hjalti Patursson had come from Daniel.

  Jeppe held up his hand. “But I thought you said he wasn’t the baby’s father?”

  “Well, he didn’t know that. And it doesn’t really matter, does it? He easily could have been.”

  “But why do it?”

  “However strange it may sound,” Daniel murmured sadly, “I did it to help Julie. She was so unhappy that she had given the baby up for adoption. Her father forced her, she had never wanted to. It was a source of grief to her not to know her baby, but she didn’t dare do anything about it, didn’t know how. I thought that the Faeroese guy would help her if he thought he had become a father. Obviously I was wrong.”

  A gesture, seemingly helpful. An act of love for his good friend. Passing on that not-so-innocent lie had probably ended up costing Hjalti Patursson his life.

  “I don’t understand,” Jeppe protested. “Why the need for a distracting maneuver to begin with? Who got her pregnant?”

  “It was so out there. Julie made me swear that I would never tell anyone, and I haven’t either—”

  “Was it her father?” Jeppe realized he was compulsively gripping his pen and set it down on the table.

  “Ew!” Daniel said, looking shocked. “No one is that messed up!”

  Jeppe quietly thanked God.

  “But it was pretty gross all the same.” A look of disgust contorted Daniel’s face. “Julie slept with one of her father’s friends or lodge brothers or whatever. I don’t know what they were to each other, actually. At any rate, this friend came to Sørvad a couple of times a year to hunt and eat fancy dinners with her dad. Screwed his teenage daughter and went back home to Copenhagen. A great man, Julie’s dad thought so, anyway. Listen, maybe it’s just one of Julie’s stories. I don’t know. Maybe it’s something she made up.”

  Jeppe’s eyes fell on the guitar case.

  Satori. Enlightenment.

  “He wouldn’t have been an artist, the father’s friend, would he? Do you know?”

  Daniel actually looked a bit impressed.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Julie’s dad has his pictures hanging all over the house. It’s him, that old one, Kingo! I said it, didn’t I? Sick!”

  You have no idea, Jeppe thought, and switched off the recorder.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sun on the eyelids, the world glows red. The beach is warm, the sand scratches her back. Waves splash quietly. Her mouth is dry, so dry that it hurts, she can’t move. Did they remember to bring water?

  Esther de Laurenti opened her eyes a crack. Sunlight blinded her; she felt nauseous. Where did the light come from? Wasn’t it nighttime? She closed her eyes again, but the nausea didn’t go away. Carefully she touched the surface beneath her, the paralysis gone with the dream.

  Unfinished wood, gravel, what was that smell? Apples? The ocean? Esther raised a hand to shade her eyes and opened them cautiously. Grass, tree trunks in a flickering backlight, she was lying in a yard on a patio table. She heard birdsong above her and looked up. A blackbird among dark green leaves and unripe fruit. She tried to sit up, but the dizziness forced her to lie back down. The wooden surface scratched her cheek. Then the world was turned off.

  When she woke up again, the sun had moved, and she was lying in the shade. Her dizziness had abated but not disappeared. She cautiously sat up and looked around while tilting her feet, trying to get the feeling back in her legs. Her white wool slacks were stained and ruined. She had never felt so thirsty. If she didn’t get something to drink, she would die.

  Esther looked around. She was in a large yard right on the coast. Between herself and the sea there was a stone terrace with patio furniture and a closed wooden sandbox, and farther over by the fence stood a trampoline with a safety net. There were trees, but no flowers. Behind her was a house covered with scaffolding. Deserted. The feeling of unreality nagged at her. Maybe she was still dreaming. How had she ended up here?

  “You must be thirsty.”

  Esther jumped. The deep male voice had come from behind her. She turned with difficulty, her neck sore. The sun was shining in her eyes again. She raised her aching arm and shaded her face with her hand. A man was standing next to the bench, smiling at her. Esther felt reassured for a moment. The presence of another human being was comforting.

  He offered her a glass of water and she drank cautiously.

  “Was that good?”

  He took back the glass from her. She nodded, her brain thumping back and forth inside her skull, squinted and looked at him. He looked nice. Younger than her, but an adult. Short hair, receding hairline, light eyes, friendly smile, glasses.

  “Where am I?”

  His smile spread, revealing teeth in white rows.

  “You don’t even recognize me now, do you?”

  Esther was still dizzy. She tried to straighten up as she thought it over. She had definitely seen him before. Her head just felt so heavy, so knocked about. Where was it again?

  “I’d like to go home now. Can you help me?” She reached her arm out to him, too woozy to get up without support.

  The man took her hand in a firm, warm grip, stroked her arm gently. He was standing a little too close and holding a little too tight. It became uncomfortable. She tried to pull back her hand discreetly, but he squeezed her even harder and kept stroking. Blinked both eyes hard and leaned toward her so his mouth was only a few centimeters from her ear. His vo
ice still sounded warm and smiley.

  “Why, Mother, we’re already home.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “The superintendent is determined. Officially, the investigation into the killings of Julie Stender and Kristoffer Gravgaard has been put on standby, and the team is being sent home to get some rest.”

  Jeppe put his phone back in his pocket while Anette signaled and pulled away from the curb. Still no news about Esther, still no text from Anna; however, his mother had called twice. They were on their way to the airport to pick up Erik Kingo, whose flight from Hungary was landing in half an hour.

  “But…”

  Anette’s protest stalled all on its own, and he continued.

  “She agrees that you and I keep working on clearing up details and putting together an overview of what happened. But with a confession in hand, she can’t justify spending undreamt-of resources. We have a couple of days, tops.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, the confession’s not going to stand on its own. She must be under massive pressure from above to do what she’s doing. But like she says, it’s not the kind of case where you would confess to something you didn’t do. Christian Stender is facing a life sentence. Why would he come forward voluntarily if he hadn’t done it?”

  “But what about the false print and Bovin’s friendship with Kingo that was kept secret? The affair with Julie Stender? The manuscript, for crying out loud!” Anette was practically yelling.

  “I’m not the one you need to convince. You know that.”

  “And what’s being done to find Esther de Laurenti?”

  “The search is still top priority,” he said, looking out the window.

  “What about her phone?” Anette continued impatiently.

  “There’s no signal when we try to track it via satellite, so either it’s turned off…”

  “Or it’s lying on the bottom of a lake somewhere.” Anette hit the steering wheel crossly. “But what’s the explanation? Why did she disappear if the perpetrator is in custody back at headquarters?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeppe sighed. “But she would never leave her dogs without having arranged for someone to take care of them, would she?”

  “Good point! So if we were to try to look for her, where would we start?”

  “You mean you and me?”

  “The superintendent gave us a couple of days, right?” she asked. “And don’t we agree, the two of us, that David Bovin for whatever reason killed those two kids? Even if Stender claims otherwise?”

  “Yes, we agree. Could you keep your eyes on the road while you’re driving, please?”

  “And don’t you think that it’s extremely likely the same Bovin is currently holding Esther de Laurenti hostage? If he hasn’t already killed her, that is.”

  “Yes, it’s likely!” Jeppe almost spat out the words. He put his hands over his ears. They were buzzing again.

  They drove into the long airport road tunnel and Anette pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. “Then, we just need to find them!” she suggested with a wink.

  Jeppe reluctantly found himself laughing. Dryly, like hiccupping with a sore throat. “It’s not that I don’t value your enthusiasm, Werner, but how do you propose to find them when the official search hasn’t been able to?”

  Anette revved the engine and pulled in front of a truck, dangerously close to its bumper.

  “Now, listen: Psycho-Mosbæk was right that our killer was raised in an orphanage. As it turns out, David Bovin even spends an afternoon a week coaching orphans in soccer. At an orphanage in Kokkedal. It’s a small town, there can only be one place. We could ask Larsen and Saidani to find it and drive up there.”

  “Hmm, it’s worth a shot. I’ll call them.” Surely the two detectives couldn’t think of a better way to spend their Sunday night than going on yet another wild-goose chase.

  Jeppe found his phone again. No messages. He had been about to text Anna more than a hundred times but had stopped himself every time. Like a shaky child on a merry-go-round of emotions, flying in the free fall of newfound love and despondent over Esther’s disappearance all at once. While his fingers typed Saidani’s number, he looked out the car window at concrete flickering by and cursed himself. He should never have encouraged Esther’s correspondence with the killer.

  With Bovin.

  * * *

  THE ARRIVALS CONCOURSE at Copenhagen Airport was packed with excited mothers, children, and partners, straining their necks in droves to spot their traveler come walking. Erik Kingo turned up in the middle of a group of athletes in identical blue-and-yellow tracksuits who were met with cries of hurray! and waving flags. He looked tanned and relaxed in a white linen jacket; not like someone who had just sat on a plane for two hours and even less like someone who was nervous about what his arrival might bring. A weekend bag of soft leather was held out from his body by a strong arm, so as not to touch his light khakis. Under his other arm hung a gigantic purple unicorn. Kingo didn’t look up, just turned sharply to the right for the taxis, as they had anticipated. They met him by the revolving door.

  Anette grabbed his bag before Kingo had a chance to protest and Jeppe took his elbow in a firm grasp and led him toward the short-term parking.

  “Welcome home. I hope you’re not surprised to see us.”

  “My Hungarian publisher mentioned the possibility that you would be here. Not especially discreet of you, going through him,” Kingo said, pulling his arm back.

  “Discretion is a luxury we can no longer afford. You could choose to answer your phone once in a while.” Anette tossed Kingo’s bag over her shoulder, where it rested on her striped sweatshirt.

  Kingo eyed her scornfully, then turned and addressed Jeppe. “I don’t have time for this, I’m going straight to dinner at my son’s place. It’s my granddaughter’s birthday.”

  “Where to?” Jeppe asked, giving him a tightlipped smile. “We’ll give you a ride so we can talk on the way.”

  “The Port of Tuborg, Philip Heymans Allé. Actually, you’d better drop me off by the big Tuborg bottle, then I’ll walk from there. Is it the dark blue one here?”

  He opened the back door of their car and got settled, putting the stuffed unicorn on the seat next to him. Jeppe and Anette exchanged a look over the roof before they got in. The trip to the posh, newly built harbor area by the old Tuborg brewery was a half-hour drive. Not much time to determine someone’s guilt. Anette got behind the wheel as always and Jeppe into the passenger’s seat, from where he could turn and speak with Kingo.

  “Did you have a nice trip?”

  “If I had wanted to make chitchat, I could just as well have taken a taxi.” Kingo snorted dismissively. “What do you want?”

  Okay then, right to the point. Suited Jeppe just fine.

  “Do you know where Esther de Laurenti is?” he asked.

  “Has she disappeared?” Kingo looked genuinely surprised. The hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, just a glimmer, then it was gone, his face once more a serious reflection in the window. “No, I haven’t got the slightest idea where Esther is. Are you sure she’s not just out walking the dogs?”

  “This is serious.” Jeppe grit his teeth. “She’s been missing for almost twenty-four hours.” He glanced at his watch. Actually they only had a fifteen-minute drive before the road split and they would have to decide whether to take Erik Kingo back to the station or let him attend his family dinner.

  “What is your connection to David Bovin?”

  If Kingo was surprised by the question, he hid it well.

  “David is my former assistant. He worked for me a year and a half ago until he started a full-time position elsewhere and had to stop. Yes, and he exhibited in my gallery.”

  “He was hired by the forensics center. Do you know what he does there?”

  “Some kind of fingerprint work, right?” Kingo said with a shrug. “Police stuff. Strictly speaking, one ought to think you knew better than m
e?”

  “But that would appear to be quite a change from… what was he actually doing for you?”

  Jeppe could feel a tinge of car sickness creeping up on him, settling in on top of the self-loathing, but he didn’t dare turn around for fear of missing Kingo’s reactions. Out of the corner of his eye Amager Strandvej zipped by. Ten minutes to go.

  “The same thing all my assistants do. Keep track of my calendar, pay my bills, haul molds, fetch coffee and toilet paper. Attend biennials and shows they otherwise wouldn’t get anywhere near. The pay isn’t impressive, but the experience is.”

  “He strikes me as being older than the normal age range for an assistant. Must be thirty-five, at least? How did you guys meet?”

  “He wrote to me,” Kingo replied without batting an eye. “Page after page about where he had seen my work, about my books that he had read and reread, and how much of an impression it had all made on him. I get a fair amount of that sort of thing. But I was about to replace my old assistant at the time, so I had him come for an interview. He was qualified, so I hired him.”

  “Qualified in what sense?”

  Kingo smiled. A mocking smile, it seemed to Jeppe, but maybe he was just being friendly.

  “He showed up on time, he could spell and make coffee. Humble. Everyone who works as an assistant for me wants to be an artist; David was no exception. But the key thing for me is that they’re open and that they listen to me. There’s nothing worse than an overly ambitious assistant who forgets his place and thinks I’m just a free ticket to Venice.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Do you mean as my assistant or as an artist? His talent was, to put it bluntly, limited. He had a fine instinct, but he had never taken it seriously, so it hadn’t been developed. You don’t grow into being a fine artist by trimming hedges.”

  “And yet he had a show in your gallery recently?”

  Kingo laughed. This time there was no doubt it was meant scornfully.