Bogman (17 page)

Tobias recognised a side entrance to the golf course, near the ninth hole. He presumed it was the entrance used by the trucks and diggers during the construction of the course. There was a shot of a digger scooping out earth from what was going to become a lake. The shot changed to Kurt Malling watching a yellow dumpster tipping sand into a bunker. Next, a dozen demonstrators blocked the path of a yellow Hydrema digger. Then Kurt Malling confronted two demonstrators chained to a digger. The last two film sequences showed Kurt Malling with group of uniformed police, and Emily Rasmussen being escorted to a police car.
 

“Hold it there,” said Tobias. “Can you enlarge that?”

The picture flashed up on the bigger screen.

“It’s definitely Emily,” said Katrine.
 

“Just as well,” said Oscar. “There’s no more footage.”

“Thanks,” said Tobias. “We’ve got what we needed. I’ll set up a meeting with Nicholas Hove.”

Eddy was the only person in the Investigations room. He looked up as they came in.

“A Mercedes van was registered in March 1997 in the name of Emily Rasmussen,” he said. “At an address in Skandeborg.”

“That makes sense,” said Tobias. “Emily was the one with the money. She paid for the van.”

“How old was the van when she bought it?” asked Katrine.

“Old enough,” said Eddy. “It was registered as an ambulance in 1987. But it’s a Mercedes. She could still be driving it.”

“It would have to pass roadworthy tests if it’s in Denmark,” said Katrine.

“Other countries have regulations too,” said Eddy. “She must have tax and insurance as well. But there’s nothing on the register since 1997.”

“Maybe it’s permanently parked up somewhere and she’s living in it,” said Katrine. “Maybe she’s abandoned it and bought a new one.”

“I’ve checked all the Emily Rasmussens who registered a vehicle or applied for a driving licence,” said Eddy. “None of them fits Emily’s profile. They’re all ten years older or younger.”

“It could be in Sweden,” said Katrine. “Or anywhere.”

“Being driven illegally,” said Eddy. “Her licence would be out of date by now.”

“She might have a Swedish licence,” said Katrine.

“Send the details to Europol and Interpol,” said Tobias.
 

“I’ve done that,” said Eddy. “With two versions of the plate. One with last number 3 and one with 5.”

“Any newspaper reports on the golf club protests?”

“The newspaper archive isn’t digitised that far back,” said Eddy. “There’s nothing online. The librarian at Jyllands Posten has gone home. I’ve sent requests to the big five dailies but tomorrow is Great Prayer Day, remember? And the librarians don’t come in at weekends. We won’t see anything until Monday.”

“Any sign of the file on Astrid Thomsen’s husband?”

“They haven’t found it yet,” said Eddy. “Cutbacks. Plus the weekend. We should have it by Monday or Tuesday.” He paused. “It’s a nice evening. Tomorrow is a holiday. This is the first decent weather we’ve had for weeks. Unless you have something urgent for me, Boss, I’m going sailing tonight.” He picked up his car keys and added in a casual way, “Would either of you like to join me?”
 

Tobias thought about endless days in the boat with his father, of sadness as deep as the ocean, of longing to be steady on his feet, facing the future on dry land. “I’m not much of a sailor,” he said.
 

He sometimes wondered if he’d taken up golf in an unconscious attempt to avoid long hours bobbing on the water trailing a fishing line to catch the occasional salmon, or cramped in the cabin playing chess with his morose father. A round of golf took at least three and a half hours and precluded taking the boat out. His father, a dutiful parent, silently caddied for him in junior competitions. That was how he had met his second wife, Tobias’s stepmother, Inge. Her daughter, Margrethe, and Tobias had been junior members at the same time and at the same club. Tobias was still a member there. The course wasn’t as well-designed or well-tended as Skovlynd, but Tobias liked it. He thought he would ask Norbert if he was free to play with him.
 

And then he would put in a call to Nicholas Hove.
 

Friday: Week Two

North Jutland Police District

27.

Pernille Madsen wondered why her personal life had become so dull that she was glad to come to work on Great Prayer Day, when the rest of the country was on holiday. She had a caseload that kept her busy, but not so busy that she couldn’t take a day off. She had turned down invitations from friends to spend the holiday weekend with them in Copenhagen. They were all couples with children. Pernille liked children. But she didn’t want to spend the weekend in Tivoli Gardens. Besides, she wanted to find Jolene’s attacker before it was too late. Before he went too far and killed someone.

She had identified three attacks in the last ten years in Scandinavia. All followed the same pattern. The victims were prostitutes. They were gagged with their own panties. They’d been filmed or photographed.
 

She read the file on the first known attack. Versterbro in Copenhagen. A hotel near the station. The victim had four broken ribs, a broken jaw, extensive bruising in the genital area. She had been found by the hotel manager. Manager? Did places like that actually have managers? Whatever he was, pimp or room-renter, he’d been questioned and cleared.
 

She opened the file on the second attack. The report was in Swedish, but she understood enough to see that the pattern was the same. The victim was a Sami working as a prostitute in Pitea, Northern Sweden. She had attempted to drown herself in the river after the attack but had been spotted by a tourist and rescued. Her injuries were similar to those of the first victim. The attacker’s routine was the same. Plastic gloves, mask, camera.
 

Only a year between these first two attacks. Then a gap of seven years to the third attack. Stockholm. The perpetrator had contacted the victim online. She had gone to his hotel – one of the smartest in Stockholm. The bedside telephone in the room had been disconnected. The victim had been found, unconscious, by a hotel cleaner. No fingerprints, no DNA.

Smart bastard. But Magda is extracting your DNA from the hairs that Jolene yanked from your head. Well done, Jolene, thought Pernille.
 

She decided to widen the search. She would contact Europol to find out if there’d been similar sex attacks elsewhere in Europe. That would have to wait until Monday. And it would take time. The weekend stretched ahead. She might go to Tivoli Gardens after all.
 

East Jutland Police District

Tobias intended to enjoy his day off. He was in good spirits when he parked at his golf club. The manager, Christer Alsing, hurried towards him.
 

“Tobias, just the man I need. Can you come to the office and give me some advice?”

“I’m meeting a guest,” said Tobias. “Can it wait until after we’ve played?”
 

“Not really,” said Christer. “I’m leaving at five o’clock.”
 

Tobias looked at the sky.

“No need to worry about rain,” said Christer.
 

“My guest will be here soon,” said Tobias.
 

“You can see the car park from the office. This won’t take long.”

Tobias reluctantly allowed himself to be ushered through the clubhouse door, into the office and into a chair in front of a computer screen showing the pond on the 14
^th
hole at sunset.
 

Christer pulled up a chair beside Tobias and clicked the mouse. “Take a look at this.”
 

From the bushes near the fourteenth green, a black shape emerged. It took Tobias a second or two to realise it was a human being – man or woman he couldn’t tell – in a wet suit, wearing flippers, goggles, scuba diving equipment and carrying what looked like an empty, white net. The effect was somewhere between hilarious and sinister. The figure flapped, penguin like, towards the pond, adjusted a weight on his belt, entered the water and sank beneath the surface. The screen went black.

“The head green keeper hid in the trees,” said Christer. “Waited for hours to catch him at it. Filmed it all on his smart phone.”
 

Another image swam on to the screen. The creature in black broke the surface of the water, splashed towards the bank, crawled up through the reed bed and got to his feet clutching what looked like a giant bag of slimy frogspawn. Tobias wanted to laugh.

“Golf balls,” said Christer. “He’s diving for golf balls. On private property. That’s illegal isn’t it?”
 

Tobias kept his face straight. “I’ll get someone to look into it.”
 

“We drain the ponds for balls every six months,” said Christer. “We sell them in the pro-shop. The number retrieved was going down. That’s how we twigged someone was stealing them. So what do you think we should do about it?”

“Put a CCTV camera there,” said Tobias. “It doesn’t even have to be a real one. That should deter the Creature from the Black Lagoon.” His mouth twitched.

“Good idea,” said Christer. “Thanks for the advice. Have a good game.”

Norbert laughed when Tobias told him about the frogman. “But it’s no joke for the club,” he said. “Skovlynd has the same problem. They’ve lost revenue. The manager told me last week they got less than half the balls they usually retrieve. He’s reluctant to put up a CCTV camera. Malling doesn’t like the idea. Too many celebrity members not wanting their duff golf shots to turn up on Youtube.”

They reached the fourteenth hole. The green was protected by trees on the right and the large pond on the left. Tobias and Norbert successfully avoided both.
 

“All square,” said Norbert.

“This won’t take long.” Tobias walked off the green towards the clump of bushes from which he’d seen the frogman emerge. He squeezed through the bushes, clambered over a ditch and dropped down on to the road. He heard Norbert calling out,
 

“We’re playing golf, Tobias. It’s a holiday. You’re off duty.”

Tobias crouched to examine tire marks in the grassy verge. He climbed back up the ditch and pushed his way through the bushes to the green.
 

“He’s smart, our frogman,” said Tobias. “He doesn’t go near the pond on the tenth. It’s too near the clubhouse. We’re at the far end of the course here and he can get to the road easily.”
 

“Same with the ninth at Skovlynd,” said Norbert. “There’s an access road used by the green keepers at the back of the lake.”
 

“He drives a van of some kind,” said Tobias. “He should get his tires changed. The two left ones are bald. Not so smart.”

“A lot of people are finding life tough at the moment,” said Norbert. “I admire his enterprise. I wonder where he’s selling the balls?”

Tobias found the probable answer to that question on his way back to Aarhus after a satisfying dinner with Inge and Norbert. The light was fading from the sky when his headlights picked up a sign at the side of the road.
Golf Driving Range
.
8am – 10pm daily
.
Lessons. Shop. Big Reductions. Next Left 2 km
. Out of curiosity, he took the next turn left and followed signs –
Lake Balls:
5 Lessons 80 kroner
:
Clothing bargains –
to a floodlit driving range. The floodlights went off as he turned into the car park. The glass door to the shop was locked but an interior light was still on. Tobias could see a barrel-shaped metal basket filled with golf balls by the desk.
Lake Balls 5k each. 50 balls 200k.
He rapped the glass but there was no reply. The shop light went out. A car door banged. An engine revved. A white van came at speed from the back of the shop. It slowed as it passed Tobias. The window went down. A voice called out, “Sorry, mate. We’re closed. Come back tomorrow.” The van raced away before Tobias could speak.
 

It was raining when he got back to Aarhus and parked in the square. He left the golf clubs in the boot of the car and hurried to his flat. He switched on a light, shook the raindrops from his jacket and hung it on a coat hanger to dry. He lit the candle on the table by the window and squared the file that lay there. He selected a bottle of Monbazillac from the wine cabinet, poured himself a small glass, carried it to the table, sat down, opened the file and began to read.
 

Emily Rasmussen was vital to the enquiry. People remembered her. He thought of all contradictory adjectives they’d attached to her. Gentle, honest, musical, jealous, possessive, fierce. A warrior for the environment. A young woman in love. Like Agnes.

Lennart, by contrast, was a cipher.
 

The telephone rang. Tobias glanced at the number and saw it was Hilde. He closed the file, stood up and opened the door to the balcony. He could see Hilde silhouetted in the rain-streaked window opposite. He pressed the answer button on his phone.

“I was wondering if you’d like a nightcap,” Hilde said.

Tobias hesitated. “Not tonight.” And maybe not any other night, he thought. Time to move on. To Sofie? I ought to say something to Hilde.

“I wanted to tell you that Eric has got a shore job.” She hesitated. “And I’m pregnant.”

Tobias felt as though the blood was draining from his body.

“Don’t worry, Tobias,” said Hilde. “It’s not yours. We were careful. The dates don’t fit. Eric wanted a baby. Me too.”

Tobias could now see her moving about in her flat, see her hand gently rubbing her belly.
 

“We’re moving to a house,” said Hilde. “With a garden. It was good while it lasted, wasn’t it? Good for both of us, I think.”

“Good luck,” said Tobias.
 

“I wish you luck as well. I’m waving at you.”
 

Tobias waved back. The light went out in Hilde’s flat. He stood for a moment. There was the usual Saturday night noise from the square. The wet tiles on the Cathedral roof glistened under the floodlights. Rain dripped from the lilac trees in the gardens below. He hoped Agnes wasn’t tree-hugging and getting soaked. He picked up his phone and sent her a text. “Dry & studying or wet & tree-guarding?” He closed the balcony door. A response from Agnes flashed on his phone. “Dry & partying. Love you.”