Death Sentence (23 page)

‘But you’ve already killed her, Frank. In
Media Whore
. That’s why I indulged your little therapy project. I paid for you to vent your frustrations, even though I knew the book would be a flop. Let him get it out of his system, I thought, and all will be well again.’ He took my arm. ‘And it worked.’

I was outraged.

‘You’re saying you did me a favour? If anyone owes anybody anything, then it’s you, Finn Gelf.’ I rammed my index finger into his chest. ‘I made you rich. I made it possible for you to play the bigshot publisher in the book trade. Without me you would be nothing, ZeitSign would have folded long ago and the only contact you would have with books would be selling them in a shop.’

Finn said nothing, he merely stared at me as if I had spoken Chinese.

I pushed my way past him and left the cubicle. Behind me I heard him protest and call me back, but I was no longer listening.

The payphones were located in the lobby, but first I needed a drink. I made my way to the bar in the corner furthest from the entrance. All seats were taken so I stood at the counter and ordered two beers. I drank the first one without taking the glass from my lips. People around me stared and muttered to each other, but I didn’t care.

I drank beer number two in a more controlled manner while my anger at Finn continued to simmer. Who the hell did he think he was?

Tanked up with beer and bitterness, I went to the lobby. I took out my notebook and some change and pressed Linda Hvilbjerg’s number. She didn’t answer and I was asked to leave a message. I hung up, waited a couple of minutes and tried again. Still no reply. After four attempts, I capitulated and recorded a message.

‘Hello, Linda? This is Frank, Frank Føns. I’m calling because you’re in great danger … it’s a bit hard to explain, but there is a killer who is persecuting me and committing
the
murders in my books. And now … well, now it’s your turn … I know it sounds completely insane, but please make sure there is someone near you who can protect you or go somewhere you’ll be safe, for my sake.’ I paused and looked around. People kept pouring into the lobby and there was chaos at the cloakroom. It seemed an absurd contrast to the message I was leaving.

‘Promise me you’ll take care. And Linda? … Sorry …’

I CALLED LINDA
Hvilbjerg a couple more times until I ran out of coins. According to the programme, she had no more appearances at the book fair today, so the chances of her returning in the near future were slim. I felt so tired I had to go back to the hotel. At least she would be able to get hold of me there when she got my message.

Ferdinan was behind the reception counter, but I didn’t have the energy to speak to him so I merely waved and headed straight for the lift.

‘Mr Føns!’ he called out when he saw me and motioned me over. His face was pale and his expression grave, very far from his usual cheerful manner.

I approached the counter like a dog with a guilty conscience.

‘It’s dreadful,’ Ferdinan said, shaking his head. It was clear that he wished he didn’t have to tell me.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Your murder,’ Ferdinan said. ‘Someone has committed your murder.’

I clutched the counter. It was Saturday afternoon. The
guest
in room 102 wasn’t due to check out until Monday, I knew that from our previous conversation, but something must have gone wrong. It had to be the smell.

‘A man has been murdered in room 102,’ Ferdinan continued. ‘Just like you described. By the book.’

My eyes widened, but my brain worked overtime to determine the appropriate response. I couldn’t betray myself, so I had to feign surprise.

‘This isn’t funny, Ferdinan,’ was all I could think to say.

‘No, no,’ Ferdinan said quickly. ‘A man is dead.’ His eyes spotted something over my shoulder.

I turned around. A man in a dark suit was sitting in one of the sofas. He had been reading a paperback, but when he met Ferdinan’s eyes, he got up with some effort. He stuffed the book into his jacket pocket, but even at this distance I had already recognized the dark cover of
As You Sow
. He walked with gliding, mechanical movements as if he couldn’t swing his arms. He didn’t take his eyes off me and his small mouth under a black, slim moustache revealed no more emotions than his gait.

‘Frank Føns?’ he asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. It gave the impression he was a boy dressed in his father’s clothes.

‘That’s me,’ I replied.

‘Detective Sergeant Kim Vendelev,’ the boy said, pulling out a badge from his inside pocket without looking at it. His eyes were still firmly fixed on mine.

I looked at his badge, mainly to avoid his eyes.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Do you know Detective Constable Verner Nielsen?’

I looked at him with what I hoped was surprise. Then I shifted my gaze to Ferdinan.

‘Is he the one who …’

Ferdinan nodded.

I stared at the floor and shook my head, careful not to do it too quickly.

‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘I saw him here just the other day.’

‘That’s what we want to talk to you about,’ the sergeant said. ‘We understand that you had dinner with Verner Nielsen last Wednesday night.’

I nodded.

‘We’ve also been informed that you asked after him at the reception the following day.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to the station,’ Sergeant Vendelev said, nodding towards the entrance.

The sergeant ushered me out to a black Opel and drove me to Vesterbro police station. His colleagues stared as he led me through the open-plan office to an interview room on the second floor. Verner had told me he wasn’t popular with some of his colleagues. Goody-goodies, he called them, police officers who took their job seriously and weren’t on the take. Verner did whatever the hell he liked and made little effort to cover it up. This had sparked several clashes with his colleagues, but he’d just tell them to shut up and mind their own business. They usually played ball, not for Verner’s sake, but rather from misplaced loyalty between police officers. Being a whistleblower was worse than being a bent copper.

The sergeant opened the door to the interview room.
He
asked me to sit down in one of the two chairs and went to get coffee for us both. In his absence, I studied the room.

In my books I had described interview rooms and interviews several times and my present sparse surroundings matched my descriptions accurately. I believed I had a fair idea of what lay ahead of me. The fact that only one officer had been sent to fetch me and that he hadn’t charged me already must mean they didn’t think I had killed Verner. Not that I had, obviously, but it would be awkward for me if they were to find out I had been to the crime scene.

The sergeant returned with coffee and placed a small black object on the table between us. It was an electronic recording device as far removed from the cassette recorder or reel-to-reel tape as you could imagine. Somehow it contributed to making me even more relaxed. A large recorder with rotating wheels might have made more of an impression. Seeing every one of my words being recorded would have made me nervous.

Sergeant Vendelev pulled out
As You Sow
from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

‘I hate crime fiction,’ he said, having sat down. ‘It’s so unrealistic and riddled with clichés that I usually end up throwing the book away in a fit of anger.’

I frowned. I wasn’t expecting such an outburst from the boy opposite me. He must have said it to provoke a reaction, I decided; the first lesson in interrogation technique. I shrugged.

‘Each to their own,’ I said. ‘If it’s realism you’re looking for it’s probably not the right genre. Describing a case as it really happens would make for the world’s most boring
book
. Who wants to read about endless telephone calls, penal code references and entering case files on the computer?’

‘But that’s how crimes are solved,’ the sergeant argued.

‘Except that’s not what the readers want. They want excitement and they want clichés. Of course they want a certain amount of realism, but they still want their expectations met and there’s no point in confusing them.’

‘With facts.’

‘Yes. You and I both know that when a man is shot, he isn’t flung through the air, but countless action movies and crime novels have gunshot victims blown through windows, knocked over balconies or railings. The audience expects it and would react negatively if we didn’t deliver.’

Sergeant Vendelev appeared to ponder what I had said.

‘The public wants to be deceived,’ I summed up.

‘Have you ever been tempted to do it for real?’ he suddenly asked me.

‘Do what?’

‘Commit the perfect murder,’ he replied. ‘I mean … you’ve spent most of your life thinking of ingenious ways to kill people. So … have you ever felt like having a go yourself? Prove you’re smarter than everybody else?’

I shook my head. ‘Never!’

‘Not even when you read about a murder in the newspaper where the killer is caught because he overlooked some silly little detail?’

I felt a prickling on my scalp and had to force myself not to scratch my head. Why had he made references to a newspaper? Was he about to confront me with the
Gilleleje
murder, reveal that he knew the link between that murder and Verner’s?

‘Perhaps I find it amusing how slipshod people can be once they have finally decided to go through with it, but I have never wanted to have a go myself.’

‘You’ve never put yourself in the killer’s shoes?’

‘Only for logistical reasons. I review the crime scene through the killer’s eyes to make sure everything slots together. Objects need to be in the right places, items of furniture need to be arranged correctly in relation to one another and entrances and exits must fit the plot.’ I paused. ‘I’m an author, not a criminal.’

Sergeant Vendelev nodded.

It’s coming, I thought. Soon he would show me the newspaper with the Gilleleje headline and next to it he would place pictures from the autopsy of Mona Weis, who would stare at me with her blue eyes. He was about to strike.

But he made a placatory gesture.

‘All right, all right, just curious to know how you authors work,’ he said. ‘A lot of police officers don’t understand how you can imagine all those monstrous things in your books without being damaged somehow. How can you sleep at night?’

‘Not a problem,’ I lied.

I knew I looked like someone who hadn’t slept for several weeks and the truth was that I usually slept badly. It wasn’t so much my own murders that kept me awake, more the feelings that had inspired them. Alcohol normally helped, but it also gave me restless dreams where I could remember only dark, menacing shadows.

‘Anyway, murder isn’t what it used to be,’ I said. ‘It’s your age now, the age of forensic science. With DNA, mobile telephones and cameras everywhere there’s not much real detective work left. When I started writing thrillers, the killer could cover his tracks simply by burning the body or removing teeth or fingertips. That wouldn’t get him anywhere today.’

‘You sound disappointed,’ Sergeant Vendelev observed.

I shrugged. ‘I’m just saying the romance has gone.’

‘Romance!’ the sergeant exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing romantic about murder.’

‘No, but neither is there much dramatic tension to be had from a DNA test or the fact that all potential victims carry mobiles.’

‘Is that why you haven’t got one?’ Sergeant Vendelev asked.

The question took me by surprise, partly because the sergeant appeared to have checked and partly because he might be right.

‘Maybe,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m getting fed up trying to think of reasons why the victims in my book haven’t or why there is no coverage when the killer is chasing them.’

‘Perhaps it might create a different kind of tension?’ the sergeant suggested. ‘Being in contact with someone while it happened?’ He smiled.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, returning his smile.

Sergeant Vendelev clapped his hands together.

‘Right, we’d better get started.’ He pressed the black object on the table.

The interview lasted about an hour and was, in contrast to our opening discussion, very factual. He asked about my relationship with Verner, when I had last seen him and what I had been doing at the time of the murder. I had no alibi for the rest of the evening we had dined together, but it didn’t appear to worry the sergeant. He didn’t ask me if Verner had any enemies, but I reckoned he was already aware of any. He clearly knew Verner well and I would hazard a guess that Verner would have classified Sergeant Vendelev as one of the goody-goodies. Conversely, Verner was probably a stain on the police force in Vendelev’s eyes, and if he was motivated to find the killer, it wasn’t because he cared about him, but about the job he represented.

The Gilleleje murder was never mentioned, and I was grateful that police sergeants appeared to have too much taste to read my books.

Overall I thought I handled the interview well. The questions relating to Verner’s murder were sufficiently precise for me to answer them honestly, but there were undeniably some unfortunate coincidences. I had been the last person to see Verner alive and then there was the manner of his death, obviously. Sergeant Vendelev approached these circumstances with some hesitation; he merely prodded them only to conclude that they weren’t ripe yet and swiftly proceeded to other questions.

When we said goodbye, I had to assure him I wouldn’t leave the country – that cliché held true – and I knew I hadn’t seen the last of Sergeant Vendelev.

I walked back to the hotel alone.

Ferdinan was at the reception, still with the same
mournful
expression. His movements seemed slow compared to his usual bounce. When he saw me, he shook his head again.

‘It’s just awful,’ he said.

I nodded, but said nothing.

‘And the police … they’re all over the hotel,’ he carried on, miserably. ‘What must my guests be thinking?’