Invisible Murder (Nina Borg #2) (42 page)

“Leave her alone.” Nina spoke quietly, with the same amount of emphasis on each syllable. No more than that. Not enough opposition to provoke him.

“Fucking let go of me,” Ida hissed, trying to bite his hand.

No. No, Ida. Not like that!

The Finn’s breathing had changed, and Nina could see his hand moving under the cotton fabric of Ida’s T-shirt. Ida gasped, popped up onto her knees and awkwardly tried to wriggle away from him. Nina grabbed
the only chance she could see. She slammed her fist upward, straight into his crotch, with everything she had.

She didn’t hit him dead on, but still accurately enough that he staggered back a step moaning, with both hands over his crotch. As he stood like that, Sándor somehow managed to flip himself up on his hands, the bound healthy one and the wounded free one, and kick backward with both legs, bucking like a horse.

One of his heels hit the Finn in the face, right on his swollen black-and-blue nose. Tommi bellowed and kicked Sándor in the thigh, but Nina wasn’t sure the Hungarian even noticed it. He was already doubled over, clutching his wounded hand, which had started bleeding again. A bruise on his thigh was probably the least of his concerns.

“Knock it off!” Mr. Suburbia shouted. Under the coffee table, the Labrador was barking furiously, although it showed no desire to get involved in the fight.

“I’ll kill him,” Tommi said. “This time I’ll fucking kill him!” He grabbed for the fringed cowboy jacket he had tossed over the back of one sofa, but Mr. Suburbia beat him to it. He snatched the jacket and pulled something out of one of the pockets. A gun, of course. Nina was surprised only that it wasn’t a gleaming silver six-shooter, but a dull black modern affair with a barrel that wasn’t more than twelve or thirteen centimeters long.

“Give me that,” Tommi hissed.

“Just knock it off, damnit.” Mr. Suburbia said, looking irritated. Like a father interrupted in the middle of the evening news by a fight between his kids. “Are you coming totally unglued? First Tyson and now this? No more trouble now. You hear me?”

“But.…” Tommi flung out his arms as if he were about to protest, and Nina was half expecting him to say that the others had started it.

Just then there was a
pling
from another pocket of the fringed jacket. Frederik awkwardly put down the pistol on the coffee table and pulled out the phone.

“It’s from him,” Frederik said. “It’s going to be tonight. Nine-thirty. But he won’t send the address until later.” He looked up at Tommi again. “We’re so close. Quit thinking with your cock. I want things low-key now. Smooth. That other stuff is going to have to wait.”

The Finn shot Nina, Ida, and Sándor a collective angry look.

“Fine,” Tommi said. “Then you can be the fucking babysitter.”

The Finn flipped a defiant fuck-you finger at them all and vanished into the blue video room, presumably to relieve his frustration in the company of eighteen-year-old Sabrina.

Nina looked at Ida. There was barely suppressed panic in her dark eyes, and her bound arm was moving incessantly in an involuntary twitch.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Nina lied. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m here.”

LITTLE AFTER SEVEN
, they finally hit jackpot in the identification lottery. At that point Søren had had an unsatisfying conversation with Malee Rasmussen, who pretty much repeated the stock phrases he was familiar with from the recording with near surgical precision: “It’s an investment. I didn’t know there was anyone there. I haven’t been there since February.” He hadn’t been able to find any holes in her shell, and finally he had had to admit defeat. Whatever she was afraid of, it made her completely immune to the pressure of more civilized interrogation methods.

Out of sheer desperation he had then spent almost twenty minutes watching a group of brain-dead young Finns subject themselves to various bizarre forms of bodily harm, all while laughing maniacally and yelling at themselves and each other. In English, with a strikingly pronounced Finnish accent. By the time his phone finally rang, he was profoundly grateful for the interruption.

It was his navy blue friend, Birgitte Johnsen.

“I just saw the description you sent out,” she said. “Of the man in the video.”

“Yes,” Søren said. “Do you know him?”

“It could be Tommi Karvinen.”

Søren sat up straight and slapped his pen down on the tabletop with a bang.

“A Finn?”

“Yup. One Nordic import we could certainly have done without. We suspect him of being heavily involved in trafficking, but the girls he’s involved with don’t talk. We haven’t been able to nail him. Aside from an old narcotics conviction from the late 1990s, he just has one suspended conviction for aggravated assault from 2003.”

“Suspended?”

“He beat up a john who had beat up a prostitute. His lawyer argued self-defense on the woman’s behalf, and that won him some leniency.”

“As in ‘how chivalrous of him to defend her?’ ”

“Yes, but the most interesting thing.…”

“Aha?” He could hear in Birgitte’s voice that she was looking forward to telling him the next bit. But did she have to sound like a grandmother holding out a caramel and then pretending she wasn’t going to let him have it?

“The prostitute, who of course was heard as a witness in the case, was Malee Rasmussen.”

Yes!

“Give me everything you’ve got,” he said. “Starting with the address.”

All the sudden his body was alive again. The feeling of defeat he’d been fighting all afternoon was gone. He leapt up and flung open the door to the hallway.

“Gitte!” he yelled. “Gitte, where are you?”

Christian came over to him with a printout in his hand.

“She just went downstairs for a power nap,” he said. “But I have something for you.”

Søren mechanically accepted the pages Christian was handing him.

“What is this?”

“The results from the Opel list.”

“Give me just the highlights. Have we got something?”

“Not really. No IP addresses of particular interest. No one belonging to any known groups. No criminal records, apart from a guy who was apparently into alternative lifestyles at some point back in the ’70s and had a minor drug conviction. Solid pillars of society right down the list with an average age just over sixty, which I suppose isn’t so surprising, considering the age of the car. These are people who bought German quality and kept it. The only thing is.…” Christian paused.

Come on, Christian, not you too. Give me my caramel!

“Yes?”

“It’s nothing too definite. The man is over eighty and retired. He worked for the city, in Buildings and Safety for damn near half a century. Not exactly obvious terrorist material.”

“Christian, what the hell? What about him?”

“He just … well, more specifically, his wife, the house is in her name … they just took out an sizeable loan on the equity. And we can’t see how they spent the money.”

“How much?”

“Six hundred thousand kroner.”

Okay. That wasn’t exactly small potatoes.

“Well. I suppose we know he didn’t spend it on a new car,” Søren said.

“No. It could have been a holiday home or something like that, but if so it’s not here in Denmark.”

“Send Gitte over there when she wakes up.”

“Will do. Where are you headed?”

Søren felt a famished predator’s grin spreading across his face.

“Off to catch me a Finn,” he said.

HE POLICE OFFICER
was female. In a way, it was two shocks in one.

Of course Skou-Larsen was well aware that the police force employed countless women, but when there was a friendly young lady on one’s doorstep, ringing one’s doorbell, well, “Whoops, the police are here” wasn’t exactly the first thing that popped into one’s head.

“Has something happened to Helle?” he asked, as soon as he realized the meaning of the identification she was showing him.

“No, no,” the policewoman said reassuringly. “We just need to follow up on all the leads in this case. Am I correct, sir, in my understanding that you own a 1984 Opel Rekord?”

“Yes.” She could see it in the carport, he thought, if she turned her head a little. But he supposed they had to ask. “Model E,” he said, to try to seem a little more accommodating. “An older car, of course, but very reliable. What is this in regard to?” She wasn’t in uniform, so it couldn’t be a traffic infraction. Or … did they not wear uniforms anymore?

“Would you mind if we came in for a moment, sir?”

We? It wasn’t until then that he noticed the second police officer, who was still standing on the sidewalk talking into his phone. Skou-Larsen furrowed his brow, but it seemed rude to say no, and it would also look suspicious in their eyes.

“Not at all,” he said. “My wife isn’t home, but perhaps I could figure out how to make us some coffee.”

The second police officer introduced himself as Mikael Nielsen, but didn’t want to sit down.

“You guys mind if I take a look at the car while you talk?” Nielsen asked.

Skou-Larsen felt a wasp-sting of irritation at the officer’s rude informality. You guys. As if he were talking to some street punk.

“Perhaps first you could just be so kind as to tell me what this case is about?” he suggested. “I can assure you that I haven’t done anything illegal.”

No one said, “No, of course not,” or any other similarly placating phrases. Both Mikael Nielsen and that young lady—what was her name now? Nystrøm, Nyhus, Nymand—were just observing him with an expectant neutrality that he found disagreeable.

“Of course, sir, we could also wait for a warrant,” Gitte Nymand said. Yes, that’s what she said her name was.

He waved his hand in irritation.

“No,” he said. “That’s fine. Check whatever you damn well please, for Pete’s sake.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Gitte said, rewarding him with a warm smile. “The whole thing will go much quicker this way. For you as well.”

He refused to let himself to be mollified. She might be more polite than her colleague, but the signal was very clear: They were in charge, and they could invade his car and his home as it suited them. The affront stung, and he decided that he didn’t feel like struggling with the coffee machine for their sake. Deeply ingrained manners made him wait until after she had sat down on the sofa before he allowed himself to settle into his favorite armchair. Maybe it was good that Helle had that extra choir practice; with any luck, he could get this all over with and have the constabulary out of the house again before she came home.

“Let me just jump right in,” Nymand said. “Several months ago, sir, you and your wife took out a loan for a little over half a million kroner. The loan was paid out in cash, which is rather unusual. Could you explain to me what the money was for?”

“Oh,” Skou-Larsen said, suddenly feeling the light of understanding casting a reconciliatory glow over the invasion. “You’re from the
fraud
squad.”

“No, sir,” Nymand said. “We’re from the PET.”

“But this obviously has something to do with that scam case in Spain,” he said.

She didn’t skip a beat. “Could you please tell me about it, sir,” she said. “From your point of view, of course.”

“I’m afraid my wife was taken in by a few brightly colored brochures
and a salesman who was slightly too clever. And since the house is in her name, I didn’t learn of her plans until it was too late. It was supposed to be a surprise, you understand. I’m almost eighty-five. And she thought it would be good for me to have someplace warmer to spend the winters.”

Gitte nodded encouragingly, without interrupting.

“But it turned out the whole thing was a sham. The apartment my wife thought she bought doesn’t exist. At least not outside the pictures in the brochure.”

“Do you still have the brochure, sir?”

“Of course. Would you like to see it?”

He went to retrieve it from the drawer in Helle’s nightstand and then placed it on the rosewood coffee table in front of the police officer. PUEBLO PUERTO LAGUNAS it said in sunshine-yellow capital letters across the glossy front, and the pictures underneath were brimming with enough palm trees, pool umbrellas, and idyllic balconies to produce a stab of longing in any winter-weary Danish soul. Nor was Skou-Larsen completely immune to it. The idea of escaping the asthma-inducing fogs and winter bouts of arthritis was agreeable enough, but one didn’t need to toss every scrap of judgment and healthy common sense out the window because of it.