The Hanging Girl (2 page)

Wednesday, April 30th, 2014

Staff retirement receptions were
normally held at the police station in Rønne. But that was precisely what Habersaat had not wanted. Since the new police reform had come into force, his good close contact with the local citizens, and what happened over on the east coast of the island, had been transformed to a constant transport back and forth from east to west, and suddenly endless decision-making processes sneaked in from the moment a criminal act occurred until something serious was done about it. Time was wasted, leads were lost, criminals got away.

“It’s a golden age for crooks,” he always said, as if someone cared to listen.

Habersaat hated the direction society was moving in, both generally and more locally. And colleagues who supported the system, and didn’t even know him and the extent of his forty years of loyal service, shouldn’t be at his retirement reception like bleating sheep, acting like they were honoring him.

As a result, he decided to hold the main reception in the local setting of Listed Community Hall, just six hundred meters from his house.

With what he had planned for the occasion, it would be more decent in every way.

He stood in front of the mirror a moment, inspecting his parade uniform, noticing the folds that had formed in the material as a result of not being used for so many years. And while he meticulously and clumsily ironed the trousers on an ironing board that had never been put up
before, he let his eyes wander around the room that had once been the family’s warm and lively living room.

Almost twenty years had gone by since then, and now the past stalked about like a purposeless stray animal among heaps of rubbish and junk that no one wanted.

Habersaat shook his head. When he looked back, he didn’t understand himself. Why had he allowed all the colored ring binders to take over the shelves instead of the good books? Why was it swimming with photocopies and clippings on every available surface? Why had he put all his life into work rather than those people who once cared about him?

And yet he understood.

He bowed his head, trying to give free rein to the emotions that momentarily came over him, but the tears didn’t come. Maybe because he was all cried out a long time ago. Yes, of course he knew why things had gone the way they had. It was the way it had to be.

He took a deep breath, straightened out his uniform on the dining table, picked up a worn photo frame, and caressed the picture in it as he’d done hundreds of times before. If only he could have the wasted days back. If only he could just change his nature and decisions and one last time feel the closeness of his wife and boy.

He sighed. Here in this room, he’d made love with his beautiful wife on the sofa. Here on the rug, he’d crawled about with his son when he was very small. Here the arguments had begun, and here his gloom had established itself and multiplied.

It was in this living room that his wife finally spat in his face and once and for all left him alone in life with the knowledge that a trivial case had ripped the happiness out from under his feet.

Back when it all started, it had knocked him for six and left him in an almost permanent state of dejection, yet he just hadn’t been able to let the case go. That was the way it was, unfortunately, and with good reason.

He stood up, tapped one of the piles of notes and clippings, emptied his ashtray, and took out the trash with the week’s ration of empty, rattling cans. Finally, he gave his inside pockets a last check in case he’d
forgotten something and looked to see that his parade uniform was just as it should be.

Then he shut the door.

*   *   *

Despite everything, Habersaat had probably expected that more people would’ve turned up for the reception. If nothing else, then at least those he’d helped out during hard times over the years, but maybe also those for whom he’d smoothed out injustices and put a stop to unfairness. At any rate, he’d expected to see a few of the old retired colleagues from the uniformed police in Nexø and maybe some of the citizens he’d provided authority for over the years in the small community. But when he saw that it was only the chair and substitute accountant of the civic association, the police commissioner and his immediate subordinate, together with the police union representative, who had dutifully turned up, over and above the five to six people he had invited personally, he dropped his long speech and let things come as they came.

“Thanks for coming out on this wonderful sunny morning,” he said, nodding to his old near neighbor Sam that he could start filming now. He poured white wine into the empty plastic glasses and emptied peanuts and potato chips onto foil trays. There was certainly no one else offering to help.

He took a step forward and invited everyone to take a glass. And while they assembled around in front of him, he discreetly put a hand in his pocket and took the safety off his pistol.

“Cheers, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, nodding to each person individually. “Fine faces for judgment day,” he continued smilingly. “Thanks for turning up under the circumstances. You all know what I’ve been through, that I was once like most men, especially policemen. I’m sure that those of you who haven’t gone to seed can still remember me as a quiet and calm guy who could talk around a psyched-up fisherman with a broken beer bottle in his fist and a little too much adrenaline coursing round his veins. Isn’t that right?”

Sam gave a thumbs-up in front of the camera but only one other
person nodded. Even so, with downcast eyes, there was an expression of agreement here and there.

“Of course, I’m sorry that after all this time I’m remembered as the man who burned the wick at both ends on a hopeless case, which finally tore apart my family, friendships, and happiness. I’d like to apologize for that, as I’d like to apologize for the years of bitterness from my side. I should’ve stopped when I could. Sorry once again for that.”

He turned toward his superiors, his smile fading and his hand now clutching the pistol in his pocket. “Colleagues, to you I want to say that because you’re so new in office you can’t be personally blamed for my problems. You carry out your work without fault in the way the foolish politicians tell you to. But many of your older colleagues, and those who came before you, let down not only me with their insufficient backing, but also a young woman through their indifference and thoughtlessness. For this betrayal I want to reciprocate with my contempt for the system that you’ve come to protect. A system that isn’t capable of carrying out the police work we’re employed to do. Nowadays, it’s all about the statistics and not whether you really get to the bottom of things. So I say to you: I’ll be damned if I ever got used to that!”

A few quiet protests came from the police union representative, as he was required to make, and another reproached him for what he judged as an unsuitable tone for such an occasion.

Habersaat nodded. They were right. It was unsuitable, just like most of what he’d boxed their ears with over the years. But now it had to end. He needed to put a stop to it all and make an example that would never be forgotten among his colleagues. And as unwilling as he was, the time had come.

He yanked the pistol out of his pocket so violently that those closest to him disappeared from his field of vision.

For a brief moment, he noticed the fear and horror that spread over his superiors, as he pointed the pistol at them.

And then he let it happen.

It had been a
typical night, so Carl made a start on the paperwork by putting his legs up on the table to catch up on some sleep. After clearing up the cases from the last few months, the time since had been a diffuse hotchpotch of conflicting emotions. It had been a real winter of discontent on a personal level, just as his almost three-year-long and growing resistance to bowing to Lars Bjørn’s boorish authority on the work front hadn’t been anything to smile about either. And then there was the business with Ronny and the uncertainty about his damn writing. To be exact, it was affecting both his sleep and his waking day. There were going to have to be some serious changes or he was going to go to ground.

He took a random folder from the pile, dropped it in his lap, and grabbed a pen. After some practice with different positions, he knew how to avoid dropping things when he took a nap. Still, the pen fell on the floor anyway when Rose woke him with her cutting tone.

He looked drowsily at the clock and realized that, despite everything, he’d managed to sleep for the best part of an hour.

With a certain satisfaction he stretched, ignoring Rose’s harsh look.

“I’ve just been in contact with the police in Rønne,” she said, “and you certainly won’t be glad to hear why.”

“I see.” He moved the folder from his lap to the table and picked up the pen.

“An hour ago Police Sergeant Christian Habersaat turned up to his farewell reception at the community hall in Listed. And fifty minutes ago he released the safety on his pistol and shot himself in the head in front of ten shocked witnesses.”

She nodded tellingly as Carl’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, well, that’s what I’d call really bad. Wouldn’t you say, Carl?” she said sharply. “I’ll know more when the police commissioner in Rønne gets back to the station. Turns out he witnessed the whole thing. But until then, I’ll book tickets for the next flight.”

“Okay, it’s really all very unfortunate. But what are you talking about? Next flight? Are you flying somewhere, Rose?” Carl attempted to look confused, but he knew where all this was leading. It had better be a damn joke.

“Look, I’m sorry to hear about Haber-what’s-his-name, but if you think I’m getting on a flying sardine can to Bornholm just because of that, you’ve got another thing coming. And besides . . .”

“If you’re too scared to fly, Carl,” Rose butted in, “you’d better get a move on and book tickets for the ferry from Ystad to Rønne leaving at twelve thirty, while I talk with the police commissioner. It’s your fault that we need to respond, after all, so you’d better do it yourself. Isn’t that what you’re always saying to me? I’ll go and tell Assad that he can stop splashing around with paint in the other room and get himself ready.”

Carl rubbed his eyes.

Was he really awake?

*   *   *

Neither the drive from the police station to Ystad through the southern spring landscape of Skåne nor the hour-and-a-half boat trip to Bornholm could subdue Rose’s indignation.

Carl had been looking at his face in the rearview mirror. If he didn’t watch out, he’d soon look like his granddad, with vacant eyes and lifeless skin.

He adjusted the mirror only to replace the view with a clear look at Rose’s angry face. “Why didn’t you talk with him, Carl?” came the constant refrain from the back in the worst imaginable tone of reproach. If there had been a taxi driver’s compartment window between them, he’d have slammed it shut.

And now, in the restaurant onboard the large catamaran ferry, the cold from the Siberian winds that sailed in over the foam-topped waves, and which Assad stared at worryingly, was nothing compared to the cold emanating from Rose. She’d definitely got herself stuck in a mood of which there was no getting out.

“I don’t know what they call it, Carl. But in less tolerant societies what you did to Habersaat could easily be considered neglect of duty . . .”

Carl tried to ignore her. Rose was Rose, after all. But with her final trump, ”. . . or even worse, manslaughter,” the bomb exploded anyway.

“That’s enough now, goddamnit, Rose!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table, causing all the glasses and bottles to bang together.

It wasn’t the angry look Rose flashed at him that stopped him in his tracks, but Assad’s nod over toward the guests in the cafeteria, who were staring at them, openmouthed, with their pastries wobbling on their cake forks.

“They’re actors!” Assad apologized to the other customers with a cheeky smile. “Just practicing a play at the moment, but they won’t spoil the ending, I promise.”

Some of the guests were obviously speculating where the hell it was they’d seen those actors before.

Carl leaned in over to Rose and tried to lower his tone. She was all right when it came down to it. I mean, hadn’t she been there for him and Assad on numerous occasions over the years? He certainly wouldn’t forget all she’d done for him when he was close to burning himself out in the Marco case three years ago. No, you just had to avoid picking at her quirks too much, because that was how she worked best. When it came down to it, she could be a little unstable from time to time, but if you wanted to help her calm down, the best thing to do was take the knocks or things would only get worse.

He took a deep breath. “Listen here, Rose. Don’t think I’m not sorry about what’s happened. But might I remind you that what happened to Habersaat was his own choice and doing. He could’ve just called back or, alternatively, answered the phone when you called him. If he’d warned us in an e-mail or letter about what he was going to do, then things
would’ve looked different today. Wouldn’t you agree, little Miss Holier-than-thou?”

He smiled conciliatorily, but something about the way Rose looked told him he should have dropped the last sentence.

Thank God, Assad managed to avert anything developing further.

“Rose, I get your point. But Habersaat committed suicide and we can’t do anything about that now.” He froze suddenly, gagging a couple of times, looking drearily out over the top of the waves.

“So shouldn’t we just try to find out why he did it?” he continued a little feebly. “Isn’t that why we’re heading to Bornholm on this weird boat?”

Rose nodded with the faintest of smiles. It was acting at its best.

Carl leaned back in his seat again and nodded gratefully to Assad, whose color had changed in a split second from his usual Middle Eastern glow to green. Poor guy! But what could you expect from someone who could develop seasickness on an inflatable raft in a swimming pool?

“I’m really not so keen on sailing,” he said in a worryingly quiet voice.

“There are sick bags in the restroom,” Rose said dryly, pulling her travel guide to Bornholm from her pocket.

Assad shook his head. “No, no, I’m fine. I’ll be okay. I’ve made my mind up.”

Never a dull moment with that pair.

*   *   *

The Bornholm Police represented Denmark’s undisputedly smallest police district with its own police commissioner and a force of around sixty. On the entire island, there was only one police station left, which in addition to being manned round the clock was also responsible for those police matters concerning not only the forty-five thousand islanders, but also the six hundred thousand tourists who visited every year. A micro universe of almost six hundred square kilometers of arable farmland, cliffs, and rocks, and an endless number of large and especially small attractions, which the local tourist organizations each attempted to
publicize as the most unique. The biggest round church, the smallest, the best preserved, the oldest, the tallest. All communities with any self-respect had exactly what it was that made the island worth visiting.

The broad-shouldered policeman down in reception asked them to wait a moment. Apparently there had been a vehicle with an excessive load on the ferry they’d travelled on, so there were a few things that needed to be attended to.

Well, of course such an atrocious crime should take precedence over everything else, thought Carl with a mocking smile when one of them got up to point to the door they should use.

The police commissioner received them in his best clothes in the assembly room on the first floor, with a spread of pastries and a mass of coffee cups. There was no doubt here about rank or authority, or that their presence, despite the seriousness of the situation, puzzled the local boss.

“You’ve come a long way from home,” he said, presumably meaning
too
far.

“Yes, our colleague Christian Habersaat unfortunately committed suicide. An unusually gruesome parting,” he continued, still seeming somewhat in shock. Carl had seen it before. Police who’d taken the academic route, just like all the other Danish police commissioners, and who as a result hadn’t gotten their hands too dirty, were exactly the sort of people on the force who were least likely to feel comfortable witnessing a colleague’s brains being splattered all over the wall.

Carl nodded. “I spoke briefly with Christian Habersaat yesterday afternoon. All I know is he wanted to initiate and involve me in a case, and that I probably wasn’t receptive enough, so here we are. I’ve got a hunch that it won’t disturb your work if we take a closer look at things. I hope you’ll agree.”

If a scowl and a downturned mouth meant yes on Bornholm, then that was one thing sorted on the case.

“Maybe you can tell me what he was referring to in his e-mail to us? He wrote that Department Q was his last hope.”

The police commissioner shook his head. He probably could but wouldn’t. He had people for that sort of thing.

He beckoned an officer wearing dress uniform over to him. “This is Police Superintendent John Birkedal. He was born on the island and has known Habersaat since long before I was appointed. John and myself, and our representative from the police union, were the only people from the station who attended Habersaat’s reception.”

Assad was the first to hold out his hand. “My condolences,” he said.

Birkedal shook his hand awkwardly, turning toward Carl with a look that seemed familiar.

“Hiya, Carl, long time no see,” he said as Carl attempted to suppress an instinctive frown.

The man in front of him was in his early fifties, so almost the same age as Carl, and in spite of the moustache and heavy eyes he seemed like someone he ought to know. But where in the world had he seen him before?

Birkedal laughed. “Of course you can’t remember me, but I was in the year below you at the police academy out on Amager. We played tennis together and I won three times in a row, I might add. Then you suddenly didn’t want to play anymore.”

Was that Rose grinning behind him? He hoped not, for her sake.

“Yeah . . .” Carl tried to smile. “Actually, I wanted to, all right, but wasn’t there something about a dodgy ankle?” he said without the least recollection of the episode. If he’d ever played tennis, then the error had been well and truly buried.

“Well, that was quite a shock with Christian,” continued the superintendent, thankfully of his own accord. “But he’d been depressed for some years, even though those of us at the station didn’t notice it so much day to day. I don’t think we can criticize his work as a uniformed policeman, can we, Peter?”

The police commissioner shook his head in the appropriate manner.

“But at home in Listed, it seems things were different for Habersaat. He was divorced and lived alone, extremely bitter about an old case that he’d turned into his life’s work to solve, despite not working in criminal investigation. It was a very trivial case concerning a hit-and-run driver, some would say, but as the accident cost a young girl her life, it wasn’t quite so trivial after all.”

“Okay, a hit-and-run driver.” Carl looked out of the window. He knew this sort of case. Either they were solved in a flash or else they were archived. It was going to be a short stay on the island.

“And the driver of the vehicle was never found, is that correct?” asked Rose as she held out her hand.

“Correct, yes. If we had, well then, Christian probably would’ve been alive today. But I’m afraid I have to run. I’m sure you can imagine that we have a certain amount of internal formalities to take care of in connection with what happened today, not to mention dealing with the press, who we need to try and send on their way first. Couldn’t I come over to your hotel a little later and answer your questions then?”

*   *   *

“You must be the police over from Copenhagen,” assumed the receptionist at Sverres Hotel without further niceties, selecting the keys to those rooms that were without doubt the least appealing she could offer. Rose, as usual, had haggled on the price.

A little later they found Police Superintendent John Birkedal in one of the imitation leather chairs in the lounge above the dining room. Up here on the first floor, there was a good view out over both the industrial harbor and the back of a Brugsen supermarket. It wasn’t pretty. If only the view had included a couple of freeways, then the overall impression would have been perfect. Probably not the best place to write a travel guide on this otherwise fairy-tale-like island.

“I’ll be honest with you. I couldn’t stand Habersaat,” began Birkedal. “But to see a colleague shoot himself in the head because he felt insufficient in his work is something that really hurt. I’ve experienced a lot in my police career but I fear this will stay with me. It’s quite horrible.”

“Definitely,” Assad interrupted. “Excuse me, but I just want to understand correctly. He shot himself in the head with a pistol, you say. It wasn’t his service weapon, was it?”

Birkedal shook his head. “No, that was done by the book. He left it down in the weapons depot just before handing in his ID badge and keys to the station. We aren’t exactly sure where he got the pistol from, but it
was definitely a 9mm Beretta 92. A real nasty piece of work to be carrying about. But you’ll know it, of course, from the
Lethal Weapon
films with Mel Gibson?”

Nobody answered.

“Right, well, it’s a relatively big and solid fella, which I thought was a fake at first when he pulled it out and aimed at the police commissioner and myself. It isn’t a weapon he had permission for, but we know that a similar Beretta disappeared from the estate of a deceased person near Aakirkeby five or six years ago. Whether or not it’s the same weapon, we’ve got no way of checking because the former owner didn’t have any papers.”