The House That Jack Built (7 page)

Chapter 14

H
e RAN INTO
Sanne
in the square just outside the main entrance to the Copenhagen Police Department. Her sunglasses were resting in her hair. The top buttons of her shirt were undone. The two of them stood awkwardly, squinting in the bright sunlight.

Lars was the first to speak.

“I'm sorry about yesterday. I was tired, and Ulrik —”

“Can we just forget about that?” She waved her hand. “Where have you been?”

“On a search. It's the rape case. Actually I was going to go for a walk. It's hard to think in there sometimes.”

She smiled at him. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Yes — I mean no, I don't mind. It's fine.”

She laughed and slid her sunglasses on.

They walked across the square, turned down Bernstorffsgade, and headed toward Kalvebod Brygge. Neither of them said anything. Lars walked with his hands in his pockets. Sanne turned her head to the sun. Behind the dark glasses, her eyes were shut.

They crossed Kalvebod Brygge, passed the Marriott Hotel, and stopped by the harbour. Across the water, they could make out people swimming in the harbour baths on Islands Brygge, tiny black insects swarming on the promenade on the far side, dots popping up and down in the glistening water.

Sanne followed his gaze. “It looks lovely. Have you been in?”

He shook his head. “No, it's still too urban for me. I have to go out to Amager Beach Park before I show myself in swim trunks.”

Sanne laughed and followed him along the harbour. “There ought to be a café around here. The view is absolutely fantastic.”

“A little different from Kolding?”

“Actually we do have a harbour — your typical small-town commercial harbour. Not as big as this one.”

“I think we can get some coffee just around the corner here.” Lars led Sanne along the boardwalk, around the next building to where a small café was nestled in a corner between two buildings. He bought a latte for Sanne and a black coffee for himself. They continued south along the water's edge with their drinks.

The towering head offices of banks, the engineering union, and the elite of the Danish corporate world cut off the view to downtown Copenhagen. A broad, low tour boat shot past. Gulls hung in the air above, squawking.

Sanne pushed her sunglasses up on her head and squinted.

“What is it with —?” She stopped herself. “No, just forget it.”

Lars stopped. She had latte foam on her upper lip. She looked lovely in the sunlight and by the glistening water. The air smelled of salt and sea.

“It's just the two of us. We're far away from the station and the others.” He smiled. “Spit it out.”

She took a sip of her latte and looked across the water.

“You can't get annoyed,” she began.

“I'm the one who asked you.”

“Fine. Nobody's said anything to me, but I can sense grumbling in the corners. From your team too, according to the rumours.” She looked up. “What's the deal with you and Ulrik?”

His eyes wandered. He ran the bottom of the cardboard cup against his palm, coughed with his fist covering his mouth. There was only one way to say it. Quickly and to the point.

“A little over two months ago, my wife Elena came home and told me she was moving out, taking our daughter with her. To Ulrik's.” Lars stared across the harbour. “He and I have been friends since the academy. We've been on vacations together, celebrated Christmas, birthdays.” He shrugged. “Ulrik is more ambitious than me. I suppose that's what Elena was missing.”

Sanne's smile stiffened. “If you don't want —”

“No, it's okay.” He took another sip. The coffee tasted bitter. “We'd drifted apart — I just hadn't noticed it. Ulrik on the other hand — Ow, go . . .” He'd squeezed the cardboard cup so hard that the lid had popped off and hot coffee spilled onto his hand. Sanne grabbed the cup, started wiping the scalding hot coffee off his hand with her napkin. The touch sent a shock through him.

“It's not that bad,” he said to Sanne. “It just surprised me.”

She looked at his hand with a worried expression. “It's always bad when there are children involved,” she said. “How old is she?”

“Maria's sixteen, starting grade ten.” He pictured Maria. “She's going to stay with me for the next two weeks.” He hadn't seen her for two months. How would she react when they met? Was she still angry at him? He was suddenly nervous about seeing her again. How well did he really know her anymore?

“Listen, if you'd rather just be with your daughter tonight . . .” Sanne looked down. “But I was wondering if you'd like to come to my place for dinner? I mean, me and my boyfriend's place.”

“That sounds nice. I think . . .” It should really be just him and Maria tonight of all nights. But what was he going to say to her? Where would he start? He threw the coffee cup into a garbage can by the promenade. “You know what, we'd like that a lot.”

Chapter 15

T
here was a
file from the translator in her mail slot when she returned.
Quick service. Impressive
.

She waited until she was inside her office before she placed the original and the translation side by side on her desk. She adjusted the lamp and started reading.

Dear Mira,

I hope you get my letter. I don't understand why I can't have your actual address? I promise I won't come to Copenhagen. I just get so worried.

Mira, I know you're just like me. You knew what you were getting into. But don't waste your life. Soon it will be too late. Soon you won't be able to have a normal job. The streets devour you. They chew you up and spit you out until there's nothing left. You know I've been there and God knows I never want to go back. I implore you, no I beg you: think carefully.

You were so beautiful when you were little. You babbled and laughed in my arms. It was just the two of us in the world. Can't it be like that again?

That was all I wanted to say. Hurry home, dear girl. Time passes by far too quickly and before you know it, it's too late. If it's money you need, then write. I'll see what I can do.

I love you.

Your Mom,

Zoe

Sanne put the letter down. Ulrik was right: its contents had not revealed much about Mira. The letter suggested that her mom had been a prostitute too. Had Zoe in some way passed her fate onto her daughter? She forced back the thought. Better to think about what she was going to cook for Lars and his daughter. Tasty but not too fancy. Everyday food, something along the lines of salmon, or fresh plaice. Something that tasted of Danish summer.

She had better call Martin and tell him they were having guests.

Chapter 16

A
flock of
pigeons flew up from the tracks and veered out over Lygten. The F-Line from Hellerup rumbled into Nørrebro Station.

Lars had a knot in his stomach; he was perspiring, afraid of meeting a sixteen-year-old high school student. It could hardly be more pathetic. But Maria was the person he loved more than anyone — and she was furious with him.

She had sent him a short text message earlier. She was arriving on the F-line at 4:18 p.m., and even though she'd said he didn't have to, he was waiting for her, just like he had after her first day of school. He remembered his little girl on a rainy day in the suburb of Mørkhøj — Maria standing on the road in a dress and sandals with her hair in braids.

Just before coming to meet his daughter, he had left Mikkel Rasmussen's shirt with Toke. Now it was on its way to Forensics. Getting usable DNA wouldn't be a problem. They had him.

The crowd parted in front of him. A figure stood out. Then a body pressed against his, a momentary touch of a cheek before she pulled back, stood in front of him, waiting. Her pretty, deep brown eyes shifted toward the billboards, the people passing by — the light in their eyes had long since gone out — the departing train. Everything but him.

“Hey,” he ventured.

Maria mumbled something in reply. He tried stroking her hair.

“Are we just going to stand here?” she said, pulling her head back.

When he laughed, he could hear how hollow it sounded.

“No, of course not. Come on, it's just over there.” He speed-talked as he walked ahead of her toward the stairs leading to street level. On the first landing he stopped so she could catch up to him. She wore cut-off jean shorts, a black peasant top, Converse sneakers, and a backpack. Her hair was still long and dark brown like his. She had a small upturned nose and delicate eyebrows, and her mouth was slightly too big for her slender face. She was just as he remembered her. But had she lost weight? Did her cheeks look a little hollow?

She was already on her cell, texting. Her thumb passed lightning fast over the keys.

He glanced at her as they walked along the street under the tracks. She was somewhere else. Not here. Not with him. “Can't you wait a minute with that?”

She didn't answer, continued texting as she followed him down Folmer Bendtsens Plads.

When they got upstairs, Maria walked straight into the first room. “Is this supposed to be my room?”

“Er, we're going to paint it of course, but yes, that's what I was thinking.”

“And where am I going to sleep? On that?” she said, pointing to the mattress that was leaning against the wall.

“Mom is sending all your things over tomorrow. Everything from your old room. Ulrik's bought new furniture for you, right?”

She dropped the backpack in a corner and sprawled in the old wicker chair, the only other furniture in the room apart from the mattress. The wicker creaked.

“And you can cut that out.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the cigarettes he had just taken out. “You're not smoking in here.”

He fumbled with the pack then put it back in his pocket. It was unbelievable how she could order him around. You could forget a lot in two months.

She kicked off her shoes and folded her legs under her. “At least it's not far from Caro's place.”

“Caroline? Has she moved away from home?” Had it already begun?

“She's subletting an apartment on Ørholmgade.” She looked up at him. “Relax. Her mom is so tough, and she knew someone who'd be travelling all summer.” She began texting again.

So it was just a trial. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing? With Caroline around the corner, the chances of Maria wanting to be here increased considerably.

“We're going to a colleague's for dinner tonight,” he said. “I'm just going out on the balcony to — smoke.”

“Fine,” she said and rolled her eyes. Her phone beeped.

Lars closed the balcony door behind him, exhaled. The cigarette was already in his mouth. He struck a match and drew the smoke deep into his lungs.

An Audi streaked out of the roundabout, nearly grazing a rattling Opel. There was honking and a finger out the window. Lars looked back into the apartment. His home had just been subjected to something close to a hostile takeover and he had no idea what to do about it.

He looked at his watch. It was quarter to five. They had to be at Sanne's for six o'clock. He threw the butt down onto the street and went inside.

“I'm just going to take a shower,” he shouted. “We're leaving in half an hour.”

But the door to the bathroom was closed. When he tried the handle, it was locked.

Sanne answered the door on the third floor at Århusgade.

“Hi Sanne.” Lars handed her the bottle of wine they had bought at Føtex on their way over. “Maria, this is Sanne.” He pushed Maria in front of him. “It smells delicious.”

“Thanks,” Sanne said. “I hope you like fish. We're having plaice.”

The evening went far better than Lars had expected. Sanne managed to engage his grumpy teenage daughter, and during the meal Maria laughed and told funny stories about her new teachers at Øregård high school. And as soon as Maria discovered that Sanne's boyfriend, Martin, was a Monty Python fan, she was sold.

Immediately after the meal, Maria and Martin disappeared to the room next door to watch an episode of the original BBC television show on the flat screen. Sanne and Lars cleared the table.

“How's it going with the case?” Sanne was rinsing the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. Lars came into the kitchen with the rest of the dishes. He told her about the search, the bloodstained shirt.

“That was quick,” she said.

“The Internet helped.” He explained how they had got on Mikkel Rasmussen's track by checking the club and bar web sites for photos at Penthouse from that night. “Unfortunately, it's as though the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. He's probably in hiding.”

Sanne nodded as she rinsed the serving dishes.

They stood in silence. Lars turned his glass in his hands. “Is it a good idea to piss off your boss in your first week? I mean, by having me and Maria over like this?”

Sanne shook her head. “I'm here to learn, right? Frelsén said you were the best. Ulrik got annoyed about that too.”

He laughed. So Frelsén had complained about him being dropped from the case. It must have been an interesting autopsy.

“Did you find out anything else about the girl — Mira, was it?”

“Hmm.” Sanne nodded. “There was a letter among her personal effects, from her mom.” Sanne was looking down at the sink. Lars followed her eyes. Scraps of plaice, potatoes, and parsley floated around in the cloudy dishwater, swirling toward the drain with a loud gurgle. “Another short-lived, sad life. She probably would have ended up like she did somewhere else anyway.”

“You must never think like that,” he said. “That's how the bureaucrats think, how Ulrik thinks.” Then he caught himself. “Sorry. I shouldn't get you mixed up in my problems.”

Sanne grimaced. “I think I'm starting to share your opinion of him.”

“Cheers to that.” Lars raised his glass.

They clinked glasses, then Sanne put hers on the counter.

“What about you?” she said. “Your wife ran off with your boss and you've got a teenage daughter. Who else is there? Parents?”

“Isn't that enough?” Lars looked out the window. “Well, my mom lives in a housing co-op in Sydhavnen. I suppose she's what you'd call a life artist.”

“And your dad?”

Lars's gaze followed the ruler-straight line of hedges outside, the flowerbeds that framed the courtyard. Jungle gyms, sandboxes. Benches for the stylish Østerbro parents.

“It's been a while since I saw him last. He's American. Absconded from military service and Vietnam in the late 1960s. He finally ended up in the hippie camp in Thylejren, where he met my mom. As she tells the story, she got pregnant almost straight away.”

“And he's not here anymore?”

“In 1977, Jimmy Carter granted amnesty to ten thousand deserters. Among them was my dad. I was nine years old when he went back to the U.S. Now he's a professor of criminology at Columbia in New York,” he said. “And you? You're from Kolding?”

“Another time.” Sanne put down the sponge and went into the living room. Lars followed. From the TV room, they could hear Maria and Martin crying with laughter at “The Cheese Shop” sketch.

Lars sat down at the table, spun his glass by the stem. Sanne remained standing on the other side and pulled a file out of her purse.

“According to the autopsy report, Mira was shot with a nine millimetre Husqvarna P-40.”

Lars whistled. “An antique?”

“It was originally manufactured for the Finnish army. During the war, when the Swedes couldn't get their standard weapon, the Walther P38 from Germany, they decided to start producing their own.” She looked at him. “Ulrik is convinced Ukë and Meriton killed her. But would they use an antique gun?”

“Who else then?”

“A collector, or someone who has access to the weapon through their family? Of course it could have been stolen too.”

Lars grabbed the file and began reading the report. “What did Frelsén say? What about the eyes?”

“The same as when we found her. No scoring of the skull in the eye socket. It was a fine, almost surgical cut. And then she was injected with glutaraldehyde through the large vein in her thigh. Glutaraldehyde gives the tissue that yellowish tone we saw on the body. Formaldehyde, which is used today, doesn't cause discolouration.”

“So you're looking for someone who uses an antique weapon and old methods of preserving bodies?”

Sanne nodded. Lars closed his eyes. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger until it hurt.

Sanne reached for her glass. She squeezed the stem until her knuckles went white. “One sick bastard.”

In the cab, on their way home, Maria was in high spirits.

“‘I'm keen to guess.'” Her bad imitation of John Cleese ended with her doubled over with laughter. The cab driver sent him a disapproving look in the rearview mirror. Lars shifted slightly away from her. Not everyone could tell that they were father and daughter.

Maria stopped laughing, pushed her hair back, and looked at him. Was that a smile? “She's sweet, Sanne. Too bad she's with Martin.”

Lars cleared his throat. “She's just a colleague. I . . .” He didn't finish the sentence.

Maria looked at him. Then she turned her head and stared out the window.