Trophy (22 page)

He had lain down on his bed, a brief nap that turned into three hours of dreamless sleep. Michael rose stiffly, stumbled into the bathroom, and didn’t wake up properly until he mistook the hot tap for the cold in the shower.

He dried himself meditatively in front of the mirror and wondered whether to shave, but couldn’t be bothered.

Superintendent Lene Jensen. The little voice that kept telling him to contact her had grown stronger, though every unwritten rule in his profession warned him not to involve outsiders. But he had to place Kim Andersen and his suicide somewhere in the picture. And soon.

The superintendent wasn’t in her office … And no, the Rigspolitiet did not give out the private numbers of its staff. And, yes, that included former staff members. If he would like to leave a message, the superintendent would ring him as soon as she could.

Michael declined, thanked the secretary, and rang off.

He thought he had been able to detect a slight, dry tension in the secretary’s voice. She had asked him twice to state his
name, and he had heard the keyboard clatter when she entered his name and telephone number. He fiddled with the mobile in his jacket pocket while he tried to remember his old colleagues from the Hvidovre Police. He had worked there for three years as a very green police sergeant. Who had shown the least initiative? Who might still be hanging around?

They had been a bunch of young sergeants – still wet behind the ears, but ambitious – and he couldn’t imagine that any of them would still be working in the same police district, but there had been a couple of older police sergeants who had seemed happy to stay put. They lived nearby and their wives worked at Hvidovre Hospital. Nurses and cops had always made a natural and stable combination.

He was in luck. Daniel Tarnovski was still there; he was in his office and he remembered him well. This came as a surprise to Michael, who regarded himself as totally forgettable. After various questions as to how life had treated him, to which he gave non-committal answers, Tarnovski proclaimed Lene Jensen to be one tough cookie. Very energetic. Which was Daniel Tarnovski-speak for a fanatical overachiever. She worked for a posh chief superintendent with a law degree in the Rigspolitiet by the name of Charlotte Falster, whom Daniel Tarnovski was also happy to hold forth about. Why did Michael want to know?

Michael closed his eyes and tried hard to come up with a good story.

He had met the superintendent at a party and had fallen in love?

Unlikely.

He had a hunch that her current investigation into the suicide of an ex-soldier in Holbæk actually ran parallel to his own investigation into a group of psychopathic veterans who were organizing industrial-scale manhunts in the globe’s most inaccessible corners?

That would raise an eyebrow or two out in Hvidovre.

Michael flipped the situation one hundred and eighty degrees and said that the superintendent had contacted him the day before to find out if – in his capacity as a former military police captain with the Horse Guards – he knew of a group of privates who had been involved in the black-market sale of medicines and military supplies in Sarajevo. Kim Andersen, the man who had killed himself in Holbæk, was one of those whose name had cropped up. The Public Prosecutor had handed Lene Jensen the file and Michael had been listed as the original case officer.

Michael laughed sheepishly.

‘I was all over the place when she rang, Daniel. The kids were bawling their eyes out, the washing machine was flooding the utility room, and the dog was having eight puppies, so I’m afraid I told her to get lost, which was unfair, really, when she was just trying to do her job. I can remember her name, but not her number. And I do know one or two things about the case which might be important. You know how it is …’

‘No, I don’t,’ Daniel Tarnovski said. ‘Yelling at her when she’s just doing her job is out of order. I mean it, Michael.’

‘And that’s why I’m calling. Sorry,’ he mumbled remorsefully.

‘Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her.’

‘Yes, and I’ve tried calling her. But Lene Jensen? There are millions with that name.’

‘Send flowers,’ the other suggested.

‘Where to?’

‘Just a moment.’

Tarnovski gave him an address in Frederiksberg and a private mobile number.

‘And I expect you to call her right now,’ he said.

*

The digital age had made life easier for investigators like Michael. Today anyone with Internet access and around 150 kroner could buy an effective and reliable GPS transmitter that could be attached to the underside of a car with Velcro or slipped into the bottom of a bag. You could then follow anyone’s movements from the comfort of your own home on Google Maps. It had become so much easier to find people – or for them to find you, which was the flipside, and one of the reasons he replaced his mobile daily and always used unlisted numbers.

Michael opened up www.mgoogle.com/latitude/ on the mobile’s web browser, entered Lene Jensen’s mobile number, and two seconds later knew that the mobile, and therefore
presumably its owner, were currently at the Rigshospitalet, 9 Blegdamsvej, Østerbro, somewhere in Stairwell 2 of the hospital’s main building.

He studied the location with a frown before he ran down to the hotel reception and asked them to get him a cab.

*

Thirty minutes later Michael leaned his head back and looked up at the ugly grey façade of the Seventies hospital. Lene Jensen’s mobile hadn’t moved. He continued through the revolving door and entered a lift along with silent patients, staff in white uniforms and glum-looking relatives.

He was the only one to exit the densely packed lift on the seventh floor and he looked about him. There were several options. He opened a glass door and was enveloped in the familiar hospital smell; he walked through a waiting area at a leisurely pace while he looked out for a certain shade of chestnut-red hair. He continued down a corridor until the next landing with lifts and tried a parallel corridor: the Ear, Nose and Throat surgical unit. A nurse behind a glass window looked up at him. A couple of mummified patients at a nearby table were eating slowly and in total silence, as if the wrong chewing motion or a rash word could make the brackets, screws, elastics and carefully restored skull bones fall apart, but even they stared at him, and Michael felt conspicuous. When his mobile rang, the nurse shot him an angry look, raised a finger to her lips and pointed to a sign on the wall banning mobiles in the
ward. They apparently interfered with respirators or other vital equipment.

Michael half ran down the corridor and out of the ward. He found an empty common room with a magnificent view across Fælledparken and the towers, spires and roofs of Copenhagen. A pigeon on the railing outside the windows watched him with blinking, red eyes. One of the bird’s claws was deformed by a large tumour and he wondered how it managed to balance on the railing, let alone how on earth it was still alive.

‘Michael,’ said a voice.

‘Keith. How are you?’

‘Great.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

The invalid bird took off and a couple of feathers fluttered into the gap between the wall and the railing. They twirled around themselves before settling between cigarette butts and empty juice cartons.

‘Running Man Casino,’ the Englishman said. ‘The West Indies. Antigua and Barbuda. North of Venezuela and west of Puerto Rico. Pirate country. A micro state. That’s who is financing your man hunters.’

‘A casino?’

‘It’s a poker website. They’ve become a West Indian speciality. And it’s a great idea, if you ask me,’ his old mentor said. ‘A really great idea. Strange that no one has thought of it before.’

‘Perhaps they have.’

Michael thought about the crescent of Caribbean islands, former Spanish and British colonies that stretched from Florida in the north to Venezuela in the south like a scimitar. The area was politically, geologically and meteorologically an unstable nightmare: sugar plantations, slaves, rum, dictators, tropical hurricanes, earthquakes, cocaine, wonderful beaches and Armani-dressed pirates of the modern type with dreadlocks, gold chains, Bentleys and machine guns.

‘It’s an independent state,’ Keith Mallory said. ‘Commonwealth, beaches, reggae, steel bands, drinks with little parasols, Rastafarians and –’

‘Small banks and poker websites,’ Michael said.

‘Small banks with very big private accounts that make their living by never, ever providing information about their clients to anyone.’ The Englishman completed his sentence. ‘The Colombian and Mexican drug cartels have to invest their coke dollars somewhere and online casinos are a great way to launder money. All you need is a bamboo hut on the beach with one heck of an Internet connection, a couple of high-spec, water-cooled servers, a small, friendly bank, and you’re in business.’

Michael nodded to himself.

It
was
a good idea. The question was now, whose was it? Flemming Caspersen’s? He was probably pally with the richest and most influential people on the planet: top lobbyists in Washington, Mumbai billionaires, Russian oligarchs,
the CEOs of oil companies. They all depended on Sonartek’s products and every one of them would surely like nothing better than to do Flemming Caspersen a favour … such as helping him set up an online casino in the West Indies. The next question was if he was its only client, or if it had become a supplier of exclusive leisure activities for old and weary but mighty men seeking increasingly bigger thrills.

‘Christ, Keith. I …’

‘What?’

The encrypted telephone the Englishman was using crackled and howled.

‘Who is your source? Is it reliable?’

‘Who is? You and I are. I trust no one else, Mike. But as a source, it’s good enough. My source was contacted by some guys from Running Man who asked him if he fancied being a tour guide for some very special hunting trips for super-rich clients; he declined. Later he got curious and discovered that their website offers a special bonus for regular high-rolling players on games where there’s no limit. They also advertise unique experiences on scrolling advertisements that don’t appear to relate to the casino itself, but which I haven’t been able to find on any other website, either. The ads offer safaris for the discerning customer.’

‘And you pay for them by losing a hell of a lot of money playing poker?’

‘I would think so.’

‘And if you win?’

‘You don’t win, Mike. The whole thing is as fake as Cher’s tits. It’s just a scheme to enable the select few to meet up, arrange and pay for events. Everything is encrypted, and then double encrypted. Unbreakable algorithms.’

‘Running Man Casino?’

‘Great name, isn’t it?’

Michael thought about Elizabeth Caspersen’s DVD, Kasper Hansen’s face and the empty cliff edge.

‘How apt,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Keith.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

There was another small pause.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ the Englishman then said. ‘But I think this is very different from your usual work, Mike. What I’m saying is, this is … big. Do you understand? Very big indeed.’

Michael nodded. The pigeon had returned and was sitting a few metres away on the railing. It watched him as if he were a large burger bun for which it had unrealistic plans.

‘Yes, but I think it comes with this particular job.’

‘Are you sure? There’s a job with S&W right now if you want it.’

‘Uzbekistan?’

‘Worse. Nigeria.’

‘I thought they were in the middle of a civil war there? The locals are setting fire to oil barrels?’

‘It’s our bread-and-butter, Mike. We guard the oil so your kids won’t be cold in winter. Have you forgotten that?’

Michael had a flashback to the bitter, choking smell of burning crude oil. As if a furious mother Earth were spewing flames to swallow up greedy humans drilling holes several kilometres into her abdomen.

‘Thanks, but no thanks, Keith. I like Denmark in springtime. Besides …’

‘Wife and kids,’ the Englishman said. ‘I understand. Bye, Mike, and send the money straight away.’

Michael stood for a moment with the mobile in his hand, staring blankly into space. Nigeria? The Dark Continent. The name suited the place all too well. He had been there many times.

Then he wondered what it was that had struck a chord in his subconscious as he had raced down the corridor to get outside with his offending mobile. He looked at the door to the ward again. A colour. He had caught a glimpse of chestnut red when he passed the door to one of the side wards. The right shade. He switched his mobile to silent and opened the door to the ward of the country’s finest Ear, Nose and Throat surgeon.

He headed down the corridor and found the door, which was still ajar. The colour matched. He could see some hair, part of a low armchair, a small section of a deathly pale face and a dark blue hoodie. He knocked carefully on the door and watched the figure inside. It didn’t move. He knocked harder and looked around. The mummies at the dining table had noticed him again. One had inserted a drinking straw
in the middle of a metal construction and he thought he could see a woman’s eyes behind the bandages.

He pushed open the door and found himself in a passage outside a small bathroom lined with linoleum.

‘Excuse me?’

He cleared his throat. The figure in the armchair by the window didn’t stir. The hair was still beautiful, red and vibrant, but the face was empty and turned to the floor. It was a single-occupancy room, but there was no bed. There was only the woman in the chair; Michael squatted down in front of her.

Very carefully he placed a hand on the jeans-clad knee, but withdrew it immediately.

‘Lene?’

The superintendent’s left ear was covered with a compress and there was dried blood on her neck below it. Her head lifted slightly from her clenched fists on which it had been resting and her green, dry eyes were aimed at him, but didn’t seem to register him as relevant. There was nothing in her eyes.

‘Lene? My name is Michael Sander. I’m …’

What could he say?

He got up. The superintendent didn’t move and her eyes returned to the floor. From his wallet Michael took one of his rarely used business cards, which stated only his name and nothing else. He wrote today’s mobile number on the card and put it on the armrest.

‘Call me. It’s about Kim Andersen. I think we can help each other.’

He shrugged helplessly, stuck his hands in his pockets and made to leave.

Then he changed his mind and turned to her again.

‘Erm … I don’t think we have an awful lot of time, so please call me when … well, when you’re feeling better.’

He had put his hand on the door handle when she whispered something. He took a step back and looked at her.

‘What did you say?’

‘I can’t talk to anyone,’ she said, slowly shaking her head. ‘I can’t talk to anyone.’

‘Why not?’

Lene Jensen’s green eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away mechanically with the back of her hand. Her hands were filthy and several of her nails were broken.

‘I can’t,’ she said.

She took the business card from the armrest and looked at it.

‘Who are you?’

He moved closer and balanced between necessary closeness and a safe distance. Lene Jensen looked like a hunted animal.

He hesitated before taking a deep breath.

‘I’ll try to do the talking for both of us, Lene. You can interrupt me if you like, and you can nod if you think what
I say makes sense, or shake your head if you think it doesn’t, okay? Kim Andersen was a Royal Life Guards veteran. He was deployed in Afghanistan, Iraq and Bosnia. He was also a member of a group of ex-soldiers who arranged a safari – hunting a couple of human beings in northern Norway. I’m talking about a young engineer, Kasper Hansen, and his Norwegian wife, Ingrid Sundsbö, aged thirty-one and twenty-nine years old. The hunt took place on 24 March 2011. I don’t know when exactly Ingrid Sundsbö was killed, but Kasper Hansen was shot at six thirty in the evening. They left behind two-year-old twins.’

Michael paused and looked at the superintendent. Had she taken anything in at all? There was no expression on her face, but was it possible that there was a tiny flicker deep in her green eyes?

‘I believe that Kim Andersen injured his leg during the hunt. There is a … a recording of the end of the hunt. It’s a trophy of some kind for the client. I don’t know if the two murders were a one-off or if the killers have organized human safaris before, but they seemed experienced. I work as a private investigator for a client who has come into possession of the film and wants to find the hunters. I believe that the gang operates from a country house on south Sjælland. I think they’re Danish army veterans and that they were recruited from the estate’s shooting syndicates. I’ve learned that their fees were paid out as gambling prizes from
an online casino in the West Indies, Running Man Casino. What I don’t have is evidence and more information, especially about Kim Andersen. Did he hang himself or did someone lend him a hand? It would be good if we could join forces … a huge help, to be honest.’

‘Are you one of them?’ she asked the floor.

‘One of whom?’

‘Is this a test? I won’t say anything. I’ve told you already. I promised you … Please don’t hurt her.’

Fresh tears ran down her face.

Michael wondered what in God’s name they had done to her. He remembered the photographs of the superintendent from the newspapers and Daniel Tarnovski’s opinion of her as a woman who was hard as nails. And famous for it.

He squatted down in front of her again and tried to catch her eye under the red hair, but it was impossible. She refused to look at him.

‘No, I’m not one of them, Lene,’ he said in his kindest voice. ‘I work alone. I don’t know what has happened to you or why there’s no bed in this ward, but like I said, I believe we can help each other. Please call me when you’ve had a chance to think.’ He smiled to her. ‘I’ll answer your call, day or night, and I really want to talk to you.’

Michael got up, looked down at her and was about to add something when there was a knock on the door. Whoever knocked didn’t wait for a reply, but walked straight in. The
slim, grey-haired woman in the dark suit stopped when she saw him. Her bob haircut was perfect and her eyes were clear and critical behind her glasses. Michael smiled to the new arrival, but his smile wasn’t reciprocated.

He held out his hand. ‘Michael Sander.

‘Charlotte Falster. I’m sorry, I thought … So you’re not Josefine’s father?’

He hadn’t heard the superintendent get up and was taken aback by the strength in the hand which she placed on his upper arm. He was pushed to one side by Lene Jensen, who still didn’t look at him, but only at the woman with the grey hair.

‘He’s leaving,’ she said.

A couple of embarrassing seconds passed before Charlotte Falster was the first to pull herself together.

‘I’m happy to wait outside, Lene, until you …’

The superintendent looked past Michael and nodded towards the door.

‘You can stay, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘Goodbye and thank you for coming, Michael.’

He looked at her.

‘You’re welcome.’

Michael smiled briefly to the grey-haired woman as he slipped past her. He shut the door behind him and heard Charlotte Falster start to ask questions in a loud and clear voice. And he heard the police superintendent burst into tears.

He smiled to himself. Not that there was anything to smile about, but he had noticed Lene Jensen’s stealthy movement when she slipped his business card into the pocket of her hoodie.