Authors: Mikkel Birkegaard
I had to rein in the ideas buzzing around my head, write them down while I still remembered them. In a short space of time I had written four pages of notes without having drunk my beer. To reward myself, I raised the glass to my lips and drank half the contents in one go.
‘Someone’s thirsty,’ one of the booksellers remarked, but I ignored him, picked up my pen and carried on writing.
The murders would form an important part of the biography, but that required that they were solved, and what would be better than if I myself contributed to the detection? The possibilities made my head spin. For years I had written about ordinary people who found themselves in extreme situations where they were forced to act. Sometimes they took on the role of detective to solve the mystery. I could easily imagine the resulting publicity if somehow I helped capture the killer of Mona Weis and Verner. In the past few days I had been a paranoid nervous wreck, but now it was the thrill of having a mission that made my heart beat faster.
The only real clue I had was the name Martin Kragh in which room 102 had been booked, and it raised more questions than it answered. Nevertheless it was a start. It meant something – to me at least – and, I had to presume,
to
the killer. Mortis might be involved, he might even be in danger, but as I couldn’t get hold of his address until later tonight, I couldn’t progress any further down this route.
The image of Verner’s body in the hotel bed haunted me, but I forced myself to imagine what had preceded it, what he had done after leaving me at the restaurant.
He was probably worried about our conversation, knowing that he would get a dressing down when he told his colleagues he had withheld information from them. Perhaps they would freeze him out? Or he might be transferred to another department, a station in the provinces where nothing ever happened? He leaves the restaurant, walking briskly. In the lobby he spots a familiar face. It’s Lulu, or whatever they call themselves in that profession, and a smile forms at the corners of his mouth. He tells her she must have got lost, that this is a respectable hotel which doesn’t rent out rooms by the hour. Lulu looks frightened or she pretends to be and shows Verner the key. She isn’t doing anything wrong and has a right to be here, she says. Verner doesn’t believe her, mainly because he sees a chance to get into her knickers, and he threatens to take her down to the station.
‘Frank!’
The voice shattered my reconstruction of the meeting at the Marieborg Hotel. The booksellers had gone and David Vestergaard, editor-in-chief of the publishing house Vestergaard & Co., sat down next to me with a broad smile and two freshly drawn beers. He pushed one in my direction.
‘Good to see you again, Frank.’
We had spoken a couple of times before; in fact, he inflicted himself on me every year at the book fair, but I always ignored his ill-concealed offer to jump ship. Now I found myself trapped between him and a column of imitation mahogany. Besides, my glass was empty and I was in need of a refill.
I nodded by way of a thank you and we drank.
‘Have you started your next novel?’ he asked, glancing at the notebook in front of me.
There was no risk that he could read my handwriting, but I shut my notebook all the same and put it in my pocket.
‘Something like that,’ I replied and attempted a smile.
David Vestergaard grinned. ‘That’s just like you,’ he said. ‘Always busy, always productive.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That’s what I like about you, Frank. You’re a proper grafter. Nothing airy-fairy about you. No, it’s the product …’
His flattery would lead to the inevitable offer so I stopped listening. Instead I drank the beer he had bought me and nodded in the right places. David Vestergaard was the third generation of the publishing house Vestergaard & Co. He was considerably younger than me – in his early thirties – but he spoke like a much older man and used expressions such as ‘airy-fairy’ and ‘not inconsiderably’. His short haircut and trendy horn-rimmed glasses made people wonder if he was sending himself up or if he genuinely spoke like that, but having met him several times and talked to others who knew him, I had concluded that his manner was the product
of
private education and the literary tradition of the Vestergaard family.
David Vestergaard leaned into me and caught my attention again.
‘Just between us,’ he said. ‘ZeitSign is in serious financial difficulties.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ I replied.
‘I don’t imagine it’s something Mr Gelf acknowledges if he can help it,’ said David Vestergaard, and briefly looked as if he felt genuinely sorry for Finn. ‘Nor does he appreciate the necessity of developing his writers.’
‘Well, I can’t really—’
‘Not that you’re not a good writer,’ David Vestergaard interrupted me, holding up his hand as if swearing an oath. ‘But with the right guidance and publicity, you could sell twice as many books, at least.’ He drank his beer and so did I, mainly to hide my growing irritation. ‘When did he last inspire you?’
‘Inspire me?’
‘Yes, a good editor doesn’t just criticize and correct commas,’ David Vestergaard said.
‘Listen,’ I said, putting down my glass a little too hard on the table. ‘I’m not interested, OK? Whatever you’re offering, I’m staying with ZeitSign, no matter what happens.’
‘Suit yourself,’ David Vestergaard sighed. ‘But when Gelf goes bankrupt, you know where to turn.’
‘What about Tom Winter?’ I said. ‘You already have a crime writer, one who regards me as his biggest rival.’
David Vestergaard’s eyes flickered for a moment. ‘That’s not going to be a problem,’ he replied. ‘It’s simply a
question
of timing publications properly and, as far as the rivalry goes, that’s just playing to the gallery.’ He smiled and raised his glass.
I refused to join in. He shrugged and emptied his glass in solitude.
‘See you, Frank,’ he said as he left the bar.
His seat was quickly taken by two women with sore feet and plastic bags bulging with books.
I fished out my notebook again. The conversation with David Vestergaard had interrupted my reconstruction of the meeting between Verner and Lulu, the hooker who lured him to room 102, and I tried to pick up my train of thought. Verner had just threatened to arrest her for soliciting in the hotel.
Lulu suddenly becomes more cooperative; perhaps she puts her hand on Verner’s bull neck? There is no need to get angry. Why doesn’t he come up to see for himself?
I knew Verner well enough to know he wouldn’t refuse an offer like that, but there was something in my reconstruction that didn’t hold. It wasn’t the hooker, Lulu, who was out to get me and who had murdered Verner. Her job was simply to deliver him to the room, after which she would have left.
And then I realized that I might have seen her myself. After the meal, on my way into the lift, I had almost knocked over a small, slender woman. Verner frequently held forth about the type of women who turned him on. They had to be petite, slim and most importantly Danish. ‘I don’t mind them being seventeen as long as they look like thirteen,’ he had said once and roared with laughter. Anyone who wanted to ensnare Verner
would
send a girl like that, I was sure of it. Petite, slim and Nordic; a description that fitted the girl in the lift perfectly.
Someone must have hired her and this person had to be the real killer.
So where was Lulu now?
I WAS COMPLETELY
shattered after the first day of the book fair.
Every year the hordes of people came as a total surprise to me. After living for so long in the cottage where I could control who I saw, walking through the exhibition hall felt like a constant infringement of my personal space. It was a relief to leave Forum and inhale air that hadn’t already been breathed by tens of thousands of book fair visitors. I hailed a taxi and I may have jumped the queue. I heard someone shout out after me as I flopped down on the back seat.
At the hotel reception, Ferdinan was busy typing on the computer.
‘Arrghh, useless thing,’ he exclaimed, oblivious to my presence. He tapped the keyboard hard and clenched his jaw. ‘Come on, you stupid machine.’
I cleared my throat and he straightened up, startled.
‘I just can’t work these … machines,’ he said and smiled, embarrassed. ‘How can I help you, Mr Føns? A table in the restaurant?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I’m dining with a friend tonight,’ I replied.
He nodded. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Definitely.’
I did a Columbo: I pretended to leave, but turned around when I remembered something.
‘Listen, Ferdinan,’ I said, casually. ‘Do you remember my guest on the first day? Big broad man with thinning hair?’
Ferdinan looked up at the ceiling, but soon lit up in a smile.
‘Oh, yes, a large gentleman, I remember him well. I directed him to the restaurant on his arrival.’
‘Did you see him when he left?’
No,’ Ferdinan replied immediately. ‘The kitchen was busy so I helped out there most of the evening. Sometimes we all have to muck in.’ He smiled. ‘Has your friend gone missing?’
I sighed. ‘He wasn’t entirely sober. I wanted to know if he asked for a taxi or if he drove himself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ferdinan said. ‘The last time I saw him was in the restaurant with you.’
‘How about a slim woman, petite, wearing a short skirt and puffer jacket?’
Ferdinan shook his head. ‘Not her either.’
I thanked him and went up to my room. I was due at Bjarne and Anne’s in an hour and I had just enough time to kick off my shoes and splash some water on my face. Their flat was less than half an hour’s walk from the hotel and I needed some fresh air so I decided to go on foot. It was windy. Large clouds drifted across the sky and there
were
crests on the water in the Lakes. Quite a few people had braved the weather; joggers darted between puddles and pedestrians as though they were on an obstacle course.
I wondered how much I should tell Bjarne. I desperately wanted to leave as soon as I had got Mortis’s address and spare Bjarne and Anne my problems, but I also needed support. I couldn’t get that from Finn, that much was obvious, and I had no one else. This realization made me feel very alone. The years in the cottage had protected me to some extent, but also narrowed down my circle of friends to very few people I trusted completely, and I didn’t feel I could burden even them with my troubles.
Bjarne never changed. In the last ten years he had let his hair grow and wore it in a ponytail. Combined with his round, horn-rimmed glasses and casual clothes, he looked like an ageing hippie.
He gave me a bear hug practically before I crossed the threshold and I could feel that he certainly hadn’t lost any weight in the past year. Anne, too, embraced me and we exchanged greetings.
Since giving up his dream of being published, Bjarne had worked as a teacher at a sixth-form college. With Anne’s financial resources and her job as a social worker, they could still afford the large flat overlooking the Lakes, although the area had been greatly gentrified since our Scriptorium days. Inside the flat the second-hand furniture had long since been replaced with Danish design classics and the kitchen extended to include a breakfast bar and a dining area. The bookcases no longer held tattered, dogeared books we had nicked or scrounged; now attractive hardbacks and special editions covered the walls in the two
connecting
reception rooms. In the absence of children, they had discovered and been able to afford good taste twenty years too early.
It wasn’t long before Bjarne and Anne’s hospitality had banished my dark thoughts and we chatted and joked like we always had, over a wonderful meal of coq au vin with generous quantities of an excellent red wine. I needed to relax, take my mind off things, and it was astonishingly easy in their company. You couldn’t tell it was a year since we had last seen each other. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like a brook in an old forest running over stones long since polished smooth.
When we left the table, I realized just how drunk I was. I struggled to keep my balance and found it hard to focus. Bjarne took me by the shoulders and led me into the reception room where we sat down with brandy while Anne cleared the table. There was a moment’s silence, and my thoughts flew back to the gravity of my situation. Bjarne must have detected a shift in my mood because he asked if anything was wrong.
Even though I wanted to confide in him, I found it almost impossible to know where to begin. My brain was a massive knot with countless ends you could tug at, most of which would either snap or simply tighten the knot if you started pulling them. Moreover, the alcohol had given my tongue a will of its own, so it took a while before I was capable of replying.
‘Someone has copied my murder,’ I said at last and groaned.
‘Not to worry,’ Bjarne said casually. ‘You’ve got plenty of them.’ He swirled the brandy around his glass and inhaled
the
bouquet. ‘It might not be a conscious imitation.’ He sipped his drink. ‘By now you must have murdered hundreds of people. No wonder someone has accidentally repeated one.’
‘That’s not the—’ I began, before Bjarne interrupted me.
‘Surely there is a limited number of ways in which to kill people? You must know that better than anyone. Being innovative is difficult. Even you find it hard not to repeat yourself these days.’ He shrugged. ‘Forgive me, but some of the most recent murders you’ve committed seem a tad elaborate, if you ask me.’
‘Elaborate?’
‘Yes, I know that graphic violence has practically become your trademark,’ Bjarne said. ‘But you’re trying too hard. The execution of the murder, the description of every detail of the act overshadows the rest of the story.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I muttered.
‘I’m speaking as your friend, Frank,’ Bjarne continued and placed his hand on my knee. ‘The explicit torture and murder scenes have taken over. The plot has been reduced to a weak glue that connects the murders and the characters are all stereotypes. Your stories have no bite these days.’