Death Sentence (5 page)

For Mortis, it wasn’t only the word that was important, but the medium itself, the physical book that contained the written word. He placed great emphasis on paper quality and binding and could be elevated to a state of ecstasy when holding a particularly well-produced example in his long slender fingers. He thought little of new publications; the paper quality was poor, the pages too thin and the glue in the spine inadequate. His passion drove him to visit antiquarian bookshops in Copenhagen in a constant search for the perfect volume.

I think the hunt itself mattered to Mortis. There wasn’t a single second-hand bookshop in Copenhagen he hadn’t explored, and he had set routes he patrolled at regular intervals in order not to miss out on anything. He never wanted us to come with him on his trips. Nor do I think we would have appreciated them in the same way he did and we would probably have ruined the experience by joking or making fun of him. Nevertheless, we benefited enormously from his obsession. If we were looking for a book, he could usually tell us where we would be most likely to find it and we rarely made a wasted journey.

It was on one of his patrols that he ran into Line, around the time I was getting my tattoo in Nyhavn. The Angle party was happening that night and Mortis had to shorten his usual route to get back to help with the preparations. In a second-hand bookshop in Vesterbro he noticed a
girl
browsing. She moved between the bookcases with great care and there was something about her posture that caught his attention. Some people just seem more relaxed and at home in their body than others and this was the case with Line. ‘She was at ease with herself,’ Mortis later said to Bjarne, without being able to explain what that looked like. I knew exactly what he meant. Line possessed an acute physical awareness that made her graceful in everything she did.

Mortis summoned up the courage to invite her first for a coffee and later to the party that same evening. I think he exaggerated my talent and importance as far as the reason for the party was concerned, and I’m fairly certain he hinted strongly that his contribution to my forthcoming book was considerable. Anyway, he managed to talk her into going.

I had no idea that Line was there at his invitation, but nor do I think it would have made a difference. Mortis wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his, although he would never admit it. I don’t know what he had expected would happen between the two of them, but the upshot was he felt I had stabbed him in the back.

Four days after the party, I could bear it no longer. Line had told me she worked in a health food shop near Nørreport station and I decided to go there. I braced myself for every kind of rejection and entered the shop with a feeling of just wanting to get it over with. The shop concept was American. Jars, pots and bags of health remedies filled shelves that lined aisles so close together you could barely squeeze past the other customers. The staff wore green uniforms with a white cap, to make them resemble
nurses
, I suppose. The shelves were no taller than I could peer over and I quickly established that Line wasn’t there.

The assistant behind the till was a blonde woman in her thirties. A badge gave her name as Alice. She smiled warmly as I approached her, but when I stuttered my question, her expression changed to one of concern. My heart started pounding. All the terrifying scenarios I had imagined in the last few days came back to me in one mad clamour.

Alice told me that Line’s mother had died.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I felt an incredible sense of relief and I believe my lips curved into an inappropriate smile. The shop assistant sent me a baffled look until I got my emotions back under control. This might explain why she was somewhat reluctant to tell me where I could find Line, but eventually I coaxed the surname, Damgaard, out of her and left the shop.

The telephone directory took care of the rest. I knew she lived somewhere in Islands Brygge and luckily there was only one Line Damgaard listed in the area. Now that I knew the reason for her disappearance I was happy and apprehensive at the same time. I debated long and hard with myself about the wisdom of contacting her and I experienced a growing sense of concern that was entirely new to me. It was this feeling that decided the matter. When I cycled to Islands Brygge later the same afternoon, I was motivated more by compassion than infatuation.

Islands Brygge wasn’t as upmarket in those days as it is now. The streets seemed narrow and dingy. It was a part of the city where the weather was always grey and the residents scuttled along the pavements or into their
cars
to disappear down potholed roads without looking back.

There was an entryphone outside Line’s block, but the door was wide open and I went straight inside the stairwell. Even though it was a sunny day, few rays could penetrate the grimy windows. I switched on the light and saw worn steps and pale green walls that were in dire need of a lick of paint.

Outside Line’s front door I had second thoughts. Should I intrude on her grief? I was about to leave when I heard music coming from her flat. I leaned closer. It was Billie Holiday. I had discovered Blues myself during that period and it was probably the music that decided the matter. I took a deep breath, straightened up and knocked on the door.

A moment passed before I heard the lock click and the door gradually open. There she was, barefoot and wearing a long black dress. Her hair was slightly rumpled and her gaze focused on the floor, but when she raised it, she found mine and I saw that her eyes were red. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. A small smile formed on her lips and without saying a word, she held out her hand to me. I took it and squeezed it. She held on to my hand and pulled me inside, closed the door and led me into the flat to the sound of Billie Holiday’s hypnotic voice. In the living room was an unmade sofa bed with crumpled sheets; clothing was scattered around it. The record player sat on an upside-down beer crate and LPs filled another crate next to it. Slowly, Line guided me to the bed, still without letting go of my hand, and lay down. I stepped out of my shoes and lay down close to her. Even through my
clothes
, I could feel the warmth from her body. I put my arms around her, and she pulled the duvet over us both.

I don’t know how long we lay like this. The music soon stopped. Every now and then we slept. Sometimes she cried very quietly; I could feel her body tremble against mine. We didn’t speak. Our communication consisted of small squeezes or light touches. There was nothing sexual about it – we were fully dressed – but I had never experienced anything this intimate before.

‘My mum has died,’ she said after a long time.

‘I know,’ I whispered and stroked her hair.

She turned to me and looked into my eyes. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said. She snuggled up to me and started to sob.

I said nothing, but I held her as tightly as I could.

Line’s mother had died on her way home from work at the Ministry of Religious Affairs where she was a departmental manager. A red Opel smashed into her on a pedestrian crossing and she was thrown high into the air before she hit the ground dead.

Line was at work when it happened. Her elder sister called her at the health food shop. The news of their mother’s death knocked her for six and she left the shop without saying a word. Fearing she would have an accident if she rode her bicycle, she wheeled it through the city. The journey felt endless, but she didn’t cry. Her face didn’t crack until she arrived at her parents’ house on Amager, where her three siblings and her father were waiting for her. There she collapsed and sobbed for hours, incapable of speech.

The feeling of guilt was the worst, she told me. Her grief at her mother’s death was constantly disturbed by thoughts and memories of me and our evening, and she was ashamed to miss me in the midst of the tragedy. This made her feel even more upset. She hated herself for entertaining these feelings when she should be supporting her family and saying goodbye to the most important person in her life. That was why she couldn’t make herself contact me, and if I hadn’t appeared of my own accord, she would probably never have seen me again.

When she opened the door to her flat, I was probably the last person she had expected to see, but the one she wanted to find more than anyone. She accepted this coincidence as evidence of our shared destiny and didn’t hesitate for one second, but pulled me inside.

I had never had any doubts and I still don’t.

I LEFT RÅGELEJE
on Wednesday morning. The sun was shining and there was a mildness in the air that made it hard to leave the cottage during what was likely to be the last sprint before autumn handed over the baton to winter.

My black blazer hung from a hanger on the headrest of the passenger seat. I realized I hadn’t worn it since last year’s book fair when I found my old entry pass and programme in the inside pocket. On the back seat was a weekend bag with clothes for five days and a brown envelope with the beginnings of the first draft of my next book. It was untitled, but my editor had suggested the working title
By the Skin of My Teeth
as a joke and it had stuck. The plot was an offshoot of my research for
In the Red Zone
, where I had become intrigued by how easily people relate to a fear of dentists. I thought there was enough material for a separate novel and so far I had been proved right, even though I had only written about a third.

Before I reached Copenhagen, I pulled into a petrol station and bought a packet of cigarettes. I had quit smoking
the
first time Line was pregnant, but for some reason I always started again when I was going to Copenhagen, as if the fumes from the city traffic weren’t bad enough or perhaps I believed the cigarettes would cancel out the smog. It was therefore a year since I had last smoked and it resulted in a couple of violent coughing fits and a feeling of dizziness as I inhaled my way through the first couple of cigarettes. But by God, they tasted good.

After one and a half hours’ drive, I reached the hotel. Driving through inner-city Copenhagen for well over thirty minutes had been tough. I was far from used to that volume of traffic. My T-shirt was damp with sweat and I could feel a headache coming on. Once in Copenhagen I preferred to get around by taxi, or on foot if the weather and the distance permitted, and I was relieved when I finally parked the car in front of the hotel.

Marieborg is a five-storey white building with large windows overlooking the street. Behind those windows the interior of the restaurant was classic with dark wooden panels, wooden chairs, white tablecloths and dark pink carpets. Mirrors and brass lamps were mounted on the walls. The entrance to the lobby was situated on the right-hand side of the building, from where a lift and a staircase with the same pink carpet as the restaurant led to the rooms on the floors above.

The owner of the hotel, Ferdinan Jensen, was standing behind the reception counter when I walked into the lobby holding my weekend bag and the envelope in one hand and my blazer draped over my shoulder with my other hand.

‘Welcome back, Mr Føns,’ he said, flashing me a wide smile.

Ferdinan Jensen was Spanish by birth, but had married a Danish woman more than twenty-five years ago. He had Mediterranean skin, pitch-black hair and bushy eyebrows, which suggested he wasn’t born in Denmark, but his Danish was impeccable and he was incredibly well informed about what was happening in the city. He was in great shape, probably as a result of his boundless commitment to the hotel where no job was beneath his dignity. I have seen him carry suitcases, change light bulbs and wait in the restaurant, always with the same wide smile on his lips.

‘So it’s the book fair again, is it?’

I set down my bag in front of the counter and heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, it’s that time of the year again, I’m afraid. The leaves are falling and it’s raining books.’

Ferdinan Jensen laughed. ‘Yes, and some of them are yours, am I right?’

I dug out a signed copy of
In the Red Zone
from the front pocket of my weekend bag and placed it on the counter.

‘And now one of them is yours,’ I replied and pushed it towards him.

His eyes shone. ‘You shouldn’t have, Mr Føns,’ he said, and grabbed the book with both hands. ‘Thank you so much. I’m starting this one tonight.’ He studied the cover before carefully placing the book on the table behind the counter.

When he turned around again, he had a doleful expression on his face.

‘I’m really very sorry about the mix-up with your room,’
he
said, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s my fault. I could kick myself.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ I replied. ‘A change will do me good.’

He shook his head. ‘That new computer is too clever for me,’ he said, pointing to a screen on his left. ‘It was my darling wife’s idea, but I can’t get it to work properly. That’s why I couldn’t reserve your usual room when you booked. I’m so embarrassed.’

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ I assured him. ‘As long as I’ve got a bed to sleep in.’

His face lit up. ‘That you will have. I’ve got you a very nice room indeed.’

I got the key to room 501 and booked a table for two in the restaurant for the same evening.

‘By the way,’ Ferdinan exclaimed, bending down behind the counter. ‘There’s some post for you.’ He reappeared holding a thick yellow envelope.

The size, the thickness and the sound it made when he placed it on the counter suggested it was a book. I picked it up and studied it. There was no indication of who the sender was, and my name was printed on an anonymous address label.

‘Who delivered it?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ Ferdinan replied. ‘It was left on the counter some time yesterday afternoon.’

I shrugged. ‘My publishers, probably.’ I stuck the envelope into the front pocket of my weekend bag.

Ferdinan offered to carry my bag upstairs but I declined and took the lift up to the fifth floor alone.

He was right. It was a great room, more like a suite,
in
my opinion. In addition to a large bedroom with a king-size bed and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi, there was a spacious living room and an extra lavatory. The living room was equipped with a well-stocked minibar and the biggest flat-screen television I had ever seen. Two French balconies, one from the bedroom and one from the living room, overlooked the street and I discovered to my delight that noise from the traffic was perfectly tolerable on the fifth floor.