Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
And now. Now the leg spasms, this wondrous seizure in which the victim’s powerlessness was more evident than ever. Nothing else in Ditlev’s life could equal this kick.
He watched blood drip on to the gravel, but Frank Helmond didn’t utter a peep. He’d acknowledged his role. Ditlev would give him that.
They left him groaning at the edge of the lake. They’d done a good job. He would survive, but he would be dead inside. It would take years before he dared walk the streets again.
The two Mr Hydes could go home, and the Dr Jekylls could re-emerge.
By the time he got home to Rungsted, half the night was gone and he was relatively clear-headed. He and Ulrik had cleaned up, thrown their hats, gloves, coats and sunglasses in the fire and hidden the Stanley knife under a stone in the garden. After that they’d called Torsten and agreed on the course of events for the rest of the evening. Torsten, understandably enough, was livid. Complained that it hadn’t been the right time to do something like that, and they knew he was right. But Ditlev didn’t need to apologize to Torsten, nor did he need to beg him. Torsten was well aware that they were all in it together. If one went down, they all went down. It was as simple as that. And if the police drew close, it was just a question of having their alibis ready.
For that reason alone Torsten agreed on the story the other two had concocted: Ditlev and Ulrik had met at JFK in Hillerød fairly late in the evening, and after a single beer they’d headed up to Torsten’s in Ejlstrup, arriving at 11 p.m. That was the basis of their alibi. In other words, half an hour before the attack occurred. No one could prove otherwise. Maybe someone had seen them in the bar, but would they remember who was where, when, and for how long? Then the three old friends had drunk cognac up at Torsten’s place. Talked about the old days. Nothing special. Just a cosy Friday evening together. That was what they’d say, and what they’d stick to.
Ditlev entered the hallway and confirmed to his satisfaction that the entire house was dark, and that Thelma
had retreated to her lair. Then he stood by the fireplace and emptied three snifters of Cypriot brandy, one after the other, so the blissful buzz of his act of revenge could gradually return to a more natural level and he could regain control of his thoughts.
He stepped across the ceramic-tiled kitchen floor to open a tin of caviar, which he could consume while picturing Frank Helmond’s terrified face. These tiles were the housekeeper’s Achilles heel. Thelma’s inspections always ended with a scolding, and no matter how much of an effort the woman made, she could never satisfy Thelma. When it came down to it, who could?
So it was as obvious as blinding sunlight that something was wrong as he stared down at the chequered pattern and discovered the footprints. They weren’t large, but they weren’t a child’s, either. Dirt-smudged.
Ditlev pursed his lips. Stood a moment with his senses on high alert. Yet he detected nothing. Neither smell nor sound. He edged to the knife block and chose the biggest of the Misono knives that could fillet sushi like no other. It would be very unfortunate for anyone who got in its way.
Carefully he stepped through the double doors into the arboretum, instantly aware of a draught coming from the windows, even though they were all closed. Then he noticed the hole in one of the windows. It was small, but there it was.
He scanned the arboretum floor. Additional footprints, more havoc. Chaotically spread shards of glass that bore witness to a simple burglary. Since the alarm hadn’t gone off, it must have happened before Thelma had gone to bed.
Suddenly he felt panic spreading through him.
On his way back to the hall he grabbed another knife from the block. The feel of their handles in each hand gave him a sense of security. He didn’t fear the force of an attack so much as the sheer surprise of it, so he held the knives raised on each side and glanced over his shoulder with each step.
Then he walked upstairs and stood at Thelma’s bedroom door.
A narrow strip of light seeped out from beneath it.
Was someone in there, waiting for him?
Gripping the knives hard, he cautiously pushed the door inward. There sat Thelma in the centre of the bed. Wearing her negligee and looking very much alive, her eyes large and angry.
‘Did you come to kill me, too?’ she said, with intense loathing in her expression. ‘Is that it?’
Then she drew a pistol from under the duvet and aimed it at him.
It wasn’t the weapon but the iciness of her voice that stopped him and caused him to drop the knives.
He knew Thelma. If it had been anyone else it might have been a joke. But Thelma didn’t joke. She didn’t possess a sense of humour. He stood stock-still.
‘What happened?’ he said, sizing up the pistol. It looked real, big enough to shut anyone up. ‘I can see that someone broke into the house, but there’s no one here now, so you can put that thing down.’ He could feel the after-effects of the cocaine swirling round in his veins. The mixture of adrenalin and drugs was potentially an incomparable combination. Just not right now.
‘Where the bloody hell did you get that gun? Come on now, be a good girl and put it down, Thelma. Tell me what happened.’ But Thelma didn’t move an inch.
She looked sexy, lying there. Sexier than she had in years.
He tried to come closer, but she stopped him by clutching the pistol tighter. ‘You attacked Frank, Ditlev. You just couldn’t let him be, could you, you monster?’
How the hell could she know? And so quickly?
‘What do you mean?’ he said, trying to hold her gaze.
‘He’s going to survive, you know. Which is not to your advantage, Ditlev, as I’m sure you understand.’
Ditlev took his eyes off her and glanced at the knives on the floor. He shouldn’t have dropped them.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I was at Torsten’s this evening. Call him and ask.’
‘You and Ulrik were seen at JFK in Hillerød this evening. That’s all I need to know, do you hear?’
In the old days he would have felt his defence mechanisms steering him towards telling a lie, but right now he felt nothing. She already had him right where she wanted him.
‘That’s correct,’ he said without blinking. ‘We were there before we went to Torsten’s. What about it?’
‘I can’t be bothered to listen to you, Ditlev. Come here. Sign your name. Otherwise I’ll kill you.’
She pointed at a few documents lying at the foot of the bed, then fired off a shot that blasted a hole in the wall behind Ditlev. He turned and estimated the extent of the damage. The hole was as big as a man’s hand.
Then he cast a quick glance at the top sheet of paper. It
was a rather tough pill to swallow. If he signed, she would get a good thirty-five million kroner per year for the twelve years they’d circled each other like beasts of prey.
‘We won’t report you, Ditlev. Not if you sign this. So do it now.’
‘If you report me, then you won’t get anything, Thelma. Did you consider that? I’ll let the fucking business go bankrupt while I’m in prison.’
‘You’ll sign. Don’t you think I know that?’ Her laughter resounded with contempt. ‘You know as well as I do that things don’t move so quickly. I’ll still get my share of the spoils before you go broke. Maybe not as much, but enough. But I know you, Ditlev. You’re a practical sort. Why throw away your business and sit in jail when you can afford to rid yourself of the wife in a normal fashion? So you’ll sign. And tomorrow you’ll admit Frank to the clinic, understand? I want him as good as new in a month. Even better than new.’
He shook his head. She’d always been a devil. Birds of a feather flock together, as his mother used to say.
‘Where did you get the pistol, Thelma?’ he asked calmly, taking the documents and scrawling his signature on the top two pages. ‘What happened?’
She stared at the papers, waiting until she had them in her hand before responding.
‘It’s too bad you weren’t here tonight, Ditlev, because then I don’t think I would have needed your signature.’
‘Is that so? And why is that?’
‘Some filthy, dirty woman smashed the window and threatened me with this.’ She waved the weapon. ‘She was asking for you, Ditlev.’
Thelma laughed, and the strap of her negligee slid off one shoulder. ‘I told her I would gladly let her in the front door next time she passed by. Then she could do whatever she wished without all the bother of smashing windows.’
Ditlev felt his skin grow cold.
Kimmie! After all these years.
‘She gave me the pistol and patted me on the cheek as if I were a little child. She mumbled something and then she went out the front door.’ Thelma laughed again. ‘But don’t despair, Ditlev. Your girlfriend will pay you a visit another day, she said to tell you!’
Homicide Chief Marcus Jacobsen rubbed his forehead. This was a bloody awful way to start the week. He’d just been handed his fourth request for leave in as many days. Two men from his best investigation unit were off sick, and then this bestial attack right in the middle of a downtown street. A woman had been beaten beyond recognition and then tossed in a rubbish container. The violence was growing more and more raw and, understandably enough, everyone was demanding immediate action. The newspapers, the public, the police chief. If the woman died, all hell would break loose. It was a record year for homicides. One would have to go back at least ten years to see statistics this high, and because of that, and because so many officers were leaving the police force, the brass were calling meetings all the time.
It was one pressure on top of another, and now Bak had also asked for leave. Bak of all people, for Christ’s sake.
In the old days, he and Bak would have lit fags and walked round the courtyard, and they’d have solved their problems right there – of that he was convinced. But the old days were gone, and now he was powerless. Simply put, he had little to offer his personnel. The salary was shit, and so were the working hours. His officers were worn out and their work had become practically impossible to carry out satisfactorily. And now they couldn’t
even soothe their frustrations with a smoke. A hell of a situation.
‘You’ve got to prod the politicians, Marcus,’ said his deputy, Lars Bjørn, as the office movers blustered about in the hallway so that everything would appear organized and efficient, as the reforms demanded. But it was merely camouflage, window dressing.
Marcus raised his eyebrows and looked at his deputy with the same resigned smile that had been plastered on Lars Bjørn’s face the last few months.
‘And when will
you
be asking me for leave, Lars? You’re still a relatively young man. Don’t you dream of landing another job? Wouldn’t
your
wife like you around the house more, too?’
‘Hell, Marcus, the only job I’d prefer to mine is yours.’ He said it so drily and matter-of-factly it could make a man nervous.
Marcus nodded. ‘OK. But I hope you have time to wait, because I’m not getting out of here before my time. That’s not my style.’
‘Just talk to the police chief, Marcus. Ask her to put pressure on the politicians so we can have tolerable working conditions.’
There was a knock on the door, and before Marcus could react, Carl Mørck was halfway into his office. Could that man do something by the book, just for once?
‘Not now, Carl,’ he said, knowing full well that Mørck’s hearing could be surprisingly selective.
‘It’ll only take a moment.’ Carl nodded almost imperceptibly to Lars Bjørn. ‘It’s about the case I’m working on.’
‘The Rørvig murders? If you can tell me who almost
killed a woman last night in the middle of Store Kannikestræde, then I’ll listen. Otherwise you’re on your own. And you know what I think about the Rørvig case. There was a conviction. Find another case, one where the perpetrator is still on the loose.’
‘Someone here at this station has a connection to the case.’
Marcus let his head fall resignedly to his chest. ‘I see. Who?’
‘A detective by the name of Arne Jacobsen removed the case file from Holbæk Police ten to fifteen years ago. Does that ring any bells?’
‘Fine surname, but
I
don’t have anything to do with it.’
‘He was personally involved in the case, I can tell you. His son was dating the girl who was murdered.’
‘And?’
‘And today the son works here at the station. I’m bringing him in for questioning. Just so you’re aware.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Johan.’
‘Johan? Johan Jacobsen, our handyman? You’re pulling my leg –’
‘Hang on, Carl,’ Lars Bjørn interrupted. ‘If you’re going to bring one of our civilians in for questioning, it’s best if you call it something else. I’m the one who has to speak with the union if anything goes wrong.’
Marcus saw a quarrel emerging. ‘That’s enough, you two.’ He turned towards Carl Mørck. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘You mean, apart from the fact that an ex-employee removed case materials from the Holbæk Police?’ Carl
straightened up so that he covered an additional foot of wall. ‘The fact is that his son put the case on my desk. Furthermore, he broke into the crime scene and deliberately left clues that point back to him. I also believe he’s got a lot more material in his goody bag. Marcus, he knows more about this case than anyone else between heaven and earth – if one can put it that way.’
‘Good God, Carl. That case is more than twenty years old. Can’t you just conduct your showdown in the basement nice and quietly? I imagine there are plenty more open-and-shut cases to work on other than that one.’
‘You’re right. It’s an old case. And it’s the very one that I, at your request, will be presenting on Friday to a team of dimwits from the land of brown cheese.
Remember?
So, please, Marcus, be so kind as to make sure Johan stops by my office in no more than ten minutes.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘As far as I know, Johan is off sick.’ He looked at Carl over his glasses. It was important he understood the message. ‘You’re not to contact him at home, do you understand? He had a nervous breakdown over the weekend. We don’t want any trouble.’