The House That Jack Built (9 page)

Chapter 19

S
anne sat down
as she had been told. She was fiddling with the zipper on her light summer jacket. The view from Ulrik's office was breathtaking, but the room was stuffy. Didn't any of those big windows open? A hint of a headache was sailing around the back of her head. She'd had a little too much to drink at dinner the night before. And then there was the argument she'd had with Martin afterwards.

But there was something else too. Her conversation with Lars had left her feeling sad and with a sense of unease. His hunch and their mutual, unspoken agreement regarding her case.

Ulrik was sitting across from her with his back to the window. His elbows rested on the desk, his head in his hands.

“So Meriton Bukoshi's alibi stands up?”

“Yes, and Ukë's. I've checked everyone who was at the club that night, but —”

Ulrik waved her off. “We have to let them go. I've already had their lawyer on the phone twice today.”

Sanne decided to give it a go. “I don't think it's them anyway.” The nails on her right thumb and ring finger started to click against each other.
Stop it
.

“What do you mean?”

“They paid money to bring Mira up here. Why kill her after such a short time?”

“But they did beat her before she went missing?”

Sanne put her hand in her pocket. Her fingers twitched once, then rested against her thigh. “As far as I understand, it's quite common. Beating and rape. It breaks the girls.”

Ulrik shook his head, then swivelled in his chair. She couldn't see what he was doing; she saw only his thin hair sticking up above the back of the chair. Out by the reception, an elevator opened. The small ping reached them even through the closed door.

“It was easier in the old days,” Ulrik said. “No trafficking, none of this callous violence.” Suddenly the chair spun around. Ulrik was facing her again. “What do you think we should do?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Aren't you the sharpest investigator in all of Jutland?”

“Oh, that —” She was on the verge of telling him about her conversation with Lars the night before. But something stopped her. It probably wasn't a good idea to mention it right now. “As far as I've been able to uncover, glutaraldehyde isn't something you can buy over the counter. Hospitals and dentists buy it wholesale, and farmers use it for cleaning pigpens. But Forensics has assembled the remains of the glass eye. It arrived this morning.”

“Yes?” Ulrik squinted, rested his fingertips on either side of the desk pad.

“It's green. In fact, it's a really bad fit, so it wasn't made for Mira. It was suitably large enough so as not to fall out as long as she was alive —” She swallowed. “We didn't find all the shards, so the reconstruction isn't complete, but you get a good idea of how it looked. They also pulled half a thumbprint from the back.”

“And?” Ulrik got up halfway in his chair.

“Unfortunately, it's not on file.”

Ulrik waved a hand in front of him. The apathy that had weighed on him only minutes earlier was gone. His gaunt frame suddenly exuded vitality and energy. Even his grey skin began to glow.

“Listen: the two brothers supply girls to a customer who wants something quite specific — girls with glass eyes.”

Sanne's jaw dropped. “That sounds like something from a bad episode of
CSI
.”

“You'd be surprised.” Ulrik looked out the window.

“Then what about —”

“First and foremost, we need to follow up on that eye. That's the best lead we've got right now.”

Sanne got up. She had better get hold of Allan.

“As for the Bukoshi brothers,” Ulrik continued, “I'll get a court order for a wiretap. We'll put the club under surveillance too. It's vacation time, so you and Allan are going to have to take quite a few shifts.”

Sanne nodded. Sometimes she regretted having left Kolding at all.

Chapter 20

M
aria was sitting
in the cathedral-like assembly hall below the giant copy of Thorvaldsen's classic sculpture
Jason with the Golden Fleece
. She was nervous, biting her nails even though that was frowned upon here. A pair of high heels attached to a pair of ridiculously long legs power-clicked across the marble tiles. An aggressive echo followed them all the way through the assembly hall. A couple of girls from her class sat at the table next to her, staring at an iPad. In less than forty-five minutes, it was her turn. Mock exam in oral Danish.
Yikes
. Mom said, “It's only a mock exam,” but what did she know? And Dad? Did he even know she had another exam today? He hadn't mentioned it on the phone.

She started thinking about the cab ride the night before. Why did he act like such an idiot? It had actually turned out to be an OK night, and then he couldn't even give her a proper answer when she asked him about something important.

She tried concentrating on the photocopy in her hands. Søren Ulrik Thomsen's
Poetry in the Night.
One line read, “The Path of the Intoxicated.” No wonder their teacher had chosen that poem. It had been a long time since she had seen such a well-kept drinker's nose.

Luckily none of her parents had problems with alcohol. Well, Ulrik might have a few too many sometimes, more than was good for him, but then again he wasn't her dad.

In a way, she understood why Dad had run away from everything. If only it hadn't hurt so much. If only she could have gone with him. But she had to think about school, her future, yada yada yada. They made her sick. Two months alone with Dad, with no stupid teachers, no overprotective Mom and her expectations. It could have been fantastic.

She heard a chair scrape the floor a few tables away. A couple of twelfth graders sat down. Christian and his friends. He was the one with the nice ass, the sandy hair, and the twinkle in his eye. Almost all the girls in the class, the entire school even, were prepared to open their legs for him if he even looked their way.

She glanced at his table from behind the photocopy. Was he looking over here? No, it was probably just her imagination.
Just concentrate on that crappy poem
.

sleep's ether seeps

through the half-open mouths

clings heavily to the bodies' dance

What did that mean? It sounded creepy, almost like a horror film. And then the ending: “The way of the drunken to a dreamless sleep.” A chill ran down her spine. She had to get up, move her legs a little. But maybe it also meant something else? The bodies' dance. She glanced over at the twelfth graders again.
No. Stop it. Stop
.

“Oh my god, Maria. Isn't that your dad?”

“What do you mean?” She walked over to the other table. Leise and Christina were looking at her with their mouths agape. Two stupid cows with big tits.

She leaned over Christina's shoulder. Berlingske was on the iPad. There was a picture of Dad — not the best — and beneath it a short article.

Another Rape in Central Copenhagen. Suspect in Custody

Last night, another young woman was raped in central Copenhagen, this time at the star fortress. Police have detained a suspect in this violent case. The night of June 15, a 24-year-old Danish woman was raped at Püchlers Bastion in Østre Anlæg, Copenhagen. A man of similar age and Danish descent is currently remanded in custody and is due for questioning later this morning. Heading up the investigation, Lars Winkler from Copenhagen Police states, “It's a very unpleasant case, but we hope to soon have enough evidence for an arraignment.” When questioned whether there was any concrete evidence, Winkler indicated that the case was still under investigation, and that he was therefore unable to comment.

“Isn't that your dad?” Christina repeated, pointing a long, pale pink fingernail at Lars's name.

“Uh, yes,” Maria granted. She wasn't quite sure what kind of status it would give her, having a dad who was a police inspector. Probably only marginally higher than if he had been a garbageman. She had heard that Christina's dad, for instance, was a film producer.

“I hope he locks up that bastard and throws away the key.” One of Leise's sandalled feet was rocking back and forth. “Soon everyone's going to be too afraid to go out anymore.”

Had she heard that correctly? Was her status rising?

Behind her, a chair scraped the floor. Steps echoed through the assembly.

“Hey girls.” It was him. He smiled. At her. “What are you reading?”

Chapter 21

M
ikkel Rasmussen sat
at the end of the table with his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands. A mop of curls covered his face. He groaned. Lars and Lisa looked at each other. They were both tired. Neither of them had slept, and it was already late in the morning.

“I told you, I don't know her,” a voice said from behind the hair.

“I've got the police report from a former girlfriend, one Anne-Mette Møller.” Lisa glanced at the report. “Assault and battery. Is that correct?”

“Dammit, I explained all of this a long time ago. She was just pissed off because I fucked one of her friends.” He glanced at Lisa. “Oh, sorry.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. Lars kept his eyes on the report, pretending not to have heard Mikkel's explanation.

“These pictures are from Penthouse the night of June 15 at 1:45 a.m.” Lisa banged her knuckles on a pile of photographs. “How do you explain these?”

Mikkel moved his hands from his face. He tried laughing but it came out as a strained cough.

“All right, listen. She was begging for it, the way she was standing there sticking those tits out. Those damn teases —”

“Are you saying she was begging to be raped?” Lars interrupted.

“I just told you, I don't know anything about that. I'm talking about this one.” He pointed at the next photograph in the pile. It must have been taken right after he grabbed Stine Bang's breasts. The picture showed Stine Bang facing Mikkel. Her hand was raised, milliseconds away from landing on his cheek. Her face was distorted with rage.

Lisa was about to say something but Lars beat her to it.

“What were you doing that night between two and three in the morning?”

“I buggered off home, after this ice queen hit me. Dammit, I should be reporting her.”

“And when did you get home?”

“It must have been about 2:20. Or 2:30. Listen, that report there —”

“Can anyone confirm that?” Lisa took over.

“I live on my own.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” Lisa mumbled. “And what were you doing last night?”

“One of your psychopath officers assaulted me at a gas station and threw me into his car. In handcuffs.”

Lars looked out the window. “And before that?”

“I was with a friend in Lille Karleby.”

Lars was desperate for a cigarette. Instead, he searched inside a drawer, pulled out an old pack of Ga-Jols. He offered them to Mikkel after taking one himself.

“Did you run away after raping Stine?”

Mikkel stopped chewing. “I already told you —”

“And then yesterday, you went and found Louise Jørgensen and gave her the same treatment?” Lisa broke in. She had gotten up and now stood with her arms crossed. Mikkel opened his mouth but no sound came out. “You were arrested in the convenience store at Borrevejle Camping,” she continued, “on the way back to your friend in Lille Karleby. We're going to need a name and an address.”

Mikkel shook his head. “I'm no rat.”

“We're just trying to help. If it wasn't you, then your friend can provide you with an alibi.”

“You wouldn't believe us anyway.” Mikkel crossed his arms, imitating Lisa.

Lars opened a drawer and pulled out a small case. He opened it. Inside was a pair of rubber gloves, a mask, sterile swabs, and brown paper evidence bags.

“We're going to take a DNA test now, and —”

“I'm not taking any DNA test. As soon as I'm in the registry —”

“It's in your own best interest to help us.” Lars proceeded to put on the gloves.

Mikkel crossed him arms. “Nope.”

“Jesus, what an idiot.” Lisa closed the door behind the two officers who had collected Mikkel to return him to lock-up.

“He did cool down again. And he didn't ask for a lawyer.” Lars put the DNA test kit back in the drawer.

Lisa flipped through the pictures once more. “Why didn't you show him the shirt?”

“Let him sweat it until tomorrow,” he said. “Then we'll try again.”

* * *

Lars got off the 5A at Nørrebro Station. He fought through the swarm of people, then headed toward Folmer Bendtsens Plads. The sun was hidden behind a cover of milky white clouds. The bright light filtered through, stung his tired, sand-filled eyes. He had wanted to buy flowers for Maria, to congratulate her on the great result the previous day. But he had forgotten, and it was too late to go back and find a florist. He was ready to drop with fatigue.

He examined the flowers in front of the SUPER CORN R- STORE. Even he could see that the limp, half-dead stems were not exactly in their prime.

Still, he pulled two bouquets, the best of a bad bunch, out of the black plastic bucket. Water was dripping onto his pants as he walked inside the store.

The young, rather stout Dane greeted him with a nod. “Two packs of King's Blue?”

“You remembered.” Lars said. “These too. Can you wrap them?”

The boy looked doubtful. “In newspaper?”

“Just leave them as they are.” Lars shook his head, pulled out his bank card, and swiped it in the machine. He rocked back and forth on his feet.

“Are you a police officer?”

“Is it that obvious?” Lars punched in his PIN and pressed OK.

“Well yeah . . . Are you out at Bellahøj precinct?”

Lars grabbed the cigarettes. He picked up the flowers, holding them at arm's length to avoid the dripping water.

“Homicide.” He managed to pull the cellophane off one pack with his teeth, and using his free hand, tapped out a cigarette.

“I see.” The guy raised his eyebrows, gave him a light. Even in outer Nørrebro, in spite of the numerous riots in the district throughout the seventies and eighties, there was still a certain fascination surrounding murder investigations. Slightly morbid, but better than having rocks thrown at you — or having your car destroyed.

“So you'd better stick to the straight and narrow.” Lars laughed and raised his hand to say goodbye.

“Of course. See ya.”

Maria wasn't home. When he finally got the door open, the kitchen looked like a war zone: dirty dishes, breadcrumbs, half-empty milk cartons in one god-awful mess. He didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He just opened the kitchen cupboard to find something to put the flowers in. But there were no vases. He gave up, put each bouquet in a pitcher of water, left one in the kitchen, and took the other into Maria's room. All of her old things had arrived. The bed was made; a couple of her old teddy bears were nestled in and among the pillows lined against the wall. There were posters of half-naked young men on the wall. Music? Sports? He had no idea.

He put the bouquet on her table. The flowers hung their heads. He was craving another cigarette. Instead he went into the living room, found a pen and paper, folded the sheet down the middle, and wrote.

To Maria, my clever, beautiful daughter.

Congratulations.

I'm proud of you.

Love, Dad

He rested the improvised card against the pitcher. She'd spot it as soon as she came in.

He went into the living room and stopped by the bookcase. His eyes searched for the tattered copy of
The Tempest
on the bottom shelf. With great effort, he managed to stop himself from looking at the row of LPs. Instead he walked into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed fully clothed.

Shortly after, he was asleep.