The Seventh Child (40 page)

I was impressed. In only a few days,
he’d
made it as far as I had in years.

Once again, he looked at me triumphantly. “That piece of information correlated with another lead. The midwifery student I’d found in the archives of the Copenhagen union had been a student at Rigshospital in the early sixties.
She’d
told me the most bizarre story—an almost unbelievable story.” Taasing smiled because of course
he’d
believed it. “It was about a very young woman
who’d
been brought to the obstetric ward and whose delivery had been arranged using a very special set of rules. She gave birth to a child who was
immediately
removed by hospital authorities, and then she disappeared. It was sheer madness. The midwife, now retired, never forgot that day. She even tried to find the girl to get some explanation for the strange experience, but she never succeeded, because she didn’t even know the girl’s name—and both the doctor and two older colleagues who were present at the delivery have long since died. There are no records of it anywhere, and she no longer remembers the exact date. Only that it happened in the spring or summer of 1961.”

I nodded with reluctant admiration. I could just imagine the former midwife on Kongslund’s front steps asking Magna for help—and I could see Magna gesture, using the same hands that had held thousands of infants in their embrace, to express her regret that too many fates had passed her by without a trace.

That of course was a lie. She remembered them all.

Taasing had reached the conclusion of his story: “In other words, around the time the murderer Eva Bjergstrand is pardoned, a girl gives birth under very unusual circumstances at the Rigshospital. It’s so remarkable that you can’t help but see the two events as related, and I think the result is obvious. The mother of the boy known as John Bjergstrand is the young girl who killed her mother for reasons that she, according to the newspapers, refused to reveal. Somehow she got pregnant when she was serving time, and your foster mother and the governesses at Kongslund helped both her and the man involved out of their predicament. All that remained was the form that you found many years later and which you made sure to pass on to me
…
or rather to Nils.”

Taasing stared at me over the rim of his glasses. I could tell he needed both a smoke and a glass of wine. “I’m right, aren’t I?” His voice was almost pleading.

I didn’t say anything. His puzzle pieces rested on the table, fitting perfectly with mine. There was only one problem: they provided neither one of us with an explanation of the real mystery.

They didn’t say anything about who the father was; they didn’t reveal his profession or tell us where we might find him today. They gave us no insight into what had happened to the two main characters in the time since. Mother and child.

He knew that of course. “That doesn’t tell us who
…
or why your mother died
…
” He breathed through an imaginary cigarette. “Or where the boy is today.”

“Was the midwife able to tell you anything about the child?”

The question caught him off guard, but only for a moment. Then he said, “Nothing. She hadn’t helped during the delivery. Her task was to assist a nurse in calming Eva down before and after the birth. They had to dress her and wheel her out of the room, the sooner the better. That was the philosophy back then. If you’re thinking about any identifiable marks
…
birthmarks—”

“The eyes,” was all I said.

He ignored the strange interjection. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard me. “What I don’t understand is why Carl Malle and the ministry haven’t long since made the same discoveries,” he said. “Any half-decent detective should be able to find her. After all, Bjergstrand is a fairly uncommon name in Denmark.” He looked at me as though he expected an answer.

“Think about it,” I said. “They might not need to.” My lisp was completely gone.

“Maybe Carl Malle knows all of this already—everything you’ve just recounted. Maybe that’s exactly why that name triggered so much panic in the ministry.”

He leaned in so close I could smell the menthol on his breath. “I hear what you’re saying,” he said. “But how did
you
find the name
…
and the form?”

I wheeled myself to the desk. If he thought I was crazy, his placid gray eyes didn’t show it.

In the top drawer was a letter that no one had seen—except for me and of course the woman
who’d
sent it. Until now I had carefully kept it to myself—and completely out of the Kongslund Affair.

It had originally been addressed to my foster mother, but it had never reached her.

I wheeled around and handed the letter to Taasing. “It’s from her.”

“From Eva Bjergstrand?” He was flabbergasted.

“Yes.”

With a humble gesture, he took the letter and slowly read the single, handwritten sheet carefully, twice, before examining the date. “April 13, 2008,” he said.

I held my breath.

Then he read it a third time, as though he wanted to memorize it word for word. “You got this letter, and then you found a form with that name
…
and passed it on to us?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me almost admiringly.

I said nothing.

He glanced at his watch. “Today is June 5. This letter was written just over two months ago and was probably en route for a week. We received your anonymous letter on May 5. You acted quickly.”

I said nothing. But my heart beat fast. I appreciated that he was shrewd, but I didn’t want him to be
too
shrewd.

“Tell me what happened
…
” He sounded like a coconspirator in an old play.

I shook my head. He would only see the pieces of the puzzle that I chose to give him. “There is-s-s-n’t much to say. I got the letter. I looked into some things-s. And then I pas-s-s-s-ed on the information.”

It was one of the greatest understatements ever articulated at Kongslund, and there’d been quite a few. It was also a lie, and my lisp had returned.

Taasing opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him.

No doubt, at that moment, he wished he could transform into a little worm that could gnaw deep into my brain and explore the secrets it held.

Maybe everything would have turned out differently if he could have.

The office of the minister of national affairs was as large as a ballroom.

Along one of the wine-red walls stood an enormous cabinet made of Italian walnut and decorated with exotic patterns and engravings. Along another wall, a German interior designer had placed a fake fireplace, with hinges and handles of armored cast iron topped with stained green oak.

In the middle of the room was the minister’s giant desk, behind which sat Almind-Enevold on his throne facing Carl Malle. The two resembled a pair of ailing undertakers shaken by the news of Eternal Life on Earth. Orla Berntsen stood by the window.

Ten minutes earlier, the minister’s chauffeur had dropped them here after the funeral of the woman each had met during decisive moments in their lives.

“I’ve been to the Family Council, as we agreed, and something strange has happened,” Malle said to the man on the throne.

The minister stared at him for a long time, and then said, “Did you find any trace of that name?”

“No,” Malle replied. “But someone had ransacked the place, I could tell. They had carefully combed through the Kongslund files, including those from the Elephant Room. In other words, somebody got there before us—and it has been some time. The dust has grown thick again. It might have been several years ago.”

Orla had no problem believing this—Carl Malle had an eye for these kinds of details.

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Who the hell knew anything about this so long ago? Before the anonymous letter arrived?” The minister’s question lingered as though it demanded an immediate explanation.

Malle turned abruptly to Orla. “Yes
…
who? Who the hell has gone through all the archives from Mother’s Aid Society and scattered them about so that it’s impossible to make heads or tails of them?”

Orla didn’t respond.

“It could have been Severin—but it could also be you, chasing the past
…
” Malle let the peculiar accusation hang in the air. “No one in the council knows anything. But all the boxes have been opened, and the papers have been pulled from the binders. Everything’s a mess.”

From his spot at the window, Orla said, “It wasn’t me.”

“Then it might be Severin or Trøst—or Marie.” Anger flared in Malle’s eyes. Somebody had beaten him to the punch and accessed the sources that might have yielded clues about this John Bjergstrand. He wasn’t used to being outpaced.

“Isn’t it obvious that someone is accusing the
party
of being involved in all this?” Orla said. “So why don’t we concentrate on that?
That’s
what’s important. Who cares whether anyone has rummaged through the papers in those old boxes?”

“You don’t understand a damn thing,” Malle said. He stared at the man
he’d
helped out of a miserable childhood in Søborg. “You have
no idea
that this boy is the key to everything that’s happened.”

“And what you’re saying is
ridiculous
…
” The minister rose from his mahogany and birch throne. His face had assumed a faintly purple hue, like the glow of the rainbow over the courtyard fountain when the sun was at its zenith.

“But our letter writer must have had a reason to send it to you,” Malle said, still glowering at Orla. “Do you have any old items or papers from your time at Kongslund?”

“I don’t. My mother would have had to—”

“Your adoptive mother is
dead
.” The minister interrupted his chief of staff so brutally that he flinched. The minister had expressly said
adoptive mother
.

“My adoptive mother?” Orla said.

“Your mother, I mean,” the minister quickly corrected.

“It’s your house now,” Malle said. “Maybe there’s something in her belongings that could be of service to us.”

Orla turned pale, sniffling twice before answering. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s such a small house. I would have found it.”

“Look again.” Malle was fully apprised of the situation and knew that Orla hadn’t gotten around to moving a single thing out of his childhood home. He also knew that Orla was living there now, waiting for his divorce to be finalized and for a sign to tell him where to go from there.

“Yes, search the house as fast as possible.” The minister gestured toward the door. “Maybe you’ll find something you missed.”

Orla was dismissed, and he retreated with a look of pure spite on his face, a look that a top official normally would have kept concealed.

Only when the minister was alone with his specialist did he say, “If only I knew who
…
”

Malle didn’t respond.

“Who John Bjergstrand was
…
or rather
is
.”

“We do have one option
…
We can challenge the person who was closest to Magna, the only one who might have any knowledge of us.”

“Marie?”

Malle nodded.

“She’s always made my skin crawl. That crazy little shit quoting weird things from the spastic woman’s diary.”

“You seemed to find those diaries quite useful at the anniversary party.”

“I don’t think Marie knew her foster mother had made copies.”

“Maybe Magna was jealous of her.” Malle paused as though
he’d
expressed a theory too far-fetched.

The minister barely noticed. He was lost in his own thoughts. “What the hell were the contents of that package? Could it have been the Protocol
…
her personal records?”

“Yes,” Malle said. “There’s no doubt. I think that Magna finally sent her little book, with all her notes, to the child’s mother—about us and the child
…
She must have known exactly where to send it.”

“We’ve got to get ahold of it!”

“I’ve dispatched two men to Australia. We haven’t located her yet, but we will. We’ll get there first.”

“We
have
to get there first.”

“Yes. Of course they have to be very discreet—but if she’s still alive, we’ll find her before anyone else. But there’s another matter
…
”

“Yes?” the minister said with bated breath.

“The retired chief inspector that I told you about, the one who called the homicide chief?”

“Yes. You wanted to find him.”

“No, I wanted to find out what he called about. I never got along with that man, so I don’t want to contact him. But he does constitute a problem.”

“Yes?” the minister said, for the third time.

“He was a good investigator. And as I mentioned, he handled a case a few years ago where a woman was found murdered on a beach
…
quite close to Bellevue
…
and to Kongslund. And he’s still mulling it over. They were never able to determine whether it was an accident
…
or something much worse. Murder, that is.”