The House That Jack Built (10 page)

Chapter 22

A
llan turned down
Nordre Ringvej and followed the road's curves. Sanne let her body follow the car's motion and stared out the front window. Low-rise apartment blocks, commercial buildings, residential neighbourhoods, and greenery — apart from the size of the city, they could just as easily be driving through a suburb of Kolding. But the monstrosity that towered above the patches of green farther ahead didn't look like anything they had in Kolding. Glostrup Hospital was a Stalinist architect's wet dream.

“Yeah, it's not pretty,” Allan said as he turned into an empty parking spot and turned off the engine.

Sanne shook her head and looked at the map on her phone. “Well, let's hope it proves useful.”

* * *

They got off on the fourth floor. Sanne grabbed a nurse, just as the elevator door closed behind them with a quiet sigh.

“Excuse me, where can we find Professor Lau?”

The nurse sent them down the corridor toward an orange door. Sanne thanked her and followed Allan under the fluorescent tube lighting, past a long painting of a verdigris green ocean and a light blue sky covered with wisps of cloud. Stylized terns were suspended in frozen poses on the flat canvas.

“It must be here.” Allan stopped, pushed the door handle down without knocking, and stepped inside. Sanne followed.

“Professor Lau?”

A large man in a lab coat, hairnet, and face mask got up from behind a microscope and waved with gloved hands.

“Out!” he roared.

The door slammed behind them, but before Sanne and Allan had a chance to recover, the man stepped out. He was wide as a barrel, and his small, dark eyes flickered behind light-framed glasses. He took off the mask, let it hang around his neck. Red spots covered his cheeks and neck.

“Who told you that you could walk straight into my laboratory? It'll be pure luck if that sample isn't contaminated.”

Sanne raised her chin. “Professor Lau? I'm sorry if we've spoiled anything. But we were told you could help.”

The man was rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he looked over his shoulder. “I see. And you are?”

“Sanne Bissen. Copenhagen Police. This is my colleague, Allan Raben. Could we —”

“Follow me.” Lau crossed the corridor and opened the door to a spare office with a view of the hospital's rear entrance and the barrack-like houses on the other side. He went inside and sat down behind his desk. The chair creaked under his weight as he gestured toward two plastic chairs by the door.

“Shoot.” He folded his fleshy hands behind his neck, stared at Sanne through half-closed eyes.

She placed her purse on her lap, took out the small box she had gotten from Forensics, and placed it on the corner of his desk without speaking. The box practically disappeared in Professor Lau's large hands as he picked it up and opened the lid.

“Hmm.” He returned the box to the table with the lid open. The glass eye was resting on a bed of cotton. It had a jagged hole above the pupil, half inside the iris, where a few shards of glass were missing. Thin lines in the milky-white glass revealed the fractures.

Professor Lau picked up the box again.

“May I?”

Sanne nodded. Professor Lau picked up the green glass eye with great care, placing the concave back on his right index finger.

“Where did this come from?” he asked.

“Forensics assembled it from fragments we found next to the body of a woman three days ago,” Sanne said.

Professor Lau didn't move a muscle. Then he rested his glasses on his forehead, twisted and turned the glass eye, meticulously studying the concave back, the nuances from the pupil to the iris to the surrounding white. Then he placed it back in the box.

“Well, it's not from the mass-produced collections the opticians sell.”

Sanne nodded. “We know that.”

Professor Lau winked at her. “On the other hand, it's nowhere near the quality we normally see. I refuse to believe that any of the ocularists who work in this country would lend their name to it.”

“Ocularists?” Allan leaned forward in his chair.

“The artisans who produce eye prostheses. Glassblowers. In this country, the only ones doing this work, as far as I know, are German.”

“Sorry.” Sanne opened and closed her purse, placed her elbow next to the box. “Does that mean that nobody in Denmark does this type of work?”

“As I mentioned before, mass-produced eye prostheses are sold at most larger opticians.” The professor was smiling now, moving the box away from the edge of the table, away from Sanne's elbow. “But if you want quality, there's no avoiding an ocularist. A glass eye will last from one and a half to two years. Then you need a new one. The old one gets worn. The musculature around the eye, the eye socket itself, changes over time. Ocularists travel here a few times a year to make new prostheses for their regular clients. Either at the hospitals or at certain opticians.”

Sanne placed the box back in her purse. “You work with a German . . . ocularist?”

The professor nodded. “Dr. Henkel in Mülheim. It's a shame — he was just in Copenhagen. Now you'll have to make do with his number.”

“A German.” Allan sat down in the driver's seat, turned the key in the ignition.

“I'll deal with him. In southern Jutland we grew up with German TV.” Sanne closed the door and fastened her seatbelt. “I loved watching
Sesamstraße
.”

Allan laughed. They were on the way out on Ringvejen again when Sanne got through.

“Hallo?”

“Hallo. Sanne Bissen.
Dänische Polizei
.” She briefed Dr. Henkel on the case, got his email address, and sent him a series of quick photos of the eye prosthesis. The doctor got back to her before they had reached PolitigÃ¥rden.

“I'd like to help you, Frau Bissen, but I'm sorry: I can guarantee you that neither I nor any of my German colleagues produced this glass prosthesis. None of us would lend our name to such poor workmanship.”

Sanne ended the conversation. “We drew a blank,” she told Allan.

He clenched his teeth, just managing to brake as a 5A bus pulled out from its stop at Copenhagen Central Station without signalling.

“So we're back to the two brothers.”

Sanne dropped the phone back into her purse. “But someone had to have made that glass eye.”

Chapter 23

“T
hey're all yours.”
Søren slipped into his leather jacket, flipped up the collar. The singing quality of the detective's accent indicated he came from the island of Funen. He was solid and broad shouldered, but the horn-rimmed glasses made him look like an academic. “The Bukoshi brothers haven't left the club all day.”

“Anything happen at all?” Allan placed his pizza box on the table. Søren's colleague, Kasper, a small, thin man wearing a freshly ironed shirt and pressed pants, scrunched up his coffee cup and threw it toward the cardboard box in the corner. The box was overflowing with garbage. Sanne placed her Chinese takeout container and the box of spring rolls on the table next to Allan's pizza.

“Their crew stops by about every four hours to deliver the girls' earnings.” Kasper grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “The times are written in the book.” He pointed at a lined notebook on the table. Columns with times and names were written in neat handwriting across the open pages.

Søren was already heading for the back door.

“I just put fresh batteries in the camera.” He smiled. “Well, I guess all that's left is to say have fun.”

Kasper acknowledged them by raising his fingers to his forehead. Then they headed down the staircase at the back.

“Well, this looks comfy.” Sanne looked around at the table in the middle of the room, the three folding chairs, and the cardboard box in the corner. Other than that, the room was bare. Long strips of wallpaper had been torn off the far wall. The floor could do with being stripped and varnished.

“Mind if I let in a little fresh air?” Sanne wrinkled her nose. “That garbage . . .” She walked over to the window.

Allan stopped her. “Open the one in the kitchen. This apartment is supposed to be vacant, right?”

Oh, right
. No need to advertise the fact that they were here. She walked to the other end of the apartment and into the kitchen and opened both windows. Hot air poured in. Asphalt, brick, the entire city had been soaking up the sun for several days; the pent-up heat was now surrendering to the night air.

Inside the front room, the camera was clicking and she hurried back. Allan was pressed against the wall between the two windowpanes, shooting a series of photos. The long, grey-white lens followed the movement on the street below.

“What have they been calling them?” He continued shooting. It was only when she looked in the notebook that she understood what he meant.

“Leather Jacket, Baldie, and Toilet Seat.” She laughed. “Toilet Seat?”

“It must be this guy.” Allan put the camera down on the windowsill. “He's got one of those beards.” Using his finger, he drew a circle around his mouth and chin.

Sanne continued writing in Søren and Kasper's neat columns, while Allan was shooting photos of people coming in and out of the club across the street. When Toilet Seat emerged from the club ten minutes later, Sanne jotted down, 8:45 p.m. exit Toilet Seat.

“What does your wife say about you doing stakeouts?” she asked Allan.

“She's used to it by now. It's worse with the little ones.”

“I didn't know you had kids?”

“Two of them. Nine and three and a half. How about you?”

Sanne shook her head. How would it have been if she and Martin had . . . She must have seemed upset because Allan got that look on his face.

“Sorry. I didn't mean . . . Oh jeez.” He grabbed the camera and held down the shutter release. The small clicks merged into one long salvo.

“What's happening?” Sanne got up, positioned herself behind him. She had to stand on her toes to see over his head.

Meriton and Ukë Bukoshi were heading up the street. A dark-haired girl was walking between them, smoking. The expression on the girl's face was impossible to read, but everything about her looked strained. The glowing cigarette shook in her hands. Allan continued shooting. Sanne checked her watch. It was 8:59 p.m.

Meriton removed the cigarette from the girl's lips, threw it into the gutter. Then he walked over to a black Audi, opened the central locking, and got into the driver's seat. Ukë bundled the girl into the back and climbed in next to her.

“Do you think . . .” Despite her skepticism about Ulrik's theory that Meriton and Ukë were killers, she quivered.

“We'll get the other officers to follow them.” Allan rang the duty officer, submitted a report and licence plate number as the Audi drove toward Viktoriagade. “There.” He returned the cell to his pocket. “We've got a car on Vesterbrogade. They'll take over from there.” Allan got up. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in Sanne's car, each with a latte to go. Sanne had parked on the right side of Abel Cathrines Gade, the section leading down to Halmtorvet and the former meat-packing district. Vesterbro hipsters, tourists, and the few remaining alcoholics and drug addicts passed them in a steady stream. Allan's phone rang.

“They're in Gentofte, 16 Søtoften.” Allan switched off his cell. “Meriton and Ukë are waiting outside.”

Sanne stared across Istedgade, down at the club. “What do you think is happening out there?”

“Well, I assume someone's getting the royal treatment.”

“But why did they drive her there themselves? And why are they waiting?”

“An important customer, maybe?” Allan stared at the clock on the dashboard.

Sanne bit her lip. “What if Ulrik's right?”

They looked at each other. Sanne turned the key. Allan reached into the glove compartment, found the flashing light. He rolled down the window and clamped it onto the roof. Sanne backed up, cut around the car in front, and took the sharp right onto Istedgade at high speed, racing toward Copenhagen Central Station.

Their colleagues were parked on the right side of Søtoften in a green Opel, across from number 22. Meriton's Audi was parked farther ahead. In the driveway, at number 16, was a newer model red Toyota. A light flickered behind the closed blinds. Allan contacted their colleagues on the police radio.

“What's up? Anything happening?”

“Nothing.” The voice was metallic but clear. “They haven't budged.”

Sanne was restless in her seat. Allan fumbled with his seatbelt.

“I don't like it.” He cracked his neck, looked up and down the road.

“What if it's just a normal transaction?” Sanne had her hand on the door handle.

“And what if he's about to surgically remove her eyes?” Allan clicked his seatbelt, and opened the door in one quick movement.

Just then the radio crackled. Ulrik's voice came through loud and clear. “Do you know who lives there?”

How did he know where they were?

“That's what I thought.” Ulrik paused. “The chief executive officer of Gentofte council, Mathias Langhoff. Do you know what kinds of problems he can give us? Don't go barging in there just because he's having a little fun while his wife's out.”

Allan inhaled, slumped back in the seat. Sanne closed her eyes.

“Have you got anything — anything concrete, I mean?” Ulrik had lowered his voice. “Something to warrant you going in?”

Neither of them answered.

“I see. Just stay put.”

Something yellow and warm was reflected in the side mirror then disappeared again. A door opening and closing. Sanne leaned forward, squinted.

“Here she comes.” The girl scurried down the stairs with her head bent forward. A cigarette was glowing between her lips. The back door of the Audi opened and she climbed in.

“There, you see,” Ulrik said.

The Audi slipped away from the curb, passed them as they turned around at the end of Søtoften, then drove back. Sanne looked down as they passed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Meriton looking at her.

“So. No harm done.” Ulrik was still on the radio. “Back to Abel Cathrines Gade, you two. You've got a long night ahead of you.”

There was a click, then the radio went silent.