The House That Jack Built (13 page)

Thursday
June 19

Chapter 27

“D
amn,” Lisa mumbled
and threw yet another picture on top of the hefty pile on the desk.

“It's not all that bad.” Frank aligned the pictures so the piles were in order again.

“Knock it off,” Lisa snapped.

The answer had come from Forensics early that morning. The blood on Mikkel Rasmussen's shirt was his own. And neither it nor the remains of skin and hair that had been found on the shirt matched the perpetrator's profile. Or Stine Bang's. Mikkel was released less than fifteen minutes after they had received the result of the test.

They had received more photos from Penthouse, from the evening Louise Jørgensen was raped. Photos from both evenings were handed out yet again and passed around the room. Everyone had to go through every single picture again.

“We're looking for a male, around five foot eight, possibly with blonde hair, who was present on both nights.” Lars grabbed another pile, let his eye wander across the prints. Happy kids posing, posturing. Sex and booze and a kind of desperate hunger permeated the atmosphere of the photos and gradually became more and more pronounced as the night proceeded. Both Louise and Stine appeared in many of the photos. Both were tall, slender girls with long hair, dressed in skimpy outfits that didn't leave much to the imagination.

“Stine and Louise actually look quite similar,” Toke said.

The room was quiet for some time. The only sound came from fingers flipping through photos and laboured breathing. They passed the pictures around again.

“It's hopeless.” Lisa threw her pile of photos on the table. “He has to be there, but I just can't see him.”

“I know it's not something we normally do,” Toke said, crossing his legs. “But isn't it about time we called the shots?”

“What do you mean?” Lars supported his head with his hand on his forehead. He could guess what Toke was driving at, and he didn't like it.

Frank straightened up in the windowsill. “You mean a trap?”

Toke nodded. No one spoke.

When Toke opened his mouth again, he only addressed Lars. “This guy has done it twice now. We have his DNA. If he takes the bait, we've got him. Not even the best defence lawyer in the country would be able to get him off.”

Lars looked out the window. “And if something happens to her?”

“She'll have people covering her. We'll be right on her heels. Plan her route in advance, have people stationed along the entire track.”

“Well, at any rate it shouldn't be you, Lisa.” Kim A laughed loudly. “You're not really his type.”

Lisa stuck out her tongue. Then she laughed. “And you'll never be mine either.”

“I don't think it's a job for a probationer.” Lisa was sitting backwards on her chair. She buried her chin between her arms, which were folded over the back of the chair. Lars looked down at his papers.

“Kim A — can't you put some pressure on Forensics to get that report on Stine Bang?”

Everyone in the room stared at Lars.

“What?” he said.

Lisa was the first to answer. “Kim got the report two days ago.”

Two days ago?
And it seemed that Lisa and Frank had already examined the results. A pattern was beginning to emerge. Or was he being paranoid?

Just then the door opened and Toke escorted a tall, busty blonde into the room.

“This is Lene. She's agreed to act as bait on the sting operation.”

Kim A and Frank nodded. Lars tried to smile. Lene had blue eyes and summer-brown skin. There was no doubt that she would be noticed at Penthouse — and everywhere else.

“Of course the operation's not without some risks,” Lisa began.

“Toke has briefed me on what you want me to do,” Lene said. “I'm not scared.”

“She's perfect,” Frank mumbled to himself. Then he said, “It's either her or we forget about the whole thing.”

Lars ran through Lene's record in his head. She was a third Dan in judo, an outstanding runner, mentally stable, and she had proven that she could handle pressure during the demonstrations at the Copenhagen Climate Change Conference a few years back.

Frank was right. It was her or no one.

“Okay, if you're sure?” Lars said. She smiled. “Good,” he continued. “That's settled then. Let's review the operation.”

An hour later they had been through all the details. Toke left with Lene, and Lisa and Frank went to get some lunch. Kim A got up and was about to follow when Lars cleared his throat.

“What's all this about the report from Forensics?”

Kim A raised his eyebrows. “Which one?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“What do you want me to say?” Kim A shrugged. “I must have forgotten about it.”

What was he going to do? Speak to Ulrik? He couldn't imagine anything worse.

“What's the problem?” Kim A asked. “It doesn't say anything we didn't already know.”

Lars waved him off wearily. Kim A slipped out of the office.

Maybe he was just imagining things. Maybe Kim A had forgotten all about their past. He leaned back, opened the window, and lit a forbidden King's. And if not? The office chair creaked under him as he put his feet up on the windowsill. If he leaned back, he could just about catch a ray of sunshine on his face.

Chapter 28

“A
ren't you going
to offer me a cup of tea?”

She walked right up to him. The heavy scent of perfume overpowered the lilacs from the hedge behind her. They were at the back of the high school by the empty parking lot. The school was empty as well. Everybody had gone home. They were all alone.

Maria was going out to a girlfriend's; she wouldn't be getting home till late that night. He hoped to see her then. Until then the evening stretched out empty before him. Christian looked down at Christina's blue eyes and blonde hair.

“I have to work out first.” He shut the passenger-side door of his convertible for her, and walked around the front of the car.

She lowered her eyes, giggled. “That's okay. I can watch.”

He was bored already.

* * *

Three sets of fifteen squats and then the bench press. Twenty-eight kilos on each side. Not too much, not too little. The sun shone in through the cellar window. She sat on a plastic chair under the window, pretending to read. She stole a glance at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

He should be able to do fifteen reps, but it suddenly seemed so trivial, easy. The burning sensation in the muscles just wouldn't come.

She had undone the second button of her thin turquoise blouse. He could see the curve of her plastic tits, her tiny, pink sixteen-year-old nipples quivering in the dim light.

He let the barbell fall back onto the rack; the metal sung and he sat up with a groan. The book fell into her lap. She didn't even try to hide it: she devoured him with her eyes.

“I'm just going to take a shower.”

She got up, toying with the third button on her blouse.

“You don't have to,” she said.

He wiped the sweat off his face, avoided looking at her. “How about that tea?”

She spotted the jar by the window. The last amber rays of sun shone through its contents; long, mushroom-shaped shadows danced on the opposite wall.

“What's that?”

He curled his lips behind the towel. Maybe the evening would turn out to be interesting after all.

He carried the tray with tea and toast up the stairs, her gaze at his back just above the buttocks. She closed the door behind them.

“The tea can infuse while I'm in the shower. Why don't you make some honey sandwiches in the meantime?”

She picked up the jar and turned the glass in her hand. “What is it?”

“My own recipe. It's good.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. While he lathered up, he thought about the trip to the golf course last fall. Dad, so wrapped up in his six over par and X-18 iron, hadn't noticed that Christian had spent most of the day with his ass in the air. There's no better place to pick psilocybin mushrooms than a freshly mown golf course after a good rain.

He came out of the shower with dripping hair and a towel around his waist. She sat staring at a piece of toast. She had spread a thick layer of honey on it. It was dripping everywhere.

“What's that?” She prodded the mushroom with her knife.

“Eat.” He let the towel fall to the floor. He couldn't be bothered to put underwear on; they were going to come off soon anyway. He found a pair of loose linen pants in the closet and pulled an old T-shirt over his head. “Is the tea ready?”

He threw the towel on the bathroom floor and sat down next to her. Firmly but gently he pushed her hand with the honey sandwich toward her mouth. She looked up at him, held his gaze as she took the first bite, and swallowed.

“You can't even taste it,” she said.

“Of course you can't. They've been infusing since fall.” He buttered a piece of bread with his concoction, and poured tea into the thin, green porcelain cups.

They drank in silence, munched on the honey toast. Outside night descended. The house was quiet.

Then he lay on the bed, yawned. He could tell by looking at her that all he had to do was pat the bedspread beside him and do his usual routine. Then she'd come to him.

She swallowed. “So what is it?”

“Psilocybin mushrooms. Liberty cap. Acid.” He looked up at the ceiling, followed the car headlights that swept through the window.

“Acid?” Her voice trembled a bit.

He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “It's a little like LSD, or Ecstasy. Don't worry, it's going to be good.”

Christina got up and reached for the teacup. She walked carefully across the room and sat down on the bed next to him.

“You have to take care of me.” Her eyes had that familiar glassy look. He put his arm around her. She took small sips of the tea.

“Of course.” Then he took the cup from her hand and placed it on the floor. He crouched over her, then pushed her onto the bed. Her mouth was warm from the tea; she tasted of Ceylon. A door opened somewhere in the house. Footsteps moved up the stairs, faded away. His hand was under her blouse now, stroking the little hairs on her belly, then moving farther up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him greedily.

He didn't know how long they had been lying there. His hand moved toward her jeans. He undid one button, then another.

She sat up, smiled. “I just have to go to the bathroom.”

When she disappeared into the bathroom, he removed the bedspread and threw it on the floor. Then he rolled the comforter up against the wall and leaned back. The moon was dancing somewhere outside; its light shone in through the window. Out there, the night shadows were alive.

From the bathroom, he heard the sound of denim on skin. She flushed the toilet. His fingers were so thick, they started tingling. The sheets exploded against his skin. The window frame buckled, collapsed, melted into large drops that slid onto the floor. Branches passed through the glass, stretched toward him. The smell of topsoil and rotting leaves filled the room. It was very hot; still, he could see his breath, a pale cloud suspended in the middle of the room.

She came out of the bathroom, whispered, as she crawled into bed with him, “I don't understand what you see in her. Her dad is a cop . . .”

Maria was his. He pulled her down to him, stopped her with a kiss. His entire body quivered. He was one great mouth. Her lips were so hot, and he could feel her tongue between his teeth. She began unbuttoning his pants.

Flames licked the walls; the wallpaper curled as it disintegrated into brown flakes. Burnt confetti and embers sprinkled onto the bed, settled on their hair. He must have been gone, for now she had taken her blouse off and was sliding up his chest. He was naked, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, following the lines between light and shadow.

A blurry white face floated above the bed, a face with the mouth open in a muted scream. Empty eye sockets looked directly at him.

He sat up with a start, slid out of her.

“Shh,” she said, pushing him back onto the bed. She tried to pull him inside her again.

With a sudden start, he pushed back. She tumbled backwards, hit her face on the edge of the bedframe. She winced, looked up at him from the floor. Her eyes were two white slivers. A dark line ran from her nose down toward her Cupid's bow. His hand trembled with excitement as he wiped the blood that was black in the moonlight from her lip and stuck his finger in his mouth. The salty taste of iron on tongue and palate.

Her legs wobbled as she got up. He picked up her clothes and threw them out onto the landing, then pushed her naked body out the door and shut it in her face. She scratched at the hollow doorframe a couple of times and whispered his name. But he knew what he had to do. He was already grabbing his clothes. A faint sobbing trickled through the crack under the door. Then she slipped quietly down the stairs.

Only when the house was silent again, and he was certain that she was gone, did he open the door and bound down the stairs.

It was time for a night out.

Chapter 29

T
he hard, pounding
beats worked his organs into a tangle while drumming his body into the collective movement, an obscene bacchanal of swirling bodies, hungry lips, and greedy gazes. The meat market.

Lars's gaze swept across the dance floor. Girls, far too young to be let in, held their hands high over their heads, bounced up and down in time with the music. Was that how people danced now? He used to pogo at punk concerts when he was young, but this? He shook his head, turned to the girl at the bar, and raised a finger. Another club soda. In the dim light, the girl leaned over the rows of beer and water, allowing Lars to see all the way down her top, and shouted something in his ear. He nodded, even though he couldn't hear a single syllable. The girl walked down the bar, pulled out a Coke, opened it, and placed a glass and the bottle in front of him. He held out forty kroner, but she shook her head. At least the staff was helpful.

Toke appeared next to him. “Have you spotted him?”

“No idea.”

Toke looked at his watch. It was almost 1:30 a.m. One hour to go.

Lene stood in the middle of the dance floor, at one with the mass of moving flesh. Lars had to admit, he was impressed. She actually looked like she was enjoying herself. Sweat ran down her face. She was completely lost in the music. A large group of guys was watching her, and not all of them were undercover officers.

They had spent most of the afternoon planning every last detail of the operation and reviewing every possible outcome. They had set up scenarios, experimented with surveillance posts in different locations. Lars, Toke, and Lene had even walked the route a few hours earlier to judge visibility and points of orientation in the dark. Officers with night-vision goggles and communication equipment had taken their positions in the stairwells, on roofs, and at other discrete corners. They couldn't be more prepared.

But the careful planning also had its downside. Maria had initiated a somewhat serious conversation over dinner that evening, a conversation which, as far as he could remember, had dealt with her sense of loss and her feelings about the divorce. And now that he thought about it, hadn't she also mentioned the date she had been on? Had she been happy? He couldn't remember; his thoughts were buried in the evening's operation. In the middle of dinner, Maria had screamed at him and slammed her fork onto the plate, sending spaghetti sauce everywhere. Then she locked herself in the bathroom and refused to come out until he was gone.

“Hey, look who's here!”

Toke's exclamation tore him back to the high-octane atmosphere of Penthouse. A familiar face was moving along the bar, carrying a half-empty glass of beer, glazed eyes fixed on Lars's. Beer splashed onto the pants and shoes of random guests by the bar as he made his way toward them.

“What are you doing here?” Mikkel Rasmussen practically spat out the question while tipping the glass in his hand. He spilled the rest of his drink all over himself, without seeming to notice.

“Hey, watch it, dirtbag.” A blonde guy in a hoodie and brightly coloured T-shirt grabbed Mikkel.

“Easy.” Lars got between them. He pulled Mikkel aside. It looked like he hadn't washed his hair since he had been released, let alone changed his clothes. When he got close, the smell of stale sweat and damp, stained textiles overpowered the club's mix of cheap perfume and banana oil.

“Aren't you two finished harassing innocent people?” Mikkel was wailing so loudly that people around them turned and stared.

“We have to do something,” Toke whispered. “Before he ruins everything.”

Lars nodded, put the Coke down, and took a firm hold of Mikkel's arm. “Come with me.”

“I'm not fucking —”

“You'll do what I tell you.” The low pitch, the abrupt choppy syllables, the sudden vehemence worked as intended. Mikkel Rasmussen was in such shock that he went along with no further protest.

Lars leaned over the end of the bar and shouted into the girl's ear. “Do you have a back door?”

The girl nodded, pointed over her shoulder, and let Lars and Mikkel go behind the bar. A bright red door lit up a matte black wall. Lars opened it and pushed Mikkel in front of him.

“What the hell are you doing? You can't just —”

“You're obstructing a police operation. I can do whatever I like. Let's go.”

He gave Mikkel a shove. Rasmussen was swaying from side to side, then he took a tentative step down the steep flight of stairs. Lars was right on his heels, forcing him to continue. About twenty steps further down there was an open door leading to the courtyard. The night air was fresh after the nauseating stench from the club's smoke machine.

Stacks of empty soft drink crates were piled up just outside the door, and three large dumpsters were pushed against a low wall in the back of the courtyard. The dull thumping from the club made the summer night vibrate. He grabbed Mikkel by the arm, dragging him through the gate and around the corner to the unmarked car parked on Vestergade alongside Gammeltorv. The square had been a central meeting point of the 1980s Copenhagen punk scene. He had sat on the low wall framing the square so many times back then. Lars shrugged off the past, opened the rear door, and pushed Mikkel inside.

“Mind holding onto him until I give word?”

The officer in the passenger seat sent Mikkel a disinterested look, scrunched up his face, then gave Lars the thumbs up.

“Thanks.”

Lars slammed the door and made his way back to Penthouse and his place by the bar.

“He very nearly ruined everything,” Toke shouted in his ear. After the brief reprieve outside, the noise inside the club seemed deafening.

Lars took a sip of the Coke. It had already gone flat. “Did anyone notice anything?”

“Nobody left the bar,” Toke said. “I've checked with our colleagues at the door.”

“So we wait.”

* * *

Lene went to the bathroom. Lars looked at his watch. It was
2:25 a.m. It was at this time that Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen had left the club. He nodded to Toke who positioned himself halfway toward the exit. The door to the women's washroom opened. Lene came out, looked at him, and sent a quick smile. Then she pushed her way through the lineup at the bar toward the coat check.

Lars gave her a one-and-a-half-minute head start before following. He walked along the bar and then up the stairs. She wasn't in the lineup at the coat check. He couldn't see Toke either. He made his way out to the street and spotted Lene further up along Nørregade. She went past Vor Frue Kirke, pushing a vintage bike.

“She shouldn't walk so quickly,” Toke whispered in his ear. “Give the guy a chance to follow her.”

“He'll follow.” Lars moved a few steps away from the crowd by the entrance. It was good to get outside. They strolled up Nørregade, two friends on their way home from a night out, checking out the home decor display in the window of Notre Dame and strolling past Vester Kopi print and copy shop.

“There, she's easing up a bit now,” Toke said.

“Relax. We're not the only ones watching her. See if you can spot our guy instead.” Lars stuck a hand into his jacket pocket and put the small earpiece into his ear. He heard static, then muffled voices. Contact.

Toke pulled a package out of the bag he had collected from the coat check, and handed it to Lars. He checked the magazine on his service weapon, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact, then stuffed the gun into his pants. He shivered as the cold steel pressed against his thin shirt.

“We're the only ones here. Another unit is up at Krystalgade. She's passing them now.” Toke kept a constant eye on her. “There. Who's that?”

A figure came staggering toward them, past the old KTAS building across from Hotel Skt. Petri.

“Just somebody on a night out. He's coming from Nørreport. Remember, we're looking for someone who's following her.” Lars patted him on the shoulder. Toke snorted, stared at the guy as he sailed past them in a blissful drunken stupor.

Lars turned around, took a look at the guy after they had passed each other. There was no one else behind them. Reports from various surveillance posts flowed in: Nørreport, all quiet. Farimagsgade, nothing to report. Dronning Louises Bro, empty.

They continued through the city. Nørregade opened up toward the blaze of lights in front of the 7-Eleven at Nørreport. Lene was already walking down Frederiksborggade. Lars and Toke ran across the crosswalk at Fiolstræde, ducking through the construction at Nørreport Station and breezing through the penetrating stench of piss before reaching Frederiksborggade. There were more people on the streets now, lone figures or couples, on their way home from a night out. On Queen Louise's Bridge, the neon signs of Irma supermarket reflected on the black surface of the water. The bridge glowed under the orange and yellow of the streetlights. Out toward the district of Østerbro there was a permanent glow in the sky. The white nights. It was so beautiful Lars had to stop. The older he got, the shorter the early days of summer felt. Another heyday was about to die.

As planned, Lene turned down Peblinge Dossering. Lars and Toke followed, cutting past the old air-raid shelter. A family of ducks bobbed by the shore, their beaks tucked under their wings. Lene continued along Baggesensgade, Blågårdsgade, across Blågårds Plads. On Korsgade, Lars and Toke looked up at Hellig Kors Kirke's massive spire, which ripped through the sky at the end of the street. Here, along the narrow streets, they could move in without fear of being exposed.

They passed the church.

“It's got to be now, if it's going to happen,” Toke mumbled.

Lars nodded. The hair on his arms stood on end. Hans Tavsens Park opened up to the right, disappearing into the shadows of Assistens Cemetery. There wasn't a soul to be seen. Down toward Struenseegade, loud music drifted out of open windows. Lights shone from the odd apartment. Up ahead Lene was a white figure in a sea of shadows.

Lars's earpiece crackled.

“There — what was —” The excitement in the voice levelled off. “Sorry, probably just a false alarm. Bravo here. All quiet. Wait —”

Just then the shadows in Hans Tavsens Parken sprung to life. Something moved in the grass, darted past them, and knocked Lene over. As her bike hit the ground the metallic clatter echoed through the night.

“This is it.” Lars started running. His service weapon was already in his hand. Toke rushed after him. The streets around them were filled with the rapid pounding of boots. Everybody was moving in. Lene was rolling around on the ground with her attacker, then managed to get up. The shadow took a swing at her, but she grabbed his clothes and pulled him on top of her, planting a foot in his stomach and sending him flying. He fell into a roll and was on his feet in one swift movement. The assailant took a swing, striking Lene on the temple with something in his hand. She staggered back, falling to the ground near a bench.

“Stop! Police!” Lars shouted. He was now less than thirty metres away.

Only then did the assailant notice that they weren't alone. He looked steadily at Lars before breaking into a run toward the cemetery. Lars swore. Lene's fingers were groping for the bench, then her hand dropped limply to her side. She mumbled something. A thin line of blood ran from her temple.

“Call an ambulance,” he shouted at Toke. Then he shot past her.

The shadow was already by the cemetery fence. He jumped up on the chainlink and swung his legs over the top. A small thud broke the silence when he landed on the other side.

When Lars got to the fence, he took three quick steps and was halfway over before he slid headfirst down the other side of the fence. He managed to soften the landing with his hands, but stabs of pain radiated in his leg and torso when his hip hit the ground. The service weapon flew out of his hands and clattered onto the path. He forced himself to his feet, lunged for the pistol, and popped up with one knee on the ground and his weapon raised in front of him.

It was completely still. No sound, no movement. Then came the voices from Hans Tavsens Park, the shouting on the radio, the baying of the dogs. Lars tried to block out the noise and focus on the cemetery. There. A bush moved. He approached with the pistol raised. Then he heard steps running in the opposite direction, toward Nørrebrogade. Lars abandoned the footpath and ran in between the gravestones where the soft grass deadened the sound of his steps. The steps ahead of him slowed down; the assailant was getting tired. Lars listened for the sound of breathing. He peered forward but the shadows were alive here — dead things with fluid, bobbing movements, a world under water.

During the day, nursing mothers, children, and people living in the area used the cemetery as a park. They had picnics, smoked, drank coffee, kissed. But during the night something else took over, something primal.

A shadow broke away from the darkness and slipped between two trees only to melt into the shadow of an imposing headstone. Lars felt a light splatter on his forehead and on the back of his hand. He blinked, wiped the raindrop from his forehead with his sleeve. He crouched down, ran in a wide arc across the lawn, and circled around to the other side of the headstone. No one was there. The pistol was shaking in his hand.

Then the sky opened and water came pouring down.

The noise was deafening. Leaves screamed under the downpour. In an instant, his visibility was reduced to a couple of metres. Everything was a pale grey, moving carpet.

But what was that? It sounded like someone was whistling.

Lars headed in the direction of the sound, toward the dense thicket of trees at the other end of the cemetery. He slipped on the wet asphalt but recovered his balance. His hair clung to his forehead and water ran into his eyes. He tried to ward off the blows from the branches. The hissing sound of tires on wet asphalt. They had to be near Jagtvej.

He could hear it through the rain now: the sound of a body ploughing through the bushes. Lars began running in the direction of the noise. He kept wiping the water from his eyes but it was futile: a second later and his sight was again blurred by the rain. Suddenly the wall was there, towering in front of him. He was going too fast; he couldn't stop on the soft, wet surface, and crashed into the wall. Pain exploded in his nose, knees, and elbows, and his forehead and hands were cut. Dammit. Where was he? A little to the right was a mulberry tree. The bark had been stripped away, and the exposed trunk shone in the dark. Lars flung himself up the tree, one metre, two metres, three metres above the ground, until he could see over the wall. Sure enough, Jagtvej was on the other side. He stepped off the tree and onto the wall, jumped down on the other side, landing on both feet. He looked up and down the street. Shiny wet asphalt, puddles teeming with raindrops, a cab's headlights, engine noise, pizza joints and bars. But nobody was on the street.