The House That Jack Built (17 page)

“You're right about that.” He drank some water, hoping it would hide his flushed cheeks.

Maria didn't notice. “I don't think we should talk about it. Not with Caroline lying in the hospital.”

“I'm sure Caroline would want you to be happy.” He could hear how stupid that sounded.

“Yeah, but still.” She changed the subject. “You didn't make it home last night?”

He nearly choked on his water. So they hadn't heard him, despite his having had a shower.

“I worked straight through. I only got home this afternoon and went straight to bed. Then you woke me up.”

She stared down at her plate, pulling her sweater tightly around her.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Maria had come in his room. She hadn't done that since she was a little girl. She brought her comforter with her, curled up underneath it, and nestled next to him, half asleep. He put an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he fell back to sleep.

Chapter 35

A
steady stream
of cars cruised down Gasværksvej from Vesterbrogade toward Istedgade. Single men were cruising for flesh under the dusty orange and purple glow of the streetlights. The evening air tasted of gasoline and rubber. A greasy layer of hydrocarbon settled in the throat.

Sanne held the photo of Abeiuwa in her outstretched hand.

“Have you seen her before?” The young girl, wearing a denim jacket, black skirt, and ankle boots, blew a bubble, then carried on chewing her gum.

“Maybe.”

“She was assaulted last night.” Allan stared down the street. He was sweating. “A customer attempted to surgically remove one of her eyes. We're actually trying to help you and the other girls.”

The girl tried to make an effort. “Let me see. It might . . . No, I don't know.” She handed the picture back. Her jaw churned again. “I have to work.” She stepped away, looked out at the incessant flow of cars. A blue Fiat Punto signalled to pull in.

Sanne moved next to the girl; Allan did the same on the other side. The Punto switched off the signal, then slipped back into the flow of traffic.

The girl turned to Sanne. “I'll get beaten if I don't make enough money. You know that, don't you?”

“Take a proper look at the picture. You were saying something before?”

“One of the black girls stole my corner up on the square a few weeks ago.” Something flashed in her eyes. “I've still got bruises.” She started rolling up the sleeve on her denim jacket, but Sanne stopped her.

“That's not necessary. Is this her?”

“I don't know her name or who her pimp . . .”

Sanne's cell danced in her pocket to the chorus of “Upside Down.”

“Hey, I think we've got something here.” Søren sounded excited. “We're with someone out by Copenhagen City Museum. She says she knows her.”

“What's up?” Allan stood next to Sanne, trying to catch his breath. Søren stood on the sidewalk just off Absalonsgade, while Kasper sat on a bench next to a long-limbed girl wearing tight satin shorts and stiletto heels. Both had their backs to a small fenced garden that was decorated with a miniature version of Copenhagen as the city must have looked several hundred years ago. Sanne was able to recognize some of the churches, the harbour.

“Justine says she knows the girl in the picture.” Søren hadn't learned to pronounce Abeiuwa's name. “Tell my colleagues what you told us.”

Justine looked up. “She is — all right?”

“She's scared.” Sanne tried to smile. “But under the circumstances, she's doing well. Would you like to visit her?”

It was clear that Justine wanted to, but she shook her head, hardened herself. They were kept on a tight leash, the girls on the street. Sanne sat down on the bench next to her.

“We were standing here together yesterday.” Justine fiddled with the strap of her top, which twisted over her bare shoulder. “I'd just given her a smoke and some gum. Then she went back to her corner.” She pointed toward Vesterbro Torv, at the corner of Gasværksvej. “A customer picked her up a little later.”

“Do you remember what time it came, the car?”

“I looked up at the clock on Føtex. It was around midnight.”

Sanne turned her head. Behind them, on the other side of Vesterbrogade, a concrete wall rose up above the surrounding rooftops, carrying the department store's blue and white logo. A clock shone at the very top.

“And the car?”

“It was a dark colour, black or dark blue. Red maybe. Purple.”

“Did you see the licence plate?”

Justine started shaking her head but stopped. “I think . . . it ended in fifty-six or fifty-nine. There might have been a C or a G? I'm sorry, I can't remember.” She got up. Her legs shook beneath her. “I have to . . . work.”

Sanne caught her eye. “We can help you get off the street. If you want.”

Justine turned and walked away. In the middle of the sidewalk, she stopped and rummaged through her purse. When she straightened up again, she had lit a smoke.

Kasper shook his head. “They always say no.”

“If she takes off, they'll bring her fourteen-year-old sister over here instead.” Sanne leaned back. Her limbs were heavy. “What's she supposed to do?”

Justine walked to the curb, planted one leg in front of the other. Her stiletto heels clicked on the cobblestones. The first car signalled to pull in.

Chapter 36

I
t creaks and
trembles inside. The continental plates are shifting. Soon there is a glimpse of the Urgrund. The roar rises through flesh and sinews, tears tissue and bone fragments apart until the nerve endings flap in the bloodwind and a roaring chaos reigns. Primordial soup. He staggers down the stairs. He's lived here for so long that the two — the soul's house of flesh and bones, the body's of stone and wood — have gradually become one. His blood flows through the pipes; the stairs and rafters are his skeleton, the breaker panel and the ingenious network of power cords his neural network.

Upstairs, in the bed beneath the roof, Mother screamed about all the forbidden things her father did to her, about Father who is both Father and Grandfather. The long months alone in the cellar before he was born. And after. Why couldn't she just die?

She was weak and now she is gone. He is strong. Only he and Sonja and Hilda remain. But deep down, there is turmoil, rebellion. It is not just the crack inside him. Down there it tears and toils, trying to break free and rise. He tumbles through the kitchen, downstairs to the cellar, and tears open the secret door. Thank God. They're still there, sitting on the chair and the sofa in front of the television. Waiting for him.

Ihr wolltet mir mit eurem Leuchten sagen:

Wir möchten nah dir immer bleiben gerne!

She got away. He tried to catch her — or did he? The body and the house, it is not easy to differentiate. He cannot get out. The door is shut. Their little home is shaken. Sonja and Hilda had also been looking forward to it — to their little family being complete again. And now she has run away. The primordial soup is sloshing about. He vomits in a corner. Only greenish slime and fatty bile come out, splattering over his shoes and onto the floor. He leans against one of the ammunition boxes. What is that sound? Are they laughing at him? Are they sitting there mocking him? The bloodwind rages. He reaches the portable phonograph, places the needle in the groove. The built-in speakers crackle. He breathes deeply. The serene prelude begins. Then Agnes Baltsa's mezzo-soprano springs up from the accompaniment, towering above the dark horns.

Nun seh' ich wohl, warum so dunkle Flammen

Ihr Sprütet mir in manchem Augenblicke.

O Augen!

Gleichsam, um in einem Blicke

Zu drängen eure ganze Macht zusammen.

Doch ahnt' ich nicht, weil Nebel Mich umschwammen.

Then he walks over to the table and starts to hit.

Primordial soup.

Bloodwind.

O Augen!

Saturday
June 21

Chapter 37

S
anne straightened up
in the chair as Allan came storming through the door. She tried to shake off the daydream. She hoped her cheeks weren't too red. Loose sheets of paper from the report on Abeiuwa's interview were spread across her desk. Allan was sweating profusely in the stagnant air. Large patches were spreading under the sleeves of his white polo shirt.

“I've just read the transcripts from the last twenty-four hours of wiretaps.” Allan went quiet. She had gotten to know him quite well in the short time they had worked together and knew he had to be urged on.

“Yes?”

“Yes, well” — Allan was far too excited to notice her feigned enthusiasm — “something's going down. The Bukoshi brothers have spoken to someone in Germany several times now. They've got a new delivery coming on Monday.”

The daydream evaporated at once. “A new delivery? Are they talking about girls?”

“That's what they do, right?” A broad smile spread across Allan's face. He sat down on the corner of her desk. The legs creaked. “This is starting to look like a major human trafficking case. If we can bring them in for that, we'd have time to unravel everything. Mira's murder, Abeiuwa . . .” He put his hand on the scattered sheets on the desk.

Sanne bit her lip. She still wasn't convinced that the brothers had anything to do with Mira and Abeiuwa. But human trafficking — that she could believe.

“Where are they meeting?”

“Well, they didn't mention that. But if we put the brothers under twenty-four-hour surveillance, then it's only a question of time.”

Ulrik waved Sanne and Allan into his office. He was on the phone. A worried look was spread across his face.

“No, I will —”

He was interrupted by a metallic female voice. Sanne figured the connection was bad; either that or the woman was very worked up. It was impossible to make out what she was saying. Ulrik shut his eyes, rested his elbow on the desk.

“But Maria is fine, and Lars —”

The piercing voice broke through once more. Ulrik listened, nodded.

“I'll see if I can find him,” he said. “But promise me you'll stay calm. The last thing she needs right now is for you to overreact, okay?”

The voice on the other end quieted, allowing Ulrik to end the conversation.

“Take a seat,” he said as he hung up, pointing at the two chairs in front of his desk. “My stepdaughter's friend has been assaulted.”

It wasn't as stuffy as her office, but Ulrik was wearing a shirt and tie. That couldn't be comfortable. And what was that about his stepdaughter? Was that Maria?

Allan cleared his throat. “The wiretap on the Bukoshi brothers' club has revealed that they're receiving a new shipment the day after tomorrow. Sanne and I think they're bringing in new girls.”

Ulrik got up from his chair and began pacing back and forth in front of the window, a thin, trembling body filled with pent-up and nervous energy. Behind him, the empty gondolas of the Ferris wheel in Tivoli Gardens continued to spin.

“And do we know where they're going to pick up the shipment?” Ulrik said.

“It could be anywhere,” Sanne said. “A rest stop by the freeway, a warehouse in the city. Or they could drive them up here in ordinary cars and drop them off on Abel Cathrines Gade in broad daylight.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Ulrik nodded. “So what do you want to do?”

The Ferris wheel stopped turning.

“We can assume the driver is coming from Germany — via Rødby or Gedser — and that they're going to meet somewhere between the ferry and Copenhagen. None of these guys are interested in too much attention, right?”

A minute later, Ulrik's computer was out of sleep mode and a map of Zealand filled the screen.

“It has to be somewhere within this triangle.” She drew an imaginary triangle, with its points covering the towns of Fakse, Næstved, and Vordingborg.

They looked at each other.

Allan stood with a hand on the back of the chair. “So from here on out it's going to be . . . ?”

Ulrik looked at them in turn. “The three of us,” he said. “Plus the two cars that are already monitoring the brothers. So three unmarked cars.” He turned to Sanne. “Where are we at with the glass eye?”

“Negative, I'm afraid.” Sanne could see Professor Lau, his large fingers around the small eye prosthesis. “But we're still investigating.”

“And the neighbours on BrogÃ¥rdsvej? Did they see or hear anything? This Abu … Abuiwa . . . The black girl. Are they . . . ?”

“Abuiewa.” Sanne sighed. “Gentofte Police are canvassing today.”

Allan put his hands into his pockets. “Kim A called an hour ago,” he said. “I don't know how he got wind of it, but he wanted me to ask if he could come along.”

Ulrik's brow lifted into a series of wrinkles. “To South Zealand? Why?”

“Maybe things are starting to get a little strained on Lars's team? After the complaint, I mean. He was very eager.”

“I'll deal with that,” Ulrik said. Then he started packing up the papers on his desk. “That'll be all.”

Sanne got up and walked out of the office with Allan, so many thoughts milling around in her head. What had happened to Lars's daughter?

Chapter 38

L
ars had gone
to Rigshospitalet with Maria in the morning. Caroline was still asleep. He'd spoken with Christine Fogh for a bit, just as she was finishing her shift. She was unusually quiet. She promised to keep an eye on Maria, who wanted to stay until Caroline woke up. Now he was standing by the coffee machine in the reception area of the Violent Crime Unit, pouring what promised to be the first of many cups.

Before leaving, Maria described how she had found Caroline hiding behind the sofa in the corner of her apartment, just inside the open door. She was squeezing an old teddy bear, her arms locked in front of her chest, rocking back and forth. How long she had been sitting like that, Maria didn't know.

“Lars?”

A hand rested on his shoulder. He started, turned around. Ulrik. Again.

Lars's gaze wandered along the walls as he looked for an escape. But the reception desk was empty. There was no help to be found. Ulrik leaned against the wall, searching his eyes.

“It's terrible about Maria's . . . about Caroline. I understand it was you and Maria who brought her to the hospital?”

“I have absolutely no interest in discussing this with you.” He clenched the plastic cup, squeezed the sides until the lukewarm coffee rose to the edge.

“But we have to . . . I care about Maria too. And Elena —”

“Just stay out of this.” Lars took a deep breath. “What you do at home doesn't concern me. What I do —” He started walking toward his office. “Just stay away.”

Over far too many cups of coffee, Lars had pored over the reports on Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen once more, hoping to find something new. He got up, swore, then kicked the wastepaper basket, sending it rolling toward the door. Crumpled up handouts, apple cores, paper cups, and broken pens spilled out onto the floor.

The door opened, hit the basket. Toke poked his head in.

“Everything okay?”

Lars sat down on the windowsill. Bits of food and waste paper were spread across most of the floor.

“Come in.” Lars remained on the windowsill, staring at the wall.

Toke pushed the door open and stepped inside. “What have the departmental wastepaper baskets done to you now?” he joked. He started picking up the garbage. “You know these cases can be hell. It can take years to catch the perp. And then it's most likely by chance.”

Lars didn't respond. Toke gave him a blank look, then put the wastepaper basket back in its usual spot next to the desk.

“Listen,” Toke said. “About an hour ago, a journalist from
Ekstra Bladet
cornered me outside. She wanted a little background info on you. I think something's brewing.”

Just then the door opened and Lisa walked in. She shook her head before either of them could manage to open their mouths. No good news, then.

“Caroline is doing better,” she said, taking off her jacket and leaning against the doorframe. “Fortunately she's suffered less damage than the other two.”

Lars leaned the back of his head against the windowpane.
So now all she needed was a few too many hours with a psychologist.

The door opened and Frank stepped in with Kim A, who was waving three DVDs. He nodded at Lars. Curtly, but still a nod.

“So we got lucky,” Frank said.

Everyone straightened up. Frank grabbed the DVDs from Kim A and slid the first disk into Lars's computer. The office was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and shuffling feet. The entire investigative unit gathered behind Lars's desk. Only Kim A stayed back, taking over Lisa's position by the door.

The screen showed an image of a 7-Eleven and a particularly well-lit stretch of Nørregade, Nørre Voldgade, and Nørreport. The time stamp in the upper right-hand corner showed 02:11:55.

“That can't be from the 7-Eleven,” Toke said.

“No,” Frank said. “They don't have any video surveillance outside. But Danske Bank, across the street, they do. They were kind enough to make a copy of the videos from each of the nights in question. Look at this.”

On the screen, Stine Bang appeared pushing a bike. A group of kids in front of the convenience store stopped her; one girl gave her a hug. A guy handed her a can of beer. They clinked cans and kept talking. The time stamp ticked away in the corner.

“Well, that explains the minutes we couldn't account for,” Toke said.

“She stays here for quite a while, a quarter of an hour. It's not very interesting but check this out —” Frank wound the video forward to 02:24. Stine waved and pushed her bike to the crosswalk at Nørregade, headed toward Fiolstræde, then disappeared from view. Immediately after, a person in dark clothing hurried across the street after her.

“Try playing that last bit back in slow motion.” Lars's heart was pounding in his chest. It was him: the shadow he had chased through Assistens Cemetery.

Frank's fingers danced across the keyboard and the film rewound. Stine waved goodbye again and began pushing her bike across the street at a deadly slow tempo. Then the figure followed in slow motion.

“That could very well be a black tracksuit,” Lisa said. “And he is blonde.” Her voice was about a quarter of an octave above her normal pitch. She was also amped up from the adrenaline. Her jaw was moving, her eyes shining.

“Look how oddly he's walking.” Toke leaned toward the screen. “Is he trying to avoid the camera?”

“Hardly. He's ducking his head so the group of kids doesn't see him.” Lars cocked his head. He tried to see what was below the cap, but it was no use: he couldn't make out the person's face. “Okay, freeze there. That's probably the best we can get?” He looked at Frank who nodded. “Good. Print it and let's see the two other DVDs.”

“How are you going to find him?” Toke nodded at the face on the screen, a grainy white blob.

Lars slumped back in his chair. What now? He wound Media Player back. Stine's hand lifted the beer can to her face. Over and over and over again.

“Stine has to know the guy who gave her the beer. Maybe he saw something?”

Lisa shook her head. “We asked. She can't remember anything.”

Lars tugged his lower lip. “The beer, there.” He paused. “Frank, Kim A, you're going back to Nørreport. We need the surveillance videos from inside the store.”

Kim A rolled his eyes. “How's that going to help?”

“We need a picture of whoever bought a can of beer right around that time. We'll have to hope that the person in question paid with a credit card.”