The House That Jack Built (18 page)

Chapter 39

S
anne closed the
door behind them. Allan remained standing by the filing cabinet.

“Right, so I guess it's just a matter of waiting until there's news from the wiretaps?” He tapped his fingers on the filing cabinet, producing a hollow and metallic sound in the small office. Sanne sat down. She gathered the papers she had left behind when they went to see Ulrik.

“Hey, I was thinking about what Justine told us yesterday.”

“It's too vague,” Allan said.

“But let's just suppose that what she saw was correct?”

“Do you realize how many licence plates end in fifty-six or fifty-nine? And even if it was a C or a G . . .” He slammed the filing cabinet with the palm of his hand. “I need a coffee. How about you?”

Sanne was consulting the Central Registry for Motor Vehicles.

“Come here.” She waved him over. “Abeiuwa was found on BrogÃ¥rdsvej. What if we limit the search to Gentofte — what's the postal code?”

“Twenty-eight twenty.” Allan closed the door, positioned himself behind her.

She keyed in numbers and letters, filling in the postal code. They looked on in silence while the computer searched the system.

Nothing.

“Try it with fifty-nine.” Allan was excited now; his eagerness rubbed off on her. She replaced the fifty-six with fifty-nine in the search field and pressed Enter.

A list of licence plate numbers appeared on the screen. One jumped out. Margit Langhoff. 16 Søtoften.

“Bastard,” Sanne whispered. “He's using his wife's car to pick up hookers.”

“We have to go about this rather delicately.” Ulrik was sitting in the back seat, observing the Saturday traffic on Lyngbyvej drift idly by. “He's chief executive officer of Gentofte city council. He could give us a lot of trouble.”

“Should we turn around?” Sanne caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. Small beads of sweat were glistening on his upper lip. This clearly was not something he enjoyed. Still, he had insisted on coming along. The political animal had taken over.

“No,” Ulrik said, considering it. “No, the correct thing to do is check this out. We just have to tread carefully.”

Sanne signalled to turn onto Brogårdsvej, reduced her speed.

* * *

“Sorry for disturbing you on a Saturday, Mrs. Langhoff.” Ulrik smiled, showing his badge. “But we have some questions we were hoping you and your husband might be able to help us with.”

Margit Langhoff was an anorectic woman of about fifty. Her long hair was damaged from too much bleaching, and her tanned, wrinkled face set off the dark circles under her eyes.

“We're having lunch.” She led them through the kitchen and out onto the terrace. “Mathias, it's the police.”

Mathias Langhoff started to get up from his chair. He was tall and lanky and his scalp was red from too much sun. He wore chinos and a checked shirt. Flower beds and stone circles flowed down the terrace to the bottom of the garden. The lawn was tidy and well kept; not a blade of grass was out of place.

Margit sat down opposite her husband. A Danish lunch filled the checkered tablecloth between the married couple: herring, liver pâté, eggs, salmon, and cold cuts. They each had a beer.

“How can we help you?” Mathias asked.

“There are a few dates we'd like to ask you about,” Ulrik said. “Can we go into the study, Mr. Langhoff? That is where you keep your calendar, isn't it?”

Allan remained outside with Margit Langhoff. Ulrik and Sanne followed Mathias into the house.

“Well, what is it you wanted to discuss?” Mathias Langhoff shut the door behind them. “I'm sure you're aware that my secretary manages my calendar.”

Ulrik smiled. “Sanne?”

So this was Ulrik's idea of being diplomatic? Palming off the interview on her? She wet her lips, looked Langhoff in the eyes.

“You drive a silver BMW?”

He nodded.

“It's not in the driveway?”

“It's in the shop. The muffler went on Wednesday. I'm getting it back next week.”

“On Tuesday, between 9:15 p.m. and 10:30 p.m., you had a visit from a prostitute at this address,” Sanne said. She sensed Ulrik catching his breath.

For a few long seconds, Mathias Langhoff stared at her. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “And?”

“The night before last, another prostitute, a young African woman, was found on BrogÃ¥rdsvej. With one eyeball hanging out. A client attempted to remove it with a scalpel.”

Mathias Langhoff rested his hands on the desk. He went white. A yellow stain glistened on his collar. Curried herring?

“I heard about that. It's awful. And here, in our neighbourhood.”

“Sanne?” Ulrik must have been in shock, otherwise he would have stopped her long ago. But she wasn't paying attention.

“Where were you on the night before last?”

“Listen, I don't need a secretary or a calendar to answer that. But just out of curiosity: why are you asking me?”

“A witness saw the African girl being picked up in your wife's car on Vesterbro.”

Mathias Langhoff smiled broadly. “I sincerely doubt that. You see, Thursday I was at a meeting for the Association of City Councils in Fredericia. The meeting finished late. I spent the night at Kronprinds Frederik Hotel and only returned last night.”

Sanne cleared her throat. “But your wife's car —”

“Neither myself nor my wife's car were on Vesterbro the night before last. You see, I drove it to Fredericia. I'm certain that the toll booth at A/S Storebælt can produce a photo of both my outbound and return journey over the bridge. You're also welcome to see the hotel receipts.”

Sanne went hot and cold all at once. She tried to avoid Ulrik's gaze; he was seething next to her.

“That — I think that's everything, Mr. Langhoff. We're sorry for disturbing you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Mathias Langhoff opened the door for them.

“No need to apologize. It's been — entertaining. By the way, the girl you asked about?” Sanne stopped in the doorway as Mathias Langhoff continued: “I thought you should know, I wasn't home alone that evening. My wife took part in our . . . ah, ménage à trois.”

Sanne banged her forehead against the steering wheel when they got into the car. Ulrik was silent.

Allan looked from Sanne to Ulrik. “What happened in there?”

“Sanne learned a valuable lesson.” Ulrik sat stiffly in the back seat. “Can we leave now?”

Chapter 40

E
vening. Peace. Free
from the grumpy faces at the station. Toke — and Sanne — were probably the only two he could really trust. He skewered the last tortellini, moved the fork to his mouth, and let his molars grind away. There was next to nothing Italian about it, the ham inside even less so. He chewed, raised his glass. At least the Ripasso was from Valpolicella.

He turned on the TV. One feel-good news feature after another, only to be replaced by an in-depth feature on the price difference between plastic bags. What was it his mother had said? That TV is society's appendix, a useless part of a system whose only function is to release shit.

Maybe the patient wasn't going to kick the bucket straight away, but it definitely looked inflamed.

He poured more wine, then turned off the TV. He squatted in front of the old boxes on the floor and started flicking through the LPs. There was only one medicine, one thing that would help ease this melancholy: loud music, old school, the type that made Maria shake her head and think he was beyond redemption.

She had sent him a text. She was going to meet her boyfriend in town and he shouldn't wait with dinner. An infinitely long and solitary evening stretched out before him.

He had reached Lou Reed's
Transformer
. “Perfect Day” was probably the right track for the moment. He hesitated, chose the compilation just behind it, “Sad Song.” He found a crumpled pack of King's in his pants pocket and lit up. He tilted his head to one side to avoid getting smoke in his eyes while he took the record out of its inner sleeve and placed it carefully down on the record player. Once the needle was in the groove, he leaned back and tapped ash on the plate. The first bass tone, Mick Ronson on the piano. And then that voice. Lars would have gotten goosebumps if that weren't so banal.

The doorbell rang.

The music wasn't that loud, was it? He flicked the ash off the cigarette, went to the entrance and opened the door.

A young man stood there, well dressed and holding a large bouquet of flowers. He was wearing a graduation cap.

“Good evening. Is Maria home?”

Good evening? Did anyone really speak like that anymore? Lars took a drag on the cigarette and scrunched up his eyes. The boy was probably a couple of years older than Maria. His sandy hair hung down over eyes so blue that the colour seemed to spill out.

Lars shook his head. “I'm sorry. She's meeting someone in town. I'm not sure when she'll be back.”

“That's all right.” The boy stepped forward with a self-assured gait that forced Lars to step aside. The next thing he knew, the boy was inside. “We agreed to meet here instead. She'll probably be here soon.”

Lars scratched the back of his neck and stared at the kid in disbelief. Although it was a warm summer evening, he wore a brightly coloured trench coat. The dark red shirt underneath looked freshly ironed and expensive.

In the living room, Lou had launched into “Sad Song.”

“Do you want a glass of wine?” he heard himself asking. “And congratulations.” He nodded at the cap.

“Thank you, that would be great. Would you mind taking these?” The boy handed Lars the flowers, which were practically exploding yellow and blue. He just managed to grab the bouquet before it fell to the floor, then followed the boy into the living room. Lars put the flowers down in a corner. The young man was hunched down in front of the LPs and the stereo.

“Rega P1? And an NAD 3020? Cool.” He nodded. “Low-end classics.”

“I didn't think anyone of your generation listened to LPs anymore.”

“Well, actually I listen to MP3s mostly. But I do have a Pro-Ject Xtension, a Marantz PM-11S2, and a couple of B&W 804 Diamonds at home.”

Lars had heard a demo of the 804 Diamonds a few years back. The speakers were undoubtedly a sound engineer's wet dream, but the sound they produced was far removed from what he would call music. Wooden and dead. He pictured a teenager's room, piled with ridiculously expensive hi-fi equipment. But Maria's boyfriend didn't look like someone who lived in the stereotypical dank basement. Presumably he had an entire floor of his parent's villa in Hellerup at his disposal.

Suddenly the boy turned around, held out his hand.

“Christian. I've just graduated from ØregÃ¥rd High School.”

Lars rolled his eyes. Yes, thanks very much, he knew where his own daughter went to school. He shook the outstretched hand. The boy had a powerful handshake.

“Lars.” He nodded. “Sit down. I'll get a glass.”

Christian grinned, pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges. It was the kind the yuppies and the really stylish fashion punks smoked back in the 1980s. Lars suddenly had a flashback of himself as a seventeen-year-old at Floss. Depeche Mode and Bowie videos blaring on the TV behind the bar. Happy hour — strong beers and lines in the washroom.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Christian asked.

Lars nodded at the ashtray and disappeared into the kitchen with his plate of half-eaten tortellini.

When he came back with a glass for Christian, the boy was on the floor flipping through his record collection.

“Not exactly the latest stuff, eh?” Lars was about to protest but Christian waved his hand. “It's cool. You have some great stuff. And old Stones,” he exclaimed, holding up
Beggars Banquet
, before taking the disc out of its inner sleeve. “Original packaging. Do you know how much this is worth?”

Lars plopped down on the sofa, poured wine for both of them. He nodded.

“I mean, it's not going to secure your pension,” Christian continued. “But it should bring in a few thousand. If you sell it to the right people, that is. And it's in excellent condition.” Christian let the LP spin around his two fingers, studied both sides. “The jacket too.”

“I'm more interested in the music. Do you know the album?” Lars slid the glass toward him.

Christian tapped his cigarette, crossed his legs on the floor.

“Yeah, I find it a bit boring.” He took a sip of wine. His lips twitched slightly, then he laughed and took another drink.

“It's just rhythm 'n' blues,” Lars said. What did the kid want? Progressive rock? “And they still manage to mix in samba, country, and music hall. Not too bad, eh.”

Christian shrugged. “I've always preferred this one.” He picked up
Let it Bleed
from the stack. “Wow, first edition too?”

Lars nodded. He couldn't help laughing.

“One of the first,” he said. “Check out the number on the label.”

“And with a hole in the cover to view the inner sleeve. Blue for stereo.” Christian stuck his finger through the hole. “Do you have the poster?”

Originally, the record came with a poster, but one of the many previous owners had lost it, given it away, pissed on it. How should he know?

“Unfortunately not.”

Christian got up on his knees, sent Lars a questioning look before lifting the pickup from the Lou Reed album and putting on
Let it Bleed
. Lars waited for the falling Fender Rhodes–like guitar chords that opened “Gimme Shelter,” but instead the room was filled with a raw guitar boogie.

“‘Midnight Rambler'?”

Christian gave him a crooked smile.

Lars laughed. This was like being eighteen again. “You think
Beggars Banquet
is too monotonous? And then you play the most Banquet-like track on the entire album?”

Christian was sitting cross-legged again. The glow from his cigarette reflected in his eyes; his face disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Lars got up. “You've got to hear this cool version of ‘Midnight Rambler.' He stepped over the chairs and record covers on the floor, hunched down next to Christian and found
Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out
.

“This,” he said, “this is fantastic. Brian Jones has just died. They are on their first tour with Mick Taylor. This is the Stones at their best, before Altamont. You've heard of Altamont, right?”

“Yeah, of course. We've got an old hippie for history. But why do you listen to music from the sixties? You're not that old, are you?”

“Thanks a lot! When I was your age, it was all punk and new wave, but I gradually discovered that music from the late sixties and early seventies — the Stones and Zeppelin — had the same vibe. But I can still listen to Joy Division.”

He took
Let it Bleed
off the turntable and put on
Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out
. Call and response, harmonica and audience, drums and guitar. Christian began to rock back and forth, moving his lips to Mick Jagger's vocals.

I'm talkin' 'bout the Midnight Rambler,

Ev'rybody got to go

Lars closed his eyes. “What's so cool about this version is the break in the middle section where the guitars battle and Jagger sounds like an old Indian chanting and doing a sun dance.”

Christian raised his eyebrows but said nothing. They sat quietly, listened.

On the turntable, the band joined in with heavy beats at the end of each of Jagger's lines.

I'm called a hit-n-run raper, in anger . . .

Or just a knife-sharpened tippie-toe . . .

Or just a shoot-em-dead, brain-bell jangler

Everybody got to go

“You know this is about the Boston strangler, right?” Christian lit another Benson & Hedges. His eyes were shining.

Did he know. He had stumbled upon
Let it Bleed
when he entered the police academy, where they had studied case material on the Boston strangler. He'd gotten shivers down his spine when he discovered the connection.

“Do you think DeSalvo murdered all of them?” Christian asked.

Lars was lying on the floor, staring up at the worn, nicotine-yellow stucco on the ceiling. He didn't need to think back.

“Hmmm. Thirteen women murdered and sexually assaulted between 1962 and 1964. They varied in age, between nineteen and eighty-five, as far as I recall. Some were strangled with nylons, a couple were stabbed. One died of a heart attack when he grabbed her.” Lars shrugged. “I don't know. There were details of the crime scenes that DeSalvo knew about, details that hadn't been released to the press. Still, there were massive differences in the way the murders were carried out. And there's the victims' ages. The young ones were very young, right? And at the other end of the scale, from their mid-fifties and up to eighty-five. It doesn't sound like the same killer. Anyway, a couple of months ago the Boston police linked DeSalvo's DNA to the last and youngest victim. So he did kill at least one of them.”

“What about — what are they calling him? The Sandman?”

Lars didn't answer. He stared at the ceiling through the billowing cigarette smoke. “Midnight Rambler” lapsed into “Sympathy for the Devil.” Talk about the devil.

“Why is a young guy like you interested in such morbi —”

Suddenly Maria was standing in the living room. Neither of them had heard the door open.

“What are you doing? I thought we were going to celebrate your graduation?” She stared dark-eyed at Christian.

Christian got to his feet, smoothed out his shirt. He sent her a wry smile.

“Didn't we agree to meet here?” He went to kiss her.

Maria twisted away from him. “I've been sitting in ZeZe with the same club soda for over an hour. You didn't take my calls?”

Lars held out a hand, wanting to help smooth things over. Maria looked at him, and his hand fell. He too had crossed some kind of line — that much was clear. But which?

“Darling.” In two long steps Christian was in the corner where Lars had placed the bouquet. “These are for you.”

Maria tossed her head but leaned forward to smell the flowers. Her face softened. “Thanks.” She gave him a little kiss. “Come on.”

They disappeared into the kitchen. Lars was alone in the living room with his cigarettes, half a bottle of Ripasso, and his forty-year-old records.

Maybe it was just time for bed?