The House That Jack Built (20 page)

Chapter 43

S
anne rolled down
the window. The smell of internal combustion engines and lilacs filled the car. People were strolling the gardens on Ole Olsens Allé. The sky was high and deep into summer.

Lars parked by the curb. An old elder tree leaned over the fence. Parked in front of them was an old roadster, an aubergine-coloured MG Austin-Healey Sprite. Lars opened the door and climbed out. A great tit flew out from the low branches, circled over the car, and squawked.

“Somebody's grumpy.” Lars watched the bird fly away. “Do you want to come?”

“Yeah, why not?” Sanne climbed out.

A large box-like red-brick house with enormous windows towered at the bottom of the open garden. The window surfaces reflected the bright sunlight.

“Functionalism,” Sanne said. “Looks like Arne Jacobsen.”

“Really?” Lars turned halfway around on the way down the garden path to face her. Then they were at the door and he rang the bell. Møller, the door read. Ditlev, Margit, and Christian.

Thirty seconds passed. Dawdling steps dragged through the house.

Christian opened the door.

“Lars,” he said. “Thanks for the other night.” He was drying his hair with a green towel. “What are you doing here?”

“Hi Christian. This is my colleague, Sanne Bissen. Do you mind if we come in for a moment? Are your parents home?”

“Come on in.” Christian motioned with his hand, stepped aside so they could enter. “Dad's at the clinic. Mom . . . I don't actually know. Maybe she's out shopping? I was in the cellar.” He smiled, then looked down.

“But the car out there —” Lars pointed over his shoulder.

“Oh, that's mine.” Christian closed the door behind them. “Would you like anything?”

Lars shook his head, looked around. A staircase led upstairs. Doors opened up to the rest of the house. A large modern painting filled the entire wall to their right. Black and brown brush strokes, circles dancing across a white canvas.

“No thanks, just a couple of questions. We'll be off shortly.”

“Any way that I can help.”

Lars pulled the photo out of his jacket pocket. He'd had to fold it up and was doing his best to smooth it out again. He hadn't had time to consider how to tackle this. He'd just have to take the plunge.

“This picture was taken at Penthouse on Friday night. Can you confirm that that's you standing at the end of the bar?” He pointed at the figure, half hidden behind someone's back. Sanne leaned against the door frame, followed their conversation with an uninterested expression. But her eyes flicked from one to the other in time with their exchange.

Christian didn't take long. “Well, it is a little difficult to see, but I was there that night. I had just aced my Danish exam and I was celebrating.” He nodded. “That must be me. Is that the girl who got raped?” He pointed at Lene.

“That's Lene, an officer-in-training. She was assaulted later that same night.” He looked Christian in the eye. The boy stared back, his gaze expressionless. “But no, she wasn't the one who got raped. Can you remember when you left?”

“It must have been . . .” Christian thought about it. “It was late and I'd had a lot to drink. Around 1:30 a.m., I think. Maybe a little later.”

Lars folded the picture, put it back in his inside pocket.

“Were you there with someone? Is there anyone who can verify that you left at one thirty?”

“Unfortunately not.” He gave them a wry smile. “I like going out on my own.”

“And your parents? Were they up when you came home?”

Christian shook his head. “Is this where I need to call a lawyer?” His smile broadened. Lars's cell buzzed in his pocket. He held Christian's gaze and took the call.

“Frelsén here. I'll spare you the details. You'd like to know if the DNA profile matches Stine Bang and Louise Jørgensen's rapist?”

“Yes.”

Frelsén paused. “Unfortunately not.”

“And Caroline?”

“Negative again. I'll send it over to Forensics immediately. We need to analyze the semen properly, of course, but that won't change anything. He's not the one you're looking for.”

Lars thanked Frelsén, ended the call, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

“Good news?” Christian asked.

“Actually, yes.” He shook Christian's hand. “Well, that was everything. Thanks for your help. And sorry for disturbing you. We may ask you to come into the station to look at some more pictures.”

“If I can help . . .”

Lars nodded at Sanne. They could leave.

“Oh, by the way,” Christian said. “I've invited Maria out here for dinner tonight. I hope you didn't have other plans?”

“No, that's fine. Do you know where she is now?”

“I'm sorry. I haven't seen her since last night.” He wiped the back of his neck with the towel. “It's awful about her friend.”

“Yes.” Lars could picture Caroline's face. Then he forced himself to move. “We have to get going. Come on, Sanne.”

The long line of cars was winding its way down Lyngbyvejen, racing to get home from work. It was summer, a time of rolled-up sleeves, rolled-down windows, and radios blasting through the air. Lars was back behind the wheel, following the rhythm of rush hour. He had been so certain. Christian's behaviour had been so bizarre the previous night. The blond hair and the blue eyes. And he had been at Penthouse on at least one of the nights. Everything had added up. But maybe a little too well? He passed a bronze Grand Vitara and slipped into the right lane. He started to sweat.

“What do you think?” Sanne said, observing his profile.

“What do I think?” Had she said something, had he missed something? Then he understood. “Oh, about Lund? It's your case.”

“Come on, you're the experienced officer here. You know the neighbourhood.”

On the radio, Chris Isaak crooned his way through “Wicked Game.”

“Well, I'm afraid it didn't yield very much. He hadn't seen or heard anything.”

Sanne raised an eyebrow.

“Most people get nervous, when the police come knocking,” he continued. “They wonder what they've done: did they forget about a parking ticket, or run a red light? Is the butt from the joint they smoked yesterday still lying in the ashtray?”

Sanne laughed. “I can't really imagine Lund smoking pot.”

“You'd be surprised when you discover how widespread it is. But that was just an example.” He pulled out the cigarette pack, squeezed it. Only one left. He'd better wait. “I just don't think he had anything to do with the abduction and that operation — what did you call it?”

“Enucleation.”

“Yeah, that's the one. The guy you're looking for is a loner. He's probably clashed with the law before, maybe arson or rape . . .”

“So the same profile you're chasing?”

“Yes, more or less.” They both fell silent as they drove under the S-train bridge by Ryparken Station. Sanne pulled her cell out of her purse, disappeared into the tiny screen. Lars glanced at the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Facebook. I just have to . . .” She went quiet. The steady stream of music from the radio continued above the engine noise, the rumbling of the tires. She put down the phone and stared into space.

“What's wrong?” he said.

She put the phone back into her purse and looked away.

“It was a message from one of my old colleagues in Kolding. She's asking if I know you — if I know what's going on.”

Lars's shoulders suddenly went heavy. “It's not hard to guess where that story came from.”

* * *

They had reached Hans Knudsens Plads when Sanne's cell rung. Allan was excited, but his words were lost in all the noise from the car.

“What was it?” Lars asked after she'd hung up. Sanne bit her lip and looked out the window.

“Elvir Seferi, one of the guys who gave the Bukoshi brothers an alibi — it turned out to be false. Allan has checked up on him.”

Lars put the car in gear and crossed the intersection of Jagtvej and Lyngbyvej at Vibenshus.

“In February there was a break-in at a dental clinic in Valby,” Sanne continued. “There was a single suspect.”

“Elvir Se —?”

“Seferi, yes. During the break-in, several litres of glutaraldehyde were stolen. Dentists apparently use it for cleaning their instruments.”

“Was he charged?”

“No, Meriton Bukoshi gave him an alibi and there was no physical evidence. Also —” Sanne pushed her hair behind her ear. “Allan has also discovered what Elvir did for a living before he fled — Kosovo, I mean.”

Lars didn't say anything, waiting for her to continue.

“He was a veterinary surgeon.”

Chapter 44

M
aria stood with
her hand on the garden gate. It was a warm evening, and the thin cardigan made the sweat trickle under her arms. Or was it the thought of meeting Christian's parents? The evening sun drew gold lines across the pale blue sky. There was an almost imperceptible smell of salt in the breeze that blew in from Øresund.

Christian had pestered her for days. It was almost getting embarrassing, the way she'd had to resist. But it was far too early. She didn't even know what she wanted herself. That was probably the reason she had gotten upset when she found him at home with Dad.

The air was heavy with lilacs. Maria leaned her head back, breathed in the sweet smell of flowers mixed with the fresh-cut grass. Her blood was racing, her body sang.

She straightened her hair, swallowed, then pushed down the handle on the garden gate.

Christian's parents lived in an enormous red-brick house covered by layers of green ivy and with deep red flowers along one wall. The house was on Ole Olsens Allé, a stone's throw from Gentofte Hospital.

A ghostly figure moved behind one of the enormous windows, then withdrew at the exact moment she spotted it. Maria was sweating again. The small bouquet of flowers in her hand, a present for the hostess, Christian's mom, suddenly looked like she'd picked it up from the garbage back home at her father's.

Christian opened the door before she could ring the bell. He looked good as usual in his fitted jeans and loose white shirt. His hair was carelessly tousled. He winked at her, pulled her inside, and gave her a deep kiss.

“Mom, Dad. Maria's here.”

She blushed. Her stomach refused to settle. She tugged at his shirt to get him to stop, but he just laughed, letting his lips brush her cheek. He placed an arm around the small of her back and led her into the house. She heard footsteps on the second floor.

“Welcome.” His mom's voice was no more than a whisper, just as thin as the grey cardigan over her shoulders. The top button nearly reached her chin. She rubbed her hands together before extending her right arm.

Maria shook her hand: a pale, dry echo of a handshake.

“This is my mom, Margit.” Hidden behind her back, Christian's hand moved down to squeeze her buttock. The contact sent electricity pulsing through her.

“Thanks for inviting me.” She held out the flowers, bit her lip. A thin smile creased Margit's face, then it was gone.

Christian laughed. He held her arm firmly, spun her around.

“And this is Ditlev.”

Ditlev came down the stairs in a blue-and-white-striped shirt and worn jeans. There was a hint of a dark red silk cravat around his neck. His prominent forehead was wrinkled and tanned from too much sun; his eyes hard and hungry.

“Well, what do you know?” He looked her up and down. “The boy has inherited his father's good taste.” He clicked his tongue. “Welcome. Time for us to have a drink.”

On the terrace a small table was set with glasses, bowls of nuts, and a bottle of rosé in a wine bucket. The ice cubes sparkled in the sun. Patches of sweat were spreading under Maria's arms. Now she couldn't take off her cardigan. Her heart was racing.

Ditlev asked Christian to open the wine and pour it.

“My son tells me your dad is in the police. Homicide?”

Maria nodded.

“Fascinating job. Should maybe be better paid?” Ditlev winked.

“Stop it, Dad.” Christian placed a glass each in front of Maria and Ditlev, then went back to pour wine for himself and his mom. Panic set in every time Christian was more than a few steps away. She held her arms by her side, tried keeping her body still. She was trembling uncontrollably.

Margit said nothing, while Ditlev's sticky gaze practically devoured her.

Christian's dad laughed, drank wine, and ate nuts in a steady stream as he talked.

“The boy has alway been morbidly fascinated by police work. Well, you bloody have.” He raised his voice when Christian tried to protest. Ditlev leaned over the table, placing his entire weight on his elbow. The teakwood tabletop creaked beneath him as he lowered his voice. “He couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve when he came home and announced that we had a killer in the neighbourhood. He had found a bone in someone's garden over by — Søbredden, isn't that right?”

Christian turned his back to them. Why was he making her sit alone with them?

“Did you ever manage to show the bone to the police?” Ditlev laughed. “Okay, he's angry now. Never mind him. I'm sure we can have a good time anyway.” He smiled invitingly. “Now where were we? The bone, yes. We had to spend several days convincing him that it was from a dog. Crazy kid. Cheers.” He took a drink, laughed.

Margit sipped from her glass, toyed with the hem of her skirt. “I think dinner's ready now.”

They ate inside. It was easier to talk in there, undisturbed, as Ditlev put it. Margit drifted back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, carrying in carafes of water and various delicacies that Ditlev insisted Maria try. Neither Ditlev nor Christian seemed to take further notice of Christian's mom. A creature without body, a spirit floating around the table without quite being let into the circle. Christian didn't say much. It was Ditlev who kept the conversation going, offering Maria new dishes, more wine.

Before dessert he got up. “Now let's have a proper glass of wine. I'll just run down to the cellar.”

Margit got up, began collecting the plates.

“Let me help.” Maria grabbed a tray and the side plates. Margit opened her mouth. She mumbled something unintelligible. Maria figured it was an appeal for her to stay seated, but she insisted on helping her clear the table. Christian's eyes bore into her back. Was he angry that she was helping out? It didn't make any sense. Everything was so different here.

The kitchen was a lavish space with brightly glazed floor tiles, inch-thick beechwood tabletops, and glass cabinets on every wall. Ditlev had purchased the enormous porcelain sink in France, Christian had told her. Above the sink was a gigantic window with a view of the garden, vibrant and enchanting in the twilight. She placed the tray and plates on the counter, turned on the water, leaned over the sink, and started rinsing.

The splashing water drowned out all other sound: the low, classical music in the background, engine noise from the road, Margit and Christian exchanging monosyllables in the living room. She rinsed gravy and food scraps into the sink, where they accumulated into a brown mush around the drain.

Suddenly she sensed something right behind her, then felt someone's hot, heavy breath on her neck. She only managed a half turn before greedy hands grabbed her breasts.

“Christian?” she whispered.

“Christian? He doesn't have the balls for this!” The voice seethed with arousal. A hand moved over her stomach, buried itself into her skirt.

Nausea rose up in her throat. She stood petrified against the porcelain sink while Ditlev's greasy cauliflower nose chafed her neck. A section of the living room reflected in the dark window. She didn't dare say anything; she hardly took a breath. Where was everyone?

Just then, Christian stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes widened in a silent plea for help. He stopped in the doorway when he spotted them. His eyes were empty. A chill sent icy knives through her.

Margit appeared behind him with her arms full. She looked down at the floor, tripped through the kitchen, and put the plates down on the table next to her husband and Maria.

“Are we having coffee with dessert?” she asked, and then was on her way out again.

Ditlev let go of her. He stroked his greasy hair back with one hand, adjusted his fly with the other. A single drop of saliva bubbled in the corner of his mouth. He gave her a lecherous look, then turned his back to her and walked over to his son, patting him on the shoulder.

“I found us a bottle of Pomerol, 2001. Chateau l'Évangile.”

Christian didn't look at her; he just followed his dad into the living room without a word.