The House That Jack Built (22 page)

Maria shook her head. “Just hold me, Dad.”

He held her shivering body close. He could still taste the kiss on his lips. Sweet. Light.

Sanne got up, picked up her purse from the floor, and checked its contents with her fidgeting fingers.

“Well, I've got to —” She nodded at them and slipped toward the entrance.

“See you tomorrow,” he shouted after her. Then the door slammed, and he was left with his daughter in his arms.

A few minutes passed. Neither of them said anything. Then he craned his neck back, attempted to lift her face so he could see her eyes.

“Weren't you supposed to be at Christian's?”

Maria's shoulders twitched. Tears mixed with snot. He rocked her back and forth until she calmed down. Then he moved her over to the sofa and sat down beside her. He stroked her hair.

“There now, dry your eyes. What's the matter?”

Maria shook her head and wiped her nose. Lars got up to fetch some paper towels. When he came back, she was staring at the two half-empty glasses. She looked up at him.

“What have the two of you been up to?”

“Police stuff.” He handed her the paper towels.

“And red wine? Honestly, Dad.”

He shook his head. “It's not good for a teenage daughter to know everything.”

Chapter 46

T
he duty officer
called just as Sanne stepped out of the entrance to Lars's building. She switched off her cell and threw it in on the passenger seat. She climbed into the car without even thinking about the couple of glasses of wine she'd had. She put the siren on the roof and drove off.

Now she was crawling through shrubbery and down the bluff toward the crude tent at the edge of the small lake in the middle of Østre Anlæg Park. The white concrete walls of the National Gallery of Denmark rose up on her left. A group of police officers stood around the tent at the water's edge, congregated by a single yellow cone of light. One of the police generators sputtered in the darkness, drowning out the faint drone of traffic on Øster Voldgade and Sølvgade.

Ulrik turned as she arrived. He still hadn't said anything about the interview with Langhoff.

“Sanne, glad you could make it. I called your place and spoke to Martin, but he didn't know where you were.”

Sanne mumbled something in reply, hoping Ulrik couldn't see her blushing.

“Is it him again?” she asked, forcing herself to focus.

Ulrik nodded, pulled her along down to the water's edge and into the tent. Frelsén waved. Bint shook her hand. A couple of officers she didn't know stood on the other side. The naked body of a blonde woman was lying in the middle of the circle, half-submerged in the dark lake. The light gave her skin a strong yellowish tone. Small waves lapped up against her almost hairless genitalia and the tattoos on the lowest part of her stomach, leaving trails of seagrass and waste on her abdomen and thighs. The body had the same small hole by the groin that Mira's body did and the same entrance wound from the fatal bullet above the left breast. Empty eye sockets stared up at the roof of the tent.

Sanne remembered the horror on Abeiuwa's face. It could just as easily have been her.

“Another prostitute?” she said.

“The tattoos would suggest that.” Frelsén sounded tired. Apparently, they wouldn't have to listen to his usual spirited, slightly inappropriate commentary tonight. “They should also help us with her identification. The body and bone structure is Scandinavian. She's presumably Danish, around thirty-five years old. So somewhat older than the first girl and the African who escaped.”

“Abeiuwa.” Sanne turned to Ulrik. “Who found her?”

“They called from the museum.” Ulrik nodded toward the white colossus. “The Danish Bankers Association was having its annual meeting tonight. One of the guests was out stretching his legs. You can see the remains of his buffet dinner over there.” He pointed at a tree close to the water's edge.

“When did he find her?”

“Around ten o'clock, so just under an hour ago. The park closes at eight.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

Ulrik shook his head. “I let him go home. He's one of the chief executives of Nordea. He was completely beside himself. You can speak to him tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “I'll speak to him. And I'll be nice.”

“The killer drove her up to the entrance of the museum,” Ulrik continued, “dragged her over the fence, down the path, and down the bluff here. Bint found the tracks.” He pointed. It was the same path she herself had taken.

One of the officers whispered to his colleagues, “She could have shaved properly down there.”

“She did, as a matter of fact.” Frelsén pointed at the body's genital area. “Observe the small tears. They're from pubic shaving a few hours prior to the time of death. But not all the body's cells cease functioning when you die. Some can continue for hours, days, and, in favourable instances, even weeks. So often it can appear as though the hair has continued growing, but it could also be caused by the skin shrinking, revealing the hairs growing on the inner layer — before they emerge from the skin, that is. Morticians often need to shave male corpses before interment.”

The officer spat in disgust, looked away. A sudden weariness threatened to knock Sanne over.

“What's that on her hand?” she said. The body's hand was positioned at an unnatural angle. Sanne crouched down, tentatively held the wrist. It felt strange, like hard rubber. She lifted the hand. The skin was torn, as if someone had been filing around the wrist.

Sanne looked up at Frelsén.

“Yes.” He placed his gold-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. Suddenly there was some life in his weary eyes. He hunched down beside Sanne, examined the wrist. “That's odd. For the time being, I would say she's been bound with a coarse rope, shortly after the time of death. The tissue is destroyed, but there's no trace of blood vessels.”

“Who would tie up a dead body?”

Behind him the paramedics were on their way down the bluff with a stretcher.

“Yes,” he said and blinked. “That is precisely the question. Who would do that?”

Chapter 47

W
hen the bloodwind
has raged, only the essence remains. Mahler. Cabbage soup. Urgrund. Mother is dead. She lay screaming in her old room until the end. Everything that must not be said comes raging out. She fades away, collapses as the words flow out of her. Father is Grandfather, Grandfather is Father. Now he finally knows the truth: Grandfather
and
Father. He understands where it comes from, the power that roars inside him. When he looks down between his feet, straddling the continental plates, he sees a point turning on its own axis: dark red, pulsating. Incredible, blazing heat. It radiates a frightening force; everything melts before the Urgrund. The flesh falls from the bones, the blood boils. The body secretions spit, rise in columns of white and yellow steam. The eyes drip, run sizzling out of their sockets. This is life's primordial force, so infinitely greater than anything he has ever before experienced. So vigorous and omnivorous that everything must bend to its iron will. That is the bloodwind. The fissure is open. It can no longer be closed. Nothing can contain that which wants out. He is the servant of the bloodwind. This house — these beams, stones, and trusses — is the seat for the all-consuming Will that will brand the world. To be its instrument makes his chest swell with pride. He who could not see the bloodwind's pure, unthinking workings. The naked instinct consuming everything in its path. Now he is bearer of the wonder. The rebellion, the girl's insubordination, all was part of a greater plan. They too have had their role to play. And this knowledge makes his burden easier to bear. For the Will should know it has not been easy to release the children, to hurt the ones you love. But when the purpose is clear, its pure workings shine, he can bear everything. He looks at Sonja and is filled with love. She is the only one left now. Hilda had to go, like Karen and the others before her. The cabbage soup steams on the table. He pushes the plate across to her. Eat, my girl. I miss them too. But we must all make our sacrifices. And the bloodwind has shown me that we will soon be complete again.

Sie sind uns nur vorausgegangen

und werden nicht wieder nach Haus verlangen!

Wir hohlen sie ein auf jenen Höh'n

im Sonnnenschein! Der Tag is schön

auf jenen Höh'n!

Monday
June 23

Chapter 48

T
he sounds of
morning from the street: a drunk throwing up outside the Ring Café, the S-train whizzing into the station, birds singing in the courtyard. Maria was in the shower. Lars opened his eyes. He had not felt drunk yesterday, but now he felt a sharp pain shooting behind his eyes. No more drinking cheap red wine.

Last night came back to him. Images of him and Sanne on the sofa. The story about the occupation of Abel Cathrines Gade had more or less been the truth. But why had he not told her about the demonstrations afterwards? About the street fighting, the drunken feeling as the cobblestone flew out of his hand, sailed across the sky toward the police lines? About the adrenaline-pumping high he got from running from his future colleagues, a bandana covering his face? The romanticizing of street partisans? The drugs?

He coughed, tried to focus on the previous night. He and Sanne kissing, Maria coming home crying. He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself up on his elbows. He wondered how both of them were feeling today.

The shower stopped. Maria poked her head out the door, humming. Her hair was wrapped in a pink towel, her body covered by a larger blue one. Small drops of water trickled down from the wisps of hair on her cheek.

“Did you sleep all right, Dad?”

He grunted, then sat up. He was still amazed by how quickly his teenage daughter could move from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other.

“Are you okay?” he asked drowsily.

“For sure.” Maria smiled. “Remember, I'm going to a party at my classmate Christina's tonight.” She disappeared into her room.

He considered asking about the party, but his cell rang. He swung his legs out of bed, answered the phone.

“Lars.” He felt like a smoke, even though he knew it wouldn't do his headache any good.

“Toke here.” Toke paused on the other end, but Lars didn't answer. Toke sighed, then continued. “Yesterday Kim A and Frank tracked down someone from the group outside the 7-Eleven. You know, the kids who met Stine near Nørreport the night she was raped. His name is Jesper Lützen. He's twenty-three years old and works at” — Toke flipped through the pages — “Cosmo Film. It's probably one of those jobs where you don't really get paid. Kim A and Frank spoke to him last night. He was on a shoot.”

“And?” Lars's tongue was thick and sticky. He could do with some water. Or juice.

“The guy on the video — the one we thought was following Stine — got into a cab straight after.”

“So he didn't follow Stine?”

“Not according to Jesper.”

“We've got the time-stamp from the video from Danske Bank . . .” Lars grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and tried putting it on without taking the phone away from his ear.

“Kim A and Frank are already working on the cab drivers.”

“I'm on my way.”

Lars hung up. Unbelievable. Kim A and Frank had been working on their own.

“Would you mind putting some coffee on?” he shouted to Maria. “I'm just jumping in the shower.”

Half an hour later he went out into the street. The sun shone from a cloudless sky. Maria was going out to a classmate's to study, but she had plenty of time. She was probably upstairs in the apartment with her feet on the table. He patted his pockets. He must have forgotten his cigarettes up there. He turned around and took one step back when he saw the
Ekstra Bladet
placard outside the corner store.

THE SANDMAN STRIKES AGAIN

Another Body with No Eyes

Bank Director Discovers Body

His jaw dropped. He was staring at the placard's black, yellow, and red graphics. He went into the store and asked for a pack of King's Blue and a newspaper. He paid with a crumpled two hundred kroner note. An older, dark-skinned man with an impressive red beard and a bulky stomach took his money. The young Danish kid must be at school. Middle Eastern pop music was booming from a cheap stereo in the back room. He took his change and hurried to the 5A bus stop on Nørrebrogade with the paper under his arm.

The bus was packed, but he managed to find a window seat near the back. A tall, overweight man sat down next to him and he was forced to squeeze up against the hot window. Lars flipped to the articles about the dead woman on pages four, five, and six. He skimmed the spread on pages four and five. A blurry night photo, shot with a telephoto lens from the other side of the lake, showed a group of police officers by a set of generator-powered police lights standing at the water's edge. He thought he recognized Ulrik. And was that Sanne standing there, on the way into the tent shielding the body? They had probably called her just as she'd left his place.

He flipped over to page six.
Boom
. Another headline.

COPENHAGEN IN PANIC — WHERE ARE
THE POLICE?

How much longer will the rapist be given free rein?

His eyes scanned the article, stopping at a quote that was emphasized in boldface: “Sources in the Homicide Department tell us that the head of the investigation has lost control. Important leads are not being investigated; resources are being used improperly.” At the bottom of the article was a picture of Lars on the tailgate of a police car, soaking wet, trying to light a smoke. The caption read: “
Ekstra Bladet
can today reveal that Detective Lars Winkler, who ran the abortive operation in Hans Tavsens Park on Thursday night, refuses to follow normal investigative procedures. The question is, can the people of this city be confident in the police?”

He clenched his hands, nearly tore the newspaper in half.

“Hey, buddy, take it easy. That paper never did anything to you.” The portly man sitting next to him laughed. Lars let go of the crumpled paper, folded it up, and handed it to him.

He sat with his forehead resting against the window and looked out into nothing while his thoughts churned. The bus continued down Nørrebrogade and had gotten as far as Griffenfeldsgade when he jumped up and pressed the stop button. He waited impatiently for the bus to stop outside the Grob Theatre.

He needed peace; he needed to go home. It was time to start from the beginning, to go all the way back to square one.