The House That Jack Built (24 page)

Chapter 51

H
is cell phone
hummed in his jacket pocket. Lars pulled the steering wheel, swerved around a slow-moving Peugeot on Bernstorffsvej, only to immediately pull over to the side. He had picked up the car at the depot on Hambrosgade earlier in the day, but avoided going into the precinct. The Peugeot passed him, leaned on the horn. The sun burned the sky golden beneath the last leaden clouds. The wind blew the remains of a heavy shower across Øresund. In the villas along Bernstorffsvej, windows lit up; people were sitting around the tables. A few dads were out in their gardens, pulling the tarpaulins off the waiting bonfires for Midsummer's Eve. Some had already placed the symbolic witch, a scarecrow figure clad in black rags, on top of their bonfires.

Lars was running out of time. He was fidgeting in his seat and his nose was burning. He pulled out his cell.

“Yes?”

“Lars?” It was Sanne. A lump dissolved, trickled through his body, bubbled, and combined with the chemical substances that kept him going. “Where have you been?”

He laughed. “Sanne? Thanks for last night.” Short pause. “I've been home, thinking. But, you —”

She interrupted him. “Have you seen
Ekstra Bladet
today?” Suddenly he realized that she was worried. She continued before he had a chance to respond. “You're off the case. Kim A is now in charge of the investigation.”

She stopped, waited. But Lars had long since passed the point of anger. He sniffed, ran a finger under his nose.

“It doesn't matter. I'm doing this on my own from here on in. I have a clue. Maria . . .”

“Lars —”

“I'm glad you called. But I'm busy. I promise I'll call later. Bye.”

“Lars, just a mo —”

He turned off his cell before she could finish the sentence, then put the car in gear and roared out on Bernstorffsvej.

He was on his way to a party.

The house, an enormous whitewashed box with a black-glazed mansard roof, was secluded from Egebjerg Allé. The noise from the traffic on the nearby Bernstorffsvej was by and large gone. On the right of the house, a towering gable faced the road. It had a bay window with sashes and a balcony on the second floor. The garden was simple and well looked after. Light and laughter streamed through the open terrace doors. Glasses clinked. A mediocre stereo played Maroon 5, “Payphone.” Lars had stumbled across the video on YouTube. He did not watch it all the way to the end.

The driveway was flanked by two white pillars, which anchored the black wrought iron gate. A towering private security guard stood out front.

Lars parked the Ford on the other side of the road and climbed out. It was getting dark now. The air smelled of lilacs and freshly mown grass. Torches lit the driveway and spotlights sent cones of light up from the pillars by the gate.

The guard stepped forward. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I need to talk to my daughter. She's in there.” He nodded toward the house.

“It's by invitation only. I'm sorry.”

Lars sighed, pulled out his police badge, and walked past him without waiting for an answer.

“Stop,” the guard shouted at him. “You can't just . . .”

Lars didn't react; he just continued up the driveway. A well-maintained vintage Jaguar gleamed in the light of the torches by the house. He whistled quietly and allowed himself to indulge in the car's slender curves for a few seconds before he entered the garden and approached the terrace. He was greeted by a crowd of young people in suits and short dresses; the graduates were outside in their caps, smoking. Maria was not among them.

He stepped onto the terrace, moved in and out past the couples. He didn't fit in. He was too old, too poorly dressed.

The volume on the stereo was turned up in the living room and a group of girls spread out on the dance floor. The hard pumping beats faded out and were replaced by an old song that played in his head.

Then the youth go off to dance

On your bidding good Saint Hans . . .

“Hey, I think you're lost, Grandpa.” The voice was just behind his right ear and pulled him back into the present. He tried turning around.

“Now, let me help you.” Firm hands grasped his arm. It wasn't exactly hostile but someone found it amusing. A joke at his expense. Lars tried to break free, mumbling something about Maria.

“Let him go.” The voice sounded both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. “Lars?” A young man forced his way through the crowd and stood in front of him.

“Simon?” Lars took a step to the side. He had to support himself on a chair. Maria's ex? Here?

“Is he drunk?” someone asked.

“Maria?” He had lowered his voice, his gaze fixed on Simon. “Is she here?” Just then he spotted her. She walked down the staircase inside the house, her hand resting lightly on the sweeping railing. Her white, sleeveless dress glowed against her dark hair, and she had a shawl draped over her shoulders. She spotted him, smiled, and the voices merged around him.

“You can't be here. This is a private party.”

“Why didn't the guard stop him? What does he think we pay him for?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Police. I need to talk to my daughter.”

The hands released him immediately. The group moved a couple of steps back.

Maria's face froze. She quickly jumped down the last few steps and ran across the dance floor. She pulled him out of the circle of light, away from Simon and into the garden.

“Dad, what are you doing?” she whispered with a pleading look on her face. “Don't say anything to Simon about Christian!”

The momentum had made him lose his balance. He fought to stay on his feet on the soft grass.

“What are you doing here? I thought . . .” Her eyes were shining. “You can't just come in here waving your badge around. I'm making friends here. Finally.”

Simon was holding a glass, keeping an eye on them.

Lars still could not get it to add up. Maria dragged him further away into the shadows along the wall.

“I wanted . . .” Lars looked up at the terrace again. Something prickled inside his head, but he couldn't hold onto it. It slipped away, disappeared.

“Yes?” Maria was impatient now. “Pull yourself together, Dad. Have you been drinking?”

“I've been working on this rape case all day and . . .” He tried again. “At the hospital, Caroline . . .” His voice disappeared. The prickling feeling returned; everything stood on end. Simon on the terrace under the bright evening sky. Maria at a party with the ØregÃ¥rd clique.

Then the words spilled out of him, tumbling over one another. “The other night, in your room. That wasn't you and Christian?”

For a moment she stared at him in confusion, then her look darkened.

“So you did come home?” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders, looked down. She couldn't possibly be cold on such a warm summer evening. “That's disgusting, Dad. How could you think I'd want to be with Christian?”

The pieces fell into place. The condom, the DNA profile they had thought cleared Christian. It was Simon's DNA, not Christian's. He looked up at the terrace. His eyes searched among the guests.

“I need to find Christian. Now. Where is he?”

“What's with you? You're acting so weird.”

“Sorry.” He went to reach for her but then let his arms drop. “It's important.”

Maria looked away, covered her mouth with her hand. “He was here half an hour ago. Just before Simon got here. Some of the boys got rid of him.” She looked away. “I don't want anything more to do with him.”

What had happened at Christian's house the night before? He was about to ask when a drunk guy walked over to them. His tie was hanging loose over his unbuttoned shirt, his eyes were swimming.

“Have you seen Christina? We're trying to find the key to the liquor cabinet.”

Maria shook her head. “Anders, you saw Christian out. Did he say where he was going?”

Anders smiled; his eyes were swimming. “He was completely out of it. Kept going on about blood and bones. And about the Sandman, that he knew who he was.” He stumbled to one side. “Crazy shit.” Then he disappeared.

Lars remembered only too well his conversation with Christian at the apartment: “Midnight Rambler” and the Boston strangler.

Maria had gone completely white. “Christian's dad said Christian thought there was a murderer living in the area, back when he was a kid. On . . . by Søbredden? Does that name mean something?”

Lars didn't answer; he just stared off into the shadows. In a flash, he saw the roundabout by Brogårdsvej in the sunlight the day before, Sanne in the passenger seat. Out of the corner of his eye, the road sign on the right. Søbredden.

He grabbed her, had to make an effort not to squeeze her. “What did he say?”

“I don't know. Let go, Dad.”

The kids on the terrace were watching them. He let go.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.” He stroked her cheek. “Is Mom home?”

“Yes, she —”

“Go home to her. Now. Lock all the doors, close all the windows, and wait for me to call.”

She nodded and pressed her cheek against his chest.

Chapter 52

T
he last black
clouds scurried out over the sea. Sanne closed her cell, held her nose in the air, and breathed in. It was lovely to get away from the city air. Pine needles, grass, sea salt, and the faint smell of manure; it was almost like home. She leaned against the car, concealed behind dark trunks, and crossed her arms. Lars had sounded . . . different. Something metallic in his voice.

The ruin of the three-winged yard was about one hundred metres away, a dirty grey speck in the deepening twilight. The forest behind it was a dark and threatening wall. Six of Gregers Vestberg's vehicles from the South Zealand and Lolland-Falster police force were parked deeper in the woods; two were positioned discreetly along the roads leading to the property from the highway. Now it was only a matter of time.

There was a rustling from inside the car. Ulrik tapped on the window. Sanne opened the rear door and climbed inside.

“We've gotten word from the unit in Sjolte.” Allan turned toward her. “They've just driven past. They'll be here in a few minutes.”

Sanne blinked and stared into the woods, trying to get her eyes accustomed to the dark.

“Ukë and Meriton?” But she already knew the answer.

“They're still driving around Copenhagen.” Ulrik slammed his fist on the dashboard. “Why aren't they coming?”

“They've been tipped.” Sanne leaned back in the seat. She was completely calm. The time for waiting was over.

“None of my people . . .” Ulrik started.

Sanne just looked at him. He didn't finish the sentence; his hand was resting on the megaphone on his lap. Nobody said anything for a few minutes.

“Have you got your vest on?” Ulrik asked for the umpteenth time. She nodded and took the service weapon out of the shoulder holster. The thick, viscous smell of gun oil. Sanne put the pistol back in the holster. Twilight slipped into night.

A set of headlights from a minivan turned from Sjoltevej down toward the woods. Sanne caught herself holding her breath and forced herself to take deep and steady breaths.

“This is it,” Allan whispered.

They opened the doors almost simultaneously, slid outside and toward the house, moving from tree to tree, three shadows among the hundreds of others in the woods. The minivan rumbled down the dirt road, around the corner where the small stretch of woods began, and into the yard by the three-winged ruin. For a brief moment the headlights revealed the collapsed wall of the house. Then the engine went silent and the darkness closed in around the ruin once again.

Allan whispered into the walkie-talkie as he ran forward, hunched over. She could glimpse her colleagues moving along both sides of the wooded road. The moon was making its way above the treetops; an errant beam glinted briefly on a weapon barrel. Her heart pounded against her ribs. They had to be able to hear her from a long way off down there. But nothing happened. She ran bent double across the road behind Ulrik, drew her service weapon, and slipped in behind the trees to the left of the derelict property. The uniformed officers fanned out counter-clockwise and in behind the barn.

Inside the barn, behind the battered door, there was movement, light. White cones shone out in the night through the collapsed wall and the holes in the roof. Faint music. Voices.

“
Wann kommen sie?
”

“
Bald, Alexandru, bald. Hab doch ne bischen Geduld, he?
”

Allan and Ulrik got into position on either side of her. A couple of female voices burst into giggles. Music from a radio.

A crackling came from Allan's radio. He nodded at Ulrik, who stepped into the yard, raised the megaphone, and shouted, “This is the Danish police. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Immediately the radio was switched off and the light disappeared. A cuckoo sounded in the distance. Otherwise everything was completely still. Sanne counted eight cuckoo clucks before the barn door began opening centimetre by centimetre on creaking hinges. Seven young women tottered out, one after the other, and huddled together in the middle of the yard.

Ulrik raised the megaphone again. “We know there are two more inside. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Whispering was heard, scraping. A hoarse voice shouted. “
Ein moment
.”

Ulrik motioned to Allan who passed the message on. Their colleagues moved in closer. The net was closing.

Allan waved the girls away from the yard. The door creaked again and a figure appeared. At least four flashlights were directed at him and the automatic weapon in his hand. The barrel was pointed at the ground.

“Put the gun down. Now!” Ulrik barked into the megaphone. The girls, now standing behind them, jumped. Two policemen escorted them to the other side of the road.

The man in the doorway waved his weapon back and forth. “
Nicht schiessen, nicht schiessen
.”

Why didn't he drop his machine gun? And where was the other one?

Sanne's eyes swept the barn. It was pitch black. From her position, she could see partway around the corner. Her colleagues had reached the rear of the building now.

Behind them, a shadow rose up.

“There. Behind you!” she shouted, then broke into a run across the yard. The man in the doorway took a step back into the barn, raised his weapon, and fired off a short salvo, then another. The dry, crackling sound echoed in the night; bullets tore up small fountains of gravel and dirt by her feet. A rapid series of hard cracks followed and the automatic weapon went quiet. An unearthly rattle came from inside the barn, then she reached the corner and darted past two uniformed officers.

She launched herself into the darkness, following the sounds of snapping branches and twigs. Something flicked through the night, tearing her hands and face. Another salvo from an automatic weapon shot past, close, and tore the bark and wet wood off a pine tree behind her. She drew closer; she could hear him panting. Behind her the dogs started barking.

“You cannot escape. Stop,” she shouted. Her blood pumped adrenaline, fear, and rage through her body. The fugitive accelerated; then, the sound of his feet was gone. Her colleagues were close behind with flashlights. Streaks of light danced between the trunks. She stumbled into a deep trench, then regained her balance on the way up the bank. A shape jumped into view and took off. Her colleagues' flashlights caught him in the crossfire of light beams, and he stopped. He had mousy hair and was wearing dirty jeans and a medium-length grey jacket. He stood with his back turned, shoulders bowed, arms by his side.

“Get down! On your knees, hands behind your head,” she shouted. The pistol was raised, ready to shoot. Where was his weapon? There was no doubt he had heard her, but he didn't react. He remained standing with his shoulders and head drooping. She couldn't see his hands. Slowly she circled around in front of him, just as her colleagues arrived.

“He's unarmed,” she shouted, when she could see his empty hands. Where had he dropped his gun? Two officers had him now. They locked his hands behind his back with plastic straps. Two more officers arrived,one of them gave Sanne a flashlight. She started searching the ground between the trees. Dry branches, dead underbrush, animal excrement, pine cones. She followed their tracks back through the forest, over a fallen tree trunk, in and out between the bushes. Something flashed in the darkness some ways off the trail. She stopped and aimed the light at it. A Heckler & Koch MP5K PDW was half hidden behind a pile of withered leaves.

“Sanne?” It was Allan.

“Over here.” She waited for Allan to reach her. He gasped for breath.

“Are you hit?”

She shook her head, showed him the weapon.

“The other guy had one just like it. What were they planning to do, start a small war?”

In a flash, Sanne saw the guy jump up in front of her, into the cones of light. Why this burst of energy? She was about to lose his trail. It had happened exactly when she passed the ditch.

“Follow me.” She handed Allan the weapon, then found the place where she had stumbled in the ditch. She took note of the direction. A little further out, where she thought she had seen him jump up, the ditch continued zigzagging. Sanne swept the edge with the flashlight, back and forth. The stench of rot and topsoil rose from the oily water and the pulp of half decomposed leaves that covered the bottom.

A tree root edged into the ditch. Sanne traced its winding movement with her flashlight. Something glistened beneath it.

Allan stood at the top of the ditch, looking down at her.

“He could have stayed down there and picked us off one by one as we came barging in.”

Sanne dug between the wet leaves and damp earth. She pulled out the elongated pack from the small opening, where it had been wedged between dirt and root.

“He'd heard the dogs. He knew we'd catch him eventually. Here,” she said. The flat package, sealed in thick, transparent plastic and brown tape, landed by his feet.

“What is it?”

“This is what he ran off to hide.” Sanne climbed up from the ditch. “Let's go back and take a look.”

A couple of officers had placed the wounded man on the ground, turned him so he was lying on one side, and opened his mouth to prevent him from choking on his own vomit. The man was bleeding heavily from his neck and thigh. Someone had lightly dressed the wounds. His legs were kicking in short, abrupt spasms, and his eyes had rolled back so only the whites were visible.

Ulrik wandered off with his hands in his pockets, kicking the gravel. He looked up when Sanne approached. “You okay?”

Sanne nodded. Two officers were placing the other man in the back of a patrol car. Allan went over to help the other officers with the trafficked girls. Gregers Vestberg came out of the barn.

“Quite the operation, Ulrik.” He pulled out a pipe from his pocket, began to pack it. He looked briefly at the wounded guy in the yard. “He'll be dead before the ambulance arrives.” He lit his pipe with two matches. “What happened to the two brothers? Weren't they the ones you were supposed to catch?”

Ulrik ground his teeth. The sweetish smell of pipe tobacco billowed across the yard. The scent took her back to her childhood in the 1980s, her father's evening pipe in front of the TV. Clips of riots with punks and squatters in Copenhagen on the evening news. Had Lars been among them?

“I've just spoken to the officers staking out the Bukoshi brothers.” Ulrik looked away. “They're sitting in the club on Abel Cathrines Gade. Playing cards. What happened?” Sanne was just about to say something when he continued. “No, you don't have to answer.” He ran his hand across his forehead and down his cheek. He looked tired. “Sorry. Nice work.”

Sanne handed him the package. “Maybe this will cheer you up. Girls aren't the only thing Meriton and Ukë are smuggling across the border.”

Ulrik took the package, weighed it in his hand. The white powder gleamed in the light behind the thick plastic. “There must be at least two kilos.”

“That's why he started shooting.” She nodded at the wounded guy, still twitching on the ground. An officer attempted to hold the dressing in place on his neck. “His buddy needed time to hide it.”

Gregers lit up, puffed on the bouncing pipe. “Excellent. We'd best get the girls and the package to Næstved.”

Ulrik shook his head. “The preliminary wiretaps were carried out by us, hence the crime scene falls under Copenhagen Police jurisdiction. Everything's going to PolitigÃ¥rden.”

Behind them a couple of Gregers's people were questioning the seven women. Sanne shivered. Two of the girls resembled Mira. Allan left the group of girls and the officers who were questioning them and positioned himself next to Sanne.

“They've got some nerve,” he said. “You'd think they were already in Vesterbro. If my wife heard the propositions they were making . . . To top it all off, two of them are from the Middle East. Surely this behaviour isn't normal for Muslim women?”

“What did you expect?” Sanne looked over at the group. “A handful of terrified and banged-up girls, half-dead from starvation and thirst?”

Gregers drew on his pipe. “Your colleague is right. Denmark was not their first stop. They were broken long ago. Beaten and raped. They're making the most of the few opportunities they have.”