The House That Jack Built (5 page)

Monday
June 16

Chapter 9

T
he entire team
gathered in Lars's office for the daily briefing. By mutual, unspoken agreement, everyone assumed the same positions as they did the previous day.

“Well,” Lars said. “Let's hear it. Frank, Toke? How did it go with the cab drivers?”

Frank furrowed his blond brows, shook his head.

“Someone must have seen something? Toke?”

“Unfortunately not,” Toke said.

A subdued atmosphere spread through the office. Lisa cleared her throat.

“We were at the Italian restaurant and spoke with the waiter who served the girls. They were in high spirits and got quite drunk that night. The staff at Penthouse were stocking the bar. They didn't notice anything either.”

Lisa smiled. She was holding something back. “But then one of the girls had a bright idea. Apparently, people upload images of themselves and their friends onto club and bar web sites. The young women reveal quite a bit, let me tell you.”

Kim A straightened up. “That's not a bad idea. Take a closer look at her sexual history?”

Toke reached inside his jacket, pulled out Stine's picture, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk for everyone to see.

Lars counted to ten. “Neither Stine nor anyone else deserves — let alone is asking for — this.” He jabbed his finger at the picture of Stine, naked, beaten, and bruised.

“Yes, but any defence lawyer in the country would bring up the victim's sexual history in court. We might as well be prepared for it,” Kim A said.

“In front of a jury, with that image burned into their retinas?” Toke mumbled.

“I don't see it either,” Lars said. “Carry on, Lisa.”

“Do you mind if . . . ?” Lisa reached across Lars, opened a browser on the computer, and typed in an address.

The page loaded. The air above Lars's desk was so heavy he almost couldn't breathe.

The image of a young blond girl appeared on the screen. She was in a short strapless dress, pouting and pushing up her breasts with both hands. Her cleavage almost reached her chin. A friend was pulling a face behind her. The flash made their pupils red. On the left, half-empty bottles and glasses filled a table.

“It doesn't look like six foot three and curly hair is going to be enough here,” Frank snickered.

Lisa pointed her index finger at the top right corner of the screen. Just above her chewed nails, Stine Bang was dancing, smiling with her eyes shut, her arms raised high above her head. A tall guy was reaching around her from behind, his palms facing inwards. His curly, medium-length hair hid his face.

“Pig,” Lisa mumbled.

“Aw, relax. They're just dancing,” Frank said.

“Does anybody at the club know who this guy is?” Lars asked.

“One of the bouncers thinks a friend knows him.” Lisa got up. “I'll just check to see if he's got hold of him.”

Chapter 10

T
he black Mondeo
turned into the roundabout. The car's interior was baking from the sun. From the passenger seat, Sanne observed the bustling activity on Halmtorvet, the public square in the Vesterbro district. She saw mothers' groups sitting in cafés, children playing around the sculptures and fountain. This wasn't exactly how people back in her native city of Kolding had imagined Halmtorvet. Where were the junkies, the prostitutes? The sex shops?

“Surprised?” Allan laughed in the seat next to her.

“No, it's just . . .”

“We'll be there soon.”

The two uniformed officers in the front seat were silent. Still, she was sure they were laughing at her, at her accent. The innocent, inexperienced country girl in the big city. Her cheeks were burning.
We're almost there, we're almost there
, she chanted to herself.
Focus.

She had spent the previous day on the streets, searching the area where Mira normally worked, questioning prostitutes and the staff in the corner stores. Had they seen her with the Bukoshi brothers? But she'd had no luck so far. On Maria Kirkeplads, the square in front of the Church of St. Mary where junkies scored, some of the girls recognized Mira, but no one had really spoken to her. And who could really expect a drug addict to remember what had happened on a specific date more than a month ago? Allan had worked the phones all day, trying to track down the Bukoshi brothers. He had gotten nowhere until this morning.

The car coasted out of the roundabout, drove up the alleys between the houses, and crossed Istedgade. They passed a sex shop, Private Corner. So there was still something left of old Vesterbro.

“They hang out at an Albanian basement club just up ahead. It's called Shqiptarë. It's number 10,” Allan said to the officer at the wheel. “Just pull up to the sidewalk here,” he said, pointing to the parking lot of an adult video store. “They'll smell us a mile away.”

The officer nodded and pulled in behind a beaten-up Peugeot on the left side of Abel Cathrines Gade, just outside number 14 and the windows of Videokælderen. Private booths, the sign in the window promised. The heat returned to her cheeks. Why couldn't she just act natural? It didn't seem as if Allan had noticed her embarassment, though. He was giving last-minute instructions to the officers in the front seat.

Suddenly she realized what they were planning.

“It won't work,” she interrupted. “If we all go barging in, they'll take off. They'll be heading out the back before we've made it down the stairs.” She shook her head and pointed at Allan. “You get out here. We'll drive past the building and park a little farther ahead. The two of us —” she nodded at the officer in the passenger seat, “— will enter through the gate over there. When we get inside, Allan will go into the club. You stay here,” she told the driver, “but be ready to back up Allan.”

The officer in the passenger seat twisted around in his seat. “She's right. They normally have lookouts up there, in the apartments.” He pointed at the windows on either side.

Allan leaned back. “That's not a bad idea,” he conceded. “I'll give you one minute, then I'm going in.” He opened the door and climbed out.

The Mondeo pulled away from the curb, found a parking spot further ahead, past a basement bar. Sanne nodded to the officer in the passenger seat, opened the door, and jumped out.

She went to the door and pressed the buzzer.

“It's the police,” she said when the door phone picked up.

“It's about time you did something.”

She heard the buzzer opening the gate.

In the courtyard, a couple of children were playing in a sandbox under a withered tree. The parents were sitting around a table with their coffees, watching Sanne and her colleague as they moved along the wall toward the staircase at the back of number 10. No one said anything. The sun was right overhead, turning the courtyard into a smouldering furnace. A radio was blaring from one of the apartments, mournful vocals over a primitive beat.

“I'm going in,” Allan's voice crackled over the radio.

Sanne and the officer moved back against the wall. Sweat was trickling down her neck and from under her arms. She whispered to herself,
one, two, three, four
, but was interrupted by a loud clattering from the basement bar. Someone shouted. A door slammed. Immediately after, footsteps came up the stairs, the door flew open, and a large stocky man in a dirty tracksuit appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight.

Her colleague stepped in front of him.

“Well, looks like it's the end of the road for you, buddy.”

The officer raised his hand to place it on the man's shoulder but the man misinterpreted the move and struck out, hitting the officer on the temple. The officer fell to the ground without a sound. The man jumped over the officer, ready to run across the courtyard. Sanne instinctively stuck a leg out, and the man fell to the ground next to the officer with a hollow thud. She fumbled with the service pistol in her shoulder holster, then held it in front of her with both hands.

“Stay down!” she shouted.

Her heart was pounding; she was gasping for air. The parents at the table still hadn't made a sound. One of them held his coffee cup suspended halfway between the table and his mouth. One of the children was crying.

She heard more footsteps coming up the staircase.

“Jesus.” Allan appeared in the doorway. He took two steps forward and managed to wrest the gun from Sanne. He glanced down at the other officer, who was groaning on the ground. Allan secured her weapon and stuffed it into his pants. Then he walked over to the suspect, forced one arm behind his back, then the other, and fastened them with plastic straps.

“It is now 9:37 a.m. and you're under arrest,” he said. Only then did he return the pistol to Sanne.

“Sit down for a moment.” He helped her over to a crate that was next to the building. “Put your head between your legs.”

Sanne did as she was told while Allan helped the injured officer sit up. Her mind was swirling: the heat, the weapon in her hand, the sliding resistance of her trigger. Easy. So close.

The officer driving the car came racing into the courtyard with his weapon drawn.

“You can put that away.” Allan said. He leaned over Sanne. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, spat between her knees.

“He — he's getting away.” One of the parents was pointing. The suspect was on his feet again, running awkwardly toward a shed at the other end of the courtyard with his hands secured behind his back.

“Hey, you, hey!” Allan ran after the suspect. When he caught up with him, he got hold of his T-shirt but the man tore free. Allan caught up with him again and stuck his leg out. The suspect fell to the ground, but this time he couldn't break the fall with his hands and fell face-first on the asphalt. His face was battered and smeared with soil, blood, and grime. His eyes were half-closed and his T-shirt was torn to shreds. The pungent smell of sweat surrounded him.

Allan pulled him up, then motioned for one of the officers, and together they managed to drag the man back to where the others were.

“May I present: Meriton Bukoshi.”

Chapter 11

E
LENA WINKLER.
Lars's
eyes cast over the large sweeping letters on the glass door.
At least she hasn't changed her name yet.
Through the store window, past an opulent display of shoes, he saw her standing behind a large leopard-print armchair. Her back was turned to him. She was wearing a thin cream-coloured knit T-shirt, mocha-coloured slacks that were tight around the hips and wide through the legs, and a pair of high heels from her collection. Her dark frizzy hair was pulled back in a low, tight bun. The row of Chinese masks on the wall bore into him with their evil eyes.

He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. This was it.

She turned around when the bell sounded.

“Hi Lars.” They stood across from each other, uncertain. Two people with far too much history. Then she kissed the air by both of his cheeks and took two steps back, turned around, and continued arranging the display.

The scent of her skin and the light hint of perfume made his stomach tingle. He shut his eyes.

“Have you been to Milan again?” he asked after a while.

“Yes, I brought Maria with me. Just after . . . you left. We visited one of the factories and saw next year's collection. Those are this year's.” She turned around and pointed at the shoes in the window. “Aren't they lovely?”

He had never really understood the concept behind the kind of shoes Italian women wore. Most of them looked like something from an adult movie. But he didn't get a chance to respond.

“I want to talk about Maria,” Elena continued. She paused briefly, her dark eyes wandering.

“Elena —” he started, reaching out for her. She stepped back, turned, and began to rearrange the merchandise with quick, focused movements.

“I think that's enough of that. We've been through it all before.” Her hoarse voice began as a whisper but ended with a firm and authoritative tone.

He observed the lines on her slender neck, the large, gold earrings. A heavy lump sunk slowly down his throat, continued past his lungs and entrails, to finally settle in his groin.

“I don't want to argue with you,” he finally said. “If —”

“Lars.” She turned around. A grey pallor had settled on her face. “We need to think of Maria now. She needs us, needs you.”

The abrupt movements of her slender hands followed the rhythm of the sentences. Light brown skin with the beginnings of fine wrinkles. Even her hands were beautiful. They looked like —

Then came the longing, that sinking feeling in his body that never hit bottom. How long had it been since he had seen Maria? One month? Two? He couldn't remember anymore.

“Is something wrong?” he managed to ask. His voice sounded wooden, hollow.

Elena ran her finger along a shelf, checking for dust. Then she looked directly at him.

“She's angry with you — no, not angry, furious.” The corners of her mouth were twitching. She cocked her head slightly. “How could you be so stupid and just take off?” she whispered. “She needs you. More than you can imagine.”

The air was quivering in the small store. Lars was about to reply when the bell rang and two women in their twenties stepped in, weighed down with bags from the nearby boutiques, Free Lance and Stig P.

“What about school?” he asked.

Elena went behind the counter and followed the two women with her eyes. She held her left forearm against her stomach, resting her right elbow in her left hand while she toyed with her earring. His gaze moved down to her breasts.

“She's moved over to ØregÃ¥rd.”

He looked up again, hoping she hadn't noticed anything.

“She doesn't talk about anything,” said Elena. “She just sits in her room with her homework. She sees only a couple of kids from her old high school.”

“That's how teenagers are. And Simon?”

Elena bit her lip. “I think she broke up with him.”

“Well, it's great that she's keeping in touch with her old friends.” He moved around the counter, made sure it was between them.

Elena nodded, staring absently at the two customers.

“Excuse me.” One of them turned to Elena, held up something that looked more like a spectacle than a shoe. “Do you have this in an eight and a half?”

Lars was about to say something but Elena interrupted him.

“Yes, one moment and I'll have a look.” She turned to Lars. “That's all I wanted to say.” She was already on her way to the storeroom. “And stop burying yourself in your work.”

He whispered something; he hardly knew himself what he said.

“I know what you guys are like,” Elena answered. Then she was gone.

Lars was standing outside the shop on Ny Østergade. He didn't know what he had expected of his meeting with his ex-wife; he only knew that nothing was as it should be. Apart from Maria — he would see Maria today.