The House That Jack Built (8 page)

Chapter 17

H
e sits at
the head of the table; the candles are lit. Sonja and Hilda are on either side of the long dining table. It's covered with Mother's best damask, her silverware and seagull dinner service. At the other end of the table, Karen's place is empty. He leans back, looks around the cellar.
This is how it should be in here
.
No complaining, no arguing
.
The soup bubbling on the stove.
The confusion, the bad times are over. He should have done something, taken action earlier; he should not have stood idly by. But he does love them, all of them. As you love your family. Something trembles deep down. An equilibrium is disturbed. Lorin Maazel and the Vienna Philharmonic with Agnes Baltsa are on the phonograph.
Kindertotenlieder
.

Oft denk' ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen,

Bald werden sie wieder nach Hause gelangen.

Der Tag ist schön, o sei nicht bang,

Sie machen nur einen weiten Gang.

He gets sad anyway. It's difficult to say goodbye like that. He does not want to punish. Tears press forth. And the trembling. Upstairs, the heavy floorboards creak. Is someone disturbing his peace? A Sten gun leans against the ammunition boxes in the corner. But there's nothing else. The sounds of an old house can make you crazy.
No, wait
. The creaking is inside him. His skeleton is creaking. The crack opens. Sonja and Hilda cower. They know what's coming. All the darkness, the black. Flames leap through the fissure. He shuts his eyes, tries to focus. Peace. That's all he wants. Is that too much to ask ? There's a throbbing behind his forehead, threatening to explode. He sways back and forth in the chair. The images come to him, images that he has long since banished: Mother no longer gets up; she lies in the small room in the attic. She must be delirious. The things she says, terrible things. It's wrong. And he is strong. Like Father or Grandfather. Not weak, not like her. He would really like some peace now. But the roar rises from within. It creaks and groans but eventually it gives way as he presses down, and the crack closes again. The flames are gone. Only a small bubble of darkness remains, floating around inside him. He follows it through his body, into the stomach, the chest, the right arm, down through the groin — then he's back. It's the soup that saves him. It boils over. The scalding hot liquid extinguishes the gas jet. He jumps up, turns down the temperature on the hot plate, scolding Sonja and Hilda for not warning him. Then he stops, takes a deep breath and looks at them.
You shouldn't pay attention to Daddy's little idiosyncrasies.
He takes their bowls and fills them using the old soup ladle. Dinner is served. He pulls out his chair, sits down. Cabbage soup, Mother's recipe. Then he has doubts. Was it really all Karen's fault that he had to let her go? Never mind. Everything is much better now, even if it hurts too. It's not easy when they fly from the nest. He swallows a spoonful of soup. It's as though the good atmosphere from before won't return, as though something is missing. Sonja and Hilda. They miss Karen, of course. But they'll have to get used to it. She's not coming back. It's only when he goes to place her eyes in the bowl in front of the empty seat that he realizes: one's missing — the green one. He must have dropped it when he returned her.

He sits for a while, forgets the soup. What if all Sonja and Hilda need is a little sister?

August 1944

S
he places the
last plate on the dish rack. Tips the tub upside down and watches the filthy brown water gurgle down the drain with a loud belch. It speaks to her of the horrible thing that comes out during the night and climbs up the creaking stairs to her little room in the attic. The door's rusty hinges squeak.

She throws the brush into the tub and puts it under the sink. That's all in the past now. From the living room comes the clicking of Mother's knitting needles. Father is working on a couple of medical files. They'll both ruin their eyesight in the yellow light from the kerosene lamp. The blackout curtains are drawn. The three of them are prisoners here — the three of them and the patient downstairs in the cellar — while the spectres perform their
danse macabre
outside.

She doesn't mind the deluge of duties anymore. Now she has something to look forward to. In the cellar, everything that makes life worth living awaits her. She washes her hands, dries them on her apron. The tray is already on the serving table, covered with a cloth. She pokes her head into the living room, nods to her parents. Father looks up with a grunt and returns the greeting.

She dances back into the kitchen, grabs the tray, and carries it over to the cellar stairs. At the foot of the stairs, she sets the tray on a small table and opens the secret door behind the vitrine to yet another staircase. He is lying down, at the very back of the labyrinth of bookcases and boxes, on a bed of ammunition, machine guns, and TNT. A wounded warrior surrounded by his weapons. He looks up when he hears her footsteps and his eyes light up.

“Hello, my blossom,” he whispers, readying his lips for a kiss.

She blushes, places the tray on an ammunitions box, slaps the hand that slides up her thigh. She's not that kind of girl. She wants to hear him talk about his native land now. Glenridding on the shore of Ullswater in the Lake District. The pub down by the lake, the tall mountains that rise up on every side. Narrow, winding paths that cling to the steep mountainsides. His descriptions are so vivid she can picture it all. All that green, the vantage points by Heron Pike and Sheffield Pike, the long Z-shaped lake that meanders toward the northeast between the mountains. The snow-clad Helvellyn, which rises above the village, cold and unapproachable during the winter, warm and covered with grass during the summer. All of that is nice to have when the duties become onerous and it's a long time till dinner has to be carried down.

Above, the floorboards creak. And in the south, in Berlin and Hamburg, the firestorms melt flesh off bones.

“Tell me how things are in the outside world,” Jack says. “I know you listen to the radio from London.”

She shakes her head. Not now, not here. It is sacred down here; this place must not be defiled.

“You do know I have to get back, right?” He looks at her. The seriousness in his grey eyes colours them dark. “It is my duty. My country — your country — needs me.”

She knows all of that, but he has promised to take her with him. They will flee to Sweden together and then live in England as husband and wife.

She bends over him, her breasts resting lightly on his chest — not too hard, his ribs are still healing — and presses her mouth on his cold lips. Then he starts to speak and his voice becomes warm and the deadly paleness leaves his lips. This, exactly like this. This is how she loves him best.

Again, the floorboards upstairs creak as she feeds him, spoonful after spoonful of the good, thick cabbage soup. It won't be long before he is fully recovered.

In the end she has to leave, but she promises to return tomorrow. He laughs at their little joke. Then he forms his lips into a kiss. She shakes her head firmly, but smiles as she walks up the stairs; she doesn't want him to think she is angry. She sends him a final melting look before crawling out through the secret entrance to the first cellar.

She closes the vitrine behind her with a small click, and grabs the tray on her way up. The figure hunched in the dark corner remains unseen as it follows her tiniest movement with eyes of burning coal.

Tuesday
June 17

Chapter 18

T
he cell phone
snarled somewhere outside the dream. Lars opened his eyes, tipped his legs out of the bed. His hand groped in the dark, across the bureau. Maria was moving in the next room. Hopefully in her sleep.

“Yes?”

“This is Duty Officer Jørgensen. There's been another rape in Østerbro, at the star fortress on Fyens Ravelin. Toke and Lisa are on their way out there as we speak. There's a squad car parked on the corner of Folke Bernadottes Allé and Grønningen. The officer will give you directions from there.”

“Thanks, I'll be there right away. Can you call Frank for me?”

“And Kim A?”

“And Kim A. Thanks.”

Drowsy with a half-forgotten dream still lingering in his mind, Lars staggered into the bathroom, took a piss. He splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth before he went back into the bedroom to get dressed.

The sound of bare feet on the wooden floor behind him. He turned around. Maria was standing by the door.

“What's going on?” she whispered drowsily.

He pulled a shirt out of the closet, undid the top button, and pulled it over his head. “Work. Just go back to sleep.”

“Is there — is there another one? I thought you'd caught him?”

“We have a suspect. We haven't caught him yet.” He stroked her cheek. “But we will. Get some sleep, Maria. I'll call and wake you up at seven, all right?”

“Mmm.” She rubbed her eyes, squinting in the light. “Promise me you'll catch him, Dad.”

“Come here.” He stepped toward her and she nestled up to him. A soft and warm baby chick. He kissed the top of her head. “We'll get him. And now it's time for you to get some sleep.” He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “I probably won't see you until this afternoon. This is going to take all night.”

She waved at him, then slipped back to bed.

Lars shut the door behind him. A small, warm ball in his stomach radiated happiness throughout his entire body.

The streets of Nordvest were deserted and bathed in the dying orange glow of the streetlights. An occasional pedestrian was staggering home from the bars further down Tagensvej. A lonely ambulance. Otherwise nothing. The cab sped down Sølvgade, then turned down Øster Voldgade by the National Gallery of Denmark. He peered into the darkness through the trees where Stine Bang had been assaulted. Did they really have a serial rapist on their hands?

The cab stopped behind the police car that was parked halfway up on the sidewalk at the northwestern entrance to the star fortress. A uniformed officer he didn't recognize was leaning against the hood, smoking. Lars flashed his badge. The officer nodded, spat tobacco, and pointed at the entrance.

“In there and first path on the right. You'll be able to see the lights after a couple of hundred metres. The Crime Scene Unit has arrived.”

Lars thanked him, gave him the names of the others on his investigative team, and told him to leave when they'd arrived. There was no reason to advertise their presence. The reporters would have to find out for themselves what had happened.

He disappeared into the darkness of the star fortress. A pale half moon shone, making the trees shimmer and casting dancing grey and silver shadows. The branches groaned; the leaves rustled.

He hurried on. The night was warm and he quickly started to sweat.

He heard the generator first; then he saw the gleam from its lights reflected faintly off the leaves, a pale glow shining on the bastion. He found the stairs, ran up, and stepped into the circle of light.

Bint and Frelsén circled around in their white outfits, their noses to the ground. For some reason, Frelsén had removed his hair net. Toke and Lisa stood outside the cordon. Lars walked over to them, pulled out his cigarettes.

He looked at his watch. Ten past three.

“The ambulance drove off with the girl less than ten minutes ago.” Lisa stuck a match in her mouth. “She's at Rigshospitalet now.”

“Did you get a chance to speak with her?”

Toke nodded. “She's in bad shape, but not quite as bad as Stine.” He flipped through his notebook. Lisa shone her flashlight so Toke could read. “Louise Jørgensen, twenty-two years old, lives on Livjægergade, right here in Østerbro. She'd been to Penthouse” —Toke paused for effect — “and was cycling home down at Grønningen when another cyclist went to pass her. He knocked her over and dragged her off the bike path, through the moat, and up here. Lisa has been down to check it out. Louise's bike was halfway up the sidewalk with a buckled front wheel.”

“I pulled it to the side, leaned it against a tree,” she explained.

A shadow darted past, a dark silhouette against the blaze of lights. Then it disappeared into the darkness.

Toke gave a start. “What was that?”

“A fox,” Lisa said.

Toke shook his head. “There aren't any foxes in the centre of Copenhagen.”

“There are. They live off trash, get into garbage cans. I've seen a few of them on Østerbrogade at night,” Lisa held her ground.

“If you think I'm buying that —”

Just then Frank came up the stairs.

“Kim A will be here in just a moment. He's bringing coffee.” Frank shook hands with Frelsén and Bint. He looked tired. “Has she been taken to the hospital?”

Lars nodded. “Toke and Lisa were just bringing me up to speed.” He asked them to proceed.

“So, Louise Jørgensen is riding her bike from Penthouse . . .” Toke said.

Frank whistled.

Toke continued: “She was knocked down on the bike path and dragged up here. He tears her clothes off on the way up, punches and kicks her repeatedly. He rapes her up here — anally.” Toke pointed at Frelsén who was towering in the middle of the circle of light. “When he's done, he spits on her, kicks her in the kidneys, and takes off in the same direction he came from. Probably on bike.”

“We'll call Forensics in the morning,” Lars said. “Push for a quick response on the DNA analysis of the shirt. Who found her?”

“No one,” Lisa said. “She called it in herself. Her purse and cell phone weren't far away and —”

Heavy steps came up the stairs. Kim A appeared with two white paper bags from 7-Eleven.

“Coffee's here.” He crossed over to the small group and started handing them out.

“Frank, Lisa. Boss —?”

Just as Lars reached out for the steaming paper cup, Kim A handed it to Toke. After an awkward silence and with obvious unease, Toke finally accepted the cup. Frelsén and Bint came over and each got a cup. Finally Kim A handed Lars the last coffee.

“Did you think I'd forgotten you?” he laughed.

Bint grimaced, then turned to Lars. “There's leaves and dirt everywhere. I followed the trail halfway down the bastion. Presumably it continues all the way to the water and onto the street. As far as organic material —”

Frelsén took over. “Traces of semen and saliva and a single blonde hair — Louise is standard medium blonde. And then we have a set of footprints from a sneaker, between sizes nine and ten and a half. Surprisingly good coffee, Kim.” Frelsén nodded at Kim A.

Lars drank slowly. The coffee tasted burnt and of asphalt. Filter coffee that had spent too much time on the hot plate. Exactly like the coffee at the station. It was almost too homey.

“Frank, Toke,” he said, “talk to the cab drivers again. They must know you by now.” He allowed himself a little smile. “Kim A, you stay here, help Bint and Frelsén. Lisa, we're going to Rigshospitalet.”

He drained the coffee in one long gulp, crumpled up the paper cup with one hand, and threw it into the nearest garbage can.

Again it was Christine Fogh who had admitted the victim. Louise Jørgensen was still awake when they arrived. It had all happened so quickly; the only thing she could remember was the attacker's blue eyes.

On their way down from the Juliane Marie Centre, Lisa called in and requested a patrol car to drive them to Penthouse. Outside, day was rising. The golden glow rose, large and mighty in the sky above Copenhagen. The 3A bus drove past, heading toward Østerbro. Lars closed his eyes, but he couldn't shake the image of Louise's one arm, stiff and white above her hip, wrapped up in a thick layer of gauze; the shaking and far-too-thin body covered by a hospital sheet.

Lars's phone rang. It was the duty officer.

“Your suspect was arrested half an hour ago. An alert colleague filling up his tank recognized him at a gas station outside Roskilde. He's hopped up on a few substances. They put him in detention in Roskilde and will be bringing him in later this morning.”

Lars clenched his free hand in a silent gesture.

“We've got him. We've got Mikkel Rasmussen.” He put the phone in his pocket. The fatigue made his eyes ache. “Now where's that patrol car?”

Lars and Lisa caught the bar manager in the doorway of Penthouse nightclub. She was about to lock up but agreed to find the names and numbers of the three photographers who had been at the club that night. None of them were particularly enthusiastic about being dragged out of bed. One refused to give them his pictures until late the next morning. But when they rang his front doorbell ten minutes later, he still let them in.

By seven o'clock they were in a patrol car on their way back to the station. They were heading down Nørre Voldgade when Lars remembered that he had promised to call and wake up Maria. He pulled out his cell.

She didn't answer until the seventh ring.

“Time to get up, beautiful.” He could hear how tired he sounded.

“Mmmm.” Maria didn't sound like someone who was planning on getting out of bed any time soon. Didn't she have school? He suddenly went cold. Wasn't there something about an exam yesterday?

“How — didn't you have an exam yesterday?” He coughed, turned to face the window, away from Lisa's glare. He had a feeling that he had “Bad Father” painted on his forehead in bold letters. “Did it go well?”

“Yeah, it went all right.” Did she hesitate a little? But it sounded like she was happy.

“All right? What does that mean?”

“Well, it was just a mock exam. But I did get a ten.” Yes, there was no doubt. She was happy.

“Ten? That's great. Let's celebrate when I get home.”

“We're going to Grandma's tonight. Did you forget?”

Apparently there was a lot he had forgotten.

“So we'll celebrate with Grandma.” He sunk back in the seat. “But I'm going to need a couple hours of sleep when I get home. We're working straight through.”

“Just catch him, Dad. See you later.”

He was about to say goodbye, but Maria had already hung up.

“Did you forget about your daughter's exam?” Lisa shook her head.

Lars looked out the window. It had started to rain. A pouring blanket dragging across RÃ¥dhuspladsen and moving toward Tivoli.