The House That Jack Built (19 page)

August 1944

T
he kitchen window
is open. The checkered curtains hang motionless on the warm summer evening. Twilight is descending, but a faint afterglow still clings to the sky. She's sitting on the stool in the corner by the stove, her heart fluttering in her chest. He's making the crossing tonight. Father has arranged for a boat to Sweden, agreed to the time and place with one of the local fishermen. Jack will send word when she can join him. Her head is light, she has a strange feeling in her stomach, as though something inside her is going to break.

She gets up, runs a finger along the brass pipe that circles the black cast-iron stove. She starts at a sudden vision of a deathly pale face with blood running down the cheeks appearing in the dim light in the corner behind the stove.

“Jack?” she whispers. Then she clenches her teeth. Jack is hiding in the bottom of a fishing jolly in Øresund. In an hour, he'll be safely in Sweden, and in a month or two she'll be in his arms again. En route to Stockholm or London, she'll be listening to the silly odes he sings to her eyes. She shakes her head. No one can find rhymes for grey-blue and green like Jack. He's the first person who has been able to name her imperfections without her getting upset.

She laughs to herself. A young girl's fantasy, dreamy as the last embers of the purple light that is fading in the evening sky.

She gets up, dances, hums. The curtains, the dish towel, the entire kitchen still smells of the basket of Danish meatballs she made for Father and Jack to take with them. From the living room, she hears the soothing clicks of Mother's knitting needles as they knock together with soporific regularity. Everything is calm; no evil can reach them. What does it matter that nations are crumbling all around them? As long as they have love, everything else is so profoundly trivial.

Outside, the garden gate opens and shuts. Could Father be returning already? The steps on the garden path are firm like Father's but more supple, rapid. A young man? Her heart leaps inside of her.

No, it can't be him. He would only come back if something went wrong. And not in full view of the entire neighbourhood. Her proud Jack would come crawling through the bushes at the back of the garden, in from the swamp where no one could see him.

At the front door the knocker strikes the brass fitting. In the living room, Mother gets up with some difficulty, puts down her knitting. Laura is on the kitchen floor, quiet as a mouse, wishing time would stand still.

Mother's voice whispers through the house. It's for her. Arno. Can she go out to the garden?

Like a sleepwalker she leaves the kitchen, dragging her feet in her worn clogs. Her gaze is lowered, her blood filled with ice. She doesn't want to. And yet she must. She cannot. But she has to. Her mother has returned to her knitting and the soft chair in the corner.

He stands under the old copper beech, the one that is practically strangled by the climbing hydrangea. He calls her, standing there in his uniform with his hands folded in front of him. In his shiny boots, riding pants, and cap. Why is he here tonight? She doesn't want to be seen with a member of the HIPO Corps, not even if he is an old classmate.

He starts talking before she's even reached him. His voice is thick, his cheeks flushed. He talks about the two of them, about the future, about happiness and marriage, children. But she cannot — she will not — listen. Arno is pleading. He's down on his knees. But she doesn't notice Arno. And she knows he can sense it, that she's somewhere else.

And then, as he gets up, his eyes harden. The tears have left dark lines on his cheeks. The vision returns, the one she had inside the kitchen. Arno's face is ashen, the pale face of a corpse in the white night. And she does not want to but must look all the same. Arno's hands open to expose the horrible secret they hold.

Two eyes with sea-grey pupils, two eyes that — clear and alive and full of expectation and love — got drunk on the sight of her only a few hours earlier. She can still see herself, as Jack saw her, reflected in the dead iris and all the white that is now caked in blood with the severed nerve endings resting in Arno's trembling fingers.

Then the garden gate squeaks behind Arno. It's Father returning. He nods briefly at Arno, avoids her gaze. He walks up the garden path and disappears into the house.

Then she knows.

The scream comes from deep down inside, rises from her bosom. It tears upwards through flesh, sinew, and bones, passes the tiny life that grows beneath her navel. But when the bloodwind reaches the oral cavity, it has lost all strength.

Only a faint whimper passes her lips. The sound that comes from the mice in Father's trap behind the kitchen cupboard in the morning.

Sunday
June 22

Chapter 41

L
ars climbed the
many stone steps in the rotunda to the second floor, down the narrow dark red corridor, and through the green door.

The department was empty. He hurried into his office and closed the door behind him with a silent click. It would soon be over. He would move on and the department could move on without him. Why Kim A had even bothered to file a complaint, he didn't understand. He threw his blazer over the back of the chair beside the door and sunk into his office chair.

One final case and it would all be over. He had been here for ten years. Now all he could think about was getting away.

He plunked his feet on the desk, considered lighting a cigarette despite the smoking ban. He still had a rapist to catch.

Lars forced himself to watch the DVDs from the surveillance cameras at Nørreport once more. Maybe there was a tiny detail, a microscopic clue in the way he moved, his clothes? Something which, seen with fresh eyes, could break the case? But there was no sudden flash of clarity. The lightning didn't strike.

The previous evening was still fresh in his mind. Cigarettes, wine, and records. The Stones. Maria's boyfriend smoking Benson & Hedges. Something about his hair and eyes, the way he acted. Lars got up and moved to the window.

The door to Maria's room had been closed when he got up. Christian's jacket hadn't been in the entrance. His shoes were gone too, but maybe he had taken them into Maria's room? He wasn't sure. Had he heard the front door open during the night? Not a sound came from her room. He hesitated outside her door, stood with his hand raised, trying to decide if he should knock. Then he had turned on his heels and gone into the shower.

At the department he could hear his colleagues walking back and forth down the corridor, collecting reports, chatting about suspects being brought in for questioning. But no one knocked on his door. The operation with Lene had not been his idea; in fact, he had been against it. But nothing stuck to someone like failure.

He glanced at the report from the operation on the table. Brown rings from countless cups of coffee covered the thin sheets in a psychedelic pattern. A photo of the bench in Hans Tavsens Park with white circles marking where Lene had leaned on the bench to get up. Had he seen Christian in a photo? In here? He quickly leafed through the sloping piles on the desk, moved on to the drawers, and pulled out a large pile of black and white photos. The sudden movement caused the photos to sail across the room in a perfect arc, landing with a dry rustling on the floor. A single sheet landed face-up, fluttering haphazardly before settling on the floor by his feet.

The photographs from Penthouse. Lene dancing with her arms above her head. And in the background, behind the very last person in the row at the bar. There wasn't much to see, but there was something about the hair, the way he stood. The eyes were pointed down; they weren't visible. But it certainly could be him.

He shook his head, threw the photograph on the table. What had he expected? Of course it wasn't Christian. But what if it was? He shuddered. Christian's interest in the Boston Strangler, the morbid Stones number. He glanced at the picture, then forced himself to look away. Was that really something you did these days? Talk about serial killers the first time you meet your girlfriend's dad?

Barely able to control his shaking fingers, he managed to slip a King's Blue out of the pack. To hell with the smoking ban. He opened the window, lit up, and took a drag. The nicotine unfurled in his lungs, raced through his bloodstream, hit his brain like a burst of projectiles. He removed a piece of tobacco from his lips, glanced at the picture again.

Then he picked it up, held it up with two fingers. The height and build were right. A figure dressed in black. Blond locks peeked out from underneath the hood.

He shot up suddenly, grabbed his jacket and flung open the door.

The open-plan office was filled with his colleagues now, several of whom he had worked with for longer than he cared to think about. None of them looked up. Frank and Lisa were sitting by Ulrik's secretary, speaking in low voices. Toke was nowhere to be seen.

He hurried toward the green door, and ran down the corridor. He practically barged into Sanne at the foot of the stairs. Only a quick stop and an adroit sidestep on her part saved them from colliding.

“Hi Lars. I've been thinking about calling . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Lars fidgeted with the railing. “I'm the one . . . Thanks for dinner. The other night, I mean.” He went quiet.
Pull yourself together
. “It was nice. Maria had a lovely evening.”
Was it Martin, her boyfriend was called?
Images of doing the dishes, the silent cab ride home with Maria appeared in his mind's eye. He clenched his fist.

“Listen, I'm sorry about . . .” Sanne began. “The complaint and —”

“I'm leaving anyway.” He shrugged. “Where are you going? You seem like you're in a hurry.”

“Out to question a witness. And you?”

“I'm just swinging by Forensics and then I'm going out to Hellerup.” Lars took a step down the stairs, hesitated. “It's just an idea I had.”

“We could drive together? I'm going to Gentofte.”

“Do you have a car?” A tingling feeling ran down his neck and into the pit of his stomach.

Sanne handed him a set of keys.

“Here. My Fiat 500 is in the parking garage. Do you want to head down and start it up?”

Sanne leapt up the stairs. Lars gazed after her. For a brief moment, his eyes followed her slender legs, her tight buttocks. Then he continued through the door to the rotunda, cut across to the exit, and rounded the corner to Hambrosgade.

The white Fiat 500 was well hidden behind a row of rundown and dirty patrol cars. It was surprisingly clean inside. Lars put the key in the ignition, eased down on the clutch, and put the car into gear. Then he pulled up by the stairwell, stopped, and opened the door to the passenger side just as Sanne came rushing down.

“Stress will kill you, you know.” He pushed the gas pedal and the car jumped forward.

Sanne laughed, slammed the door shut, and fastened her seat belt. They drove out on Hambrosgade, then took a left down H. C. Andersens Boulevard. She pulled out a pile of papers from her purse, flipping them back and forth.

“I'll never learn to keep track of all the streets here,” she said. Then: “There. BrogÃ¥rdsvej.”

“Is this about the black prostitute?” Lars drove past City Hall. “I read about it in the papers.”

“Yeah, the guy who reported it has been interviewed, but I'd like to . . .” She broke off. “It's unbelievable. No one saw anything. But when their peace and quiet is disturbed because she's standing in the street, screaming in pain and horror, then they call to get her carted off.”

Lars zigzagged through the traffic out of the city, continued along Gyldenløvsgade. “Hey, is it all right if we swing by my place first? There's just something I need to pick up.” The sun glistened on the waves on the string of lakes marking the border of the inner city. Sanne nodded.

“Sorry, I interrupted,” he said. “Was that your guy?”

“It looks like it. Frelsén is quite certain. Same incision, same MO. Enucleation, removal of the eyeball. Well, except that she got away. What do you need to do?”

“Oh, there's just a couple of things I need to check.”

Lars turned right on Lundtoftegade. At Folmer Bendtsens Plads he pulled up opposite the elevated railway.

“I'll be back in two minutes.”

Up in the apartment he went into the bathroom, squatted down, and pulled out an evidence bag from his inside pocket. He opened the garbage can with a pen and rummaged through the Kleenex, hairballs, and toothpaste tube. There it was, half hidden by a mascara box. Pale yellow and wrinkled, tied in a knot. He knew he had no right to do this. His eyes quickly flickered, then he poked the pen inside and lifted the used condom into the brown paper bag.

When he came down to the car, she was leaning against the window, staring at the dashboard. He climbed in.

“Is something the matter?” he said.

Sanne didn't answer; she was somewhere else. She jumped when he slammed the door.

“What?”

“You look like something's wrong.”

“It's —” Sanne closed her eyes. “I made a fool of myself yesterday. Ulrik . . . Oh, never mind.” She looked out the window. Lars gave her a quick glance. Then he turned the key and started the engine.

Chapter 42

F
relsén had his
legs up on the table. His red-and-purple-striped socks led to a pair of worn, brown leather shoes. Some loose sheets of paper were strewn across the floor. His gold-framed glasses were resting on his forehead, and his eyes were closed.

Lars raised his hand to knock on the open door.

“It's called meditation.” The forensic pathologist kept his eyes closed, his mouth hardly moved. “And you don't disturb someone who's meditating. Sit down in the corner chair; I'll be finished soon.”

Lars looked around the narrow office. The window at the end had a view of the parking lot behind the main building of Rigshospitalet. The enormous desk rested against the wall on the right; bookshelves, groaning under the weight of thick volumes, lined the wall on the left. Here, in the corner by the door, Lars found a chair, moved the reports and what looked like a complete set of
The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology
onto the floor, and settled in.

A few minutes later Frelsén's deep, steady breathing quickened. His eyelashes flickered; one leg fell to the floor.

“Okay, I'm back.” The forensic pathologist opened his eyes; the grey pupils were staring intently at him.

Lars took the evidence bag out of his inside pocket. “I'd like you to do a quick DNA test. Quick as in: I need the results today.”

Frelsén looked at the bag, narrowed his eyes. “You know it has to go down to Forensic Genetics. They can do a rush analysis in twenty-four hours. That's going to cost you sixty thousand kroner. Is that in your budget?”

Lars held out the bag for Frelsén. “I was thinking that maybe you could do a little magic — just you.”

Frelsén took the bag, looked inside. “And why, may I ask, is it not going through the usual channels?”

“Let's just say, it's a . . . feeling.”

“Unofficially, then” — Frelsén smacked his lips — “I can look at it and have something ready by the afternoon. But it can't be used as evidence; a proper analysis is needed for that. All the same, I can point to a suspect — and I guess that's what you're looking for?” The forensic pathologist's inquiring look was sharp as a scalpel.

Gentofte. 24 Brogårdsvej. Small trees and large bushes made a whitewashed house with black glazed roof tiles nearly invisible from the road. Sanne was halfway up the driveway before Lars had gotten out of the car. She took the stairs up to the front door in two steps and knocked. A man in his sixties appeared. His hair was silvery-white, his teeth gleaming against his tanned face. His bare feet were in light brown loafers.

“Yes?”

“Police, Mr. Lund.” Sanne showed him her badge. “Sanne Bissen. This is my colleague Lars Winkler.” Lars came up the stairs behind her. “Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

At the word “police,” the open, smiling face transformed to scowling mistrust.

“What's this concerning?” He closed the door a few millimetres, probably without realizing it. Lars prepared to move his foot inside.

“Two nights ago, at 2:10 a.m., you called emergency services and said” — Sanne pulled out the sheet — “‘There's a Negro whore screaming in the middle of the road right outside my house.' You were quite worked up.”

“Oh, that.” His shoulders dropped a little. The smile returned. “Yes, your colleagues have already been out. It's rare for something so dramatic to happen out here. And it was in the newspaper too, so —”

“Can you tell us exactly what happened, sir?” Lars interrupted. “How did you discover her?”

Lund took a step back. “Come inside.”

They dried their shoes on the mat and stepped inside. A beechwood staircase wound up to the second floor on the left side. The steps were worn in the middle. A long carpet led them through the entrance toward the living room. Lund waved them in.

The living room was a good size and parallel to the road. There were several thick rugs on the floor and a built-in bookcase covered one wall. A row of hunting trophies hung between the three-light windows on the opposite side of the room. Lund followed Lars's gaze.

“They're not mine,” he said. “They're my father-in-law's. But they kind of suit the house, don't you think?”

Lars nodded. Sanne stood with her back to the window.

“Can you tell us exactly what happened when you spotted the girl, Mr. Lund?”

“Yes, well, she was difficult to ignore. I was sitting in that armchair there, reading, listening to music. Mahler, if I remember correctly. The girl had a voice that cut straight through both walls and the orchestra.”

Lars looked out the window. “The road isn't visible from here?” Bushes and trees blocked the view.

“Not from that window, but here . . .” Lund went to the very back window. “A little bit of the road is visible through the branches.”

Lars and Sanne moved behind him. Sure enough, a good stretch of Brogårdsvej was actually visible from there.

“Of course it was dark and you couldn't see who was standing in the shadows,” Lund continued. “I wasn't going to run outside and get attacked. And your colleagues arrived quite quickly.”

“There's a police station up the road,” Lars explained to Sanne, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “And Gentofte hospital is only several hundred metres away. The ambulance must have been here shortly after?”

Lund nodded. “Within five minutes. I checked my watch.”

“You stay up late, Mr. Lund?”

“When you get to be my age, it can be difficult to fall asleep.” Lund smiled. “So a cup of tea and a good book helps. And of course the music doesn't bother anyone out here.”

Lars nodded, scanning the bookcase. Classics, book-club purchases from the 1970s.

“What are you reading, Mr Lund?” Just then, he spotted the low table by the armchair, where a thick novel lay half-covered by a newspaper. Lund followed his gaze.

“
Crime and Punishment
, Dostoyevsky. The old Russian classics ought to be reread once in a while. After that it's
Fathers and Sons
. You know Turgenev, of course?” Lars didn't, but he tried smiling anyway.

“So there's nothing else? Nothing happened that night, nothing unusual?”

Lund shook his head. “I went to bed, it must have been around 11:00 p.m. I woke up again a little past one. Then I came downstairs and made tea and read. It wasn't long before the young girl started shouting.” He adjusted the book. “Before that, I neither saw nor heard anything. I was listening to music.”

Sanne nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lund. We may return later.”

Lars followed them to the entrance hall. On the way out the door he turned around. “Do you have any children, Mr. Lund?”

Lund looked a little taken aback. “Two daughters. Why do you ask?”

“Fathers and Sons, Mr. Lund. Fathers and Sons.”

Lund's eyes flickered briefly. “We've all had a father, Detective.”