The House That Jack Built (27 page)

Tuesday
June 24

Chapter 59

T
he roof collapsed
with an ear-splitting crash; sparks and steam leapt up into the night sky. The blue light from the emergency response vehicles gave the entire scene a disjointed and surreal glow. Firefighters and police got in each other's way. The lawn was covered with firehoses, the water pouring over the burning house. Gustafsson and Christian had already been taken to the hospital. Koes's body was left on a stretcher on the grass. People kept back. A blanket covered the mangled head.

“What happened?” Lars was on a stretcher inside the open ambulance, half lying, half sitting. He nodded at the flame-engulfed house. Sanne sat next to him.

“It looked like a gas explosion. But everything happened so quickly. It appears that Koes rigged some kind of bomb to the house.”

Lars attempted to sit up but the pain in his side was too much.

Sanne gave him a pillow for his back.

“One of the officers brought these up from the cellar.” She placed a stack of Polaroids on the blanket. Lars picked them up, flipping through them with a mix of surprise and revulsion.

Photo after photo of family gatherings, holiday celebrations. Christmas Eve: Jack Koes in a Santa Claus outfit, smiling happily in front of a tree swelling with presents, surrounded by three female Christmas elves with rice pudding, red wine, and gifts. Coffee service: Koes in shirt and cardigan, laying out the seagull dinner service, with the women in evening dress, heavily made-up, the dead glass eyes staring blankly ahead. Bedtime: Koes in pyjamas in bed, apparently deep in sleep with a woman's corpse on either side.

Lars's heart was pounding. He felt a throbbing behind his eyes, passed the pictures back. He didn't want to see anymore.

“Why?”

“Most likely, we'll never know,” Sanne said. “There are many lonely people out there who miss having someone to be something for. Some of them find — other ways to deal with it.”

“Most people would probably just say he wasn't right in the head.”

“That's probably an understatement.” Sanne placed the pictures in an evidence bag. “Koes worked as a porter at Gentofte Hospital; you saw his upper body. The job gave him free access to chloroform and glutaraldehyde.”

Something moved, stepped out of the chaos.

“Well, that's some bonfire you've managed to put together for Midsummer's Eve!” Frelsén poked his head into the ambulance. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected the gleam from the burning house. Bint stood behind him, watching the roaring flames and shaking his head.

“You'll have to sift through all of that.” Lars motioned at the garden with his head, then clutched his side. “There are more victims than the three we already know of.” He pointed at the evidence bag with the photos in Sanne's hand.

“Damn.” Bint stared at Koes's body. The blanket covering his head was soaked in blood.

“Sanne. Lars.” Lisa nodded at Frelsén and Bint. “I'm glad you made it out.”

Lars grimaced. “Where's Kim A?”

“Lisa got us into the cellar when the fire started,” Sanne said. “You have her to thank for us getting you out.”

Lisa smiled. “Never leave an officer behind. Kim A has quit, by the way. He wants to transfer to the Secret Service.” She shrugged.

“Secret Service, huh? Thanks,” Lars mumbled. His eyelids were closing. His head sagged against his chest.

“Well, time for him to go,” was the last thing he heard.

Someone was stepping down from the ambulance; a door slammed. Then he was gone.

Lars opened his eyes. A glaring white light. Was he dead? He heard voices, then a scream. As soon as he realized it was Maria who was screaming outside, he tried dragging his body out of bed. Then the door opened and Elena poked her head in.

“Lars? Are you awake?”

He nodded, fell back in bed. His entire body was hurting.

Elena pushed Maria, who was pale as a sheet, into the room in front of her. She put an arm around her, pulled her closer to the bed.

“Dad?” Maria took his hand, laced her fingers with his.

He tried smiling at her. “Was that you screaming?”

Maria nodded, bit her lip.

“The parents of the boy — Maria's —” Elena coughed. “Apparently he's in the same ward. His dad tried talking to Maria. Ulrik managed to stop him.”

What had happened at Christian's house, with Christian's parents?

“Ulrik . . . can he?” Elena made a gesture at the door.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. God, he really needed a smoke.

“They say you just need a few days of bedrest. A few broken ribs is the worst of it.” Elena held out her hand, hesitated. Then she patted the comforter above his leg.

“Where am I?” he asked. She looked lovely but the flutter of longing was gone.

“Rigshospitalet.” Elena took her purse off the end of the bed. “I'm going out to Ulrik.” She looked at Maria, stroked her cheek with her finger. Then she turned around and walked out of the room.

Maria held his hand in hers, gazing out the window behind him. He closed his eyes, imagining what she saw: the treetops in Fælledparken, the diagonal lines of the paths. Was the sun about to rise?

“They say it was Christian . . .” she began. “That he was the one who attacked Caroline and the others?”

He kept his eyes shut, nodded. Maria squeezed his hand so hard that it hurt. Neither of them said anything.

“What did you want at the party yesterday?” she asked.

Lars swallowed, looked at her. “Caroline said that the rapist was humming . . . during. I didn't recognize the melody, but . . .”

“I'm sorry, Dad.” She shook her head. “I don't remember.”

Lars turned his head, looked out the window. Jagger, the old Indian, chanting from somewhere in his brain.

Talkin' 'bout the Midnight Rambler,

Did you see me jump the bedroom door?

I‘m called a hit-n-run raper, in anger

Or just a knife-sharpened tippie-toe . . .

The sunbeams crawled across the floor. Her other hand moved across the comforter, grabbed his.

Sanne poked her head in the door. “Am I intruding?”

“Maybe,” Lars began. But Maria looked up, waved Sanne in.

“It's okay, Dad. I wanted to go see Caro. But there was one thing you didn't tell us: was it the murderer who Christian . . . ?”

Lars and Sanne looked at each other.

“Yes, Christian was right.” Sanne came over, stood beside the bed. “But he should have stayed away. This was a matter for the police to handle.”

“I heard what he did to Christian.” Maria moved her hand in front of her mouth. Then she let it fall and stood up.

Lars reached out for her, but she was already on her way out.

“She's going to be fine.” Sanne looked after her retreating form. Then she turned to him. “Toke and Lisa raided Christian's home last night. They found a black tracksuit. I've just spoken to Frelsén. The black fibres found at the crime scenes are a match.” She sat down on the edge of the bed in the same place Maria had sat a moment ago. “What do you think he wanted with Koes?”

Lars grimaced. “Maybe he felt a kinship? I know it sounds sick, but Stine Bang was raped the night after Mira's body was found.”

Lars closed his eyes; neither of them said anything. The seconds ticked by before Sanne broke the silence. “Hopefully we'll find out more during questioning,”

Lars turned his head and looked out the broad window, across Fælledparken and Østerbro. A flock of swans shot across the sky in a pointed V toward the artificial lake near Edel Sauntes Allé. The swooshing, melancholy sound of their flapping wings bounced against Rigshospitalet's raw concrete surfaces. A new day was skipping across the fountain. His body began to feel light, practically floating from exhaustion. Then he started to laugh.

Sanne stared at him. “Do you really think there's anything to laugh at?”

He shook his head, stopped. “Yes, it's over. I'm free. Kim A, Ulrik.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, reaching out for the sky.

“And now you're going to North Zealand's police?” She fiddled with the chart hanging at the foot of his bed.

He was still bubbling inside. Exhaustion and lightness, the final stages of the amphetamine high. He would collapse soon.

“It won't be Elsinore. I think I'll go see my dad.”

“In New York? What about Maria?”

“She'll come with me.”

Sanne's cheeks went red. She looked down. “And — you and me?”

Christine Fogh stepped in with her hands in her pockets. Her sharp eyes were peering at them from behind her red glasses.

“The patient needs rest now.”

Sanne stood with her back to Christine and rolled her eyes.

“I'll come by again tomorrow.” She walked backwards to the door, held his gaze.

Christine closed the door behind her. “Look at you!”

“You work in this department too?” He let his hand collapse on the comforter.

“No, I heard you were admitted.”

“And?” He pointed at the door.

Christine shook her head, walked over to the end of the bed, and placed her hand on the metal frame. She looked out the window, closed her eyes for a moment. The sun spilled in, making her face glow.

“So you found him.”

“Yes. Too late.”

“But you found him, and if you hadn't shown up, that boy would have been killed.”

“Maybe he deserved that?”

Christine looked out the window. “I think we should be happy it's not up to us to decide what others deserve. It must be a terrible responsibility.” Then she lifted the chart at the end of the bed, let her eyes slide down the page.

“Remains of chloroform and . . . amphetamine in the blood?” She looked up, her eyebrows raised, and let the chart drop. It clattered against the metal frame. The sound echoed in the silent room. So it was chloroform Koes had sedated him with? Not surprising that his heart had protested; mixed with the speed he had taken, that was some cocktail.

Christine moved to the headboard. For a moment, the space between them was crowded with what was left unspoken. Then she shrugged.

“Oh well. It's none of my business.” She leaned over him. For a moment, her right breast rested on his shoulder, heavy and warm behind the white coat. Her lips brushed his forehead.

She stood up, adjusted her coat. “You could call me sometime?”

Then she was gone.

CREDITS

Kindertotenlieder is from a cycle of poems by Friedech Rückert, written in 1833–34. Music by Gustav Mahler 1901–04. Quoted from
Wienerphilharmoniker Lorin Maazel: Mahler. Symphony no. 3 Kindertotenlieder
. Mezzo-soprano, Agnes Baltsa. Produced 1985.

“De berusedes vej” by Søren Ulrik Thomsen, Digte om natten.

Midnight Rambler by Mick Jagger/Keith Richards,
Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out
, 1971.

Midsommervisen, text by Holger Drachmann, melody by
P. E. Lange-Müller, 1885.

Author photograph:
Robin Skjoldborg

 

Jakob Melander
was born in 1965. He entered the eighties punk scene as a bass player and guitar player in various bands. He lives in Copenhagen.

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