MORTEN STEENSTRUP WAS SITTING at the police station in the Danish town of Køge, tucking the shirt of his police uniform into his pants and adjusting the belt around his waist. The belt felt more uncomfortable than usual, as if it were crooked and chafing somehow. He had already made sure that his pistol, flashlight, and radio were attached in their proper places, so that couldn’t be it.
In truth, he knew very well what was bothering him. Exactly a month had passed since Else left him, and no matter how much he wished, he could not trick himself into thinking he was starting to feel better. It was quite the opposite, in fact. The pressure in his chest hadn’t subsided, and he had almost grown used to walking around with a constant sensation of breathlessness.
His doctor had advised him to find a friend to confide in, but there was no one he was close enough to who would understand. When he had tried talking to Niels, he had suggested that they visit a prostitute and even offered to pick up the tab, as long as he got to watch.
He had toyed with the thought of trying to win Else back but realized that would never work. She was on a completely different level, a fact they had both been aware of all along. They’d made a silent agreement to ignore that fact and pretend they were equals, and occasionally it had worked. At those times he felt like the happiest man on earth, but it usually only lasted for a little while. Each time, the realization of their inequality forced its way back to him, always crouching in the background like a distant but constantly rumbling threat. In the end he had started to get used to it, and had almost stopped thinking about it entirely. He’d let himself be lulled by the belief that there was no threat, that they were equal. They loved each other.
But there was no happiness in his life now. Everything was a strain, an uphill battle; even breathing took force of will. He would never be able to find someone new. Else was his soulmate. She hadn’t even cared about his harelip or his fibrous skin. She had stroked his rough body as if it were baby soft, ignoring that it cracked and peeled. She had kissed him as though she wanted him and no one else.
He leaned back in his chair and thought about whether he should have coffee or tea. He decided on coffee and walked to the kitchenette to pour a splash into his dirty cup. Niels was at the table, still mourning Denmark’s World Cup failure. Morten knew there was no point in trying to talk to him until he was over it. Morten had never been interested in soccer, much less Danish soccer. His only worry had been that the loss might lead to brawls. Statistics showed that sports defeats either cause people to get extra calm or encourage increased alcohol consumption, which leads to domestic abuse and, above all, vandalism. Contrary to what one might expect, a win usually led to a lot of the former.
He sat down at his desk with coffee cup in hand, unable to stop thinking of Else. She’d thought that he was too afraid of conflict, too timid. She said it like he was a coward. There was probably something to her opinion. He’d tried to stop avoiding conflict so much, but it was a fundamental part of who he was. He’d never liked arguments, and he didn’t believe his own opinion was that important.
What made him get up every morning, take a shower, get dressed, and go to work? What was he waiting for? He unsnapped his holster, took out his pistol, and weighed it in his hands. It would be so simple — just a little pressure from his index finger and his suffering would be over. His loneliness, sorrow, and shortness of breath would be obliterated. But whichever way he looked at the situation, it would be nothing more than a pathetic end to a pathetic life — no one would do more than shrug their shoulders.
His phone started to ring. The call was from a Swedish number. As soon as he answered it, he realized that this was the very moment he had been waiting for.
*
SEVEN MINUTES LATER, MORTEN Steenstrup fastened his seatbelt, stuck the key in the ignition, and started the car. The engine roared to life and he wondered if he should turn on the siren, but decided it could wait until he was further away from the station. He didn’t want Niels to come rushing out and ask what was going on. All Morten had told him was that he was going out for a bit “to show police presence.” He put his favourite recording of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons into the CD player and turned up the volume. No one could conduct the piece as well as Carlo Chiarappa, especially the first allegro movement of “Spring,” which always managed to fill him with positive energy.
The woman on the phone had been from Helsingborg. He had never been good at understanding Swedish, and thought the southern Skåne dialect was even more difficult to comprehend. He managed to understand that her name was Astrid Tuvesson, chief of the crime squad in Helsingborg. She told him that she hadn’t been able to get hold of Kim Sleizner, her counterpart in Copenhagen, which was why she was calling the station in Køge. After that it became harder for him to understand what she was saying. She told him something about a car that was parked at the gas station in Lellinge, a car that might belong to a Swedish criminal the police were after. A woman named Mette Louise Risgaard, who was the attendant at the gas station, had called the police and claimed that the man was in Lellinge to pick up the car at this very moment.
He had no memory of the rest of the conversation, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to hear more to realize that this was his chance to stand out. He even knew Mette Louise because he often filled up in Lellinge when he was on the night shift and she was usually working. She’d pierced her lower lip a year ago, and he had summoned up the courage to ask her why she’d done it. What was the point of ruining such a beautiful lip? To this day he could recall the way she had responded with a look of disgust, and she hadn’t so much as looked in his direction since, not even when he complimented her new hair colour.
And now she might be in danger. He couldn’t understand why she had called the Swedish police and not him. He had even once left his business card to make sure that she had a direct line to the police station. How had she known the man was wanted in Sweden?
He was finally far enough from the station to turn on the sirens and speed up. He felt the adrenaline start to pump. Finally, he had the chance to show Else that he wasn’t timid at all. He turned down the music, which had just transitioned into the largo movement of “Spring.” He had arrived at the Lellinge gas station, where everything seemed to be just as quiet as usual; some might even describe it as dead. He preferred the term peaceful, even if he did feel a bit disappointed that there was no action here. He slowly drove around the building and discovered it was pretty lifeless. All he saw was a man in sand-coloured shorts, a light-blue polo shirt, and a cap, kneeling next to a Peugeot that was propped up by a jack. He was holding a lug wrench and there was a tire beside him on the ground.
Could this be the man who had put Mette Louise in danger by picking up his car? Morten couldn’t see Mette Louise and the man didn’t look particularly dangerous; in fact, he looked more like an idiot tourist. But if Morten had learned one thing during his years as a policeman, it was that it was better to be safe than sorry.
Morten calculated that it would be at least five more minutes until the man would be ready to leave, so he decided to make sure that Mette Louise was okay. He drove around and parked on the other side of the gas station, so that he could get out of the car without worrying about being seen by the man. He adjusted his belt and made sure that his handgun and baton were where they should be, and continued toward the building on foot.
As soon as he stepped inside the store he sensed that something wasn’t right. Nobody was there, not even near the register. He called for Mette Louise but didn’t hear an answer, so he hurried behind the counter into the staff area. It was the first time he’d been back there, and it was much smaller than he had expected. There was a kitchenette, a table with a pile of dog-eared magazines, a few chairs, a Michelin wall almanac, and a bathroom with a locked door. He knocked and asked if anyone was inside.
The silence caused more alarm bells to go off. Where was she? He hurried back out into the store and searched around for a useful tool to turn the bathroom lock. He found a screwdriver, tore open the door, and discovered an empty bathroom. He tried to gather his thoughts, but felt a sudden thirst, as if his mouth had turned to sandpaper. He took a Coke from the cooler and let the sweet, bubbly drink fill his mouth before he swallowed and felt his energy return.
Mette Louise would never leave the gas station unmanned, which must mean that she was with the man next to the Peugeot. He hadn’t seen her there, but he had only driven by with a quick glance. He left the store and walked toward the man, who was still crouching beside the Peugeot with his back to Morten. As he got closer, he could see that the man was tightening the lug nuts with the wrench and didn’t seem to have noticed his presence at all.
“Excuse me. May I ask you to stand up? Spread your legs, hands above your head,” he said in Danish.
There was no reaction from the man, who tightened the next lug nut. Is he deaf? Does he not understand what I’m saying?
“Hello! This is the police! I want you to stand up immediately!” he said, trying to imitate the Swedish pronunciation he’d heard on TV. He was almost beside the man now. Morten looked into the car and observed that it was empty. Mette Louise wasn’t there, either.
Morten Steenstrup had drawn his weapon three times in nearly twenty-eight years of service. He had fired his gun only once, at a man who was on drugs and threatening those around him with a knife. Morten had shot him in the leg and cuffed his hands behind his back. It was all by the book.
Right now would be his fourth. His body moved automatically, recreating the action he had performed countless times at home in front of the mirror. His right hand moved back across his hip to open the holster without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. The gun slid out and he disengaged the safety with his left hand.
“This is the police! I order you to stand up right now!” he shouted in English.
After that, everything happened so quickly that he would have trouble remembering the exact sequence of events later on.
The man stood up suddenly and swung halfway around with his right arm extended. Morten didn’t realize what was going on until he heard crunching in his right ear as the lug wrench struck him with full force. His vision went black; he felt a flash of pain and heard a loud, piercing noise. Just before his head met the pavement, it occurred to him that he would never again get to enjoy The Four Seasons.
*
THE HOWLING IN HIS ear persisted and he could hear his own pulse, which meant he was still alive. He felt his ear with his hand. It was wet and sticky. His sight was slowly returning, but it took a few more seconds for him to figure out just what he was looking at because everything was tilted ninety degrees. About twenty centimetres ahead of him he saw the inner side of a car tire with a man wearing Croc sandals crouching beside it.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man’s arm moving around and around. He quickly realized that the man was in the process of lowering the jack. He saw the wrench hit the pavement and the Crocs vanish from sight. The exhaust system of the car started to vibrate soon after that, and he could hear a dull rumble.
Protect your head, protect your head, he repeated again and again in his mind as the car started backing up.
The back wheel went first.
He tensed his chest and back muscles as best he could, but he still felt his ribs cracking one by one, the pain spreading from the upper part of his body to the lower, like red-hot lava.
Then it was time for the front wheel.
He saw the Peugeot moving away from him, turning left onto Ringstedvej. At least his head must have survived. Heartened by the realization that he was not dead yet, acknowledging that he could see and think, register information, and make decisions, he defied the pain in his chest and got to his knees. He reached for his gun, which was still lying on the pavement next to the wrench. Then he got to his feet and tried to make his way to his car.
His left leg refused to obey him, so he had to help it along with both hands. The burning pain in his chest was turning into a duller, pulsing sensation, and he could see more and more blood seeping through his uniform shirt. He really ought to contact Niels and let him take over and send an ambulance, but that would mean not only that the Swede would almost certainly escape, but also that Else would be proven right.
In one last burst of effort, Morten Steenstrup started the car, backed out of his parking spot, and headed east on Ringstedvej. He pressed on the gas pedal and thanked God for automatic transmission, otherwise he would never have been able to drive, considering the pain in his left leg. The aching sensation in his chest was almost entirely gone and he could only feel a dull throbbing. His shirt was red and sticky with blood. He decided not to look down again; it was better to focus on what was up ahead and think about which way the Swede had gone. The man had a little less than two minutes’ lead, but he was already out of sight. Morten assumed he would have no reason to go toward Køge, so decided to bet on the E55 highway north, toward Copenhagen and the bridge to Sweden.
He felt like his entire body was about to go numb. He turned on the lights and siren to keep himself awake. The cars ahead of him slowed down right away and moved to the inner lane. Morten put the pedal to the metal and watched the speedometer pass 200 and push toward 220. He wasn’t even the tiniest bit afraid anymore; it was as if he had left his fear behind in Lellinge. He knew that he could handle anything that might happen. He wanted to show everyone that he was brave enough. Now he just needed to remain conscious.
The red needle was pointing to 230. If he could just keep going at this speed he would catch up with the Swede in a few minutes, assuming that he was sticking to the speed limit. Ten kilometres later, he could see the Peugeot, and he turned off the roof lights.
But it was too late; the Swede had seen him, and sped up to take the next exit. Morten steered after him. A wave of cold sweat came over his body as realized that this would soon be over. The car in front of him skidded right on Cementvej. Morten took the turn a bit more slowly. He didn’t want to risk ending up in a ditch now that he’d come this far.
Out of nowhere, the Peugeot swerved to the left onto a gravel road. Morten looked at the GPS and saw that it led out into a field and up toward a cluster of trees, only to go around the trees and turn back again. Had the Swede painted himself into a corner, or had he seen the same thing on his own GPS and planned an ambush?
Morten cut the engine and rolled down the window. He could clearly hear the engine of the Peugeot on the other side of the trees. He defied the urge to close his eyes and just fall asleep; instead, he stepped out of the car and continued down the gravel path on foot, dragging his left leg and using a branch as a crutch. His shirt was sticking to his stomach and chest, but he resisted the urge to look down.
About fifty metres in front of him he saw the Peugeot, which looked like it had been deserted among some bushes with the engine running. Morten limped toward the car with his gun in his hand. He swung halfway around and couldn’t see anything but trees and an open field. He took the last few steps to the car, bent down, and cupped his hands around his eyes so he could see inside. The car was empty. And then everything went black.