23

THE COLD STEEL WALLS pressed against the left side of her body and there wasn’t much more room on her other side, three or four centimetres max. The space she was lying in was bordering on too small and it was dark and cold — twenty-two degrees below freezing, to be exact. Even if someone turned on a light it wouldn’t get brighter. But even though she was lying naked on her back in a freezing, dim space, she didn’t feel cold in the least.

*

DUNJA HOUGAARD HATED WHEN people were late. She thought it was the height of disrespect to waste other people’s time, as if it weren’t just as valuable as your own. Oscar Pedersen was late, as usual, so Dunja took the initiative and pulled out the box identified as METTE LOUISE RISGAARD from the wall of cold-storage boxes. She looked at the young, naked woman, her dark hair spread out around her head like a fan. She was beautiful, and aside from the piercing in her lip and the diamond tattoo on her right shoulder, she was somehow undisturbed. Life hadn’t started to eat away at her and leave its marks; death had beaten it to the punch. Mette Louise somehow looked so alive, like she was just sleeping deeply. What a waste, Dunja thought. She couldn’t understand what the Swedish police had been thinking when they had neglected to contact them. They were counterparts after all, and the Swedes must have been fully aware that a dangerous killer might come to the gas station.

The door behind her opened and Oscar Pedersen came in with his usual superior smile, a smile that indicated he didn’t care a bit about his tardiness.

“Hello, beautiful. I suspected that you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself. Have you found anything?”

“Today isn’t about my opinions. I want to hear from you.”

“It’s such a waste. She’s definitely a ten, wouldn’t you say? Think about how much joy she had left to spread around.” He laughed at his own joke and lowered the sides of the box.

Dunja had never liked Oscar, and she was sure he had become a medical examiner for all the wrong reasons. As soon as a female victim landed on his table, he was in an extra-good mood, especially when they were young. Unfortunately, he was one of the best pathologists in Denmark, and had never missed a clue or failed to discover a cause of death in his nearly thirty years on the job.

“This criminal sure knows how to kill someone. Take a look at this.” He bent the victim’s head back to reveal the neck fully, and turned the head from one side to the other. “See that?”

Dunja nodded. There were two small bruises on either side of the throat.

“He strangled her with the so-called pincer hold, which only requires the thumb and index finger. I’ll show you.” He demonstrated the technique using his own fingers. “It’s one of the most effective ways to strangle a person.” Dunja had to force herself not to back away from his claw-like hand. “It’s far better than squeezing the whole neck, the way amateurs do, which takes both hands and at least fifteen minutes for the victim die. We would be spared a lot of suffering in the world if people did their homework as well as this guy did.”

Dunja wasn’t sure whether he was kidding, but she decided to take him seriously. “Do you mean to say that the perpetrator might have training in various killing techniques?”

“He might, but it really only takes a basic knowledge of anatomy and heartlessness.”

*

DUNJA STEPPED INTO THE elevator and pressed the green button. She could feel herself moving up and immediately found it easier to breathe. She had never liked to be underground, and couldn’t understand why morgues always had to be in the basement. It made no difference to the deceased, but moving the morgue upstairs would improve the lives of everyone who worked at the hospital. She could never manage more than thirty minutes down there at a time.

She would have liked to go up a few extra floors to have a chat with Morten Steenstrup, but he was still unconscious on the operating table. At this point the doctors couldn’t say anything about his prognosis. All she could do was hope — not just for his sake, but for the investigation as well. Morten was her only chance right now of understanding exactly what had happened at the gas station in Lellinge.

She walked by Rigshospitalet’s convenience store and saw Steenstrup’s face on all the billboards. He had become a great hero over the weekend: the little officer from Køge who refused to give up and kept fighting even though he was alone and seriously injured. Dunja thought his actions represented the height of stupidity; not only did they go against everything they had learned at the police academy, they went against all common sense. But people wanted a hero, and the fact that he was currently hovering between life and death didn’t hurt in this department. Perhaps it would have been even bigger news if he were a baby hippo, Dunja thought, walking out through the main entrance.

She was biking down Ravnsborggade past Nørrebro Theatre, turning left onto Nørrebrogade, when her phone rang. She answered without stopping.

“You were trying to reach me.” It was Kjeld Richter, their forensic technician.

“Yes. How are things going with the Peugeot?” Dunja asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine. The car should have arrived at the station by now and I’ve contacted Peugeot to order a key, but that’s going to take at least two weeks since it’s vacation season.”

“You haven’t started examining it yet?”

“When would I have had time for that? I’m still in Lellinge. Have you ever been here? It’s a fucking shithole. I couldn’t work over the weekend since both Agnes and Malte have the stomach flu and Sofie needed help.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Dunja thanked God she didn’t have any kids as she pedalled across the Dronning Louise Bridge over the Lakes, where people insisted on jogging even though one pass was equal to half a pack of cigarettes’ worth of exhaust fumes. “Shouldn’t we consider sending the Peugeot over to Sweden if you don’t have time to examine it? I’ve heard that they can’t wait to get their hands on it.”

“I suggested that option to Sleizner, but apparently as long as the conflict with Sweden is unresolved, we’re not going to let them have anything. You know how he is when he’s in that mood.”

Dunja knew very well what “that mood” meant. If you managed to get on Sleizner’s bad side, you might as well emigrate. No one was more stubborn than him. He was like an angry badger that refuses to let go before it hears the sound of breaking bones. She had heard stories about him even when she was back at the academy, but she’d always thought those were just tall tales. Now that Sleizner was her boss, she knew better.

“But we can’t just let it sit here untouched for two weeks. It would be better to let the Swedes come down and examine it themselves.”

“I’m not going to get involved. If you feel like getting Sleizner worked up, be my guest. Just don’t count on any help from me when the shit hits the fan.”

By the end of their call, Dunja’s bad mood had grown even worse, if that was possible. She wondered whether there was any reason not to co-operate with the Swedes, aside from Sleizner’s obstinate personality. As she biked along Kultorvet, she decided to contact the Swedish police in Helsingborg the minute she got to the station. Surely there would be someone in their department who was in a situation like her own.