THE BELLS OF LELLINGE Church were already ringing when Fabian Risk arrived, a reminder that everything comes to an end. He hadn’t been able to find his black suit, so he was wearing black jeans and a dark-grey wool jacket that felt far too warm. The church was full to capacity and he had to push his way through to find a place to stand along the side. Fabian was surprised Mette Louise had thought she had no friends.
The pastor who led the service had both christened and confirmed Mette Louise Risgaard. He spoke of her as a fantastic girl, full of life and joy. Many people were crying openly, and even the pastor had trouble keeping the tears at bay. He spoke of how Mette Louise had cried, or rather screamed, so loudly during her christening that not even the church organ had been able to drown her out. But she’d grown quiet as the consecrated water touched her little head and had given the congregation a smile that could have melted the polar ice caps.
The pastor was certain that Mette Louise and God had seen each other and he wanted this knowledge to act as an extended hand to help all of them through the sorrow that lay ahead.
“There is purpose in all of God’s actions, even this one. We don’t always understand it, but it can be helpful just to know that it exists.”
If the purpose was to make the lump in his throat grow, God had succeeded, Fabian thought. The killer was right: Fabian was the only person to blame for Mette Louise’s death.
After the ceremony, the churchwarden showed everyone to the neighbouring hall for coffee and cookies. Most people seemed to know each other, and within fifteen minutes the hall was buzzing with conversation. Fabian stood alone with a cup of coffee, wanting nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible, but something told him it was important to stay, not to run away, from his guilt.
He struggled to stand still, and started walking among the mourners. A few children were grouped around a cell phone, and a few older gentlemen in suits were sitting at a round table. He gathered that they were talking about the warm summer. One of the men claimed this year was nothing compared to the summers of the 1930s.
A short, round woman, roughly Fabian’s age, kept looking at him from a group standing further down the hall. He acknowledged her stares with a smile and short nod, but she didn’t respond positively. It was quite the opposite — the woman looked more and more upset as she spoke with the others in the group.
Fabian put the pieces together and realized that she must be Mette Louise Risgaard’s mother. He thought about going up and saying hello, but he didn’t have enough time to make a decision because the woman was suddenly walking toward him. He extended his hand, but she didn’t take it. She asked his name. He introduced himself and promised to do everything in his power to catch the killer.
“The killer? You’re the killer! It’s your fault!” the woman shouted. “You’re the one who murdered her, who sentenced her to death!” The woman beat his chest with her fists, screaming over and over again that he was a murderer and he deserved to burn in hell.
Fabian didn’t try to resist. The rest of the congregation stopped talking and turned to watch the incident unfold. A man with short hair and suspenders approached them.
“What the hell is going on here? Are you the Swedish police officer?”
Fabian nodded. Before he could react, the man shoved him. Fabian lost his balance and spilled his coffee on his white shirt as he fell to the floor. The man straddled him and drew his fist back to hit him again, but Fabian was faster. He grabbed the man’s arm, pulled him down onto the floor, and then pushed himself up, allowing him to lock the man’s arm behind his back.
“Let’s take it easy here, okay?” Fabian increased the pressure to show him that he was serious. Three other men quickly yanked Fabian away and advised him to make himself scarce as fast as he could. He heeded their advice and hurried out of the hall. He heard people shouting that it was important to keep Denmark clean and trail the Swedish bastards back to the border.
He got behind the wheel of his car, locked the doors, and tried to stick the key in the ignition. But his jittery hand refused to obey him, and it took a few deep breaths before he was able to insert and turn the key, using both hands. He was definitely shaken.
On the way out of the church parking lot, he thought about the pastor’s speech. If Mette Louise’s death had any point at all, it was to help them find the killer before any more innocent people lost their lives. Fabian couldn’t put his finger on why, but something told him that no matter how hard his new colleagues worked, the whole case depended on him. He put the car in gear, let up the clutch, and aimed for Copenhagen.