DUNJA HOUGAARD HAD NEVER tried so hard to appear unfazed as she did when she stepped out of the elevator and headed for the violent crimes unit. She was only here to get work done. Sleizner was nowhere to be seen, but the door to his office was closed, which meant he was there — unless he had snuck out through an emergency exit.
She logged onto her computer and checked her inbox: she had a response from nearly every newspaper she’d contacted. She had asked them to send her all the photographs that had been taken in the waiting room outside Morten Steenstrup’s ward, and to her surprise they had complied with hardly any protest. Out of the big dailies, only Jyllands-Posten had grumbled about wanting a guarantee that they would get dibs on the news if their photos turned out to contain anything of interest. She started with their pictures for that reason and felt relieved when she recognized all the faces — she knew which journalist wrote for each paper. She looked at Politiken next, browsing through an abundance of pictures of herself looking like a total wreck: sweaty, no makeup, under-eye circles so dark they seemed to have been painted on. She came across as someone who needed all kinds of treatments.
The only bright side was that none of the terrible pictures of her had been published. Maybe even journalists had moments of compassion, or perhaps they’d realized they would never get a single interview or piece of advance information from her again if they so much as thought about publishing any of those photos.
She found him an hour and a half later. The picture had been taken from a bird’s-eye perspective, as if the photographer had held the camera high above his head to snap a few pictures at random. From a publication standpoint, the photo was worthless — full of the partial, thin-haired heads of journalists and out of focus on the bottom edge. But for her purposes, the picture was nearly perfect. She knew she had unearthed a shot of the killer.
The chairs along the far wall were in focus. A lone man sat holding a magazine, observing the fuss from a distance. She zoomed in on him and the focus was almost perfect, although there was something unclear about his face. She knew in her gut it couldn’t be anyone else.
There was no way Sleizner would agree to allow her to share the pictures with the Swedes, even if it was the right thing to do. They would have to manage without help. Kim Fucking Sleizner wanted to solve the case on his own, and would rather it remain unsolved than allow someone else to have the glory.
Every cell in her body was brimming with hatred for Sleizner. The thought she had toyed with so many times throughout the years was starting to solidify into a concrete decision. She had no choice. She had to get rid of him — not just for her own sake, but for the sake of this case and the whole Danish police authority. She had to do everything in her power to get him fired.
She picked up the phone and called National Police Commissioner Henrik Hammersten before she could change her mind. He answered and readily agreed to a confidential meeting with her later that day. She hung up and took a few deep breaths.
“There you are,” she heard from a voice behind her. How long had that bastard been standing there? She turned around and looked him in the eye, but his expression was indecipherable.
“How about coming into my office and... having a little chat?”
“Is there any reason we can’t do it here?”
“Not at all, but if I were you I’d prefer to have this conversation behind closed doors.”
She followed Sleizner into his office. He closed the door behind her. Dunja ignored all the warning signs and took a seat in the visitor’s chair. The Sleazeball walked around the desk and sat in his own chair. To her surprise, he wasn’t wearing his usual superior sneer.
“I want to start by telling you how sorry I am for last night.”
Was she dreaming or was he joking?
“To be totally honest, I don’t remember exactly what happened, and maybe that’s for the best. But what little I do remember is more than enough for me to realize that there is no excuse for the way I acted. All I can say is that I’d had a lot to drink and I lost control.” He paused. “I just want you to know that I feel so terribly ashamed.”
Dunja thought he actually looked like he meant it, and she wondered if she was supposed to say something, but she didn’t want to make it easier for him.
“Dunja, I was totally sure that you were the one who tipped off Ekstra Bladet, but now I realize it wasn’t you at all, and so I’m prepared to bury the hatchet. If you don’t report me for the horrible things I did last night, I won’t report you for refusing orders and falsifying documents.”
He knew about her trick with the car.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sleizner continued, “and the answer is yes. I have been fully aware of what you’ve been doing this whole time, but I’m prepared to wipe the slate clean, and even give you total freedom to work on this case however you see fit.”
Was he serious? Had he really burned himself so badly that his only option was total retreat? Did he have no choice but to ignore his own ego and let her do her job? Dunja knew Sleizner far too well to relax completely, but if he seriously intended to let her continue with the investigation, she didn’t want to throw a wrench in the works. It wasn’t her style to put herself before a case, nor would it ever be. She gave him a barely perceptible nod.
“Good. So that’s taken care of,” Sleizner went on. “How is the investigation going? Have you come up with anything I should know about?”
It would be a breach of duty not to mention the picture of the perpetrator, but Dunja knew that the photo should be sent to the Swedes straightaway, a relationship Sleizner had forbidden thus far. She decided to test him. “I think I have a picture of him.”
Sleizner’s expression changed. “You do? How did you manage to find it?”
Dunja told him about Kjeld Richter’s investigation, which proved that the perpetrator had reached Morten through the ceiling space. She explained that, based on this information, she’d deduced the killer must have been in the same waiting room as the journalists.
“Fantastic, Dunja. Well done.”
“I suggest we send it to the Swedes and see what they have to say before doing anything else,” said Dunja.
“If that’s what you want, I’m okay with your decision.” He walked around and sat on the edge of his desk in front of her. “Dunja, I truly meant what I said. You and I, we haven’t gotten along from the start and that’s my fault, for the most part. You’ve always been a fantastic police officer, and from now on I intend to allow you to excel. If you think we should send the picture to the Swedes, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Dunja stood up.
“Just one more thing.”
She turned around.
“If I’ve understood it correctly, you booked a meeting with Hammersten. If you don’t mind, I thought we could meet with him together.”
Dunja didn’t know how to respond, but she found herself nodding.