“ALL WE KNOW FOR certain right now is that it will take place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, but speculation on the topic is already in full swing. Do you have any comment?” asked one striped tie to the other.
“Yes, this is absolutely the last straw. Considering what we learned yesterday, Kim Sleizner should have held a press conference right away, but gave an exclusive interview to Ekstra Bladet instead, which is far from sufficient to rebuild trust in the police. Tomorrow’s press conference is absolutely crucial.”
Dunja Hougaard wasn’t surprised in the least. When it came to Sleizner, nothing would shock her anymore. She felt like she had been drained of all her energy since his latest sneaky move. She pushed the button on the remote control and the ties were replaced by a young Julia Roberts, who was standing on Hollywood Boulevard next to a red Ferrari along with her prostitute friend. “And remember, don’t mouth off. They don’t like that.” Dunja had watched the scene at least a hundred times and decided it must be the most frequently shown movie on TV ever.
As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help flipping back to the news.
“And what do you think the topic will be?”
“It’s likely that he’ll announce his resignation and try to spin it as his own decision.”
“Does that mean he’s actually been fired?”
“Yes, in all likelihood. But a man with Sleizner’s experience and competence will always be in demand. There’s even talk that he could become our next Minister of Justice, so who knows what he’s got up his sleeve.”
“What if the press conference isn’t about his resignation?”
“Then he’ll have to have a tangible lead in the investigation — something to show that it’s moving forward and that he’s still a force to be reckoned with in the police corps.”
“But you don’t consider that likely?”
“No.”
Dunja turned off the TV, then yanked the batteries out of the remote and threw it across the room so she wouldn’t be tempted to turn it on again. She knew exactly what Sleizner’s little press conference was going to be about: the picture of the killer.
Her picture.
Sleizner would beat his chest and hammer home the message that the department functioned very well while he was in charge — so well, in fact, that the Danes, not the Swedes, would soon solve the case and catch the killer.
As if Kim Fucking Sleizner gave a shit about the case.
It was all just a charade, a spectacle to take attention away from his private scandal. He had no interest in co-ordinating with the Swedes to find out what leads or theories they’d come up with, he was just taking the opportunity to toot his own horn. This press conference was about him and only him, no matter what it cost in the end.
He had lied straight to her face without batting an eye, sacrificing both her and her work. The ink on her resignation hardly had time to dry before he’d demanded her keys, badge, security card, and service weapon. He’d given her two minutes to gather her belongings in a box, watching over her shoulder the whole time like a hawk.
She had been tossed out in the cold like Fabian Risk, and just like him she couldn’t let it slide. There was no chance that she would be able to keep herself from working on the case as long as it remained unsolved.
She didn’t know what sort of ripple effect to expect from Sleizner’s press conference the next morning, but she was prepared for the worst. The killer would probably go underground, becoming nearly impossible to find. The longer he remained uncertain about how much the police knew, the better. It increased the chances that he would eventually become overconfident and careless, and that he’d make a fatal mistake.
She had to do something. She couldn’t stop Sleizner from publishing the picture, but she could make sure the Swedes got it first. She picked up her phone and called Fabian Risk. The phone rang, but no one answered. It was only twenty past nine, which wasn’t super early, but also not exactly too late to call. She tried again, this time leaving a short message to say that she had something he needed to see and that she was on her way to Sweden to show him.
Since there was a possibility that someone had tapped his phone, she didn’t want to specify what she had to show him. She hadn’t initially planned to say she was on her way to Sweden, but now that she thought about it, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She could send him the photo via email but, just like his phone, she couldn’t assume that Risk was the only one who had access to it.
Dunja opened her computer and launched her email client. But her inbox didn’t appear; instead, the program asked for a password. She typed in “Shawarmapie55” — a password she used in far too many places and ought to change as soon as she had time.
Incorrect password
She tried again.
Incorrect password
Had that bastard already managed to get her password changed? If he had, she could only think of one person who could have helped him.
“Yes, this is Rønning...”
“Did you change my email password?”
“Well hello there, sexy. Listen, I’m kind of busy,” he whispered. “I have company and we’re almost finished with our sushi —”
“Mikael, for Christ’s sake,” Dunja interrupted. “This is important. Are you the one who changed it?”
She could hear him sigh as the theme from Titanic played in the background.
“I heard you quit.”
“The Sleazeball didn’t give me a choice, and I have to get into my mail.”
Another sigh.
“He came over as soon as you were gone and ordered me to change it. Technically, from a legal perspective, it isn’t really your email.”
“Mikael, it is extremely important for me to log onto my email right now. Not later. Now. Understood?”
“Why?”
“The less you know the better, so you’ll just have to trust me. All you have to do is give me the new password.”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t. Sleizner is almost definitely going through your inbox this very second and he’ll notice right away if another IP address tries to get in. As soon as he realizes it belongs to you, he’ll know that I helped you.”
He was right. Shit.
“But... I had a feeling you would call, so I made a copy of your entire hard drive before Sleizner could get his hands on it. I can put up a Dropbox folder.”
“Perfect, and preferably right away.”
“Sure. My visitor and exercise ball seem to have found a way to each other during this conversation.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Dunja was able to transfer the picture of the killer to a USB stick. Fifteen minutes after that, she had cleaned the dried ink from the cartridges and printed it out. Ten seconds later, she left her apartment on Blågårdsgade and hurried toward Nørreport Station.