They parked on Tuborgvej and walked up the uneven flagstones to Rønnevang Nursing Home, a three-story redbrick building. There were patches of snow on the left side of the building, in a small sunny niche with benches, a few tables, and shrubbery.
It was quiet when they stepped onto the entryway’s flecked terrazzo floor. The foyer was light and spacious, open all the way up to the ridge beam, exposing both upper floors. Galleries wrapped around the floors, all the room doors were visible. Green plants dangled over the railing at intervals. They stood for a moment and looked around, but there was no one in sight. Louise walked over and pressed the elevator button.
The second floor was a chaos of service activity. Coffee cups and lunch plates were piled onto wheeled carts just outside the elevator doors, and a young woman wearing a headscarf stood at a sink down the hallway.
She was sorting out dirty silverware under the running faucet, and she seemed friendly as they approached. “Hi. I just work in the kitchen, but Lis is coming.”
She nodded toward a woman with short, curly hair bustling around the corner, a set of keys in her hand.
“Police,” Louise said, as she stepped forward. “May we have a moment?”
Not really, the woman’s expression told them, but she stopped anyway. “Of course, what can I help you with?”
“We’d like to speak with Kurt Melvang,” Louise said. “Do you know where we can find him?”
“He’s usually in the TV room with the others during morning coffee, but I don’t think I saw him down there today. He’s in room sixty-four, down the hallway. What’s this all about?”
“Sorry, but I can’t say,” Louise said. Another staff member came along, watching in obvious curiosity from behind one of the wheeled carts.
“You should know that Kurt suffers from senile dementia. It might be a bit difficult to have a conversation with him.”
“That’s true,” the other staff member said, “but he can be clearheaded at times, and alert. I’m his contact person; let’s see if we can find him. Follow me.”
Farther down the hallway, several residents were sitting at a table drinking coffee; some were playing cards, some napping. A large TV on the wall was turned on. “Has anyone seen Kurt?” the staff member asked.
“He’s down with Inger,” one of the residents said. “They don’t want to share their cake with us.”
“Oh, here he comes now,” the staff member said, nodding toward a man bent over at the waist, pushing a walker. “Kurt, can we have a minute?”
The man stopped at the mention of his name and looked around in seeming confusion. Louise and Olle followed her over to him and stood discreetly behind her.
“I have to get to school here, now get out of my way,” Kurt said. Just before ramming into his contact person, she grabbed hold of him; the staff was used to this sort of thing.
“Yes, let’s go,” she said. “We’ll go with you.”
Louise and Olle followed them to a nearby door. The woman told him that two policemen had come by and wanted to talk to him, then she joked around a bit with him, asking if he’d been getting into any trouble.
“Yeah, dig around a little bit, you’ll find something.” He spoke lightly, a complete turnaround from his tone a few moments earlier.
The woman left, and Kurt Melvang slowly turned and dumped himself into his chair. “You come here to put me in the slammer?” he said, still joking around. His eyes were moist.
“Not this time,” Olle said. “We’re here to talk to you about the sixty-five thousand kroners you transferred to a Swiss bank account.”
“Ehhhhh,” the old man sneered, irritated with them now.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Louise was quick to say. “We’re not here to butt into your private affairs, but the person who received the money has been killed, that’s why we’re interested in knowing what she…”
The man struggled to get out of his chair, and before she or Olle could react, he had unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to his ankles.
Not knowing quite what to do, Louise said, “I’ll get an aide.” She hurried out the door.
“Unfortunately, things have been going downhill rather quickly; his wife died earlier this year,” the aide said, after pulling Kurt’s pants up and reminding him that he had guests.
Louise sighed. She considered what to do for a moment before asking the aide if she’d heard about a considerable sum of money Kurt Melvang had transferred to a foreign bank account.
She was crossing a line; she knew that, but they weren’t going to get anything out of Melvang. The question didn’t seem to surprise the aide, though she stuck her hands in her pockets, as if she felt uneasy about being involved in a resident’s private life.
“We can’t hardly not hear, when his two adult children curse him out,” the aide said sheepishly. “They’ve done it several times. I don’t know how much money they talked about, and I don’t know what he donated the money to, but they’re mad at him for giving their inheritance away.”
She pulled her shoulders up a bit. “This type of conflict shows up once in a while, when relatives realize they’re not going to inherit what they thought they would. It’s always very uncomfortable, but we never get involved in that type of family business.”
“Donations,” Louise said, after walking out of the nursing home. The sliding door closed behind them. “That explains why there’s a big difference in the amounts of the transfers.”
Olle got into the car. “Donations for what?”
“That’s what we have to find out. Do you have the address of the man up in Birkerød?”
* * *
The traffic was very light as they drove in silence up Kongevejen. It wasn’t so much the donations that dominated Louise’s thoughts. Mostly it was Eik and her frustration about how he dropped everything and ran off the moment the English police called him.
She didn’t know what to think. Of course, anyone would act immediately if something came up in a case concerning a loved one, but how close could you be to someone after eighteen years? Louise couldn’t make sense of it.
“We don’t go all the way to Birkerød,” Olle said, breaking into her thoughts. “We need to take the road to Bistrup after passing through Holte.”
Olle was easy to get along with. Louise admitted to herself that she’d been too quick to peg him as being so pushy. He was the senior policeman in the Search Department, and once in a while his cheerfulness drove her up a wall. Not to mention that from the first day Louise joined the department, he had flirted with her shamelessly. He’d seemed aggressive. And then there were the drawings. Olle had drawn a cartoon figure of everyone in the department, and she had problems taking a grown man with such a passion seriously. Though she had to admit he drew well.
“It’s number four,” he said, pointing when the GPS informed them that their destination lay a hundred meters ahead and to the right. Louise parked at the curb and glanced at the house set back from the road.
“The lawn must slope down to the lake,” she said, before getting out.
“It has to cost a fortune to live here,” Olle said. He slung his lanky body out of the car. “They must have serious money.”
“How much was it they paid in?”
“A hundred thousand.” He swiped his hair back when the wind caught it.
The black front door opened. The man who appeared looked athletic, with a well-trimmed full beard and bristly white hair standing straight up, not unlike a brush.
“Erik Hald Sørensen,” he said. He shook Louise’s hand. She recalled a few things about him in her head: sixty-one, widower, wife died about ten months ago. Christine Løvtoft had been much younger than her husband, and the account from which the money had been transferred to Switzerland had been in her name. “Come inside.” He stepped to the side.
Louise noticed the deceased wife’s coat still hanging on a hook in the hallway, her high, black boots beside a row of men’s shoes. They followed him into his living room. Several empty vases stood around, as if the fresh bouquets that once had been part of the room’s furnishings had been forgotten. There were numerous signs of feminine influence. A copy of Eurowoman lay on the glass table beside the corner sofa and a modern designer blanket. Sørensen seated them on the sofa.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, standing patiently.
They shook their heads and told him they wouldn’t take up much of his time; they just had a few questions for him.
He sat down in the armchair across from them. Photos of him and a woman Louise’s age stood on the windowsill. The smiling woman stood behind him, leaning forward slightly with her chin resting on his shoulder. Another photo showed them singing in a large choir, everyone standing in an open area. Louise noted framed vacation shots from the mountains of Norway; one showed them holding hands in a vineyard, mountains sloping in the background.
Sørensen’s face fell as he followed Louise’s eyes. “I miss her every single day,” he said. He managed a modest smile. “I left my first wife for Christine, and I never regretted it a single second, even though my sons won’t have anything to do with me now. They can’t forgive me for choosing a woman barely older than they were, but you can’t control love that way, now, can you?”
Olle shook his head. “No.”
“I met her at the clinic.” From the way he spoke, Louise sensed he was holding a great sorrow inside, with no one to share it with. “My ex-wife is a doctor, too. We had a medical clinic in Hareskovby, but Vivian left after we divorced. Later, when we found out that Christine had Huntington’s, I dropped my practice. I wanted to stay home to take care of her.”
For a moment he smiled broadly.
“And it’s been ten months since she died?” Olle said, trying to steer the widower onto what they had come to talk about.
“Nine and a half. Christine was the one who got me started singing. I’ve always liked to sing, but I’d never done anything about it. I was the eldest of three boys, and I was pushed hard to finish my education.”
He paused for a moment. “Christine wasn’t like that. She felt you should do what you enjoy doing, and she also loved to sing. It was as if she wanted to show me that I could open up to life. We joined a large Nordic choir, and did several tours with them.”
Now his smile was distant. “Then came her disease.” He looked at Olle as though he wanted this officer to know what had been taken from him. “Huntington’s is a hellish disorder. Her mother had it, too, and Christine knew what to expect.”
Louise tried to catch Olle’s eye. They needed to get going, but he was leaning back in the sofa, allowing the widower to speak.
“Christine was a cheerful woman who loved life. She loved sex and warmth; it was natural to her. But it all disappeared after the diagnosis. She didn’t want me to touch her that way. I didn’t care that we couldn’t make love anymore, she gave me so much else. But her body began to disgust her. Huntington’s is an inherited brain disease that causes tics and muscle contractions, completely out of control. It also changes the patient’s personality and behavior, and leads to dementia and total disability. There is no treatment; the patient dies within fifteen years. Christine felt that her body had betrayed her. She was a realist, she said. She’d watched the disorder slowly paralyze her mother’s body, saw her rot away in a wheelchair. Until she was unable to do anything for herself.”
He looked up.
“Your wife donated some money shortly before her death,” Louise said. She felt a great sympathy for the woman’s tragic fate, but they had to keep things moving. “Can you tell us what she was supporting?”
The question didn’t seem to surprise Sørensen. He looked at Olle. “When you called, you mentioned an amount that was transferred to a foreign account.” He shook his head. “I knew she supported several charities, but the truth is, I haven’t looked closely at the estate. The executor isn’t finished yet, either. Christine inherited a fortune from her mother, and she handled it herself. I’ve handed it all over to our lawyer, but I can ask him to see how much she transferred.”
“That’s not necessary,” Louise said. “We know how much. What we’re interested in is what she was donating to.”
“I can’t help you with that either, but I’ll be happy to take a look and get back to you.”
He had sunk in his chair a bit, but now he pulled himself together and slapped his thighs before standing up. “All right, then, I’d better walk Siggy. Otherwise he’s going to tear something apart.”
Louise had noticed the dog bed by the patio door, and she’d heard a bark when they arrived. She asked about the dog.
“He’s out in the utility room. He goes crazy when people stop by; I put him out there so you wouldn’t have to put up with it.” He smiled wanly and followed them out to the hall.
“Thank you so much for your time,” Louise said, even though they’d learned nothing new. “And give us a call if you find out what the donation was for.”
“Okay, then, on to the next,” Olle said, as Louise pulled out on the broad residential street. “It’s down in Karlslunde or Greve. Are you up for it?”
Do we have a choice? Louise thought, as he punched in the address on the GPS.
* * *
Winnie Moesgaard led them into the living room. Muted music, light classical, came from the next room. Candles flickered all around.
In the car, Olle had told Louise that Mrs. Moesgaard was seventy-three years old. Her nearly white hair was loosely elegant, and she was wearing a soft skirt with a matching cardigan over a satiny, narrow-collared yellow blouse. Her eyes were red. The music was for her husband, Werner, who was six years older than she. He lay on his deathbed in the bedroom, as Louise and Olle had been told when they called and asked if they could stop by.
Less than two weeks ago, the couple had transferred just over twenty-six thousand kroners to Sofie’s account in Switzerland.
“You can say hello,” she said. She turned and led them into the bedroom.
“It’s the police,” she said.
Louise sensed the somber atmosphere. This wasn’t necessary, she thought.
A narrow patio door stood near the foot of the bed, giving a view of a long stretch of winter beach, forlorn and frosty. Marram grass swayed, long-legged birds picked around in the sand, but the warm bedroom was quiet.
A vase filled with yellow tulips stood on a night table, and a woman holding a book in her lap sat by the window close to the door. She glanced up when they walked in. Though she looked twenty years younger than Winnie Moesgaard, she could have been her sister. Perhaps a sister-in-law. She nodded tersely and returned to her book.
The terminally ill man was asleep. His breathing was labored, but otherwise everything seemed peaceful. Louise nodded at the woman and smiled before walking back to Olle, who had stayed out in the hall. She wasn’t going to stand there staring at a dying man she’d never met. It was simply too private.
Mrs. Moesgaard exchanged a few whispered words with the woman in the chair before leading them back into the living room.
“He has no strength left,” she said, blinking a few times while she smiled a bit apologetically. “And we’ve known for a long time what would happen. It’s still difficult to say good-bye to someone you spent most of your life with. We met each other when I was nineteen.”
“Of course,” Louise said. She prepared herself to listen, since the woman needed to talk, and she sat down and nodded at Olle to do the same.
“But you were interested in the donation,” Mrs. Moesgaard said, this time in a stronger voice. She pulled a chair out and sat at the end of the table. “I don’t know how I would have managed without the home hospice nurse.”
The soft music from the bedroom began again after a short pause. “Unlike Werner, I’m afraid of death. I can’t be alone with it, I don’t dare. I’m ashamed of that, but I’ve never seen a dead person.”
She glanced at them uneasily until Olle smiled and said that it was nothing at all to be ashamed of. “It’s completely natural to feel that death is difficult.”
“That’s why I was very grateful several months ago, when my husband told me he’d contacted a nurse a close friend had recommended. The friend had lost his wife to cancer, and he’d been very grateful for professional help.”
“A home hospice nurse,” Louise said. Now she understood who the woman in the bedroom was. She didn’t realize home hospice care existed anymore; she’d thought it was something from the past. But she still didn’t see the connection with Sofie Parker in England. “So the money transferred was for a nurse to come and sit with your husband on his deathbed?”
“You could put it that way,” the woman said. “But it isn’t exactly a payment for services. A bill was never sent. We decided ourselves how much to give. You give what you can, or at least an amount you feel is reasonable.”
“Is it possible for us to have a few words with the nurse?” Louise asked. “Then we’ll have someone to contact in the home hospice service if we need more information.”
“Of course, but there isn’t anything wrong, is there?”
“Not at all,” Olle quickly assured her. “We just need to be able to contact the service. We’re lacking information concerning a case we’re assisting the English police with.”
“I see,” Mrs. Moesgaard said. She went in to get the woman.
* * *
The nurse joined them in the living room. She had cool hands and an open expression, and she moved with a natural grace. Not that she was transparent, but there was something ethereal about her. It felt comfortable being around her.
“I’m Margit,” she said. Mrs. Moesgaard asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee. “Yes, thank you very much.”
She turned back to Louise. “You wanted to ask me about something?”
Louise nodded. “We’d like to know if you’ve seen…” She thought about what Kurt Melvang’s aide had said. “If heirs ever become offended, perhaps even angry, because your service receives such large donations? In some cases even an entire estate has been given away.”
“Oh. Well, the fact is I know nothing about this. I’m a volunteer in the home hospice service; I have nothing to do with finances.”
“Certainly, I understand.” Louise asked how long they usually stayed when called to a deathbed. “Of course, I realize how difficult it is to generalize; sometimes death is quick and sometimes not.”
“You are so right about that.” Margit smiled. “But most often it takes longer when the person dying is alone and without a family. They want us to come early, before they start feeling lonesome and insecure. When the terminally ill person has relatives around, usually we give the ones providing care some breathing room. We relieve them at night, for example.”
“I assume there must be some sort of rotation, where volunteers take shifts?” Louise said. “Or do you stay with the same person for the most part?”
“We have a duty schedule, but we’re shorthanded in this district, so we always work it out ourselves. It is best if the person dying and the relatives don’t have to deal with too many volunteers, so we do try to arrange it so only one or two of us can handle an individual case.”
Louise nodded. “Could we get the name, address, and telephone number of the home hospice service, in case we need to know more?”
“We don’t actually have an office. We take turns manning a telephone; you can always contact us that way.”
She gave Louise the number and wrote down her name and home address underneath.
“I’m thinking relatives,” Olle said, on the way to the car.
“You mean, the killer is one of the relatives?”
“Some of them must be pretty disappointed about their entire inheritance being donated to an organization. You never know how people will react in situations like that.”
Louise nodded. That line of reasoning made sense. Given such large donations and the home hospice nurses working for free, it stood to reason that someone must be raking it in. Judging from the Swiss bank statement, this could be where Sofie Parker entered the picture. But she couldn’t figure out how some heirs had uncovered her identity.
“In any case,” she said, “Ian Davies and his people should investigate this.” She was pleased that already, after one day, they could offer a possible motive to the English police.