At four thirty on Wednesday, 31 March, Marie switched off her computer and went out into the kitchen to grab some food before her meeting with the police. While she ate, she wondered who could check the finished article for her. She had written several academic papers in English and Storm had praised her for picking up the language so quickly. Nevertheless, she would prefer an expert to read the text before she emailed it to Terrence Wilson. Ideally that person would be Tim because he was her co-writer and because his English was perfect, but what if he didn’t get her message in time? She had to come up with a plan B, then cross her fingers that Tim would respond during the weekend so they could still meet the Monday-morning deadline. Why not ask Trine Rønn? It would also give them a chance to catch up. Marie put her plate in the sink and picked up her handbag. Just as she was about to leave, Lea called.
‘Hi, sis! I’m now officially a psychologist!’
‘Congratulations!’ Marie was delighted. ‘Sorry, I was going to call you. How did it go?’
‘Great, I think. I won’t know for sure for another couple of weeks, but I have a good feeling about it. I’m convinced that I passed. And you’ll never guess what my oral exam was about. Advanced defence mechanisms.’
‘What are they?’ Marie said and sat down on her bed.
‘Repression, denial, displacement and regression. That kind of stuff. But I knew my terminology inside out. Oh, I wonder why,’ Lea said drily. ‘Talk of the devil, Frank called me a moment ago to tell me to stop “harassing” Julie. That was the word he used. I could hear that he’d been drinking.’
‘Where was he?’
‘I don’t know. He just called to say that Julie is really upset about “what she’s done” and needs to be left alone, so did I think I could stop harassing her.’
‘I must talk to her,’ Marie said, exasperated. ‘It makes no sense for her to think she killed Mum because she failed to sort out her pills.’
‘And I’m not harassing her,’ Lea added. ‘Christ, I only asked if she could remember Tove, her surname or a house number, anything. Why is she so scared of what Tove might tell me? That our family fell apart when Mads died because it was already teetering on the edge of the precipice with a highly strung mother and an immature fantasist of a father who should never have got married? I realised that years ago. Mum and Dad piled far too much responsibility onto the shoulders of a ten-year-old girl and sometimes she had no choice but to give her little sisters tinned spaghetti three days in a row because Frank had forgotten to come home and Mum was spaced out on the sofa. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now because it turns out that Tove is dead.’
‘Dead? How do you know that?’
‘I Googled “Tove, police officer, Cluedo and Vangede”, and found a possible connection: Herman Madsen. He was an investigator with Copenhagen Police, but moved with his wife, Tove, and their three children from Vangede to Aalborg in 1998. Their elder daughter, Helle Madsen, founded Aalborg’s first choir for children who are hard of hearing, and by comparing a picture from a local paper I found on the web, where she’s standing between her parents, with several Facebook profiles of women also called Helle Madsen, I ended up being so sure that I messaged her on Facebook. I’ve just read her reply on my mobile. She writes that her family used to live on Snerlevej, at number twenty-five. She also writes that she remembers me well because her mother had a photograph of me. I got very emotional when I read that. I have no memory of Tove, but I meant so much to her that she kept my picture all these years. Sadly, she died of cancer last year, Helle Madsen wrote. I only wish we’d talked about her sooner. I would have loved to meet her. It’s definitely to her credit that I didn’t end up as fucked up as the rest of you.’ Lea chuckled. ‘Sorry, sis.’
‘What else did her email say?’ Marie was intrigued.
‘That was all,’ Lea said. ‘Only that Tove had died and then this business about the photograph. I’m going to write back to Helle tonight and ask if I can have it. It would be all right to ask, wouldn’t it?’ Lea sounded anxious.
‘It’s a funny thing with you,’ Marie said pensively. ‘Most of the time you’re so assertive, then suddenly you get insecure about the oddest things. Of course you can ask her if you can have that picture! All she can do is say no.’
‘It’s called having low self-esteem, but lots of confidence. Just ask a psychologist. Anyway, it’s nice to know that I meant something to Tove. Hey, by the way,’ Lea continued, ‘I spoke to Mattis and you’re welcome to give him a call if you’re serious about your swallow tattoo. He has a waiting list of two months, but because you’re my sister, he’ll see you without an appointment. Tonight, for example, he said.’ Lea laughed.
‘I really don’t think I can—’
‘Of course you can! You can do anything you want to, Marie. Anything. And you can take my word for it. I’m now officially a psychologist!’ Lea said triumphantly.
‘You’re a tough cookie.’ Marie smiled to herself.
‘So are you.’
They hung up and Marie rushed out of the door. She was running late and she was due to meet Søren Marhauge at the café in two minutes. She stopped on the pavement, found her mobile and began composing a text message to him. And that was when she saw it.
A dark blue Ford with tinted windows.
It was parked diagonally across from Marie’s stairwell.
Marie started to walk quickly down Randersgade and crossed Strandboulevarden. Had someone been watching her? Was she being followed now? Then again it might be nothing. It could be a different car from the one Storm had seen. Maybe she was just paranoid. But three people were dead. When she crossed Vordingborggade, her chest began to tighten and she had to give up walking and texting at the same time. Never mind, she was almost there. She recognised Søren from a distance. He was tall and he was locking his car. When he had dropped the keys into his pocket, he turned and looked straight at her.
‘Walk with me,’ she said, and as she passed him, she grabbed his arm. For a split second he reacted with surprise, then they continued down the street like just another couple.
It was not until they reached Bopa Plads that Søren said, ‘Are you being followed?’
‘Wait. I . . . can’t . . . breathe,’ she panted.
She dragged Søren across the square and into a typical Copenhagen courtyard with a picnic table, a battered playground, small patches of grass and some sheds. She carried on walking, now with Søren in her wake, and it was not until they were behind a leafless beech tree in the centre that she set down her bag, unzipped her jacket, crouched with her hands on her knees and gasped for breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Søren asked, and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘No,’ Marie wheezed. ‘I . . . I can’t breathe . . . I need to sit down . . .’ Søren managed to get her to the picnic table.
‘Take deep breaths,’ Søren said calmly. ‘All the way down to your stomach. Easy now. You’re hyperventilating, but it’s not dangerous. There you go, easy does it.’
Eventually Marie regained some control over her breathing, and a few minutes later, she was back to normal.
‘I saw a blue car,’ she said. ‘A Ford with tinted windows. Right outside my front door. But I’ve only lived in that flat for a week and I haven’t officially changed my address yet. No one knows I live there.’
‘Slow down,’ Søren said. ‘Take it from the start.’
It took Marie half an hour to tell Søren everything.
When she had finished, Søren drummed his fingers on the table for a long time without saying anything.
‘I know that you have officially closed the case and classified it as suicide,’ Marie said despairingly, ‘but surely you can see that something doesn’t add up.’
‘Marie,’ Søren said, ‘I can’t tell you very much right now, only that we’re investigating the case again. It has been reopened. I don’t believe that Kristian Storm killed himself, either.’
‘You don’t?’ Marie said, and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you for believing me.’
Søren resumed drumming his fingers. ‘I would like your opinion on Storm’s so-called suicide note.’ Søren made quotation marks in the air. ‘I’ll email it to you later.’
‘Sure,’ Marie said.
‘In return I want you to give me the registration number he copied from the car he saw parked outside the August Krogh Institute. I’ll try to track it down.’ Marie nodded.
‘Did you make a note of the number of the car you saw just now?’
‘No,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I just ran.’
They sat for a little while. Marie concentrated on her breathing. She was cold, but there was something reassuring about the chilly air mixed with the smell of wax from the police officer’s jacket.
‘Incidentally, I have a totally unrelated question for you,’ Søren said at length. ‘Please could you give me your younger sister’s email address?’
Marie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why?’
Søren cleared his throat. ‘It has nothing to do with the case,’ he said. ‘It’s a private matter. But you and I grew up in the same street. Now, I’m somewhat older than you, so we never had much to do with each other. It was my colleague, Superintendent Henrik Tejsner, who drew my attention to it the other day. Can I start by saying that I was really sorry to hear about your mother?’
‘Thank you,’ Marie said. Eagerly, she added, ‘You must have known my parents. Or did yours know mine? Only Lea wants to talk to someone who knew us when we were little. If your parents remember something, perhaps Lea could talk to them?’
‘My parents died when I was five,’ Søren said, ‘and I was brought up by my maternal grandparents, who lived across the road from your family. They’re no longer alive and I think they only knew your parents superficially. From local get-togethers in the early eighties. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ Marie said.
‘Then you would have been only five when I left home and . . . Normally I wouldn’t have said anything because I prefer to keep things separate, but . . .’ Søren cleared his throat ‘. . . I’ve tried and failed to get in touch with your sister in the last couple of days.’
‘Really, why?’
‘I have something for her. A photograph. Your sister had a childminder when she was little and—’
‘Yes,’ Marie said. ‘Tove. But she’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ Søren said. ‘But she left a photograph that her husband, Herman, really wants Lea to have. Tove was very fond of your younger sister and she had kept the photograph all these years. Herman has tried getting in touch with Lea, but that . . . didn’t work out. So when I visited him last Saturday, he asked me to take the photograph with me to Copenhagen and give it to her. The connection with you and Kristian Storm is purely coincidental and I wouldn’t have brought it up, only I haven’t been able to get hold of Lea myself. I tried phoning her and calling at her flat. All to no avail. If I had her email, I could ask her to contact me – that is, if she wants the photograph.’
‘Lea has been revising for an important exam so she has ignored everyone. But I can email you her email address as well as the car number, and I promise to mention it to her when I next speak to her, probably later today. I know she’ll be delighted to have that picture. When my twin brother died, Mum was so distraught that she cut up almost all our family photographs . . . And I think the rest were destroyed when our shed burned down because our family photographs were kept inside it.’ Marie seemed momentarily confused. ‘Whatever the reason, there are hardly any pictures from when we were young. It’s never really bothered me because our elder sister has told me lots about the past. But I’m sure Lea would be thrilled to have that photograph,’ Marie said again.
‘How did your brother die?’ Søren asked.
‘He got meningitis,’ Marie said. ‘Though I don’t remember anything about it myself,’ she added.
‘I know what it’s like to lose a child,’ Søren said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. That was exactly why I didn’t want to bring up my connection to Snerlevej. I like keeping things separate.’
‘It’s fine,’ Marie reassured him. ‘That must have been awful. I would never get over it myself. Cancer, possibly; my mother’s death, Storm’s. But my son Anton’s – never. I think I need to go now. I must finish Storm’s article.’ For a moment she looked awkwardly at Søren. ‘Please would you walk me home?’
‘Of course,’ Søren said. ‘We’ll check out the blue Ford at the same time. There’s no need for you to worry if it turns out it’s not the same car.’
‘I’m really embarrassed about my earlier behaviour,’ Marie said.
‘Don’t be,’ Søren said. ‘Being careful never killed anyone.’
*
When they stopped outside Marie’s stairwell in Randersgade, the dark blue Ford had gone.
‘It’s not here,’ Marie said.
‘Who knows you live here?’ Søren asked.
‘No one. Except my family: my ex-husband, my dad and my sisters.’
‘Does Tim Salomon know where you live?’
Marie shook her head. ‘I think I mentioned I’d moved to Østerbro. But that wouldn’t mean anything to someone who doesn’t know Copenhagen. Why do you want to know? I trust him completely.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Søren said. ‘I ask random questions to clarify points. Is your new address listed in the university’s database?’
Marie blinked. ‘They have my mobile number and my old address in Hellerup. But I have yet to register my change of address with the National Register of Persons. I moved out at very short notice.’ She was staring at him anxiously.
‘Try not to worry, Marie. You have my phone number. If anything happens, you call me straight away. I can dispatch a car from Bellahøj in less than five minutes. Be on your guard, but try to stay calm.’
‘OK,’ Marie said, subdued. She glanced up and down the street, but everything was normal. ‘Thank you for walking me home.’ ‘Don’t mention it,’ Søren replied. ‘I’ll wait here until you’re upstairs in your flat. You can let me know over the intercom.’
‘Thank you,’ Marie said, but she stayed where she was. ‘Funny business about Snerlevej,’ she began. ‘I Googled you earlier today so that I would know what you looked like and I thought you seemed familiar. But surely I wouldn’t be able to recognise you from twenty years ago. I know I have a photographic memory, but there are limits.’
Søren smiled.
When Marie had let herself into her flat, she quickly put on the security chain and assured Søren over the intercom that he was safe to leave now.
‘Talk to you soon,’ his voice crackled, and shortly afterwards she watched him head down Randersgade towards his car. Even from the third floor he looked tall.
*
When Marie had emailed the blue Ford’s registration number and Lea’s email address to Søren, she sat down at her desk to work. Her thoughts were flapping about like headless chickens and she found it hard to concentrate on her article. Storm, the blue Ford, Tim, who was risking his life in the wilderness of Guinea-Bissau, and her shock at learning from Sandö how Midas Manolis had died.
Dear Tim, Emailing you feels strange because I don’t know if you get my messages. I hope that you got my last email, and/or that Malam Batista has got hold of you by now. Are you on your way to Denmark yet? I’m working on the article, but I would feel so much better if you were writing it with me and especially if you could proofread it. Warm wishes, Marie
PS: I gather that you visited the institute last week to get my address and telephone number from the faculty secretary. The telephone number is correct, but I have moved and am now living at number 76 in Randersgade on Østerbro. I hope that you will email me or call me soon, so that I know we have made contact. More than anything, I hope you’ll be back in Denmark soon!
When she had sent the email, she worked without a break for almost two hours until Julie called her out of the blue.
She was in her usual fussing mode. ‘How are you? Are you eating?’ she wanted to know. ‘And how was your appointment at the hospital last Monday, Marie? I suddenly remembered it yesterday. Why didn’t you remind me? I thought I was coming with you.’
Marie replied that she’d thought Julie had enough on her plate, but it had gone fine. Her numbers were good and she had decided to keep her ovaries.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Julie sounded worried. ‘The doctors usually know what they’re doing and I—’
‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Marie interrupted her. ‘But it’s my choice. I’ve looked into the scientific arguments for and against and I know what feels right for me, so I said no.’
‘But, Marie—’
‘Anyway, how are you doing?’ Marie asked.
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Julie said in a small voice.
‘Why do you mind so much that Lea wants to know about that woman who looked after her when we were little?’ Marie said. ‘She says you no longer return her calls.’
‘Lea shouldn’t be stirring things up,’ Julie said.
‘Julie,’ Marie said, ‘you can’t control other people. Do you hear me? I love you and I know you mean well, but you can’t control everything.’ She heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘You’re been talking to Lea behind my back,’ she said. ‘I would never have believed that of you, Marie. After everything I’ve done for you.’ She practically hissed the last words.
‘I love both my sisters,’ Marie said miserably, ‘and I wish we could all get on together. Sometimes I can see where Lea is coming from. You and Dad are always so angry with her.’
‘What are you trying to tell me, Marie?’ Julie’s voice had turned icy.
‘Nothing, Julie. You’re not to blame for Mum’s death. It was kind of you to organise her pills for all those years, kind of you to cook meals for Mum and Dad’s freezer when they couldn’t manage it themselves, and all the other things you’ve done for them, but Mum didn’t die because you failed to turn up that Monday to sort out her pills and went instead to your children’s school to see them in a play. It’s not your fault, Julie. You have to stop it.’
‘I would never have believed that of you,’ Julie repeated quietly.
‘Believed what?’
‘That you would turn on me. After everything I’ve done for you for all these years.’
‘Listen, this is ridiculous, Julie . . . Hello?’ But Julie had already hung up.
Marie sat dumbstruck at her desk. Julie had never hung up on her before.
When she had composed herself, she tried to turn her attention back to her writing.
Overall, routine vaccinations have beneficial effects on child survival rates in high mortality countries. However, routine vaccinations may have non-specific effects (NSE) on child survival rates – that is, effects not explained by prevention of the vaccine-targeted infections.
Her thoughts kept returning to Julie. Her elder sister had never been angry with her before, either, not like this. But why did Marie feel so guilty about it? All she wanted was to have a reasonable relationship with both sisters, even if the other two didn’t get on very well. It should be possible. Marie called Julie back, but no one picked up the phone. After two more attempts, she left a message. ‘Julie, I think we were cut off,’ she said. ‘Please call me back. Lea isn’t trying to harass you. She just wants to know more about her childhood and I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Why does this matter so much to you? You don’t have to relive the past if you don’t want to. We all know that it’s extra hard for you just now, but you haven’t done anything wrong. I love you and I love Lea and I wish that the three of us could find a way of getting on. Please call me.’
When she had hung up, she sat down to do some more work, but after half an hour, she gave up and opened the windows for some fresh air. She stood behind the curtains, scanning the cars in the street, but in the evening twilight they all looked dark blue. Suddenly she was filled with inarticulate rage and rummaged in a removal crate until she found the blonde wig and put it on. She pulled a woolly cap over her hair, put on her coat and boots and walked down the stairs. Halfway down she met the man who lived in the flat below and who had welcomed her to the building the day before, but he showed no sign of recognising her. This made it seem highly unlikely that the driver of the blue car would realise who she was. Marie walked down Randersgade, then briskly down Østerbrogade without making eye contact with anyone. A sudden impulse made her reach for her mobile in her pocket. Before she knew it, she had called Mattis, Lea’s tattoo artist. She heard loud rock music in the background when the call was answered and Mattis shouting, ‘Hang on a sec.’ The volume was turned down.
‘Who did you say you were?’ he asked. His Danish was slightly accented and Marie surmised that he must be German.
‘Marie Skov, Lea Skov’s sister. She gave me your number because I was thinking of . . .’ Marie ground to a halt.
‘Ah, Marie!’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘Yes, I hear you want a swallow . . . Ha-ha, Lea Skov, that sounds really weird.’
‘Why?’ Marie asked.
‘Among us, she’s known only as Lea Sky.’
‘Lea Sky?’
‘Yes. I knew she had another surname but I’d forgotten it was Skov. Skov, Jensen, Hansen, a common surname like that doesn’t really suit Lea, does it? Right, so when are you coming over? We have a waiting list of two to three months, but not for Lea Sky’s secret sister.’
‘Is now a good time?’
‘Great,’ Mattis said. ‘Do you have a picture of a particular swallow?’
‘No,’ Marie said, ‘but I know exactly what I want.’
‘Then just come over,’ Mattis said. ‘Nansensgade seventy-three, basement. See you shortly.’
Marie caught the bus to Nørreport station and quickly located the tattoo parlour in the basement in Nansensgade. The sign on the door, which had security bars, said Closed, but it was wedged open and Marie could hear Queens of the Stone Age. She walked down the few steps and peeped inside. A young guy with a black punk hairstyle was busy sweeping the floor while he sang very loudly and very out of tune. His arms were covered with tattoos and a cigarette was dangling from the corner of his mouth, which he managed to drop twice while Marie was watching him. Suddenly he looked up and waved her inside the shop.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Yes, I can see that you’re sisters, even though you’re not . . .’
‘Nearly as good-looking?’ Marie said, with a smile. She didn’t mind. Lea had always been the beautiful one.
Mattis sized her up. ‘Nearly as hard core, I was going to say. And at least as good-looking. It’s lovely to meet you at last. Lea has told me loads about you, but I was starting to think you didn’t exist.’ Mattis kept on scrutinising her. He had small, clear blue eyes, a dimple in his left cheek, a piercing in his right ear and an incredible amount of hair, which had been cut short at the back and sides and was standing straight up on his head in a Mohican.
They chatted while Marie removed first her woolly hat, then her wig.
Mattis told her he was twenty-six, had moved from Berlin to Copenhagen and had met Lea in Pumpehuset at a Fear Factory concert in 2006.
‘Anyway, tell me what kind of tattoo you want.’
Marie produced Storm’s wooden swallow from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘This,’ she said.
Mattis turned over the swallow in his hand.
‘It’s a barn swallow,’ Marie explained. ‘They fly fifteen thousand kilometres to South Africa every autumn and back again every spring. No, this way round.’ Marie rearranged Mattis’s hands. ‘I want its wings spread out as it soars vertically up into the sky.’
‘OK,’ Mattis said. While he started sketching the swallow on a piece of transfer paper, Marie took off her top and sat on a couch in a cubicle with curtains on three sides.
‘Why a swallow?’ he asked, while he drew. Marie was in her jeans, naked from the waist up and wondering if she had discarded too much clothing. Perhaps Lea hadn’t told him that she had had a breast removed and he would be shocked.
‘Because it’s tough,’ Marie said, and made herself comfortable on the couch with her back to him. She straightened when Mattis entered the cubicle and jumped when he applied disinfectant to her shoulder.
‘I’ll start by transferring the image, yes? Then we can double-check if that’s what you had in mind.’
Mattis’s palm brushed Marie’s back and he had just placed the transfer paper with the swallow on her skin when Marie called, ‘Stop!’
‘What’s wrong?’ Mattis said, and removed the transfer paper.
‘Please would you tattoo me here?’ she asked, turning to Mattis. She watched his face, searching for any sign of revulsion in his eyes.
‘There, above my heart, well away from my scar. Please can you tattoo me there?’
‘Of course,’ he said, not missing a beat. ‘I can tattoo you anywhere. Are you sure?’
‘Turn towards me a little more.’ Marie did so and Mattis gently pressed the image against her heart.
‘Go over to the mirror. If it’s where you want it, we’ll get started.’
Marie stood in front of the mirror and inspected herself. The downy shadow of new hair on her head had become a little more obvious and the swallow imprint, the size of her childhood glitter stickers, sat exactly where she wanted it.
‘I don’t want it filled in,’ she said. ‘I want it exactly as it is now. An outline.’
‘Sure,’ Mattis said, sizing her up again. ‘But then I think we should turn it, just a little bit so it flies diagonally. Just in case you decide to have your breast reconstructed one day because then there will be more of a curve here.’ He tilted his head and pointed. ‘But even if you decide not to, it’ll still look super-cool.’
They exchanged only a few words while Mattis tattooed her. His hands brushed her while he worked and she felt his breathing like a feather against her upper body as he inspected his work. It took almost an hour. She could smell ink and blood. Her mobile rang a couple of times and the CD had fallen silent. When Mattis had finished, Marie got up and returned to the mirror while he cleaned his equipment. She studied the swallow. Her skin was red and swollen and she was lost for words.
Suddenly Mattis was right behind her, looking with her into the mirror over her shoulder.
‘Bloody hell, that’s fantastic,’ was all he said.
*
Mattis drove her home in his mother’s green Morris Minor even though he lived in the opposite direction. They hardly spoke during the journey and Marie wondered what he made of her, Lea’s colourless sister, whom he had been kind enough to compliment. When they pulled up outside her flat, Marie asked shyly if Mattis would please wait until she had turned on the light and waved to him from her window, and he said he would be happy to, without asking prying questions about why she was afraid. She was grateful for that when she stood in her window behind the curtain and watched his small car rattle down Randersgade.
*
It was not until she had been to the lavatory and cleaned her teeth that she remembered her mobile had rung a few times while she was getting her tattoo. She saw that the number had been withheld, but Søren Marhauge had left a message. He had emailed her Storm’s suicide note and would like to speak to her urgently.
It was past midnight.
Marie checked her emails and saw that Søren had written Call me as soon as you can in the subject box. There was also an email from Stig Heller, which she skimmed. He wrote that he would be at O’Leary’s Sports Bar at Copenhagen Central Station this Friday morning at eleven o’clock. With a heavy heart she opened the document with Storm’s final note.
When she had finished reading it, you could have knocked her down with a feather. She had not seen such badly written, pompous Danish riddled with Anglicisms for a long time. She was convinced that Storm had not written it.
She quickly sent a text message to Søren Marhauge:
Sorry for not getting back to you earlier. I guess it’s too late now, but I really want to talk to you ASAP. Best wishes, Marie
Her mobile rang three minutes later.
‘That note is absurd,’ Marie said, without introduction. ‘Storm never wrote it. I’m sure of it.’
‘Hmm,’ Søren said. ‘I had a hunch.’
‘Why didn’t you show it to me before? Or to someone from the department? Anyone who knew Storm could have told you that he would never have written such nonsense. His Danish was flawless and he detested Anglicisms. His killer must have written it. Isn’t there a fingerprint on it or something? There must be something you can do.’
‘There are no fingerprints on the paper, not even Storm’s. Our technician actually made a note about it in his report. Does Tim Salomon speak Danish?’
Marie gulped. ‘Not as far as I know,’ she said. ‘I spoke English to him. He’s Guinean and lives in Bissau, and all scientific communication outside Denmark is done in English. Why would he speak Danish?’
‘Can you think of anyone who could have written this note in bad Danish?’
Marie could not. ‘But why do you keep asking about Tim? He flew to Guinea-Bissau last Saturday. He loved Storm like his own father. He would never—’
‘It was Tim Salomon who rented the blue Ford, Marie.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Marie said.
‘According to Hertz, Tim Salomon rented the car from their Gammel Kongevej branch on the thirteenth of March. The booking was paid for with a Visa card and Hertz took a copy of the international driving licence Tim produced before they gave him the keys. I have copies of both and I would like you to confirm that the picture on the driver’s licence really is of Tim. Besides, Hertz has reported Tim to the police because the car was never returned. Marie, are you there?’
‘There must be some mistake,’ Marie whispered.
‘I’m afraid that looks unlikely,’ Søren said.
‘But what can it mean?’ She was in tears. ‘That Tim is the man who was watching Storm and now he’s watching me? That Tim killed Storm? But why? The Belem Health Project was Tim and Storm’s joint venture. Their pride and joy.’
‘Right now I don’t know what it means,’ Søren said frankly. ‘But we need to look into it and I would like to—’
‘Tim didn’t arrive in Copenhagen until the twenty-fifth of March and he flew back to Guinea-Bissau on the twenty-seventh,’ Marie interrupted triumphantly. ‘And only this morning I spoke to Malam Batista in Bissau, and he said that Tim went to Xitole and Dulombi-Boe last Sunday.’
‘But it’s still a fact that Tim Salomon hired the car that Storm observed outside the August Krogh Institute. I’ve sent copies of both the driving licence and the credit card to our document technician so he can check if they’re fake. And tomorrow I’ll look into Tim’s travel activity in and out of Denmark. Did he say anything to you about when he was leaving?’
‘I only know that he left on Saturday afternoon,’ Marie said. ‘But I know from Storm that all flights to Guinea-Bissau go via Lisbon. The only airline in Europe to fly there is TAP. Then again, Guinea-Bissau is an old Portuguese colony. And I saw his ticket!’ she cried out. ‘It was lying on the bedside table!’
‘I’ll call you again tomorrow,’ Søren then said. ‘Keep your phone to hand and switched on.’
‘Google Translate!’ Marie exclaimed.
‘What?’
‘The letter. Storm’s suicide note. It was definitely put through Google Translate!’
There was silence for a moment, then Søren said, ‘Christ, I think you might be right.’
*
The night before Thursday, 1 April, Marie’s sleep was more broken than a dropped Ming vase. At three a.m. she gave up hope of getting any rest and turned on her computer.
Dear Tim, What if Storm was wrong? What if a hunch isn’t enough? That certainly wasn’t the impression I had about you. Please explain to me why you rented a blue Ford in Copenhagen. Best wishes, Marie
When she had pressed send she had second thoughts. Should she have run it past Søren Marhauge first? She climbed into bed and finally fell into a deep sleep.
Jesper’s call woke her at just after nine o’clock.
‘Are you trying to make me jealous?’ he screamed, the second a bleary-eyed Marie answered her phone.
‘What?’ Marie swung her legs over the edge of the bed and caught sight of herself in the mirror, which was propped against the wall. Bloody hell, that’s fantastic, Mattis had said. Her skin was fiery red along the outline, but she was inclined to agree with him. She saw only the swallow, not the missing breast.
‘You were seen at First Hotel,’ Jesper ranted. ‘Last Friday. By a good colleague of mine who happened to be enjoying a drink in the bar after a conference. You’ve just been ill, you’re still ill, and then you go and screw some big African guy.’
Marie was speechless for a moment. Then she said, ‘May I remind you that you were the one who wanted a divorce because you’d met someone else?’
‘But, Christ Almighty, I don’t go around rubbing your face in it. You could at least be a little discreet.’ It was rare for Jesper to be angry.
‘Who saw me?’ she asked, and regretted the question immediately. She did not have to justify herself to anyone.
‘It doesn’t matter. A colleague. Someone who happens to have covered a lot of shifts for me so I could be with you whenever you had chemo. How do you think it makes me look when three seconds later you’re holding hands with someone in a hotel?’
‘Jesper,’ Marie said, ‘you had an affair while I had chemo. You wanted the divorce, not me. I’m entitled to hold hands with whomever I want to, be they Chinese, Eskimo or African, though I fail to see what that has to do with anything.’
‘So you admit it?’ Jesper snarled.
‘Yes,’ Marie said, and then the devil got into her. ‘I do. I might be dying, Jesper, and I don’t want to die curious.’
Marie could hear Jesper gasping for breath before he spluttered, ‘So you decided you wanted to know what it’s like to have sex with a black man with a big dick?’
‘No, Jesper. I decided I wanted to know what it feels like to make love to a man who is actually interested in making me feel good. Just for once in my life.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Do you know what the difference between the two of us is?’ Jesper said. ‘I respected you enough to keep my affair secret. Emily and I have been together for five months now and not once have we been out for dinner, not once have we gone to the cinema. We’ve never even been out for a walk because I didn’t want to risk bumping into someone who might know you. I’ve been very discreet.’
‘Five months? That’s interesting,’ Marie said.
‘And, if you really must know, your lover boy came to Ingeborgvej to ask after you.’
‘My lover boy?’ Marie said, and felt a shiver down her spine.
‘Yes, I didn’t see him myself because we’ve been forced to leave the house, in case you’d forgotten. But yesterday was Wednesday and Natascha came to clean. When she was almost done, a black man rang the doorbell and pushed his way into the hall. He said he was your friend and asked if you were in. Natascha said no and quickly rang me. Is that a little Freudian slip that you just happened to give him the wrong address?’
‘I haven’t told anyone where I live,’ Marie said quietly.
‘I want Anton this weekend,’ Jesper insisted angrily. ‘My brother’s rented a holiday cottage in West Jutland and Anton hasn’t seen his cousins for a very long time. But Anton says he’s only prepared to go if he’s allowed to come back to yours today. So I’ll bring him round in two hours and pick him up again early tomorrow morning, OK? And let me tell you something, Marie, if that guy is with you, you have exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes to get him out of the flat. I don’t want Anton spending even one minute with your new boyfriend.’
Before Marie had time to object, Jesper had ended the call.
Marie rose and stood for a moment in the living room, not knowing what to do.
Then she called Søren Marhauge, who didn’t answer his phone. She went to the lavatory, and when she came back, there was a missed call from an unknown number. She was about to ring him back when she got a text message:
Is everything OK? Søren wrote. I’m on the other line.
Everything is OK, Marie wrote. Call me as soon as you can.
*
Marie toasted two slices of rye bread and boiled an egg. She slathered butter on the bread and finished off her meal with half an avocado and twenty-two almonds. She wanted to put on some weight. Then she took a quick shower, and when she had got dressed, she discovered she had missed yet another call and rang Søren back. This time his number was engaged and she left a text: Sorry, I was in the shower, but I’m around now.
She sat down at her desk, determined to crack a seriously tricky section of the article. Storm would undoubtedly have spun in his grave, but Marie wanted to include the most valid objections from their opponents, such as Paul Smith. He was still in charge of the WHO’s Epidemiology Task Force in Geneva and had gone from diametrical opposition to Storm to being less dismissive. The January issue of a Canadian periodical even quoted Smith as saying that Kristian Storm’s research could no longer be ignored and made it necessary to form a working group that would concern itself exclusively with the non-specific effects of vaccines.
Big words from a former opponent.
However, Marie had her doubts about Peter Bennett, the highly respected American immunologist and professor at Stanford University. Bennett was the scientist who, in the last five years, had expended the most energy on rejecting Storm’s ideas about the non-specific effects of the vaccines, so there was plenty of material from which to choose. Worse, in October 2008 Bennett had stood up and trashed Storm’s research in front of every international immunologist at the workshop in London. Storm would indeed spin in his grave if he knew that Marie was considering giving Bennett more column inches.
Bennett had a list of publications to his name as long as the Great Wall of China, Marie discovered, and there could be little doubt that he was a leading expert. Even so, she had a strong feeling that his almost hysterical attacks, especially in scientific periodicals, were about something more than Bennett merely demonstrating his own superiority. Storm had often mentioned how scientific periodicals had been just as badly hit by the financial crisis as the rest of the publishing industry, and it followed that editors in part gave column inches to Bennett because he was famous.
Hang on a minute . . . Now that was interesting. Despite his fame, Bennett had himself been accused of professional misconduct, not for scientific dishonesty, but he had been suspected of corruption in connection with the WHO’s pandemic warning about the swine flu virus H1N1 in 2009. Storm had never mentioned that and Marie was mystified until she discovered that Bennett had been cleared, which had only heightened his popularity. In 2010 alone he had been the main speaker at every international immunology symposium and the lead author of thirteen articles.
By now Marie had got the bit between her teeth and she followed a link to a summary of the pandemic scandal.
In June 2009 Elizabeth Chung, general secretary of the WHO, had issued an international pandemic warning when several mysterious deaths in the US and Mexico had turned out to be the result of a rare flu strain called H1N1. The decision to issue the warning was based on an assessment by the WHO’s Emergency Committee and instantly triggered the production of millions of doses of vaccines. For a brief moment the world held its breath. Given the WHO’s reaction, people began to think that humanity might be on the verge of extinction.
The first criticism of the pandemic warning appeared in a liberal German newspaper when a journalist questioned why members of the Emergency Committee were anonymous. All other WHO committee members were known to the public, the journalist pointed out, and he wondered why the same principle did not apply to a committee that had the power to make decisions affecting the whole world. His criticism was soon echoed by both El País and The Times, and in July the same year, the WHO issued a press release, which stated that the reason for the committee members’ anonymity was to avoid any attempt at manipulation by the pharmaceutical industry. Furthermore, the WHO promised, once the pandemic was over and the risk of manipulation of individual members had passed, the names of the committee members would, of course, be released.
However, there must have been a leak because a few weeks later a French journalist published the name of every single member of the Emergency Committee in a major feature in Le Monde. No one knew how he had got hold of the list, but there was a huge scandal when it turned out that practically all members of the committee were shown to have close links to the pharmaceutical industry. No less than seven members sat on the boards of various pharmaceutical companies, and four of those companies turned out to produce constituents that went into the H1N1 vaccine. Things went from bad to worse when a pharmaceutical-company contract for one of the committee members was published. It stated in black and white that the bonus paid to each board member was linked directly to the profit of the company. A hefty sum, the journalist concluded archly, because the WHO’s pandemic warning had resulted in a massive rise in the production of influenza vaccines and there had been in total an increase of seventy-five orders with a value of two billion euros for Tamiflu alone.
The WHO cares more about the pharmaceutical industry than public health!
The WHO is in the pocket of Big Pharma!
The world’s media went crazy.
The WHO was forced to dismiss several members of the Emergency Committee as more and more came under the spotlight, including Bennett. It turned out that he was an adviser to and director of several vaccine-constituent producers, including the rapidly growing Japanese pharmaceutical company Sixan Pharmaceuticals, which manufactured an aluminium-based constituent for the influenza vaccine.
Two factors saved Bennett from professional beheading. First, he could prove that he had resigned from the board of Sixan Pharmaceuticals before he had joined the WHO’s Emergency Committee. Second, it turned out that he was the only one of the twelve committee members to have voted against the pandemic warning. He had stayed silent while the scandal unfolded, but the moment he was cleared, he uploaded a press release on his homepage in which he wrote:
I can only agree that a close relationship between an organisation like the WHO and the pharmaceutical industry is completely inappropriate, but it doesn’t justify a witch-hunt of individuals.
And it might be said that he had a point.
Marie got up from her computer to stretch her legs and stopped in front of the window to look down on the street. There was no blue Ford today. She thought about Tim. Last Friday night she had melted like butter in his arms and shyly inhaled his overpowering scent of unknown continents, caressed the soft skin of his palms and tickled his foot with hers. ‘You’re exploring me.’ Tim had laughed in the darkness. Yes, and for a moment, she had let her guard down. But if Tim really did want to hurt her, why hadn’t he just killed her there and then? One blow and she would have been dead.
One explanation could be that the Guinean medical records had still been missing at that stage. And now, when Tim had got her email telling him she had found them, she would become the next target to be destroyed. But what about Malam Batista, who had sounded utterly convincing when he told her that Tim was travelling in the province? Had that been a lie? It hadn’t sounded like one. But Marie knew from Storm that in Guinea-Bissau everything was for sale. An alibi, a ministerial post or a container full of cocaine. It was always about the money. Had Tim paid Malam to lie if anyone from Denmark should call to ask for him?
Marie’s thoughts were interrupted when Søren rang her.
‘Did you get some sleep last night?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ Marie said, and quickly told him what Jesper had said.
‘And I don’t know any African men except Tim,’ Marie said miserably. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’
‘I’m investigating Tim’s travel activity,’ Søren said. ‘As soon as I’ve got something, I’ll call you. But we should consider moving you to a safer place.’
‘All right,’ Marie said feebly.
‘Perhaps you could stay with Lea? I’ve just spoken to her.’
‘You finally got hold of her?’
‘Once she got my email, I had a breakthrough – I think you could call it that,’ Søren said. ‘She rang me the second she’d read it. I’m going over there later today to give her the photograph.’
When Marie had ended the call, she got a message telling her she had four missed calls. An unknown number had tried once and Lea three times. Marie was about to call her younger sister when Lea’s name flashed up on the display.
‘I’ve just spoken to a policeman called Søren Marhauge,’ Lea said, without introduction. ‘He would appear to have grown up on Snerlevej and has just come back from Aalborg. Well, he did try to explain the whole convoluted business to me, but how it all connected was beyond me. Bottom line is that he has the photograph Tove kept. I’ll get it tonight.’
‘I gave him your email address. I thought you’d be pleased,’ Marie said.
‘You? How long have you known him?’
‘Since yesterday when I called the police about Storm. We met and I told him everything. At one point, he mentioned that he knew who I was and that he, too, had grown up on Snerlevej.’
‘I don’t remember him at all,’ Lea said.
‘No, but you must have been very young when he moved out.’
‘Yes, but— Hey, by the way, Mattis called! He says your ink is super-cool! I can’t wait to see it. If you didn’t have such an ancient mobile, you could have sent me a picture. Incidentally, he’s crazy about you,’ Lea went on.
‘No, he’s crazy about you,’ Marie said.
‘Mattis? No way. We’re just friends. Besides, he knows I’m into women.’
For a moment Marie thought she’d misheard. ‘You’re what?’
‘Into women. One hundred per cent. It took me four turbulent teenage years and way too many bad experiences to realise I don’t like men. Or, at least, not in that way. But Mattis is cool. Go for it.’
Marie was speechless.
‘Are you shocked, sis?’ Lea asked. ‘You’ve gone awfully quiet.’
‘No,’ Marie said. ‘But sometimes it amazes me how blinkered we can be when it comes to our own family.’
‘It’s called a survival mechanism, sweetie,’ Lea said. At that moment, the doorbell rang.
‘I have to go. That’ll be Anton,’ Marie said. ‘But I’ll call you later. Would it be all right if we slept at yours tonight?’
‘What do you think?’ Lea laughed. ‘I’ll rush out and buy a bunk bed.’
‘I’m so glad that we’ve finally grown up,’ Marie said.
She ended the call, looked out of the window at the roof of Jesper’s 4×4 and saw Jesper standing on the pavement. He was getting thin on top.
‘You can run upstairs on your own,’ she heard Jesper say to Anton.
Marie pressed the button to let Anton into the stairwell, put a cardigan over her nightie and went down to meet him.
‘What have you got there?’ Anton asked, pointing to Marie’s tattoo, which peeped out at the neckline of her nightie.
‘A tattoo,’ Marie replied.
‘Just like Aunt Lea?’
‘Yep.’
‘Won’t it ever come off?’
‘Nope.’
‘Wow! Dad will be so mad.’
‘But do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ Anton said. ‘Can I have a tattoo of a dog?’
‘Yes,’ Marie said. ‘But not until you’re a grown-up. When you’re a grown-up, you can do anything you like.’
Together they walked up the stairs.
*
Anton and Marie made space aliens out of salt dough, which they painted once they had baked them until they were hard. Marie peered furtively at her computer and had to keep a tight rein on herself not to let the approaching deadline panic her. Three times she went to the window, but there was no blue Ford. When push came to shove, it probably was not that Ford she had seen. When Anton went to his room to play, Marie sat down at her desk. Now, where was she? Bennett’s homepage. She had to smile when she saw it. Dressed in cashmere, Bennett was leaning casually against his bright red sports car, suitably rugged and suitably professorial. Marie thought he looked a little like Sandö, but Sandö had turned out to be OK, and Marie reminded herself never to judge a book by its cover. She clicked around Bennett’s homepage for a while and discovered that he had spent several years in West Africa, sent out by the now defunct American aid organisation Trust to build health centres. There was also a picture of Bennett with his beautiful daughter, Louise, aged twenty-three, who, according to the caption, was studying medicine at Stanford University and ‘made her old dad proud’.
Marie was starting to understand why Storm had disliked the man. Bennett’s homepage stated that he had decided to study medicine because ‘as a young man he had often found it difficult to sleep due to his strong desire to save Africa’. Later he had specialised in vaccine constituents, focusing on improving the reaction of the immune system to the vaccine, and in 1988 he had been awarded the Nobel Prize for his research.
All of which was very heroic.
Marie explored the website further and came across a statement written by the WHO’s legal officer confirming that every rule had been followed to the letter in connection with Bennett’s resignation from the board of Sixan Pharmaceuticals and his joining the WHO’s Emergency Committee in 2009. Legally everything was above board, the lawyer stated. Marie followed a link to the website of Sixan Pharmaceuticals where she skimmed the names of current board members, conspicuous for Bennett’s absence. She also found a list of Sixan Pharmaceuticals’ ‘friendship universities’, but the University of Copenhagen was not among them. However, the University of Stockholm was. The Swedish academics appeared keen to become blood brothers with the world of commerce. The University of Oslo was not mentioned either, but Sixan Pharmaceuticals was friends with several prestigious institutions, such as Stanford and the University of California in Berkeley. And – who could have guessed it? – Universidad Colinas de Boé in Bissau of all places! It was a bit of a mixed bag.
Marie decided to condense Paul Smith’s views to give Bennett more space. It was common knowledge that Storm and Bennett disagreed, and Marie was convinced that her article would have a stronger impact if she let Bennett appear in all his impressive academic expertise before she, just as expertly, of course, took him apart.
Søren rang back. ‘I’ve got some fresh information,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in contact with the border control officers at Copenhagen airport and a passenger by the name of Tim Salomon did indeed board an SAS flight to Lisbon on the twenty-seventh of March at fourteen fifty-five. From there he caught a TAP flight to Bissau at twenty-one fifteen. Portuguese border officials have confirmed that he boarded the plane in Lisbon and that it took off on time.’
‘Oh, I’m so relieved,’ Marie exclaimed. ‘I told you it couldn’t be true.’
‘Marie,’ Søren said, ‘Tim returned to Denmark this morning.’
‘What?’ Marie whispered.
‘He hasn’t tried to contact you, has he?’ Søren asked.
‘No,’ Marie said, but then she remembered the call from the unknown number. ‘Have you called me from mobiles other than your own?’ she asked Søren. ‘An unknown number rang a few times, but I just presumed it was you calling me. From the police station, perhaps.’
‘I’ve only called you from my mobile,’ Søren said. ‘Can you tell me exactly when the calls came in?’
‘Around nine thirty and again around eleven.’
A pause followed.
‘Tim’s plane landed at eight fifty-five a.m. at Copenhagen airport,’ Søren said. ‘Listen, Marie, you should go to a safe place. I know that you trust him, and I’m sure you have good reason to, but even so, I want you to pack a bag. I’ll be around later and take you to your sister’s. I’m going to see her anyway with the photograph. I’ll be a couple of hours because I . . . I’m having Easter lunch with my mother-in-law, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can get away.’
‘OK,’ Marie said.
*
Anton was sitting on the floor playing with his Star Wars figures when Marie peeked into his room. His lips were moving in an inner monologue and he did not look up. Marie found a sports bag and packed some clothes and a few books. Then she texted Lea to say they would be there in a couple of hours and returned to her desk. Suddenly Anton touched her arm and she jumped.
‘You startled me!’ she cried, and pulled him onto her lap.
‘I forgot to give you the envelope from Dad,’ he said. ‘It’s in my rucksack.’
‘What envelope from Dad?’ Marie said.
Anton darted out into the hall to fetch his rucksack. He pulled out a big yellow hospital envelope and gave it to Marie. On the front Jesper had written: Marie Skov, Randersgade 76, 2100 Copenhagen Ø, and it was franked with eighteen kroner, ready to be posted. Marie noticed that he had left out ‘Just’ from her name and shook out a pile of letters.
‘They’re for you. Natascha forgot to post the envelope,’ Anton said, ‘and Dad says I can have the stamps and that they’re worth eighteen kroner because they haven’t been postmarked.’
‘Of course,’ Marie said. ‘We can steam them off in a moment.’
There were about ten letters in the large envelope, a magazine she subscribed to and a small soft package, poorly wrapped in brown paper. Marie flicked through the letters. Bills, a reminder of a dental appointment and a patient-satisfaction survey of her treatment at Rigshospitalet.
‘Aren’t you going to open your parcel?’ Anton asked.
Marie turned it over and looked at the address:
Marie Skov
Ingeborgvej 24, 2900
Hellup
‘Yes,’ Marie said, but then she stalled. The address was wrongly spelled.
‘Please may I watch a movie?’ Anton asked.
‘Yes, but in your own room or on my bed wearing headphones. I need to work a little longer. Later we’ll go and see Aunt Lea.’
‘On your bed with headphones,’ Anton said, when he had considered the offer. Marie made him comfortable and returned to her desk. When Anton was engrossed in his movie, she took the parcel to the kitchen.
It contained a long, narrow piece of cloth whose ends were tied together. Marie was in no doubt: the fabric had been torn off Storm’s bright red pano, which she had looked for in vain at the funeral. Mystified, she held up the rag, then threw it down as if it had burned her hand.
Someone had sent her a noose.
Marie called Søren Marhauge, but got no reply. Then she sent him a text message asking him to call her immediately. She locked herself into the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat with her head between her legs. Fortunately Anton was wearing headphones and could not hear how long she struggled to get her breathing under control. When the panic attack started to subside, she flushed the toilet and glanced into the living room. Anton was exactly where she had left him, totally absorbed in his movie.
Marie returned to the kitchen where the woven noose was still lying on the floor. She found a freezer bag, picked up the noose with her hand inside the bag and turned the bag inside out. She carefully studied the envelope. The postmark said: Nørrebro Post Office, 24 March.
Marie gulped.
Merethe Hermansen’s temp had said that Tim had dropped by the Institute of Biology on Wednesday, 24 March, asking for her address because he wanted to send her something. Marie had presumed this to be the wooden swallow, which he had given her in person.
At that moment Søren rang. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t take your call,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to your flat now. Be ready to leave as soon as I arrive. Marie, I’ve just had a call from the Institute of Forensic Medicine and it’s now clear that Kristian Storm was murdered. He was suffocated with a plastic bag and afterwards his body was suspended from a noose in the ceiling to make it look like suicide.’
‘Someone has sent me a noose,’ Marie whispered, terrified that Anton might be able to hear her even though he was still watching his movie.
‘I’m on my way,’ Søren said.