On Tuesday, 30 March, Lily had got out on the wrong side of bed. First she couldn’t open her eyelids, then she didn’t like the yoghurt, then her tights were itchy and she definitely did not want to visit Granny, but insisted on being looked after by Anna, who was away in Sjællands Odde. When she was finally strapped into her car seat, still wearing pyjamas, dressing gown and wellies, because Søren had given up trying to get her dressed, she declared she was starving, but it was now too late, Søren said: he had offered her breakfast and she had said no, so she would have to eat when she got to Granny’s. As a result, Lily felt dreadfully car-sick all the way to Nørrebro.
‘When did you say Anna is back?’ Cecilie asked, when Søren dropped Lily off. ‘It’s just that Jens and I have been invited to Fyn for an Easter get-together with some old friends, so we need to leave no later than eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Is that OK with you?’
Søren promised to find a solution and kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek. ‘But now I really have to run or I’ll be late.’
‘I knew you’d go back to work,’ Cecilie said. ‘Jens and I had a bet on how long you would last. Jens said two months. “Given how pig-headed he can be,” he said. But I said two weeks max, so I win!’
Søren sped down Hillerødgade to make the nine o’clock morning briefing and everything went according to plan until he reached Borups Allé where a lorry had turned over. The police had just started cordoning off the street and Søren had to get out of his car and wave his warrant card before he was finally let through. He was sweating profusely when he parked in front of Bellahøj at ten minutes past nine. He was slow-clapped as he entered the briefing room.
‘You’re worse than Tejsner,’ Mehmet quipped. Søren was about to reprimand the young police officer, but thought better of it.
‘It’s called life,’ he said amicably, ‘and every now and then it gets in your way.’
*
When the morning briefing was over, Søren dealt with a few things at his desk, feeling somewhat put out that no one at the station had believed he had ever been serious about quitting. Everything in his office had been left untouched. Even an old coffee cup with dried-on stains. He tried calling Lea Skov again and wondered why she was so difficult to get hold of. Then, for the third time, he listened to Bøje’s incandescent message from three days ago.
‘Bollocking bollocks’ meant that Bøje had discovered something. That much Søren understood. But what? Søren replayed the message again. An outburst of rhetorical thunder disguising feelings of agitation, but no actual information. Søren played the message for a third time, trying to ignore the words and concentrating purely on the emotion. Could it be shame? It was probably the last feeling Søren would associate with Bøje Knudsen, but once the thought had crossed his mind, that was exactly how it sounded. Søren slammed his fist hard on the desk. He needed the emails Bøje had never got round to sending him. And he needed them now.
Suddenly one name sprang to mind. Berit Dahl Mogensen, the statistician from Odense who had left the Belem Health Project in a hurry. It proved to be difficult, but eventually Søren managed to track her down at the Faculty of Business and Social Sciences at Syddansk University where she worked. He wrote her a brief email asking her to call, but received an instant auto reply. Berit Dahl Mogensen was currently on maternity leave until 1 February 2011, and all requests should be directed to her temporary replacement. Bother. He tried the online telephone directory, but there would not appear to be a single Berit Dahl Mogensen in the whole of Denmark. He called Linda.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘How lovely to hear your voice again.’
‘It’s nice to be back,’ Søren said, and asked her for information on Berit Dahl Mogensen. ‘And I’ll need her private email address as well because she has just gone on maternity leave. If they can’t help you at Syddansk University, then try the Institute of Biology at the University of Copenhagen. Berit Dahl Mogensen used to work on the Belem Health Project, but there has to be someone at the Department of Immunology who can come up with a private email address or telephone number. You could try Merethe Hermansen, the chief secretary. She seems reasonably well informed. Otherwise, try the National Register of Persons.’
‘I’m on it,’ Linda said.
Søren called the Department of Forensic Genetics to find out when the results of Joan Skov’s tissue and blood samples would be ready and, more importantly, the analysis of the nail scrapings and the three hairs Bøje had found wrapped around her fingers. He spoke to Klaus Mønster, a technician he knew.
‘Do you have a case number?’ Klaus Mønster said, when they had exchanged pleasantries.
‘Hang on,’ he said, when Søren had given him the number of Joan Skov’s autopsy report.
Søren drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited.
‘Oh, it’s that case,’ Klaus Mønster said, sounding weary when he came back on the phone. ‘I could have told you that without having to look it up. The results aren’t in yet.’
‘Really? I gathered from Bøje Knudsen that this was an urgent matter,’ Søren said.
‘All of his cases always are, aren’t they?’ Mønster said drily. ‘However, DNA sequencing of hair takes as long as it takes. Besides, he called Friday morning and overrode his own orders.’
‘Overrode himself?’
‘Yes with a new, incredibly urgent case. Four pieces of plastic and five close-up pictures of secondary ligature marks, which appeared to have become visible on the neck of a body and which Bøje Knudsen demanded to have analysed as quickly as possible. “Preferably yesterday, you lazy sods,” as he so elegantly put it. As a rule we try to accommodate the phenomenon that is Bøje Knudsen with good grace, but at times it’s a struggle. This department isn’t Bøje Knudsen’s private fiefdom, is it? We’ve been rushed off our feet with the student rapes, and last Friday everything was total chaos because the police had remanded a potential rapist in custody. I certainly intended to take a closer look at Bøje Knudsen’s bits of plastic as soon as I could, but I didn’t get round to it last Friday.’
‘So you still haven’t checked them?’
At this Mønster chuckled. ‘Yes, because do you know what Bøje did? He turned up at my home Friday evening while my wife and I had guests. I still haven’t worked out how he got my home address, but there he was in a grubby white coat and his hair standing up on all sides. He had already sent me four reminders by email, he said, and demanded that I come with him immediately and analyse the plastic pieces and the ligature marks. Of course I refused point-blank, but I couldn’t get rid of him until I had promised to take a look at them first thing the following morning. So that was what I did and I sent the results to him around noon. The plastic fragments had been torn off a yellow Netto shopping bag, and the secondary ligature marks, which had appeared, were from a regular strangulation and not the ligature marks of a hanging, which was what Bøje had initially presumed.’
‘Which case do the secondary ligature marks and the four plastic fragments relate to?’ Søren asked, holding his breath.
‘No idea,’ Mønster said. ‘I was never given an autopsy report, a police report or a crime-scene report. Just an evidence bag with four plastic fragments and five close-up photographs of ligature marks.’
Søren swore in frustration.
‘Never got as much as a thank-you from him, and though I know perfectly well why not, it’s still bad form.’
‘What did you know perfectly well?’
‘That he’s embarrassed. No matter how much Bøje screams and shouts, ultimately it’s on his head that he didn’t take a proper look at the case until now, regardless of how busy he was. As far as I know, the deceased has already been cremated and the case is officially closed, so it’s always a total nightmare to have to reopen it, but you would know more about that than me. Bøje doesn’t exactly come out of this smelling of roses, does he? Still, let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. We do have a full autopsy, so all we need is for the old man to swallow his pride and admit that he made a mistake. It would suit him. Anyway, give him my best and tell him it’s the last time I do him a favour without a thank-you. Especially on a Friday evening.’
‘Bøje had a heart attack on Saturday,’ Søren said. ‘He’s in a coma.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘Good grief, I’m really sorry to hear that,’ Mønster said, and promised to email his report on both the plastic fragments and the ligature marks immediately and also to call as soon as there was news from the samples in the Joan Skov case.
*
Søren walked past Linda, who was still trying to find Berit Dahl Mogensen’s address, and told her he would be away from his desk for a couple of hours. Then he went to Rigshospitalet.
‘I would like to visit Bøje Knudsen,’ Søren said, when he had shown his warrant card at the entrance to the intensive care unit. ‘I’m aware that he’s in a coma, but Bøje is . . . a sort of friend. If people in our line of work have friends, that is.’
The duty doctor shook his hand. ‘No one knows how much coma patients take in,’ he said, ‘so I’m glad you’ve come. You’re his first visitor. He’s in side ward eight.’
The room was cool and quiet and the only sound was that of the ventilator. Bøje had practically disappeared under the white sheets.
‘So, now it’s your turn,’ Søren said, and thought about how many hundreds, if not thousands, of times Bøje had stood bent over a lifeless body. ‘I went back to work yesterday,’ he went on. ‘As acting superintendent, would you believe it? I think you’ve started a trend, old friend. Before we know it everyone will want to move down the ladder.’ Then he patted Bøje’s hand. ‘And that’s all. I’m going now. I’m not very good at talking to people in a coma. But I promise to drop by one of these days. Bye-bye.’
Søren walked down the corridor and slammed his hand against his forehead at his own idiocy. Who the hell said bye-bye to a man in a coma?
*
At the Institute of Forensic Medicine, Morten La Cour, the young pathologist, would appear to have taken over Bøje’s stress in a one-to-one ratio.
‘Don’t I know it,’ La Cour said wearily, when Søren told him he was in urgent need of the missing autopsy report. ‘I’ve looked for it, believe me. But total chaos reigns on Bøje’s computer or perhaps he had a system known only to him. I really couldn’t say. It’s an impossible task for an outsider to make sense of his logic, or lack of it, not least because he had several versions of the same half-finished autopsy report open at the same time, and used filenames such as “the long wrinkly one” and “Snow White’s eighth and hitherto unknown little friend”. I ended up sending his computer to our internal computer analyst to unravel the mess. We’re talking about twenty-seven unfinished autopsy reports.’
‘That’s just not good enough,’ Søren snapped at him. ‘When do you think your guy will be done?’
‘In a few days. He gave me his word. So tomorrow, Thursday at the latest. Trust me, you’re not the only one chasing this. I’ve also got Chief Superintendent Bernt from Station City breathing down my neck, but not quite as politely as you, in case you’re interested,’ La Cour said.
‘But Thursday is a public holiday,’ Søren objected.
‘Not this year, it isn’t. Before Easter is over, another fifteen bodies will have piled up, which makes it very much in my own interest to clear up after Bøje so we don’t drown in unfinished cases. I’ll call you as soon as I hear from him. But this was suicide, wasn’t it? I thought that case had been closed.’
‘No, it wasn’t. We’re investigating a murder,’ Søren said grumpily. ‘Only I can’t prove it yet.’
*
When Søren got back to Bellahøj, he sat for a while drumming his fingers on his desk. Then he called Lea Skov for the umpteenth time and for the umpteenth time his call went straight to voicemail. He had to change tactic and get her email address. Perhaps Marie Skov could give it to him and then he could question her at the same time.
However, he decided to call Julie Claessen, the Skov family’s eldest daughter, instead, but got no reply on her mobile or landline and didn’t want to leave a message. He went on to look up Frank Skov’s telephone number and had pressed all the digits before he changed his mind and hung up. In the open-plan office, Mehmet and Inge Kai were reviewing interviews in connection with a suspected arson case in Gladsaxe. Mehmet was clearly bored out of his skull while Inge Kai was wearing her reading glasses and looking industrious.
Five minutes later Søren and Inge Kai were on their way to Frank Skov’s house. They were in plain clothes and Inge Kai was driving. Mehmet had been put out when Søren had picked her, but it couldn’t be helped.
Søren leaned back in the passenger seat and felt exhausted. He could not believe how blind he had been. With the benefit of hindsight it was obvious that Henrik’s arsy behaviour in recent months was all about how terrible he felt. Were Anna and Søren really so fixated on each other that they had lost sight of the rest of the world? If that was true, it was only half true. Søren was prepared to concede that he might be fixated on Anna, but Anna was not nearly as obsessed with him as he would like. The truth was he was permanently terrified that she would pull the plug on their relationship without any warning. He would die, he thought, and, at the same moment, wanted to kick himself for being such a girl. Die. His baby daughter had died from drowning. Knud and Elvira had been eaten up by cancer. The worst that could happen to him was that his heart would hurt very, very much for a very long time. It was not the same as dying. It would just feel like it. Besides, he had no reason not to trust Anna. Only he just didn’t. He was constantly on his guard. She was like a suitcase with a false compartment: there was something about her he didn’t know. Houses, streets and people passed by in a steady flow outside his window; Inge Kai was a good driver. Or did he have a hidden compartment? he suddenly thought. And had the lid sprung open because he had never loved as deeply as he loved Anna and Lily? His biological daughter’s short life had fertilised the soil and now the tree of that love had borne its first bittersweet fruit. The sweet touch of Anna’s body nestling against his back at night and the joy of Lily’s hand in his when they walked through the snow mixed with the bitter taste of fear.
Shit. Henrik had been right. Søren always managed to make everything that happened about Anna, and he had just done it again. He was a crap friend. He was self-obsessed. Imagine him not even suspecting that Henrik and Jeanette had split up. It was beyond awful.
They had reached Vangede, and Inge Kai parked the car outside the Skov family’s home. She had not spoken one word the whole way and Søren was grateful for that.
Søren threw a glance at Knud and Elvira’s house. ‘That’s my house,’ he said.
‘You live here?’ Inge said, surprised. ‘I thought you lived in Humlebæk.’
‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But I still own that house. It’s where I grew up.’
‘It’s a lovely place,’ was all she said.
The Skovs’ place was not lovely. The front garden was well kept, but only in the way that a freshly shorn sheep could be described as neatly trimmed. It was mostly lawn with a few flowers and bushes and a straight flagstone path that led to the front door. The house gave the same impression. At first sight it was in good condition, but on closer inspection it was badly in need of some TLC. Søren noticed that someone had reattached a section of the gutter to the roof with cable ties. An effective solution, but not one for the long term.
Søren rang the doorbell and they did not hear footsteps from inside the house until his third ring. Shortly afterwards the door was opened.
Frank must have been asleep because he had the imprint of a cushion on his cheek, but when Søren showed him his warrant card, he livened up and tried to smooth his hair. He reeked of stale booze and Søren had a flashback to Herman Madsen’s description of him as a ‘tough guy’. That must have been a long time ago.
‘Come in, come in,’ Frank said obligingly. ‘What can I do for you?’
Søren said that he had a couple of questions and Frank ushered them into the dining room.
‘Anything for the police,’ he fawned. ‘I’ve got to give it to you, you’ve been real sports. I know I screwed up big-time, but I’m sober now,’ he lied, holding up two fingers like a Boy Scout. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘Actually, I’m from the Violent Crimes Unit.’ Søren watched Frank closely for a reaction. There was none. ‘So your offence on Vesterbro isn’t my department.’
Søren and Inge Kai sat down at a large, extendable Brazilian rosewood table in the dining room; Frank disappeared into the kitchen and returned shortly with coffee cups and a plate of biscuits. He talked a lot. About Julie’s many good qualities – imagine, her mother had just died and she was already back working as a carer, helping people in need – about Marie’s brilliant career as a scientist and about Lea, who would soon graduate as a psychologist and what-have-you. And about the house, which might be old, but sound, no trace of mould, about the Børge Mogensen sideboard, which they hadn’t even known was designed by Børge Mogensen until their son-in-law, who was a consultant at Rigshospitalet, had seen the exact same one on Lauritz.com, would you believe it, about the weather and about a dog they had once had, which had been run over in the street and whoever had done it had never reported it to the police, but Frank had his suspicions.
During all the time Frank was talking, Søren wondered what was really going on in the man’s mind, and when he paused, purely to draw breath, Søren concluded that this was about distraction.
‘More coffee?’ Frank enquired.
‘No, thank you,’ Søren said.
For a while everything was quiet. Søren made a point of not saying anything and merely smiled at Frank.
Frank was being slow-roasted over a fire.
‘May I ask the reason for your visit?’ he then said, as if it had not occurred to him until now that it might be a little odd. ‘My wife has just passed away and I’m due in court for my little screw-up on the second of July. It’s all arranged. There’s nothing more for you here. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like some time to myself.’
‘We’re wondering why your wife had so many different types of medication for the same conditions,’ Søren said. ‘Much of it was out of date so I suppose you just hadn’t got around to throwing it out, but we also found drugs that she would not appear to have been prescribed in the first place. Do you know where they came from?’
‘Oh, no,’ Frank said. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. Julie was in charge of my wife’s medication. She came here to count her pills every Monday and put them in one of those pill organisers so that her mum was set up for the whole week. I know nothing about pills. Never been anything wrong with me.’ Frank thumped his chest, then started to cough.
‘What was wrong with your wife?’ Søren asked.
‘Wrong? I wouldn’t say there was anything specifically wrong with her as such. My wife had been on all sorts of tablets ever since the boy’s accident and it’s a long time since I had any knowledge of what she was taking and why.’
Søren raised his eyebrows. ‘So she never told you anything when she had been to see her doctor? About being prescribed new drugs or that her dosage had been increased or reduced?’
Frank looked at Søren in surprise. ‘My wife never went to the doctor’s,’ he said. ‘I mean, she used to go, but she hadn’t been anywhere for years. She didn’t like going out. Luckily our son-in-law is a doctor so he could easily renew her prescriptions and ring them through to the chemist where Julie would go to pick them up.’
‘How did your little boy die?’
‘He got meningitis. He was gone just like that.’ Frank snapped his fingers. ‘He got a fever late one afternoon and it soon got so high that we called an ambulance. Mads died at Rigshospitalet.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Søren said sincerely.
‘Yes,’ Frank said. ‘It was awful.’
For the first time Søren thought he had caught an uncensored glimpse of the man. Frank’s eyes grew moist and he quickly looked down at the Brazilian rosewood table.
*
‘Is it all right if I ask you a question?’ Inge Kai said, when they were almost back at Bellahøj station. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind, but I want to become a better investigator and I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to have a one-to-one with you.’
Søren straightened up in his seat. ‘That’s quite all right; I’m sorry I’ve been so monosyllabic today.’
Inge Kai cleared her throat. ‘When Frank said that Joan Skov had taken pills ever since “the boy’s accident”, I made a mental note to ask you what kind of accident, but shortly afterwards you asked specifically what he died from, and when Frank Skov then answered “meningitis”, I began to wonder.’
‘That’s good because you were supposed to.’
‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I?’ Inge Kai said eagerly. ‘Because no matter how acute someone’s illness is, no one would ever describe death from an illness as an accident.’
Søren nodded. ‘He slipped up. The truth is Mads Skov died in an accident in the Skov family’s garden, but they tell everyone that he died from meningitis.’
‘Aha,’ Inge Kai said instantly. ‘So they’re ashamed. No one is to blame for meningitis, but if a child dies in an accident, people might think that someone failed to look after it properly.’
Søren was impressed. ‘Yes, that would be my guess too,’ he then said, ‘and I know exactly where they’re coming from. My daughter drowned in Thailand some years ago. During the tsunami. She was with her mother and I wasn’t even there. Nevertheless, I felt horribly guilty that I had allowed it to happen.’ He had no idea why he was blurting all this out. ‘But how would I feel if she had died in my house while I was in the garden or watching television? I would be racked with guilt.’
Inge Kai nodded. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked at length.
‘We need to do a bit of digging into the circumstances surrounding the death of Mads Skov,’ Søren said.
Inge Kai nodded again.
‘Did you notice anything else?’ Søren asked her.
‘That dentures by definition appear more suspicious than one’s own teeth,’ Inge Kai said. ‘In an old-school way. Big teeth, false beard, spectacles and a hat.’
Søren smiled. ‘Yes, it was conspicuous how he kept grinning at us with those teeth. As if he was trying to divert us.’
‘That’s another source of his shame,’ Inge Kai said pensively.
‘His teeth?’
‘No, his alcoholism,’ Inge Kai said. ‘My father was an alcoholic and he died from drink, but right up until the very end he denied he had a problem. He felt he was above it. He was a successful bookkeeper from a provincial town in Jutland, known and respected by all. He despised addicts. He looked down on them. It never occurred to him that he was one. After all, he wasn’t a loser. A good business, two delightful children and a lovely wife. I picked up the same vibe today. Frank Skov doesn’t want to face reality. Maybe he can’t because it’s associated with too much pain, but the outcome is the same. He lives in a fog and drinks to cope, which makes the fog even denser so he drinks more. How old is Frank Skov? Late fifties? My father would have been sixty this year. My sister calls them “the double-standards generation”. They have strong views about how other people should live their lives, but no one has the right to tell them how to live theirs.’
Søren nodded slowly. He had totally revised his opinion of the young police sergeant from Aarhus.
*
Back at the station Søren pulled up another chair and asked Inge Kai to take a seat in his office. ‘We’ll start by looking up the case in Polsas,’ he said. He logged onto the police case handling system. ‘Let’s see what it says,’ he said, as he ran his gaze down the screen. ‘“Mads Benjamin Skov, born on the twentieth of December 1982, died in an accident in his home on the twenty-seventh of June 1986. Categorised as ‘other investigations’. Autopsy requested. Investigators present: Amundsen and Sandholt.”
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked Inge. ‘There are no wrong answers. I just want your reaction.’
‘“Other investigations” means that the death is not regarded as suspicious,’ Inge Kai said. ‘Even so, an autopsy was requested, but that’s standard practice in situations where an otherwise healthy child dies unexpectedly. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘Is that really all it says? Surely they must have interviewed the family about the accident.’
‘Yes, I’m absolutely sure they did,’ Søren said. ‘But the case is closed now. Besides, there were no suspicious circumstances so Polsas only gives us a brief summary. If we want the complete case file with appendices and autopsy photographs, we have to go to the National Police Archives. We’ll do that tomorrow.’
*
Later that evening Søren drove to Nørrebro to have dinner with his mother-in-law and to pick up Lily. As he drove, he called Anna at the holiday cottage. She sounded happy when she answered her phone and Søren asked when she would be coming home.
‘Tomorrow evening,’ she replied.
‘As late as that?’
‘Yes – don’t you remember me telling you?’
‘You said Wednesday, but you never mentioned it would be the evening.’
‘Is that a problem? We’d like to be able to work the whole day.’
‘Do you know something?’ Søren snapped. ‘So would I. And Cecilie and Jens are going to Fyn tomorrow morning. So please could you get back a little earlier? That way I can do my job too.’
‘You having a job is a somewhat recent development,’ Anna said drily, but even though Søren was well aware that she was only teasing him, he refused to play ball. ‘Anyway, got to run,’ Anna continued. ‘If you absolutely have to work, then call Karen. She’s just texted me to say she’s off work this week and wants to see Lily. I’m sure she’d love to babysit. I’ll text you her number. Bye.’
A moment later he received a text message with Karen’s telephone number; Anna hadn’t signed off with love or a kiss. Søren rang Karen, a childhood friend of Anna’s, and they agreed that she would come over and look after Lily the next day. She would arrive for coffee at ten o’clock, she said, and offered to cook dinner for them when Anna got home so Søren could work late if he needed to. Later, perhaps, the three of them could have a glass of wine, Karen suggested, just like they used to do when Anna and Søren had first started seeing each other.
It was nine thirty that evening before Søren and Lily got home after dinner with Cecilie. Lily had long since fallen asleep in her car seat. When Søren had carried her to bed, he sat down on the sofa with his laptop. There was an email from Linda.
Hi Søren
After much searching, I managed to track down Berit Dahl Mogensen, but she wasn’t terribly co-operative. She kept stressing that she has no links to the Department of Immunology, Kristian Storm or the Belem Health Project and that, as far as she’s concerned, it’s all in the past. Besides, how could she be sure that I really was calling from the police, she kept asking, and refused to give me further contact details. However, she did suggest that we could set up a meeting with Fyn Police and she was willing to go to the police station in Hans Mules Gade. She sounded a bit paranoid, but I gather that her baby daughter is only a few weeks old, so I guess she has a valid excuse. I then called Sergeant Uffe Nielsen from Fyn Police. He has booked a meeting room for you tomorrow morning at one o’clock and Berit Dahl Mogensen has promised to be there.
Best wishes, Linda
Søren put aside his laptop and picked up a book, but he couldn’t concentrate and kept glancing furtively at his mobile. He had not heard a word from Anna since the afternoon, when she had seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. He missed her and he had to give himself a severe talking-to to prevent himself stalking her and Anders T. on Facebook and working himself into a frenzy. He set the alarm on his mobile for ten twenty, so he had time to make coffee and go to the loo before Deadline started on DR2, and settled down for a nap on the sofa. This turned out to be a futile exercise. Anna writhed on his retinas, naked and glistening on the actual skin of a tiger that Anders T. had shot – because he would have, wouldn’t he? – in front of a fire in a seaside cottage on Sjællands Odde while Anders T. slowly pushed his enormous dick into her and pulled it out again just as slowly.
Søren sat up on the sofa and rang Inge Kai. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She sounded surprised. ‘I’m trying to stay awake so I can watch Deadline at ten thirty. How about you?’
Søren grinned. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said, and felt his mood rise by at least twelve degrees. He explained to her that he had to go to Fyn the following day and that she would have to pick up Mads Skov’s file from the National Police Archives without him.
‘Of course,’ Inge Kai said.
*
The next morning, when Karen arrived to look after Lily, Søren gave her a big hug. Her unruly curls were even frizzier than usual and Søren had forgotten how infectious her laughter was.
‘So, where have you been hiding?’ Karen said, with a smile, when Lily finally let go of her and ran off to her room. Søren and she were seated with coffee and fresh rolls. ‘I thought the infatuation stage was meant to last ten months, not ten years.’
‘Oh, I think it’s work rather than Cupid,’ Søren said. ‘And the winter.’
‘Yes, phew,’ Karen said. ‘But when it finally gets warmer, the two of you need to climb down from your ivory tower. Throw a barbecue or something. Otherwise having a garden by a lake is a total waste.’ She laughed.
They talked about the exhibition Karen was preparing. She was taking her finals from Kunstakademiet in two months. Søren also asked about Karen’s boyfriend, Jeppe, and Karen told him that he had a job at Syddansk University and was now commuting.
‘Turned out to be a blessing in disguise,’ Karen said. ‘It makes seeing each other extra special.’ Karen always looked on the bright side.
Lily emerged from her room and asked Karen and Søren if they could watch Bamse and Kylling while they made bead necklaces.
Karen was up for it, but Søren needed the lavatory. When he came out again, his mobile had rung and Karen was bent double laughing at something Lily had said to the caller. Søren told Lily off and snatched back his mobile.
The caller was Marie Skov and they agreed to meet at the Laundromat Café on Nørrebro at five o’clock that afternoon. Ten minutes later Søren was in his car and heading for Fyn.
*
When Søren reached Odense Police Station, he was met by Sergeant Uffe Nielsen in reception and shown to the interview room they had made available for him. Twenty minutes later Berit Dahl Mogensen arrived, a woman of around thirty-five with discreet, round glasses and short hennaed hair. She held out her hand to Søren. ‘Anyone would think I had been accused of something,’ she said, with a wry smile, as she glanced around the interview room. ‘I only have an hour. My baby is just three weeks old so I can’t leave her for very long.’
‘Of course,’ Søren said, and asked her to take a seat. ‘Let’s get started. As you know, Professor Kristian Storm killed himself on the seventeenth of March.’ Berit nodded. ‘However, we’re no longer sure that it was suicide and we have reopened the case.’
Berit clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I knew it,’ she said.
‘You knew what?’
‘That it couldn’t be true. Storm wasn’t the type who would even think of killing himself. He didn’t care one jot what people thought of him, be it good or bad. He was a decent man, very skilled at motivating his students. But he was also brutally single-minded. He had his own agenda and there was them and then there was us, and in order to belong to us, you had to commit just as wholeheartedly to his area of research as he had. But when your colleague . . . Hans Tejsner, is that his name?’
‘Henrik Tejsner.’
‘Yes, that’s it, when Henrik Tejsner called to say that the police were sure of their suicide theory, I started to doubt myself. Tejsner said there was plenty of evidence, including a suicide note, so eventually I was forced to accept that I might not have known Storm as well as I thought I did. A part of me was relieved, I guess.’
‘Why?’
Berit’s eyes flitted. ‘Something happened in Guinea-Bissau while I was there. It made me feel very unsafe and I started having panic attacks, which I have only just learned to deal with. So when your colleague said it was definitely suicide, I told myself that it had nothing to do with the events in Bissau.’ Suddenly she looked at Søren with wide eyes. ‘Was it really murder?’ she whispered. ‘I’m starting to feel quite ill.’
‘I’m afraid it looks like it,’ Søren said. ‘That’s why it’s important that you tell me exactly what happened in Guinea-Bissau. Everything could be important.’
Berit sighed. ‘I’d made up my mind to put Bissau behind me, but if Storm was murdered, I realise I have to . . .’ Søren nodded.
‘I arrived at the start of January 2008, a few days after Silas had drowned. The whole research station was deeply affected by the tragedy, and although Storm had flown back to Copenhagen at that point, you could feel it all the way to Africa that he had lost his grip on the project. Everything was a mess. There were twelve locals on the project’s payroll, but not one tenth of the work was carried out because Storm hadn’t left any instructions and Tim was in shock. It was deeply frustrating for me because I was new. Of course I was affected by the accident, but I also wanted to get on with my work. In order not to go crazy with frustration, I decided to instigate some daily routines and I persuaded Tim that the two of us should just crack on. In the weeks that followed, we worked our socks off to gain insight into our data, ordered whatever materials we needed and made sure the laboratory was properly equipped. Once the basics were in place, I was finally ready to start the statistical data analysis. It would be months before the data was complete, but we agreed that I might as well start analysing what we had collected, so that was what I did.
‘I loved my work, but I never felt comfortable at the research station. We were constantly the victim of petty thefts and vandalism, which initially I attributed to Storm’s decision to locate the research station right in the middle of Belem, an impoverished part of the city, rather than in the gated white community where the other expats lived. I spent most evenings alone because Tim didn’t live on the premises and I started to feel increasingly unsafe. We did have a security guard, George, but he was deaf, blind and old, and not so much a guard as Storm’s private aid project. One evening a man managed to walk straight past George and into the house. I was in the lavatory when I suddenly heard things being smashed and knocked over in the room that doubled as our office and living room, and I screamed so loudly out of the window that someone from the neighbouring barracks came to my rescue. When the police arrived . . .’ Berit looked knowingly at Søren ‘. . . when the completely hopeless and corrupt Guinean police arrived, the burglar was obviously long gone. The office had been trashed. Books and pictures all over the floor. Papers had been ripped up and the computer monitor had been smashed, but fortunately the computer itself was bolted to the floor because Storm had had a break-in once before, years back, so it was still there. I was deeply shaken. What if I’d been in the living room? I persuaded Tim to move into the research station, but even though he was now living there, I still felt uneasy. Finally, I rang Storm to ask him to hire a guard who was actually up to the job, in case we had another break-in. Storm wasn’t keen on the idea, but when I threatened to return to Denmark, he hired Tim’s older brother, Ébano, a broad-shouldered guy straight from the cashew plantations. Ébano was a very different type from the toothless George and I started to enjoy my work again. But my respite was short-lived. One evening, about four weeks later, when Tim and I came home late after visiting the state laboratory, the research station was on fire. The blaze had already got a solid hold of the two guesthouses and most of the station’s atrium had burned to the ground. Ébano was distraught. He had been to the market to do our shopping and on his return found everything in flames. Again, the police were unhelpful and slow, and none of the neighbours had seen anything. That night I wondered for the first time if the vandalism might have been an attempt to sabotage Belem’s scientific work.
‘If it hadn’t been for Tim, I would have left at that point. But when I voiced my concerns, he held a rousing speech about civic courage and the importance of the work Storm was carrying out in Guinea-Bissau. He persuaded me to finish the statistics on the positive effect of the measles vaccine on the child mortality rate, but he didn’t try to conceal the fact that he hoped I would stay and process the problematic DTP data. I couldn’t promise the latter, I said, but I stayed on. Tim had a word with his brother, who started acting as my bodyguard. He didn’t stick to me twenty-four/seven because that would have driven me crazy, but if I was doing anything in the evening or felt unsafe if I had an errand in town, I could always ask Ébano to come with me. That worked really well until one evening when I was doing the washing-up in the small kitchen at the research station. Suddenly someone came up behind me and, before I had time to react, put a sack over my head and tightened it. I tried to scream because I knew that Ébano was sitting just outside the gate, playing dice with some men, but my attacker put his arm across my throat, so I couldn’t make a sound. Then he dragged me backwards down the passage to the office, where he ordered me, in English with an African accent, to delete the contents of the computer. I said I couldn’t see anything and he cut two holes in the sack covering my head with his knife and repeated, while he held my neck in an iron grip so I couldn’t turn my head, that I had to delete the hard disk or he would kill me. When I had deleted everything, I clicked desperately on the screen so that my attacker could see that everything was gone. Then he turned the sack around so that I was blinded again, tied my hands behind my back with a cable tie and threw me onto the sofa.
‘Two days later I was on the first available TAP flight out of Bissau to Lisbon, and when the plane took off from Bissau, I knew that that was the end of my involvement. Storm lived for his research, but I don’t. Not in that way. Statistics is my work, but I’ve no intention of dying for it. Storm called me several times to express his concern, but it was always in the air that he wanted me to return. He even offered me a pay rise. When he realised that I had made up my mind, he called me one more time and asked me to be discreet about what had happened. He didn’t want to scare off other young scientists, he said, and thus damage the research, and that was what I was referring to earlier. Storm was a fascinating man and his work in Guinea-Bissau was outstanding and, in my opinion, the only form of aid work that really makes a difference. But the moment I left the magic circle, he lost interest in me.’
‘Have you kept in touch with Tim?’
‘Yes, but only sporadically. He emailed me a few times to ask how I was. I know that his mother died recently and that he and Ébano took it very hard.’
‘What do you make of Tim’s brother?’ Søren asked.
‘He’s different from Tim, even though they look alike. Ébano isn’t stupid, not at all, but he’s not academically gifted like Tim. More muscle and stamina.’
Søren had an idea. ‘Does Tim know where you live?’
Berit look nonplussed. Then she went deathly pale. ‘You’re not suspecting Tim, are you? That’s not what you’re saying? That you suspect him of killing Storm? He knows where I live. He got my address last year because we joked that we wanted to see how long it would take a Christmas card from Bissau to reach me. But . . .’ Berit’s hands were shaking so much when she found her mobile that she dropped it twice on the table.
‘Easy now,’ Søren said. ‘Don’t panic. I don’t think you’re in danger. You have officially withdrawn from the project and are working on something completely different. Are you worried because your daughter and her babysitter are at your home address?’
Berit nodded and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Is there somewhere you can go for a few days? Somewhere you feel safe. That’s the most important thing. As I said, I don’t think you’re in danger.’
Berit nodded. ‘I don’t know why I’m reacting like this. The fear has never really gone away. I don’t believe for a moment that Tim did it. He’s a good man. You don’t meet many like him. He’s a bit like how people used to describe Storm. He has no hidden agenda. I refuse to believe that he did it.’
The tears continued to trickle down Berit’s cheeks as she pressed the number. ‘Are you all right?’ she said, into her mobile. ‘OK, good . . . No, nothing’s wrong. I’m coming home now.’ She hung up.
‘I can stay with a friend for a few days,’ she said.
‘That sounds good,’ Søren said.
‘I should never have agreed to meet you,’ she added. ‘I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. Only I thought I had finally beaten my anxiety attacks.’ She put on her jacket and slung her bag over her shoulder.
‘If Tim didn’t do it, then who did?’ Søren asked.
‘Someone who doesn’t value human life,’ Berit said promptly, ‘especially not African lives. Someone from the pharmaceutical industry.’
‘But if the WHO is refusing to review the vaccination programme, then surely they’re the guilty ones?’
‘The WHO is an old conservative institution that doesn’t want to lose face or prestige. But it’s only a matter of time before they have to accept the new truths. Along with other scientists across the globe, who are starting to back Storm’s theories about the non-specific effects of vaccines, the WHO will have to change its attitude. But it takes time, and although it’s frustrating, ultimately it’s right that it should be so. The WHO is the cornerstone in the world’s understanding of health and they cannot, nor should they, jump on every new research trend. No, if someone murdered Storm to shut him up, then it’s someone who is making money out of his death. Money is the only thing that can drive people to such extremes.’ Berit’s eyes blazed again. ‘I knew it was more than common vandalism. I knew it! Storm thought I read too much into it. Perhaps he didn’t even understand the extent of what he was meddling with. In that way he was naïve. Idealists often are. But I really need to go now.’
Søren nodded. ‘I’ll keep you informed, and if there’s anything, just call. Here is my private number.’ Søren handed Berit his card.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She had taken two steps when she stopped and looked anxiously at Søren. ‘Give Marie Skov my best wishes and tell her to watch her back,’ she said.
*
Søren drove from Odense straight to Østerbro and parked in front of the Laundromat Café just before five o’clock. He took the photograph of Lea Skov from the glove compartment and studied it again. It might be important for children to have their parents around, he thought, but the most important thing was for them to have someone who took notice of them. If someone did that, they would be all right. He had called Lea Skov at least fifteen times and got nowhere. The easiest thing – for him – would be to give the photograph to Marie Skov and ask her to pass it on. But something stopped him. Herman Madsen wanted Lea to have it. Not Julie, not Frank and possibly not Marie, either. He had to get Lea Skov’s email address. Then Lea could reply to him if she wanted the photograph or ignore him if she did not. Søren put the photograph back in the glove compartment, got out of the car and locked it. He saw a woman walking towards him and recognised Marie Skov from the university homepage, but something about her expression was wrong.
*
After his meeting with Marie, Søren drove home and for once he valued the half-hour drive so he could put his thoughts in order. The blue Ford, the identical drowning accidents of Silas Henckel and Midas Manolis, the arson on Ingeborgvej and then Marie, who was clearly frightened. Rain lashed the windscreen and Søren turned on the wipers. He called Inge Kai, but when there was no reply he left a message on her voicemail asking how she had got on with Mads Skov’s report. He added that he also needed information about two fatal drownings in Africa, one in Gambia on 27 December 2007 and the other on a – to him – unknown date in Tanzania two years earlier. He also needed the report on the attempted arson on Ingeborgvej the previous Saturday night. ‘It’s not urgent. Tomorrow morning is fine,’ he finished, hoping that Inge Kai had a sense of humour.
A driver sounded his horn because Søren had taken his foot off the accelerator and the car was slowing down.
Søren had asked Marie how her brother had died. He had watched her face closely when she said, ‘Meningitis.’ It was clear that she knew nothing about the accident.
*
Søren got home at seven thirty that evening. When he opened the front door, he knew instinctively that Anna was back. He could not see her jacket or her bag and the door to the hallway was closed so he could not hear her either. Even so, he knew that she was there. And he was proved right. Karen and Anna were busy cooking supper. Anna stood by the chopping board preparing salad and Karen was stirring something in a saucepan. They both had a glass of wine, there was music coming from the radio and condensation ran cheerfully down the inside of the kitchen window.
Anna beamed at him as he entered the kitchen. ‘Hi,’ she said, and kissed him. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Søren said, and kissed her back, but not as deeply as he normally did because Karen was watching them – or so he told himself.
Or perhaps because he was too busy sniffing her? Did she smell different? Was she acting differently? Her cheeks were certainly flushed and her hair was exactly like Søren loved it, unstyled with plenty of natural waves. Anna poured him a glass of wine, but he’d have preferred a beer.
Lily came running to show Søren an egg shell with blue spots, which Anna had brought back from Sonnerup Forest, and a fossil she had found on the beach.
His mobile beeped. Marie Skov had sent him the registration number of the blue Ford and Lea Skov’s email address.
Søren left the kitchen and called a colleague at the police station at Copenhagen airport, who promised to check the registration number against the airport’s eight different car-rental firms and get back to him as soon as possible.
Inge Kai called back. She was still at Bellahøj and the report into the attempted arson on Ingeborgvej 24 on the night of 27 March was now on his desk. However, the fatal drownings required her to contact Interpol, which she could not do until the following day.
‘Fine,’ Søren said. ‘And Mads Skov?’
Inge Kai sighed. ‘I have a copy of the full police report in front of me. To summarise, Mads Skov died when a metal shelving unit fell on top of him in a garden shed. There would appear to have been a toolbox on the top shelf and, when the shelving unit keeled over, the toolbox hit the boy on the head and killed him instantly. The police requested the autopsy to be absolutely sure that he hadn’t been the victim of abuse and there are quite a few autopsy photographs, which we can look at tomorrow. But there’s nothing suspicious about the death itself, even though it was traumatic. I read in the report that the Falck emergency crew struggled to take the dead child from the mother. Afterwards, the whole family was offered counselling, but only the eldest daughter, Julie, accepted the offer. However, she only attended a few sessions.’
‘Let’s deal with it tomorrow,’ Søren said.
*
Dinner was ready. Karen and Anna talked and laughed while they ate, and Søren entertained them with his demotion. ‘What does that mean?’ Karen asked, and Anna explained that Søren had realised it was much more fun to be in the field than gathering dust behind a desk.
‘I’m thrilled about it. A small step back for Søren, but a quantum leap for the mood in this house,’ she said, and winked at him.
He smiled back, but on the inside he was fuming. Anna herself hadn’t been a bundle of laughs recently. They drank coffee with warm milk, and Anna and Karen started discussing research and grants, which would appear to be in short supply at Syddansk University, too, where Karen’s boyfriend worked. They had just been through a round of cuts, Karen explained, but fortunately Jeppe had survived.
At some point Søren managed to interject that it was time for him to hit the hay, and he hoped that Anna would get the hint. Karen certainly did and promptly said it was time for her to go home, but Anna would not hear a word of it. It was pitch black outside, she said, so why didn’t Karen just stay the night? ‘I insist,’ she added.
When Søren went to bed, Anna and Karen were busy making up Karen’s bed in the living room. Søren could hear them giggling and chatting and finally he could no longer keep his eyes open.
At almost half past midnight he was woken by a text message from Marie Skov. When he’d had a pee, he called her. They spoke for a long time, first about Storm’s note and then about the discovery that Tim Salomon had hired the blue Ford. Anna had yet to come to bed, so they could speak undisturbed. When he had ended the call, he tiptoed downstairs to the living room and found Anna and Karen fast asleep on separate sofas. Anna had even gone to fetch her duvet. She no longer loved him. They had had something together and it had been invincible. Now it was gone.
*
On Thursday, 1 April, Søren arrived at work to find the station in uproar.
‘Result!’ Mehmet exclaimed, when he saw Søren. ‘Martin Brink Schelde has confessed to five rapes and two murders!’
Søren went straight to Jørgensen’s office and learned that the results of Martin Brink Schelde’s DNA profile had come back. ‘A hundred per cent match,’ Jørgensen said contentedly. ‘And he admits everything.’
‘And then some, I understand.’
‘Seven open cases, would you believe it? Including the rape of the Syrian girl in north-west Copenhagen. It’s scant comfort, but I can’t wait to tell the girl’s father. Do you remember him? Poor man. I’ve just sent the file to Station City. Tejsner did an excellent job on that case. Would you like to tell him that we got the bastard? As far as I remember, that case hit him hard.’ Jørgensen looked warily at Søren. ‘I would like to stress that last week was a disaster. But let’s move on. There’s no reason to sacrifice a good police officer on the scaffold for a single mistake, is there?’
‘Or a chief superintendent for that matter,’ Søren said sweetly, and left.
*
At the morning briefing, Søren listed and allocated the day’s assignments and sent ten of his twelve officers out of the building. The two who remained were Inge Kai and Peter Bjørn, and he took them into the big meeting room to bring them up to speed. It now looked likely that Professor Kristian Storm had been suffocated with a plastic bag, but unfortunately Bøje’s autopsy report was still missing. The very nanosecond it appeared, Søren stressed, he wanted a thorough investigation of the murder. All students and employees at the Department of Immunology must be brought in for questioning. Students and colleagues at the other departments of the faculty must be interviewed as well. Possible motives must be identified both in Denmark and abroad, and they needed to apply for a court order so they could establish the identity of whoever had reported Kristian Storm and Marie Skov to the Danish Committees on Scientific Dishonesty. In the meantime they should concentrate on any task that did not depend on the autopsy report, such as investigating Tim Salomon’s travel activities and familiarising themselves thoroughly with the profile that Superintendent Tejsner had asked an external researcher to prepare on Kristian Storm.
Inge Kai and Peter Bjørn nodded, and Søren returned to his office.
Just five minutes later Inge Kai knocked on his door. ‘Per Andersen from the National Investigation Centre says he’ll call you regarding Tim Salomon’s travel activity as soon as he hears from Scandinavian Airlines. They’re usually pretty efficient.’
‘Great,’ Søren said, and returned to the papers he was working on.
‘Why don’t we round off our investigation of Mads Skov right now?’ Inge Kai asked.
Søren nodded, and they sat at a meeting table. Inge Kai opened the file. ‘It’s tragic, but not suspicious,’ she said, ‘and the Skov family is entitled to keep the accident a secret, so . . . The only thing I question is why the eldest daughter, Julie, was allowed to give up counselling so quickly. She was barely eleven when it happened and, according to the report, she witnessed the accident.’ Inge Kai flicked through the report. ‘Julie was looking after her three siblings in the garden behind the house. At one point, the telephone rang and Julie ran inside to answer it. It was a friend from her school and they spoke for a few minutes until Marie came into the house to fetch her. The children were banned from the garden shed, but Mads had gone inside. Julie went to the garden shed, where the accident happened in front of her. It must have been very traumatic and that’s why I’m surprised that the counselling afterwards was allowed to peter out. According to police records, Julie attended three times, then stopped going. The police psychologist handed her over to the family’s own GP, with whom I’ve been in contact . . . Her name is Pia Tongaard at the Vangede Bygade medical practice. According to her records, she made offers of counselling to the whole family, but nobody took it up. Approximately six months after the accident, the school psychologist at Dyssegårdsskolen visited the family. Julie’s teacher was concerned because Julie seemed tired and distracted and had cancelled a school trip she had otherwise been looking forward to because, as she put it, she “couldn’t leave her sisters at home alone”. However, the school psychologist found no fault with the Skov family . . .’ Inge Kai took out a sheet of paper and read aloud: ‘“Joan Skov is on sick leave and at home with the children, but seems to be coping well. The same applies to the family’s three children; the home is clean and tidy.” But it’s not about putting on a front for forty-five minutes when the school psychologist visits, is it? A tragedy like that is life-changing.’
‘Did the police psychologist manage to form an impression of Julie Skov before she stopped her sessions?’
‘Yes,’ Inge Kai said, and produced the police psychologist’s report. ‘The psychologist noted various minor issues . . . Hang on.’ Inge Kai trailed her finger down the report. ‘Julie Skov displays extreme maturity and performs far above average at school . . . She is extremely protective and attentive to her younger siblings and her behaviour shows some evidence of too much responsibility for a child of her age . . . Very articulate for an eleven-year-old girl . . .’ Inge Kai looked at Søren. ‘Among other things, the psychologist quotes Julie as having said: “My mother is an artist and you know what artists are like. Flighty and unreliable and wrapped up in themselves. But my father and I support my mother in her creativity. My father comes from a deprived background where no one ever made anything of themselves. He has other wishes for his wife and his children.”’ Inge Kai looked at Søren. ‘Isn’t it rather absurd for an eleven-year-old to speak like that?’
‘Hm,’ Søren said. ‘She sounds old beyond her years. It’s almost as if someone coached her to say those words.’
‘If you ask me, the police trauma counselling team should have kept a close eye on the Skov family, especially Julie. After all, she witnessed her little brother’s death. And probably felt responsible.’
‘I agree totally,’ Søren said. ‘The only problem is that you can’t force people to accept help. Denmark is full of families who stagger along, managing as best they can. But something is bothering me . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the table.
‘What?’
‘Yesterday when I asked Marie Skov how her brother died, she said meningitis straight away. I’m convinced that she doesn’t know. I would imagine that the third sister, Lea, doesn’t know either, because she was even younger. How old were they exactly when the accident happened?’
Inge Kai checked. ‘Marie was three and a half and Lea was two and a half.’
‘Do you remember anything from when you were three years old?’
‘Nothing,’ Inge Kai said.
‘No, and that’s another thing that’s bothering me.’ Søren cleared his throat. ‘When I was five, my parents were killed in a car crash. They drove straight out in front of a lorry. My grandparents have always told me that I was on holiday with them when it happened. But two years ago I discovered that I was in the car with my parents and trapped for more than an hour before the emergency services freed me. I don’t know why my grandparents chose to hide the truth, but I’m sure they meant well. And I can see why they did it. Has discovering the truth made me a happier person? I don’t know.’
‘And now you wonder whether you should tell Marie Skov that her brother died in an accident in the home, rather than from meningitis,’ Inge Kai said.
‘Yes,’ Søren said. ‘I’m guessing the family kept it secret to protect the two younger children. Times were different. I’m not convinced that our current obsession with honesty and letting it all out is necessarily a good thing. Marie told me yesterday that Lea is curious about the past, but that their mother destroyed most of the family photos when Mads died, so Lea is struggling to learn anything. And that’s when I started having doubts as to whether or not I can allow myself to take that responsibility.’
‘Responsibility for what exactly?’
‘Knowing but not telling her something that might be the missing piece she’s looking for.’
They sat for a moment in silence. Then Inge Kai slammed shut Mads Skov’s file. ‘Think it over and I’ll do the same. Meanwhile, let’s concentrate on Kristian Storm,’ she said, and got up.
*
Inge Kai had barely left Søren’s office before his telephone rang. It was Per Andersen from the National Investigation Centre. Tim Salomon had indeed left not only Denmark, but also Europe on 27 March. However, he had returned this morning.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Totally. Tim Salomon landed at eight fifty-five a.m. with SAS from Lisbon.’
Søren called Marie Skov and told her to pack a bag. It was probably both paranoid and unnecessary, but he would sleep better if she and Anton stayed the night in a different location rather than the most obvious one. Just until he had tracked down Tim Salomon and discovered why he had returned to Denmark and where he had been on 17 March when Storm was murdered.
Suddenly Søren noticed that it was twelve forty-five and, unless he got a move on, he would be late for his mother-in-law’s Easter lunch.
*
Cecilie and Jens were on sparkling form. Jens, especially, could not stop praising the delicacies on the Easter table, his granddaughter’s countless talents or bringing up the news that he had been offered a regular column in the Sunday edition of Berlingske Tidende. ‘Just the other day I was complaining that older journalists have been frozen out of the business, and then I land a deal like this,’ he said. ‘How are you doing, Søren? I hear that you enjoyed a brief period of unemployment before you ate some humble pie.’
‘Yes, you could say that,’ Søren said. ‘I’ve got my old job back, but only for a month.’
‘Oh, what happens in a month?’
‘I’m temping for Henrik Tejsner,’ Søren said. ‘His paternity leave ends in four weeks and I reckon he’d like to have a job to come back to.’
‘Henrik’s on paternity leave?’ Anna said. She was cutting rye bread and Søren had been unaware that she was following the conversation. ‘Isn’t taking paternity leave somewhat out of character for Denmark’s last male chauvinist?’
‘Erm,’ Søren said, ‘I guess you could say that. But Henrik has decided to take a month off.’
Anna sent Søren an icy stare, then turned back to the kitchen table and stuck the knife into the bread.
Søren didn’t know what he had done to upset her, but she refused to look him in the eye during the meal. Jens and Cecilie, with a couple of their friends who had also been invited, were having a great time and kept raising their glasses, but it was clear that Anna was just pretending. Every time Søren tried to talk to her or put his arm around her, he was met with permafrost. Frustrated, he helped himself to a beer before he remembered that he was on duty and put it back on the table.
Lily asked him to help her put on her fancy dress and, when he had zipped her up at the back, his mobile rang. He went to Cecilie’s bedroom to take the call.
It was La Cour from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.
‘You’ve found the autopsy report and you’re calling to tell me it’s in my inbox,’ Søren said.
‘I’m afraid not,’ La Cour said.
‘Bollocks! Then why bother calling me? This is a murder case, unless you’ve forgotten. I need that autopsy report found right now.’
‘Oh, I’m aware of that,’ La Cour said, unperturbed. ‘You may have mentioned it once or twice. And now you’ve shouted it as well. But it’s not me whose hard drive was in a fearful mess, nor was I told to fix it, so it’s a bit unfair to take it out on me, don’t you think?’
‘Sorry,’ Søren mumbled.
‘I’m calling to tell you to check your spam folder.’
‘Yesterday our IT guy mentioned that the spam filter used by the police force was upgraded last Friday, and just now Bernt from Station City rang to offer me the closest that man can get to an apology for having bitten off my head the other day. He had happened to check his spam folder and found the email with the autopsy report he had been looking for. Bøje had sent it to him last Thursday and the subject field said: Here’s hoping this will make you shut your arse. The spam filter disapproves of such language, as indeed does Bernt. I think Bøje should consider himself lucky that he’s already in a coma.’
Søren ended the call and returned to the open-plan kitchen where the happy Easter mood was now subdued.
‘Is everything all right?’ Cecilie asked.
‘Yes, I’m sorry for shouting, but . . . Please may I use your computer?’
‘Of course. It’s in the living room. It’s already on.’
Søren logged onto his email account, found the spam folder, scrolled past various penis-extension offers and eligible Russian girlfriends and reached his emails from 26 and 27 March. Here he found three emails from Bøje Knudsen.
Bøje had chosen to call the first email, sent 26 March, Fucking call me, you massive bell end. The second was entitled, This is a major fuck up. Ring me, you bastard, and the third, sent just after five thirty p.m. on Saturday, 27 March, was headed, Are you taking the piss, you wanker?
Søren dragged all three emails to his inbox and was asked to confirm that they were not spam. Then his mobile rang.
His hands were shaking when he opened the first email:
Søren, this is a cock-up. I’m not apologising for anything, it’s just a massive cock-up. I’m attaching the final autopsy report along with the analysis from the Department of Forensic Genetics and I expect that you’ll be turning up as soon as you have read it. It’s probably the biggest howler of my career. Perhaps it’s time I retired. I’ve grown old.
Best wishes from your friend, Bøje
Søren’s eyes welled. ‘It’s OK, Bøje,’ he said quietly. ‘Real people make mistakes.’
Then he clicked on the attachment, which was named OK139-2010, and quickly read the autopsy report:
Clear secondary horizontal ligature marks visible along with dotted bleeding under the primary ligature marks. I decided to perform a full autopsy and I don’t give a toss that it will cost the Police Force 30,000 kroner. Autopsy commenced 25 March 2010 at 23.45, and concluded at 02.45. Four plastic fragments detected. One under the tongue, which measures 3 × 4 millimetres, a larger piece in the throat, measuring 7 × 8 millimetres. I examined the noose and found two further pieces of plastic, one on the noose itself and one in the evidence bag (used by Lars Hviid, a massive bell end because he – contrary to his instructions – not only cut and removed the noose from the body and secured it in an evidence bag at the scene, but also sent it to Bellahøj station where, up until 23 March, it had vanished without trace between a highly suspicious office stapler and two equally suspicious ring binders). I sent all four plastic fragments and the noose, with photographs of the secondary ligature marks, to the KTC Forensic Laboratory as a priority case immediately. The body was collected on 26 March 2010 by a (fraught) undertaker at 9.30 (idiot). Call came in from KTC the same day at 16.30. The secondary ligature marks are 98 per cent identical to prototype photographs from KTC’s archive of injuries caused by suffocation with a plastic bag, and the four plastic pieces are a 100 per cent match to a Netto carrier-bag. Now follows the unqualified opinion of the forensic examiner, Bøje Knudsen (me), if I can be left alone to do my job properly: the victim was suffocated with a yellow Netto bag and subsequently hanged from a noose. Sherlock Hviid has secured 121 different fingerprints from the victim’s office, but failed to take a single one from the victim or the noose, either because he forgot (which wouldn’t surprise me) or because the killer wore gloves. A note regarding the noose: by comparing the scarlet, finely woven cloth also found among the secured and bagged evidence at Bellahøj station, KTC concludes that the noose was torn from this cloth. However, another strip from the same cloth appears to be missing and it was nowhere to be found at Bellahøj station. Perhaps Lars Hviid used it to wipe his arse.
While Søren had read the autopsy report, a text message from Marie had arrived. He rang her with a heavy heart to tell her there was no longer any doubt that Storm had been suffocated, but he could hear that something was very wrong. Someone had sent her a noose in the post.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
*
‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ Søren said to the other guests. ‘I’m sorry, but I have an urgent case and there has just been a development I need to respond to.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ Cecilie said, ‘but of course.’
Søren quickly shook hands with everyone and kissed Anna. He aimed for her mouth, but she offered him her cheek.
While he was putting on his shoes and coat in the hallway, she suddenly appeared in the doorway. ‘I just want to tell you,’ she said, ‘that I know you’re lying.’
‘Lying?’
‘Yes. I met Jeanette at Copenhagen Central Station yesterday. She and Henrik have split up and no way is he on paternity leave. I don’t know what the two of you are up to, but how could you think that I would be dumb enough to—’
‘Please can we talk about it later, Anna? I really must go.’
‘Screw you,’ Anna said.
*
Søren picked up Marie and Anton and drove them to Saxogade where he walked them all the way up to the fourth floor.
‘I see you’ve got yourself a bodyguard,’ Lea remarked, when she opened the door. She looked Søren up and down. ‘Who are you?’
‘Søren Marhauge. We spoke earlier regarding a photograph from your childminder.’ He handed it to her.
She took it carefully, as if it was a piece of fragile ancient parchment, and studied it for a long time. Marie looked with her. ‘I do remember that you were seriously cute,’ she said.
‘Please can I have a look?’ Anton said, and Lea tilted the photograph. ‘You look like me,’ he said.
At first Lea said nothing. Then a tear rolled down her cheek.
‘Why are you crying, Lea?’ Marie said, alarmed.
Lea pointed to Tove. ‘I’m happy. Look at her face. She loves me.’
Søren said goodbye and went downstairs. He got into his car but did not turn on the engine. He was kicking himself. He had missed an opportunity to bring up their brother’s accident.
He called Anna, but she did not answer her phone. We need to talk, he texted. I’m driving home now. Do you want me to pick you up? I just don’t have the energy to walk all the way up to Cecilie’s flat.
No reply. Søren drove to Cecilie’s and rang the bell.
‘Hi, won’t you come up?’
‘I’m sorry, Cecilie, but I’ve had a long day. I need to get home. I just wanted to know if Anna and Lily want a lift or if they’d prefer to catch the train later. I tried calling, but Anna didn’t pick up.’
‘Oh, they’ve already gone,’ Cecilie said. ‘They left soon after you did.’
*
Less than forty minutes later, Søren was at home. The house lay in darkness; the only light was the magic cat glowing in Lily’s window. When Søren let himself in, he knew that they were not back yet. Even so, he searched the whole house for them before he flopped down on the sofa where he was overcome by debilitating exhaustion. He decided to put on fifteen kilos and find himself an ugly girlfriend who was always thrilled when he came home. He would screw her with all the enthusiasm of a fat panda.
He took out his mobile. Darling Anna, he texted. Darling, darling Anna.
Then he hurled his mobile against the wall with all his might.
*
On Friday, 2 April, Søren delivered his most incoherent morning briefing to date. The twelve police officers gawped at him in silence. When the assignments had been allocated and everyone had been updated on the Kristian Storm case, he hurried to his office, slammed the door behind him, closed the blinds and sat in darkness.
Soon afterwards his mobile rang, his old orange Nokia 3210, which he had found in his desk drawer and into which he had inserted his Sim card.
He considered ignoring it. He couldn’t take any more right now.
‘Søren Marhauge,’ he said gruffly, when he answered it.
‘Søren, it’s Klaus Mønster from the Department of Forensic Genetics. I’ve got some preliminary results regarding Bøje Knudsen’s original priority case . . . By the way, how is Bøje doing? I didn’t mean what I said; you know that, don’t you?’
‘Bøje is the same,’ Søren said curtly, and turned on his computer. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘The results of the blood sample from OK 133-2010, the woman from Vangede. Do you have a moment? I want to add a few comments.’
Søren said he had.
‘Our chemists have identified five different drugs,’ Mønster went on. ‘Four anxiety suppressants and some sleeping tablets. We’re talking about diazepam, nordiazepam, Cipramil, mirtazapine and zopiclone. At first glance it’s a crazy number of drugs for the same condition, and it would have set alarm bells ringing, if it hadn’t been—’
‘Yes, and not only that,’ Søren interrupted him. He had opened the police report on Joan Skov and quickly trailed his finger down the screen. ‘We found more types of medication than the deceased had been prescribed by her GP.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you did,’ Mønster said. ‘But the point I want to make is this: as I was about to say, I, too, would have wanted to investigate this further except that the concentration is so low that it couldn’t possibly have been fatal. Besides, nordiazepam is a breakdown product of diazepam, which can be traced in the body up to ten days after ingestion and, judging from the concentration found in the blood sample, the deceased must have taken this drug on several days up to the time of her death.’
‘Oh, really?’ Søren said, baffled.
‘Yes, what killed her was 2.6 diisopropylphenol, commonly known as propofol.’
‘Propofol?’
‘Yes, and that is suspicious. You see, propofol is administered intravenously and is used exclusively on patients in an intensive-care unit or who are about to undergo surgery with a general anaesthetic. You need specialist training to administer this drug, so something here doesn’t add up, but that’s your department. Where should I send the results of the blood test? The DNA sequence of the three hairs will follow shortly.’
Søren gave Mønster his email address. When they had said goodbye, Søren opened his browser and carried out an extended web search on propofol. Then he got up and opened the blinds. The needle mark.
Søren scrolled through Bøje’s autopsy report on the screen and quickly found what he was looking for. On the first page Bøje had written, . . . possible needle mark in the crook of the left elbow . . .
Someone had injected Joan Skov with propofol so expertly that Bøje had been in doubt as to whether there was a needle mark.
Getting confirmation of a murder was always an ambivalent feeling.
Euphoria and shock.
When he had digested the news, he went to the open-plan office where the police officers were working and found Inge Kai.
‘Come on, we’re off to Rødovre,’ he said.
*
This time Søren was behind the wheel and he was speeding. Ten minutes later, when they pulled up outside Julie Claessen’s terraced house on Hvidsværmervej, he had brought Inge Kai up to date with the recent developments in the case.
‘I’ll do the talking,’ Søren said. ‘You keep your eyes and ears peeled.’
As they walked up the flagstone path leading to the house, they spotted Julie Claessen busy with something on the kitchen counter or in the sink. She did not look up until Søren and Inge Kai were only a few steps from the front door. She jumped, then made a movement that suggested she was drying her hands on her apron.
‘I know your face,’ Julie said, when she opened the front door. ‘But I can’t place it. Do you want Michael? He’s not back yet.’
Søren and Inge Kai took turns shaking hands with her and Søren explained that they were from the Violent Crimes Unit.
‘Violent Crimes Unit?’ Julie sounded alarmed.
‘I also grew up on Snerlevej,’ Søren continued, ‘which probably explains why you recognised me. I lived with my grandparents diagonally opposite you. We didn’t know you all that well, but then again I’m a few years older than you.’
Julie tightened her lips. ‘I remember your grandparents very well,’ she said coolly. ‘What do you want? My children are here. And we’re expecting guests for lunch tomorrow so I’m busy cooking.’ Julie folded her arms across her chest and showed no signs of wanting to invite Søren and Inge Kai inside.
‘Please may we come in?’ he asked.
Julie Claessen stepped aside reluctantly.
The ground floor of the small terraced house was a modern open-plan kitchen-diner and living room. At the far end there was a big corner sofa upholstered in bright white wool; on it two chubby girls were watching television with a bowl of sweets between them.
‘Please may we speak in private?’ Søren enquired politely, nodding towards the girls.
‘They can’t hear us,’ Julie said, and Søren had to concede that the volume from the television was loud.
They sat down at the dining table where mixing bowls and cake tins had been put out. Julie pushed them aside.
‘First of all, may I say that I’m sorry for your loss,’ he began. ‘I—’
‘What do you want?’ Julie said sharply. ‘My mother is dead and buried and that’s all there is to say about that. If this is about my father, I’m ashamed of him. Deeply ashamed.’
When Søren explained that they had found traces of propofol in Joan Skov’s blood and that the police were investigating, he saw the colour drain from Julie’s face.
‘You can’t do this to us,’ she said. ‘Don’t you realise that the whole family is falling apart? My mother has just died. My younger sister is dying from cancer and about to get divorced. My father is a drunk-driver and due in court on the second of July. And now you come here telling me that you intend to stir everything up? To what end? It’s not going to bring my mother back, is it?’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘You just can’t do this to us.’
‘Unfortunately we have a duty to follow up any evidence that arises as part of an investigation,’ Søren said.
‘Oh, and what kind of evidence would that be?’ Julie snarled. Her cheeks were flushed and Søren had an inkling that while the two girls might still be looking at the screen they were paying careful attention to their mother’s behaviour.
‘Well, as I’ve just told you, we found traces of a pharmaceutical product in your mother’s blood and we don’t understand where it could have come from. The drug is called propofol and is used mainly on intensive-care unit patients.’
Julie stared vacantly into the distance. ‘But my mother hasn’t been in hospital since 1995 when she broke her leg,’ she said.
At that moment the front door opened and a man whom Søren concluded must be Michael, Julie’s husband, entered. ‘What the hell are you doing with a man in the house?’ he exclaimed.
‘This is Søren Marhauge from the police,’ Julie said, ‘and . . . What did you say your name was?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Michael said. ‘What’s my father-in-law got up to this time?’
‘It’s not funny, Michael,’ Julie said.
‘Oh, just chill, will you?’ Michael said, and looked at Søren. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘They found something in Mum’s blood called propofol,’ Julie said anxiously.
‘Right,’ Michael said. ‘Then they’d better talk to Jesper. Jesper is the family pill pusher.’ The latter was addressed to Søren before Michael walked through to the living room to say hi to his daughters. Afterwards he headed upstairs to have a shower. ‘I’ve been pushing nearly dead meat around all day,’ he said, sniffing his armpits.
What a charmer, Søren thought.
‘I understand,’ Søren said, when Michael had disappeared, ‘that you were in charge of your mother’s medication. Is that right?’ Julie was still looking at him in a hostile manner and Søren burst out, ‘Could you try to be a bit more co-operative, please? I’ve come to tell you that we found traces of a suspicious substance in your mother’s blood, for which there might be a perfectly innocent explanation, but in theory it could mean that someone killed her. And let me tell you something. I didn’t give your mother propofol, so do you think you could set your antagonism aside for a moment?’
A single tear rolled down Julie’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just can’t take any more. I will help you. Killed her?’ she said, and looked frightened. ‘What do you mean, killed her?’ Suddenly she grinned from ear to ear and flapped her hands excitedly. For a moment an astonished Søren thought that the woman had completely lost her marbles until he realised she was waving to the two girls on the sofa. They had long since stopped watching the television and were staring anxiously in their mother’s direction.
‘Everything is fine, girls. Mummy will be with you in a minute,’ Julie said, in a loud voice, and the girls turned back to the television.
‘My mother has been ill for many, many years. Ever since I was a little girl. I’ve always known it, of course, and helped out as best I could, but I didn’t realise just how ill she was until the last few years. I really did everything I could to help her. I got her onto an excellent occupational-therapy programme some years ago where she did gymnastics and sewed patchwork along with other patients who had mental health issues and, yes, I was actually starting to think that her life was becoming bearable, as far as that’s possible when you have a dark mind. Unfortunately, my younger sister fell ill last autumn.’ Julie glanced furtively at her daughters and whispered, ‘Breast cancer. It was very hard on all of us, especially my parents. They lost Marie’s twin, Mads, when he was three years old, and . . . I’m sure your grandparents must remember that? The flags were at half-mast on all of Snerlevej – people were very kind. But it’s not something you can survive twice, is it? So when Marie got ill, my mother had a breakdown. I’ve read in a book that it’s common. I believe it’s a form of regression. If something happens in the present that you can’t cope with, it’s like you’re catapulted back in time. My mother had been very poorly ever since Marie’s diagnosis, but I must admit I never thought for one moment that she would kill herself.’
Another tear trickled down Julie’s cheek.
‘But you handled her medication?’
Julie nodded. ‘Yes, except for the week when she died,’ she said quietly. ‘I worked in a different district from my usual one, far away from Vangede, and that evening there was a performance at Camilla’s school, so I simply couldn’t fit it in. The next day Emma was ill, which meant I had to take time off work, both Tuesday and Wednesday. But I rang my father, obviously, and asked him to sort out the pills, which he did because he called me twice with questions. I can’t imagine why Michael made that comment about Jesper being our pill pusher. Typical Michael. Always trying to be the class clown. My mother got her medication on prescription from her GP, but it’s true that Jesper renewed her prescriptions a few times. Given that he’s a doctor, all he needs to do is ring them through to the chemist. I was incredibly grateful to him because getting my mother to the doctor’s was such a palaver, especially in recent years.’
‘What pills did your mother take?’
Julie reeled off the various drugs. ‘Sadly, that’s something you know by heart when you’ve been counting them out for so many years,’ she added, with a small smile.
‘Have you ever given her an injection?’
‘No, of course not,’ Julie said.
Had she said it too quickly? Søren wasn’t sure.
‘Could anyone else have given her an injection? Your brother-in-law? Your father? Or one of your sisters?’
‘Definitely not my father. He can’t stand the sight of blood. And I doubt that Jesper would do it. He doesn’t mind renewing my mother’s prescriptions, but he always told us to go to our own GP with anything else. And my sisters? Lea, possibly? But definitely not Marie. Like I said, she’s been very ill herself these last six months.’ Julie whispered the last bit and turned in her chair to look at her daughters.
‘And your daughters don’t know anything about that?’ Søren asked, in an equally low voice.
‘No, of course not,’ Julie said. ‘There’s no reason they should know anything. They’re only ten and eleven.’
‘Didn’t they wonder why Marie had lost her hair? It’s only just starting to grow back now.’
‘Children don’t notice things like that. Besides, I brought them up not to pry. I hate it when people pry.’ Julie looked beseechingly at Søren. ‘Neither do they know anything about what their Grandad has done and nor should they. As far as they’re concerned, he’s still just their Grandad.’
Michael returned to the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge. ‘When is dinner?’ he wanted to know.
‘Oh, I was hoping you and the girls could have a pizza. I have so much cooking to do for tomorrow,’ Julie said.
‘Pizza again? I thought your dad was hosting this Easter lunch, not us,’ Michael said in a surly voice. ‘Switch on the oven, will you? Have we got any crisps?’ Julie got up, found a bag of crisps in a cupboard and filled a bowl to the brim. Søren’s blood was boiling.
Michael sat on the sofa. He and the girls started watching a programme on cable TV, which made them break out into hysterical fits of laughter.
‘You said “Lea, possibly”?’
It was a moment before Julie was back on track. ‘I don’t trust my sister,’ she then said. ‘We’ve never got on and I’ve no idea what she’s capable of. Anything would be my guess. She’s covered in tattoos and revolting piercings. I don’t understand her. I never have. When she was little, she was naughty all the time. This spring she started interfering in the management of my mother’s illness, wanting her to travel all the way to West Jutland for therapy at a rehabilitation facility for addicts. Lea is fanatically opposed to any kind of medication. But my mother couldn’t handle Lea’s so-called good intentions at all. Whenever Lea had preached to her, it took days before she calmed down again. Lea didn’t understand that Mum was seriously ill – she was adamant that all Mum needed was to talk about Mads. Let it all out. She almost convinced my father to jump on her bandwagon. Lea has always been selfish. Just because it helps her to let it all out, she automatically assumes the same goes for everybody else. But losing a child is the most terrible thing that can happen, and life after a tragedy like that is survival, pure and simple. There is no need to rip open old wounds after all these years.’
‘How old were you when your brother died?’
‘Ten. I turned eleven soon afterwards.’
‘That must have been terribly difficult.’
‘I’ve never complained,’ Julie said abruptly. ‘What’s the use of that? Nothing. That’s what Lea doesn’t understand. I have no time for such fads. I read a lot of books. Self-help ones, that kind of thing. And I’ve been known to give someone a copy of a book I thought was good and which you could learn something from, but I never lecture anyone. And, quite frankly, Lea is a nail technician, but she acts as if she has a degree in psychology . . . That really gets my goat. Marie had just been told she had . . .’ Julie pointed discreetly to her own swelling breast and glanced towards the sofa ‘. . . and that was more than enough for my parents to take on board. And Lea wants Mum to start seeing a psychologist on top? Honestly.’
‘I remember you now,’ Søren lied, and smiled at her.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, from Snerlevej. You used to visit Tove Madsen often, I believe. She was married to Herman Madsen, who was a police officer – he’s retired now. He was my role model and I spent a lot of time at their house, as did you, didn’t you? Or am I mistaken?’
‘I didn’t go there very often,’ Julie corrected him. ‘But Tove looked after Lea until we got her a place at nursery. The arrangement came to a rather sudden end because Tove shook Lea.’
‘Shook her?’ Søren exclaimed, as if he had never heard the story before.
‘Yes, she had bruises on her arm one day and how else could she have got them? Lea never set foot in Tove’s house after that.’
‘How did Lea react when Tove wasn’t allowed to look after her any more?’
‘God have mercy on us all,’ Julie burst out. ‘She went crazy and smashed lots of things, including a very fine earthenware jug my mother had inherited from her mother. In the end I had to lock her in the cupboard under the stairs.’ Julie looked embarrassed. ‘My mother sat there with her broken heirloom and looked so sad because Lea could only think of herself.’
‘Did this happen before or after the accident?’ Søren asked lightly.
‘Accident?’ Julie said. ‘What accident?’
‘Your brother’s.’
‘My brother died from a very aggressive strand of meningitis,’ Julie stated. ‘It happens to only one in a hundred thousand children, but of course it would have to happen to us.’
Søren looked closely at her. ‘But that’s not true,’ he said softly.
Julie blinked. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘What does your husband do for a living?’ Søren asked, and smiled.
‘He’s worked as a porter at Bispebjerg Hospital since 1998,’ Julie said. ‘Why?’
‘Curiosity.’ Søren smiled. ‘An occupational hazard.’
‘I want you to leave now,’ Julie said, and her lips quivered.
‘When will dinner be ready?’ Michael called out from the sofa.
‘I’ve already said I’ll heat up a pizza for you,’ Julie said, in a shrill voice.
‘Oh, calm down, will you?’ Michael called back. ‘Bring me another beer and some pop for the girls.’
Julie got up, as did Søren and Inge Kai.
‘Right. I think that’s everything for now.’
Julie walked them to the front door and offered them a limp handshake.
They went down the flagstone path, and as Søren got into his car, he glanced up at the house. Julie was back behind the kitchen window. She looked terrified.
*
Søren and Inge Kai drove in silence for five minutes, then Inge Kai said, ‘Christ on a bike.’
‘Give me your honest opinion,’ Søren said.
‘A swollen finger couldn’t be more infected,’ Inge Kai said. ‘And Michael might have looked as if he was watching television with his children and relaxing, but his ears were glued to our conversation. When you asked Julie about his job, he nearly fell off the sofa.’
‘And Julie?’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Inge Kai said. ‘She’s . . . she’s . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . sick?’
‘A house of cards crashing down,’ Søren said.
*
Fifteen minutes later they parked outside Rigshospitalet.
‘And now?’ Inge Kai asked.
‘The intensive-care unit,’ Søren said.
‘This is Sergeant Inge Kai,’ Søren introduced her when he had shaken hands with the duty doctor at the ICU. Fortunately it was the same doctor as last time.
‘Hello,’ the doctor said. ‘You already know where Bøje is, so just go through.’
‘Thank you,’ Søren said, ‘but before I do, I have a question for you. Do you know a drug called propofol?’
‘Of course I do,’ the doctor said, with a smile.
‘Can you give me a quick guide?’
‘Eh, yes,’ the doctor said. ‘Propofol is an anaesthetic that we use in this unit every day. Doctors like it because it disperses swiftly to all tissue, including the brain, while at the same time it has a short half-life, which means you can quickly get your patient conscious again. The drug has only two side effects, but they’re serious. Number one, propofol can cause you to stop breathing. Number two, it heightens the impact of all other medication in the patient’s system. Consequently, we only administer it to patients who are being monitored twenty-four/seven, and/or who are on assisted breathing. That was the trouble with Michael.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yes, Michael Jackson. MJ. You know, the King of Pop. When pathologists carried out his autopsy, they found propofol in his blood and today that’s the core argument in the case against his doctor, Conrad Murray. As a doctor, Murray should have known the side effects of propofol, so to give his patient a shot to calm him down when he was at home, then leave him to his own devices was obviously completely irresponsible. As far as I’m aware, MJ had taken a fair amount of anti-anxiety medication, but not necessarily more than he usually did. It was only because he was given propofol that the effect of the pills he normally took was heightened and caused his heart to stop. You see, there is an upper limit to how relaxed your muscles can be before you snuff it. Trust me, Murray will be found guilty of manslaughter, and when he is, it’ll be the right verdict. It’s a very serious error for a doctor to administer propofol to a patient whose history they know well. It should never be given to anyone outside the ICU. And that’s what the law says – or it does in Denmark.’
‘So you would be surprised,’ Søren said, ‘if you came across a patient with propofol in their blood unless they had been in intensive care?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘How does a layperson get hold of propofol?’ Søren asked.
‘Well, it’s not something you just pick up from the chemist,’ the doctor said, with a smile, ‘so you need to either work in the health service or be a thief. Or possibly both.’
Søren pondered this. ‘Who is in charge of the purchasing and distribution of medication at this hospital?’
‘That would be the head of pharmacology, Nadia A. Jensen,’ the doctor said. ‘Her office is on the floor above the hospital pharmacy. She doesn’t work alone, of course. I think about twenty pharmacologists are employed here to purchase and issue medication.’
‘Thank you,’ Søren said.
‘Wait, you forgot to visit the patient,’ the doctor called, as Søren and Inge Kai left.
*
The head of pharmacology was called Nadia Abdul al-Haq Jensen and Søren nearly swooned at her beauty. She had sparkling dark eyes, wore a bright blue hijab and a white gown, and did not look a day over twenty-four, but when he pressed her hand, he distinctly felt the gravitas of an adult woman. Even Inge Kai was gawping at her.
‘Police?’ Nadia said, when Søren had explained the reason for their visit. ‘Looking for stolen propofol. That sounds exciting. How much are we talking about?’
‘Enough to kill someone,’ Inge Kai said.
‘So a hundred or two hundred mills or an ampoule the size of this eraser.’ Nadia picked up an eraser from her desk and, before Søren and Inge Kai had time to say anything, the eraser had vanished and Nadia held up two empty palms to them. ‘I don’t think that would be difficult to steal,’ she said, with a smile, and Søren blushed. ‘Drugs are left out during the day on the anaesthetist’s trolley in the operating theatre, for example. Now, an operating theatre is obviously a restricted area, but all you’d need to do is to open the door, go in and leave without being seen. We know there is a certain loss every year, but it isn’t something we register systematically because we can’t possibly know if the loss is due to theft or simple wastage.’
*
‘Where are we going now?’ Inge Kai wanted to know, when they had said thank you and goodbye to the head of pharmacology and Søren was marching purposefully towards the lift at Entrance Two.
‘Paying a visit to the orthopaedic ward,’ Søren said.
‘To do what, if I may ask?’
‘The way I see it,’ Søren said, when the lift doors had closed, ‘we have several potential propofol thieves in this case. Joan Skov’s eldest daughter, Julie Claessen, who dropped out of her nursing training, now works as a carer and would therefore definitely know how to administer an injection. Her husband, who works as a porter at Bispebjerg Hospital. The middle daughter, Marie Skov, has been in and out of hospital since last autumn, and has had plenty of opportunity to steal the drug and learn a few tricks, and last, but not least, Marie’s ex-husband, Jesper Just, who is an orthopaedic surgeon at this hospital. So I thought we would pay him a visit since we’re here anyway.’
‘Nice to know,’ Inge Kai said drily.
*
‘I’ve just finished my shift and I’m about to leave,’ Jesper Just said, when Søren had shaken his hand.
Jesper Just had the steady gaze that signalled authority. He was a handsome man who was starting to go bald. Søren had taken an instant dislike to him. His self-assurance was like a tight second skin; he was all hard edges, no softness. Søren could not see Marie Skov and Jesper Just together in his wildest imagination. ‘I only need ten minutes,’ Søren promised him, and smiled.
‘Very well, then,’ Jesper Just looked most put out. ‘But not a minute more. I need to pick up my son from Vesterbro and drive all the way to West Jutland in time for dinner.’
Søren smiled again.
‘Let’s step inside this meeting room,’ Jesper said. ‘Do go ahead. I need to text my sister-in-law to let her know that I’m running ten minutes late.’ He stressed the ten minutes.
Søren and Inge Kai were studying the photographic posters of prosthetic body parts when Jesper entered the meeting room. He turned on the ceiling light and, after a series of crackling flashes, the room was bathed in a harsh, white glare.
‘That’s bordering on excessive,’ Jesper said, looking irritably at the light fitting. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Are you’re familiar with a drug called propofol?’
‘Of course I am,’ Jesper said. ‘I’m an orthopaedic surgeon. We use propofol during practically every operation in addition to the general anaesthetic.’
‘So you have access to the drug on a daily basis?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘We found traces of propofol in your mother-in-law’s blood. “Traces” might be the wrong word because the concentration was fairly high. In fact, ten times higher than the concentration of the other drugs we found in her blood.’
Søren watched Jesper Just closely and paid special attention to his reaction.
‘I’ve no idea how that could have happened,’ Jesper said. ‘Propofol? But how? To my knowledge, she hadn’t been in hospital recently. No, I’m sure of it – I would have known.’
‘So it’s nothing to do with you?’
For a moment Jesper stared at Søren in disbelief. ‘What the hell are you insinuating?’ he exploded. ‘I took a medical oath! You have no right to accuse me of anything of the sort. This is outrageous.’
‘Does the medical oath say anything about it being all right to be “the family pill pusher”?’ Søren asked.
‘Pill pusher?’ Jesper frowned.
‘Earlier today I learned that it was standard practice for you to renew your mother-in-law’s prescriptions, to save her a trip to her GP. Is that right?’
‘Who told you that?’ Jesper asked vehemently. ‘I’m entitled to know who it was.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you who used the term “pill pusher”. I can only say that the expression was used. Isn’t that right?’ Søren looked at Inge Kai, who nodded.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Jesper said, ‘and in my capacity as a doctor I have the right to issue prescriptions and you know it.’
‘But you’re an orthopaedic surgeon,’ Søren responded, ‘and as far as I can gather, the pills your mother-in-law was taking were mainly sedatives and anxiety suppressants. But perhaps orthopaedic surgeons know a great deal about psychiatry.’
‘I didn’t prescribe them. I merely renewed existing prescriptions so my mother-in-law wouldn’t have to go to her GP, which she disliked doing. Besides, the pills she took were completely harmless,’ Jesper said. ‘Half the population of Denmark takes them. But it goes without saying that you must take them responsibly. And that’s not the case, if you intend to commit suicide. Do you know how many tablets crossed the chemist’s counter in 2009 alone? I read the figures only yesterday in Dagens Medicin.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ Søren said, like an obedient schoolboy.
‘Almost seventy million benzodiazepines and benzodiazepine-type drugs for the treatment of severe anxiety, and a hundred and sixty-six million antidepressants of which a hundred and twelve million are so-called happy pills. Every Dane has access to enough drugs to kill themselves and their neighbour. But that doesn’t mean they do it, does it?’
‘But don’t they say that antidepressants without talking therapy are like a pacemaker without a battery?’ Søren asked innocently. ‘And shouldn’t you – precisely because of your medical oath and your clear conscience in general – have made sure that your mother-in-law’s mental health issues were addressed?’
‘My mother-in-law suffered from a chronic condition,’ Jesper spluttered, ‘and you didn’t need to spend more than five minutes in her company to know that she was a hopeless case. I helped her to the best of my ability, partly because leaving the house gave her panic attacks. I renewed her prescriptions whenever my sister-in-law asked me to and, besides, it’s my understanding that Julie had been in touch with my mother-inlaw’s GP several times in the last few years, but you would have to talk to her about that. The pills were, as I have already told you, completely harmless if taken as prescribed, but they would do vast harm if you decided to wash them all down at once, and that’s what my mother-in-law did. I’d like a copy of that blood-test result – how do I know that you didn’t make a mistake when you analysed it? It’s not like you’re a doctor, is it?’
‘The analysis was carried out by the Department of Forensic Genetics, but I’ll make sure they send you a copy.’ Søren smiled and handed the doctor his card. ‘Thank you for your help. If you want to talk to me, you’re welcome to give me a call any time.’
‘I can’t imagine that happening,’ Jesper said. He hurled Søren’s card into the wastepaper basket and stormed down the corridor.
When they were back in the car, Søren said, ‘I only hope that Lea Skov is either a lesbian or has better taste in men than her sisters.’
‘Yes, neither is more charming than the other,’ Inge Kai said.
‘But this one was telling the truth,’ Søren said. ‘He knew absolutely nothing about the propofol business.’
They both scratched their heads.
‘Where are we going now?’ Inge Kai wanted to know.
Søren smiled. ‘You sound just like Lily,’ he said. ‘She’s five.’
‘No woman, no matter how old she is, can read a man’s mind,’ Inge Kai said. ‘And you’re one of the less informative ones, just so you know. I’m sure you drive your girlfriend crazy.’
‘My girlfriend . . .’ Søren gulped.
At that moment his mobile rang.
‘Marie,’ Søren said. ‘Is everything all right?’
He listened.
‘How did it go?’ He listened again. ‘OK . . . No, it’s fine, I can do that. We’re outside Rigshospitalet. Where are you? . . . No, I’d feel better if we did. It’s not a problem. We’ll pick you up.’ He ended the call. ‘We need to take Marie Skov to her flat in Randersgade so she can pick up a notebook that got left behind in the rush yesterday. She’s been working at the Royal Library today, but she can’t make progress without her notes. So that’s what we’re going to do. We’ll pick her up at Nørreport. See? I can communicate with a woman, can’t I?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Inge Kai grinned.