Friday, December 11, 2020
The naked body looked fresh and could not have been in the ground for more than one or two days. Based on the condition of the woman, it would be hard to establish her identity. She was badly battered, but Marcus Jacobsen and Carl Mørck still had a well-founded hunch about who she was. The height and age certainly fit the bill.
There had been a sign outside the plot for several years reading unauthorized access prohibited, but a couple of young guys from the village south of Arresø had ignored it and eyed an opportunity to create a sanctuary where they could get high or laid.
“We’re lucky that these youngsters were so curious.” Marcus looked out toward the highway that meandered past in the distance. “Otherwise this would have been the perfect hiding place.”
“Why did the boys start digging?” asked Carl.
“They noticed the fresh, dark soil in among the weeds and thought that it must have been dug overnight by the biker gang from the neighboring village. They planned to take whatever weapons, drugs, or money they found and move it on as quickly as possible.”
“Okay. It must’ve been a shock for them,” said Carl while photographing the body with his phone from a distance to avoid getting in the way of the glaring forensic floodlights.
It was not a pretty sight. Carl would never get used to the thought that some people could commit such atrocious acts on others. All the woman’s fingertips had been chopped off just above the last joint, and all her teeth had been pulled out. Her face had been bludgeoned with a blunt object—and judging by the deep holes in her skull, they had been inflicted with a heavy instrument with a square head. Probably a sledgehammer.
“I agree. It must’ve been a shock for them. The two guys are speaking with the local psychologist just now.”
Marcus Jacobsen nodded to one of the forensic team who was walking toward them.
“I’m sorry, but we haven’t found any intact footprints, tire tracks, or traces of someone being dragged across the ground due to the youngsters’ digging and rummaging around,” he said dryly. “And we haven’t found anything near where the body was buried.”
“Do you know who owns this plot?” Carl asked a colleague from the North Zealand police.
“Yes, it’s owned by Hillerød Municipality. It was originally intended for industrial facilities, but the plans have been postponed for the last ten years. I think a few people from the town have visited it every now and then to keep down the weeds and grass. Not that you can tell in the dark, but it hasn’t been done for quite some time.”
“When exactly did the young guys find the body?”
“Just over an hour and a half ago, at four twenty p.m.,” answered their colleague.
“And when do you think the body was buried?” Carl asked the forensic technician.
“No more than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Okay. And when did the sun go down yesterday?”
“Same as today. Around twenty to four.”
Carl turned to Marcus. “Unless we get any other information, my guess is that the body was buried after dark. And let’s also assume that whoever tried to get rid of the body knew about the site beforehand and where to dig.”
“So you think they took into account where future foundations would be laid if the site was ever developed, and that there was little risk that it would happen here so close to the fence?”
Carl nodded. “Yes, and if that is the case, I think it would make sense to continue digging. It seems likely that they might’ve been here before on a similar mission, doesn’t it?”
Back at the office, Carl stared at the photos on his phone of what was presumably the body of Ragnhild Bengtsen. The contrast between the smiling woman in the photo they had taken from her flat and this bludgeoned, naked, dirty corpse was heart-wrenching.
Carl took a cigarette and rolled it between his fingertips. How often had he sat like this, wishing that he had chosen a different path? What had happened to the innocent, optimistic boy from a small backwater town in northern Denmark? What had happened to the hopeful young man who graduated from the police academy? And why did he have to sit here late on a Friday when everyone else was at home on the sofa having a cozy night in with their family in front of the TV?
He breathed heavily through his nose. Luckily, it would not be long before he could head home and give his little girl a big hug.
He put down the cigarette on the desk, eased himself out of his chair, and walked over to his colleagues in the other office to brief them about the day’s findings. It was impressive that they had not left hours ago.
He only managed to say, “Listen up,” before Gordon turned away from his computer and interrupted.
“We finally have news about Palle Rasmussen’s Mac,” he said. “IT didn’t have time to work on it, so they sent it over to NC3. They’ve confirmed what we already knew—that everything has been deleted and they’ll have to restore the files. They also wrote that it’s very common when a computer has been used at Christiansborg for all the contents to be wiped if it’s given to the next of kin. The files are work related and may be confidential. It’s as simple as that.”
Carl frowned. That was one thing he had not thought to ask about when he met Palle Rasmussen’s secretary, Vera Petersen. Bloody hell! He looked over at Gordon. Was there a smug expression on his face due to the delay with the computer?
“IT, NC3—all those acronyms are enough to drive anyone crazy,” grumbled Assad. “You need to be a walking encyclopedia. In text messages people write btw, lol, brb, and more keep coming all the time. When I call businesspeople, I always end up talking with a CEO, CCO, CPO, CIO, and all that sort of nonsense. Why the hell do we need all those abrasions in the police?”
“Abrasions? You mean abbreviations, Assad,” said Gordon. “And by the way, NC3 is an abbreviation of NCCC, which stands for National Cyber Crime Center in the national police, FYI!”
“I see. But then at least they should call it NCCCNP to give us a fair chance.” Assad pouted. “Anyway, from now on, I want my business card to say SAAFT3AE.”
“It doesn’t quite slip off the tongue, does it?” said Gordon.
Carl looked at his watch. He would be out of here in twenty minutes.
“When can we expect to have the Mac back?” he interjected.
“They’ll take a look at it tomorrow. They reckon they’ll have something for us just after eight.”
“On a Saturday? Right. So they’ve be working through the night?”
“No, they’ll start on it first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay. And when does the weekend shift start work?”
“At eight, and they said it won’t take more than ten minutes.” Gordon tried to force a smile. He should not have bothered. He turned to Assad. “And what does SAAFT3AE stand for?”
“Swarthy Arab and father to three and exhausted, what else?”
Carl drew a deep breath. He could not get the cigarette on his desk out of his mind.
“Why are you smiling, Gordon?” asked Rose without waiting for an answer as she entered the room and placed a small cardboard box on her desk. “I’ve called the hospital and spoken with Bente Hansen.”
“What about?” asked Carl.
“Shouldn’t you start by asking how she’s doing? Where’s your empathy?”
Carl sighed. “Fine. How is she?”
“She’s actually really ill. I’m afraid we won’t have a chance to talk with her again before she’s transferred to intensive care. She could barely breathe.”
“Give it a rest, Rose. I actually like Bente and obviously I’m sorry to hear that.”
Rose nodded. She got the message.
“What did you get out of her?”
“She hadn’t been informed that we’ve been assigned the two cases involving Ragnhild Bengtsen and Tabitha Engstrøm, which I sensed annoyed her a little. But she still asked me to contact someone from her team, Manfred, who’s currently in isolation and working from home.”
“And did you?”
“What do you take me for? He told me that the murdered woman, Tabitha Engstrøm, often spewed hatred on various social media.”
“I see. But that’s generally not a crime in itself,” said Carl.
“No, but in her case, she often threatened people with death and destruction if they didn’t toe the line.”
“Examples, please.”
“Women who left their children in strollers on public streets deserved to have their children kidnapped.”
“Wasn’t there a case in New York years back where the mother was arrested?” asked Gordon. “And a Danish woman at that.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, it was called the stroller case. The mother wrote a book about it a few years ago.”
“And what else?” asked Carl.
“Everyone who spat on the street deserved to have their face rubbed in it until their skin was hanging off.”
“Okay. She sounds very uncompromising. But do you think she went beyond writing about assaults and actually carried them out?”
“Yes, I do. And pretty systematically.”
“And she finally overreacted in Østerbro?”
“Yes, definitely. After the murder of Tabitha Engstrøm, Bente Hansen’s team got a warrant to search her apartment. Unfortunately, they didn’t manage to analyze the objects that were seized before the entire team were forced into quarantine. I’ve heard that Bente Hansen collapsed just out there in the parking lot when they returned from the search.” Rose pushed the little cardboard box over to him. “The guy from her team, Manfred, told me where to find the box in their office, so I went in to get it. Manfred told me that the first thing he would address when he returned was this, so naturally that’s where I decided to start.”
She produced a bound notebook from the box, opened it to the first page, and read aloud:
1. Group leader: Debora, around 50
2. Group members: Sara, around 35; Martha, around the same. My group name is Eva.
3. Group objectives: “You could call it taking the law into your own hands, but you could also call it due diligence because it makes the world a little better every time.”
Rose looked up at the others. “The next three pages are a summary and documentation of sixty-five assaults in the period from 2018 to 2020 that Tabitha has committed. Quite violent activities if you ask me, so I’m sure that what she was accused of doing in Østerbro is true. She deliberately caused the death of the thief.”
“We’ve struck gold with this,” said Assad. “Does she mention Ragnhild Bengtsen anywhere? Was she one of the group members?”
“No. But Tabitha is called Eva, so we can’t rely on the names. It could be one of the other two she mentions. We don’t know.”
“I take it the notebook wasn’t presented in court, seeing as she was released,” said Carl.
“No. The search of Tabitha Engstrøm’s apartment didn’t take place until after her death. And that was first and foremost because Bente Hansen’s team wanted to see if they could establish a link to the woman who killed her.”
“We obviously all need to read this notebook carefully. But let’s hear one of the violations she describes in it,” said Carl.
“Okay. Apart from the killing in Østerbro, the most brutal example is probably the time when she publicly punched a young man in the throat with keys sticking out between her fingers because, in her mind, he had yelled something hurtful at a disabled woman. I’ve checked the case and read that the guy had to undergo several operations and is now struggling with his speech.”
“And she wasn’t under suspicion?”
“No, she had a way of wriggling out of everything she did, except for her last deed.”
“Is there any other information about the three women she mentions? Debora, Martha, and what was the last one called?”
“Sara. No, there isn’t. She only mentions them on the first page.”
“You get a vague idea of the group’s objectives, but what was the real purpose?” asked Gordon. “They certainly weren’t getting together to eat or discuss books.”
“Any theories?” asked Carl.
“It definitely wasn’t a club you’d want to get on the wrong side of,” said Rose.
Assad frowned. “In Lithuania, we came across an extremely violent revenge group that attacked people who had worked for the Russian intelligence when the country was behind the Iron Curtain. Could it be something along those lines?”
Rose and Gordon nodded.
“Have you had a chance to look at the unmarked DVDs we found in Ragnhild Bengtsen’s apartment?” asked Carl.
“Well, I’m on it at the moment,” said Gordon. “I can see that there’s a bit of data on all three, but I haven’t been able to retrieve any of it yet. I’m running two of the disks right now.” Gordon pointed at a couple of black screens behind him that looked like they were turned off.
“Can’t you fast-forward?” asked Carl.
Gordon nodded. “I’m just about to.” He pushed the fast-forward button on both DVD players.
“But I was just about to tell you something,” said Carl. “Marcus and I went up to Skævinge. We got a tip from the local police, and it turned out that—”
Suddenly, one of the screens flickered before a couple of brief recordings flashed past.
“Hey, rewind, Gordon,” shouted Rose and Carl in unison.
There was a flicker again before a quick succession of clips from an American TV program.
“I know that program,” said Gordon. “It’s pretty bizarre. It only features recordings where people act stupid and often get hurt while the host and his audience laugh. It’s called Ridiculousness.”
The other screen also started flickering while the first one showed someone tripping at the side of a pool and someone else hitting land on a Jet Ski, falling off and almost breaking their neck. Then a series of recordings appeared on the second screen.
“Do you also know what that is, Gordon?” asked Carl, nodding toward the screen.
“Yes. I even know this particular episode. It’s a guy called Johnny Knoxville from a famous show called Jackass, where the participants always hurt themselves badly. Knoxville does all sorts of idiotic and stupid things in this episode—gets pepper-sprayed in his eyes and stunned with a Taser. In the clip we’re watching, his nipple is bitten by a small crocodile and then his car is rammed by another car. It’s completely insane.”
Carl huffed. “Why the hell was Ragnhild Bengtsen turned on by this stuff? And why would she hide it at the very end of an otherwise blank DVD? Are these not fully accessible TV programs even though they’re crazy?”
Assad pushed a glass of tea over to him. “Almost no sugar in it,” he promised, pointing to the screen. “I think she was trying to cover that up.”
Carl took the tea and turned toward the screens again.
“That’s disgusting,” moaned Gordon, and Carl couldn’t agree more.
On both screens, the TV shows had been replaced by recordings that were by no means innocent. One screen showed one serious accident after another, while the other showed real-life recordings of violent assault and murder. The recordings were blurry, but there was no doubt about what they depicted. Highlights from group attacks with clubs, men stabbing other men from behind, shots being fired into crowds, high-school mass murders, and police brutality.
“Turn that filth off, Gordon,” exclaimed Rose.
Assad said nothing. Where was his mind these days?
“Right. Now we have proof that Ragnhild Bengtsen was a total nutcase,” she continued.
“What the hell could have driven her to collect this shit?” Gordon was as pale as a sheet now.
“I’m thinking about her movie posters, where all the heroes take the law into their own hands. And even if these clips are more intense, it’s basically the same thing,” said Rose. “At this point, she’s so far gone that she does it herself to an extreme degree, just like Tabitha did. But what is the connection between them? She’ll have to answer that when we manage to track her down.”
Carl nodded and took a sip of his tea. He cleared his throat and tried to avoid coughing. Then he swallowed, cleared his throat again, and then had a coughing fit. They all patted him on the back, but it only made matters worse. After a minute, he caught his breath again and looked teary-eyed at Assad.
“Urgh, Assad! I’d rather have the version with sugar. What’ve you done to it?”
“Just a little ginger, Carl. You take an entire ginger root, grate it into the pot, and let it infuse for an hour before reheating it. It’s supposed to be good for you.”
Carl nodded. “Okay. But do me a favor and warn me next time, Assad.” He turned to Rose. “Yes, we could certainly do with her answer, but Ragnhild Bengtsen isn’t going to be answering any questions.”
“Why?” asked Gordon.
Carl found the photo of the woman’s bludgeoned body on his phone and passed it to Gordon. “This is why!” he said, and he saw the last hint of color drain from Gordon’s face.