Wednesday, December 16, 2020
Louise von Brandstrup was the daughter of a failed fashion factory owner from Herning, who had married and subsequently divorced an equally failed carpet wholesaler. Things slowly went downhill for her. She had no skills worth mentioning, no education, drank a bit too much, and had no real friends to speak of. So it was more than fortunate for her when she managed to hook her second husband, Birger von Brandstrup, who made a fortune from investing in online gambling. The hopes of gullible, ordinary Danes trying to make their limited means grow without putting in any effort had made the couple sixty million kroner richer each year over the last decade. Why would they have any scruples about the fact that they and their family were ultimately the only ones taking home the winnings?
Louise’s husband disappeared one gray November day in 2018. And since their fortune was solely in his name, all the pleasure, admiration, and partying to which Louise had become accustomed evaporated along with him. In fact, from one day to the next, Louise became easy prey. She was let down by everything and everyone. Von Brandstrup’s first wife demanded her share of the estate, and her children demanded that their trust funds be released. The creditors for the leased cars, and the workmen who had built the stables, as well as everyone else to whom they owed money, regularly came knocking with angry expressions and demands for payment.
Louise remained hopeful for the first few months that Birger would turn up again. That his hankering for new flesh and exotic desires would wane and that he would return to make amends and resume his position in their marital bed. But Birger did not turn up, and now she had moved to their holiday home in Hornbæk, which was the only one of their possessions held in her name.
She was lying in bed watching the news when the discovery of the bodies in Skævinge was announced as breaking news. Louise loved the yellow sensationalist and macabre banners that rolled across the screen, and she felt a tingle down her spine for a few seconds before her suspicions were raised. She jumped out of bed because the banner read that one of the bodies was a tall man of at least two meters who had probably been buried for more than a year.
She should have been shocked at her suspicion, but Louise was rather relieved and sensed better times ahead. Imagine if it was Birger. Then she could get a death certificate and the estate could finally be settled. He had a large fortune, and she was in line for the lion’s share. She was sure of it.
The police were not wearing uniforms, which took her by surprise. A very odd pair—like ebony and ivory. A man who appeared Middle Eastern with bloodshot eyes and tousled hair and, next to him, a lanky, pale-faced guy who looked like a schoolboy stood on her doormat. They introduced themselves, but she did not pay attention. She never did.
“We’re here because you called the police about your suspicion that one of the two dead men might be your husband, Birger Brandstrup,” said the pale one.
“Von!” she said. “Birger von Brandstrup.”
The Middle Eastern guy looked down at his papers and mumbled to himself: “There’s no ‘von’ on our papers.”
“We’re here to inform you that the dental analysis has confirmed that the deceased is your husband,” said the schoolboy. “We’re very sorry.”
Yes! sounded a voice in her head. She hid her face in her hands to feign shock. In an instant, her future seemed bright and the possibilities endless.
“Do you need something to drink?” asked the young guy. “Do you need some time to compose yourself? Do you want to call someone?”
She shook her head.
“We’ve checked our records and can see that you reported your husband missing on November twenty-second, 2018. Is that correct?” asked the Middle Eastern guy.
She nodded from behind her hands.
“Your husband was immensely wealthy. Have you ever at any point received a ransom note, or in any way received information about why he disappeared?” asked the pale guy.
She sighed and looked up at them. Hopefully they could not read her tearless face.
“No, nothing. He just disappeared.”
“Can you think of any explanation for his death?” asked the other guy. “Did he have any enemies? Did he owe any money that he refused to pay? Gambling debts, perhaps?”
She scoffed. “Birger didn’t owe money to anyone, and, if he had gambling debts, he would’ve just paid them. Why are you asking me such a stupid question? Birger made money from other people’s gambling habits. He would never have gambled himself. He always said it was the most stupid thing to do.”
“And yet he invested in more than ten gambling platforms here in Denmark and in tax havens abroad over the last twelve to thirteen years. It’s not inconceivable that he might have made enemies in that line of work,” said the schoolboy.
Louise looked at him with an expression of pity. “Are you thinking about people with gambling addictions? Then let me tell you something. Birger had absolutely nothing to do with the gamblers, and I can’t imagine him making himself known to any of those wretched losers.” She looked at the other one with a suitably suffering expression. “Where is Birger now?”
“He’s still with the coroner.”
“I won’t have to identify him, will I?”
“Not unless you want to. But I’d advise you not to,” said the Middle Eastern guy.
Jesus Christ! As if she would.
“He called himself Birger von Brandstrup and disappeared November 22, 2018, after which he was killed and more or less embalmed with table salt. Assad and I agree that we can write another victim up on the whiteboard, Carl,” said Gordon.
“And the wife? How did she seem?”
“Do you know the one about the camel who had big ambitions, Carl?” asked Assad.
He shook his head. Gordon did not know it either.
“Well, the camel was convinced that it could fly, so it spread its humps out to the side like wings and jumped off a tall sand dune in the middle of the desert.”
“My guess is that it couldn’t,” said Carl.
“No. It had to perform an emergency landing.”
“I don’t really get the point, Assad.”
“Just like with the camel, we didn’t manage to take off anywhere with the wife.”
“Okay, clever. So you’re telling me that the wife had no information about Birger von Brandstrup’s disappearance?”
“No. Nothing except the addition of the ‘von,’ which wasn’t actually his real name.”
Carl shook his head. You could fill the entire Colosseum with conceited people who thought that the addition of a “von” or “de” made them more important than others.
“I can see you’re enjoying yourselves,” came a voice from the door. It was the chief of homicide. “Maybe it’ll contribute to the good mood to find out that the other body was also identified this morning.”
They all looked at Marcus Jacobsen.
“The man was called Frank Arnold Svendsen. He was a public figure who received numerous daily fines back in the day for breaches of environmental legislation.”
Carl shrugged. “A public figure?”
“Yes. But you probably know him by his alias, Franco Svendsen. He was reported missing, and the general consensus has been that he drowned.”
This rang a distant bell in Carl’s mind.
“I can also inform you that the autopsy of the two bodies has established that the cause of death was the same for both victims. They died from very large amounts of potassium chloride being injected into their bodies—probably directly into the heart. Potassium chloride is one of three substances used for lethal injections, but normally the person on death row is sedated before it is administered. The interesting thing here is that the killer has made no attempt to conceal their method.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carl.
“Forensics went out there again today and checked the site. And when they dug a little deeper, they found two identical syringes in the two graves. Large two-hundred-milliliter syringes that are often used with tubes for enemas. But these were equipped with needles. And damn long ones at that.”
Carl shuddered. “Was there still potassium chloride left in the syringes?”
“Yes, about five milliliters.”
“How much do they think there was in the syringes originally?” asked Rose.
“It’s hard to say for sure, but they were probably full. At least that’s what the forensic investigation indicates.”
“And what is the lethal dose? I’m sure it doesn’t take a hundred and fifty milliliters,” said Rose.
“I’ve no idea how it works when it’s injected directly into the heart. I believe that if it’s administered intravenously, a much larger amount is needed.”
“What did the coroner’s office have to say?” asked Carl.
“They support the theory.”
“So, they were killed with potassium chloride and embalmed with sodium chloride. It’s suddenly all very chemical, isn’t it?” said Rose. She shuddered as if she felt something down her spine. “The men were kidnapped and killed in the same way that people are executed on death row, but without the benefit of being sedated first,” she said gloomily.
“Yes, they found no traces of other substances in the bodies. It was a quick, effective, but probably very painful death.” The chief of homicide turned to the whiteboard. “Their deaths don’t seem to have much in common with the others, which the police initially filed as accidents or self-inflicted. Do you still think we should put them on the whiteboard? There’s certainly some very conspicuous empty spaces for the years 2016 and 2018.”
Carl nodded to Assad, who stepped forward and wrote “Frank ‘Franco’ Svendsen” on the whiteboard under the year 2016.
They looked at the whiteboard for a moment. Then Assad wrote “Birger von Brandstrup” under the year 2018.
Carl counted the number of bodies discovered with salt in the vicinity.
Now there were seven.