Chapter 16

A flock of pigeons flew up from the tracks and veered out over Lygten. The F-Line from Hellerup rumbled into Nørrebro Station.

Lars had a knot in his stomach; he was perspiring, afraid of meeting a sixteen-year-old high school student. It could hardly be more pathetic. But Maria was the person he loved more than anyone — and she was furious with him.

She had sent him a short text message earlier. She was arriving on the F-line at 4:18 p.m., and even though she’d said he didn’t have to, he was waiting for her, just like he had after her first day of school. He remembered his little girl on a rainy day in the suburb of Mørkhøj — Maria standing on the road in a dress and sandals with her hair in braids.

Just before coming to meet his daughter, he had left Mikkel Rasmussen’s shirt with Toke. Now it was on its way to Forensics. Getting usable DNA wouldn’t be a problem. They had him.

The crowd parted in front of him. A figure stood out. Then a body pressed against his, a momentary touch of a cheek before she pulled back, stood in front of him, waiting. Her pretty, deep brown eyes shifted toward the billboards, the people passing by — the light in their eyes had long since gone out — the departing train. Everything but him.

“Hey,” he ventured.

Maria mumbled something in reply. He tried stroking her hair.

“Are we just going to stand here?” she said, pulling her head back.

When he laughed, he could hear how hollow it sounded.

“No, of course not. Come on, it’s just over there.” He speed-talked as he walked ahead of her toward the stairs leading to street level. On the first landing he stopped so she could catch up to him. She wore cut-off jean shorts, a black peasant top, Converse sneakers, and a backpack. Her hair was still long and dark brown like his. She had a small upturned nose and delicate eyebrows, and her mouth was slightly too big for her slender face. She was just as he remembered her. But had she lost weight? Did her cheeks look a little hollow?

She was already on her cell, texting. Her thumb passed lightning fast over the keys.

He glanced at her as they walked along the street under the tracks. She was somewhere else. Not here. Not with him. “Can’t you wait a minute with that?”

She didn’t answer, continued texting as she followed him down Folmer Bendtsens Plads.

When they got upstairs, Maria walked straight into the first room. “Is this supposed to be my room?”

“Er, we’re going to paint it of course, but yes, that’s what I was thinking.”

“And where am I going to sleep? On that?” she said, pointing to the mattress that was leaning against the wall.

“Mom is sending all your things over tomorrow. Everything from your old room. Ulrik’s bought new furniture for you, right?”

She dropped the backpack in a corner and sprawled in the old wicker chair, the only other furniture in the room apart from the mattress. The wicker creaked.

“And you can cut that out.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the cigarettes he had just taken out. “You’re not smoking in here.”

He fumbled with the pack then put it back in his pocket. It was unbelievable how she could order him around. You could forget a lot in two months.

She kicked off her shoes and folded her legs under her. “At least it’s not far from Caro’s place.”

“Caroline? Has she moved away from home?” Had it already begun?

“She’s subletting an apartment on Ørholmgade.” She looked up at him. “Relax. Her mom is so tough, and she knew someone who’d be travelling all summer.” She began texting again.

So it was just a trial. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing? With Caroline around the corner, the chances of Maria wanting to be here increased considerably.

“We’re going to a colleague’s for dinner tonight,” he said. “I’m just going out on the balcony to — smoke.”

“Fine,” she said and rolled her eyes. Her phone beeped.

Lars closed the balcony door behind him, exhaled. The cigarette was already in his mouth. He struck a match and drew the smoke deep into his lungs.

An Audi streaked out of the roundabout, nearly grazing a rattling Opel. There was honking and a finger out the window. Lars looked back into the apartment. His home had just been subjected to something close to a hostile takeover and he had no idea what to do about it.

He looked at his watch. It was quarter to five. They had to be at Sanne’s for six o’clock. He threw the butt down onto the street and went inside.

“I’m just going to take a shower,” he shouted. “We’re leaving in half an hour.”

But the door to the bathroom was closed. When he tried the handle, it was locked.

Sanne answered the door on the third floor at Århusgade.

“Hi Sanne.” Lars handed her the bottle of wine they had bought at Føtex on their way over. “Maria, this is Sanne.” He pushed Maria in front of him. “It smells delicious.”

“Thanks,” Sanne said. “I hope you like fish. We’re having plaice.”

The evening went far better than Lars had expected. Sanne managed to engage his grumpy teenage daughter, and during the meal Maria laughed and told funny stories about her new teachers at Øregård high school. And as soon as Maria discovered that Sanne’s boyfriend, Martin, was a Monty Python fan, she was sold.

Immediately after the meal, Maria and Martin disappeared to the room next door to watch an episode of the original BBC television show on the flat screen. Sanne and Lars cleared the table.

“How’s it going with the case?” Sanne was rinsing the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. Lars came into the kitchen with the rest of the dishes. He told her about the search, the bloodstained shirt.

“That was quick,” she said.

“The Internet helped.” He explained how they had got on Mikkel Rasmussen’s track by checking the club and bar web sites for photos at Penthouse from that night. “Unfortunately, it’s as though the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. He’s probably in hiding.”

Sanne nodded as she rinsed the serving dishes.

They stood in silence. Lars turned his glass in his hands. “Is it a good idea to piss off your boss in your first week? I mean, by having me and Maria over like this?”

Sanne shook her head. “I’m here to learn, right? Frelsén said you were the best. Ulrik got annoyed about that too.”

He laughed. So Frelsén had complained about him being dropped from the case. It must have been an interesting autopsy.

“Did you find out anything else about the girl — Mira, was it?”

“Hmm.” Sanne nodded. “There was a letter among her personal effects, from her mom.” Sanne was looking down at the sink. Lars followed her eyes. Scraps of plaice, potatoes, and parsley floated around in the cloudy dishwater, swirling toward the drain with a loud gurgle. “Another short-lived, sad life. She probably would have ended up like she did somewhere else anyway.”

“You must never think like that,” he said. “That’s how the bureaucrats think, how Ulrik thinks.” Then he caught himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t get you mixed up in my problems.”

Sanne grimaced. “I think I’m starting to share your opinion of him.”

“Cheers to that.” Lars raised his glass.

They clinked glasses, then Sanne put hers on the counter.

“What about you?” she said. “Your wife ran off with your boss and you’ve got a teenage daughter. Who else is there? Parents?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Lars looked out the window. “Well, my mom lives in a housing co-op in Sydhavnen. I suppose she’s what you’d call a life artist.”

“And your dad?”

Lars’s gaze followed the ruler-straight line of hedges outside, the flowerbeds that framed the courtyard. Jungle gyms, sandboxes. Benches for the stylish Østerbro parents.

“It’s been a while since I saw him last. He’s American. Absconded from military service and Vietnam in the late 1960s. He finally ended up in the hippie camp in Thylejren, where he met my mom. As she tells the story, she got pregnant almost straight away.”

“And he’s not here anymore?”

“In 1977, Jimmy Carter granted amnesty to ten thousand deserters. Among them was my dad. I was nine years old when he went back to the U.S. Now he’s a professor of criminology at Columbia in New York,” he said. “And you? You’re from Kolding?”

“Another time.” Sanne put down the sponge and went into the living room. Lars followed. From the TV room, they could hear Maria and Martin crying with laughter at “The Cheese Shop” sketch.

Lars sat down at the table, spun his glass by the stem. Sanne remained standing on the other side and pulled a file out of her purse.

“According to the autopsy report, Mira was shot with a nine millimetre Husqvarna P-40.”

Lars whistled. “An antique?”

“It was originally manufactured for the Finnish army. During the war, when the Swedes couldn’t get their standard weapon, the Walther P38 from Germany, they decided to start producing their own.” She looked at him. “Ulrik is convinced Ukë and Meriton killed her. But would they use an antique gun?”

“Who else then?”

“A collector, or someone who has access to the weapon through their family? Of course it could have been stolen too.”

Lars grabbed the file and began reading the report. “What did Frelsén say? What about the eyes?”

“The same as when we found her. No scoring of the skull in the eye socket. It was a fine, almost surgical cut. And then she was injected with glutaraldehyde through the large vein in her thigh. Glutaraldehyde gives the tissue that yellowish tone we saw on the body. Formaldehyde, which is used today, doesn’t cause discolouration.”

“So you’re looking for someone who uses an antique weapon and old methods of preserving bodies?”

Sanne nodded. Lars closed his eyes. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger until it hurt.

Sanne reached for her glass. She squeezed the stem until her knuckles went white. “One sick bastard.”

In the cab, on their way home, Maria was in high spirits.

“‘I’m keen to guess.’” Her bad imitation of John Cleese ended with her doubled over with laughter. The cab driver sent him a disapproving look in the rearview mirror. Lars shifted slightly away from her. Not everyone could tell that they were father and daughter.

Maria stopped laughing, pushed her hair back, and looked at him. Was that a smile? “She’s sweet, Sanne. Too bad she’s with Martin.”

Lars cleared his throat. “She’s just a colleague. I . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Maria looked at him. Then she turned her head and stared out the window.