Death Sentence (3 page)

Which it did after another two whiskies.

Verner had worked late to find out more about the Gilleleje murder. He got a bit annoyed when I told him I had been to the marina. He couldn’t see why I would want to do that; on the contrary, he said, I ought to stay away to avoid suspicion. But I had nothing to hide, and I reckon the real reason for his anger was that he thought I didn’t trust him. It was a poor start to the conversation, but after I made a couple of placatory remarks, he got to the point.

‘I’ve got some bad news for you,’ he began. ‘Turns out the dead woman wasn’t a redhead after all.’

‘And you call that bad news?’ I burst out. ‘That’s brilliant!’

‘Not really. She has short black hair, but when they found her, she was wearing a red wig.’ He waited a couple of seconds for the penny to drop. ‘The killer put her in that wig to make her look like the woman in your book.’

I didn’t interrupt him again.

Verner told me someone had reported seeing light in the water last night. A couple of divers were sent to
investigate
this morning and had discovered the body. The light originated from a powerful diving lamp aimed straight up at the surface and it had clearly been placed there to make sure she was found. No one appeared to have noticed any boats anchored in the area.

The police believed the woman had been dead for thirty-six hours when they found her, and they established that she had been alive when she was immersed and would probably have been conscious for at least fifteen minutes before she suffocated to death. The cuts to the body were caused by a sharp knife or scalpel and inflicted underwater.

In my book I had given the victim those cuts to attract small fish so she would feel them nibbling little chunks off her, but Verner told me there were very few bites to the body and they definitely hadn’t been inflicted while she was alive. Somehow I couldn’t help feeling annoyed about this difference.

‘Do you know who she was?’ I asked.

‘A local girl,’ Verner replied. ‘She worked in a bookshop in Gilleleje High Street. Mona something; I don’t remember her surname.’

My heart skipped a beat.

‘Mona Weis?’ I said.

Silence down the other end of the telephone.

Then, ‘Yes … do you know her?’

‘You just told me she worked in a bookshop in Gilleleje. I’ve signed books there a couple of times and I’ve met her, that’s all.’

‘Hmm,’ Verner grunted. ‘And yet you can remember her surname?’

To my ears his question was tinged with a certain amount of suspicion, but then again he is a copper.

‘It’s an interesting name,’ I replied. ‘Authors collect interesting names.’

In truth there was a completely different reason why I remembered Mona’s surname. I had indeed signed autographs in the bookshop in Gilleleje High Street and that was where I had met her, but it had turned into more than just an incidental meeting.

I can’t deny that Mona was the inspiration behind Kit Hansen in the book – apart from the hair. Mona Weis had short black hair, as Verner had said, but came across as incredibly feminine. Her face was narrow and she had luminous blue eyes, a fine pointed nose and a small round mouth that made her look as if she was constantly blowing kisses. She was tall and slim without being gangly. Later, when I addressed her as Cleopatra, she rolled her eyes and said she had heard that one before. It failed as a compliment, but I couldn’t help it, she really did look like her.

I was due to spend two hours in the bookshop and I signed a grand total of four copies, of which one was a borderline sleazy dedication to Mona. The shop wasn’t very big, but they had found room for me in a corner where they had displayed a selection of my books and put up a till to serve the hordes of fans expected to queue up to buy a copy and get it signed by the author. It was Mona’s job to operate the till, so we had ample time to talk, and flirt, in two hours while we waited for customers. She offered to add a little something to my coffee to help both of us stay awake and to my delight the
next
cup she brought me had an overpowering taste of whisky. We drank a lot of coffee and became increasingly animated, something the other staff members couldn’t help noticing.

Afterwards we went to the Kanal Café or the ‘Carnal Café’ as the locals call it, where we carried on drinking whisky. It was there that I called her Cleopatra and she told me she couldn’t stand my books. I must have looked taken back because she quickly added that she liked me very much. She said she was fed up with dating fishermen and country bumpkins who drank beer and only ever talked about cars. At this point we both agreed there was no reason to stay in the café, and we returned to her flat, two rooms above the town’s photo shop, where we tore each other’s clothes off as soon as the door had slammed shut. We fucked like rabbits, changed positions and places constantly, but my most vivid memory was being ridden by Cleopatra, whose blue eyes practically glowed down on me.

She tired of me after six weeks. I wasn’t surprised; she was twelve years younger than me and I was just grateful for the time we had together. She told me little about herself and I didn’t encourage her to tell me more. We were lovers at a time when we both needed someone, that was all.

Yet her death hit me like a blow to the chest. I hadn’t seen her for over two years, but the thought of
anyone
dying in this way, let alone her, made me feel nauseous.

Down the other end of the telephone, Verner cleared his throat.

‘Listen, Frank. I have to ask you a question.’

‘Of course.’

‘Can you account for your whereabouts these last three days?’

OF COURSE, I
couldn’t prove what I had been doing or where I had been on the days Verner was asking about. Most of my evenings ended with a glass of red wine in front of the fire or the television and the three days he wanted me to account for had been no different. I didn’t have a solid alibi, and I knew what that would mean if it had been a crime novel: I would have been the prime suspect. Not only had I described the murder, I also knew the victim, and it wouldn’t take much imagination to come up with a motive of jealousy.

I didn’t tell Verner how close Mona Weis and I had been. Our fling was probably known to most people in Gilleleje and I knew it was only a question of time before rumours about it reached the police, but I needed time to think. I was upset at Mona’s death, but I had the sense to finish the conversation as quickly as I could. This involved me promising to come to Copenhagen to speak face to face with Verner.

I was going to Copenhagen two days later anyway for the launch of
In the Red Zone
at the Forum Book Fair,
and
we agreed that I would arrive a day early so we could meet. I wasn’t happy about it.

Life in the small seaside village of Rågeleje had taken root in me and with every trip to the capital I felt more like a stranger. The noises had grown louder, the tempo faster and the people more distant. They were unaware of each other’s presence and pushed their way through the streets in their own bubble as defined by their car, music device or mobile telephone, or sometimes all three at once. If I had stayed in the city – as I had always sworn I would – I would most certainly have turned into one of them, but now I was a tourist. It was no longer my home territory and, with every visit, it took me longer to rediscover the old rituals and familiar ease. Simply navigating my way down Strøget was a major effort and necessitated an endless string of apologies because I could no longer read the pedestrian traffic in the street.

All the same, I needed to get away from the cottage. I wandered restlessly between the kitchen, living room and study, thinking about Mona. I convinced myself that if I physically distanced myself from the murder, I would once more be the master of my own thoughts. If nothing else, the impact of the city would at least be a distraction.

My annual trip to the book fair was carefully planned to ensure I spent as little time in the capital as possible. This year I had meetings with my publishers, a couple of interviews, three signing sessions at the book fair and one reading. In addition, I had squeezed in a visit to my parents, an evening with my best and only friend, Bjarne, and now a meeting with Verner.

This meant I had to change my hotel reservation. I
always
stay in the same place, Marieborg Hotel, in Vesterbro near the city centre, a tradition maintained since the first year I no longer had a fixed address in Copenhagen. Had I wanted to, I could probably have stayed with my parents or with Bjarne, but I liked being able to retire to my own space, and the hotel lay in a side street where I would get peace and quiet. The staff knew me, always gave me the same room and were politely interested without being intrusive. Part of their deference was due to the fact that I had used the hotel in my book
As You Sow
, where a corrupt police superintendent is murdered by a prostitute he has double-crossed. The murder takes place in room 102, where I usually stay, and the hotel manager had even put up a small plaque on the back of the door mentioning the murder and my name. In the bedside table drawer there was a copy of the book in addition to the Bible.

When I called the hotel it turned out I would be unable to stay in room 102 on this occasion. The room had been booked for a week and prepaid for a couple of additional nights by another guest. This information angered me and I raised my voice to the poor girl at the other end of the telephone. I tried to explain that I always stayed in that room and that I had made my booking a fortnight ago. She apologized profusely, but no special requirements regarding room 102 had been registered in their booking system. As compensation, she offered me the extra night I needed for free. It failed to improve my mood.

My meeting with Verner would take place on Wednesday in the hotel restaurant. I knew I had to tell him the truth about my relationship with Mona Weis, if he hadn’t already sussed it out, but I wanted to supplement it with
my
own theory as to what was going on. The only problem was I had no theory.

As I couldn’t get to sleep anyway, I turned my thoughts to solving the mystery. I approached the situation as if it was one of my own novels. My books are usually constructed around a central murder, a crime so vile it remains in the reader’s mind long after the book has been read. Once I have devised that particular scene, I get to work on the plot and the list of characters. In this case, the murder was already in place, but the cast and the plot were completely different to my book. I had to create a new storyline from the same starting point.

I soon realized that I was top billing. The question was: which role was I playing? Would I be the mentor, the scapegoat, or was my challenge to take on the part of the quick-witted detective who solves the case and saves the day?

The thought that someone might be inspired by my murders wasn’t novel. In the countless interviews I have given, the question is nearly always asked: ‘Aren’t you scared that someone might commit your murders in real life?’

I’m not boasting when I say that my murders are so complex in execution and so well integrated into the storyline that any reconstruction would be both difficult and pointless. I always spice the crimes up with exotic and horrifying details; they are meant to be unforgettable, they bear my trademark and they leave the reader in no doubt they’re reading a Føns thriller. Secondly, there were several practical obstacles. In order to commit the murder in Gilleleje Marina, the killer would need access
to
a boat. The diving equipment had to be untraceable and the murder itself take place unnoticed in an area with plenty of boat traffic, even this late in the year. The victim would have to be selected, kidnapped, transported and murdered before anyone reported her missing. Such things take time and preparation, and nothing can go wrong.

In fiction, this is straightforward. The reader has been drawn so effectively into the story that different rules apply and events need only make sense within the framework of the novel. It must seem plausible not only that the villain is so cunning he might actually get away with the most outrageous scheme, but also that he has the motive to carry out the extensive fieldwork and the crime itself.

However, that’s not the answer I give to journalists. When asked if I’m scared that someone might try to copy my murders, I inevitably launch into a lengthy speech about how art has always been accused of implanting something in people, as if that something wasn’t already there. Cartoons were once regarded as dangerous and morally corrupting, then it was the turn of cinema films, video films, role-play and, most recently, computer games. My point being that if someone commits a murder, it isn’t prompted by a book, it’s because that person is bad. Book or no book, the murder would be committed.

This argument not only shut up the journalists, it also made sense to me.

The murder of Mona Weis, however, made no sense. Mona wasn’t scared of water or diving. The act of killing her made sense only because it was done with considerable
adherence
to the script, a script I just happened to have written.

So perhaps Mona wasn’t the only victim?

No matter how revolting the murder was, I couldn’t ignore that I had a level of involvement. Someone wanted to get rid of Mona and had used my method, possibly in order to point the finger at me. It could be a boyfriend with a temper; she might have told one of her boorish fishermen about our relationship, bragged about it, possibly. Through her work, she might have got hold of a copy of
In the Red Zone
and waved it in front of the killer like a red rag.

This was my theory after a whole night of speculation, piles of notes and ever bigger glasses of whisky. I was convinced this was how everything connected. There were no other options. The more I thought about it, the clearer I could visualize the scene, and I had an overwhelming feeling that I could have found the killer by looking in the telephone directory or walking down Gilleleje High Street. A huge wave of relief washed over me and I looked forward to meeting Verner and telling him how it had all happened – I would be Sherlock Holmes to his Inspector Lestrade.