Death Sentence (6 page)

It was far too big for me. There was much more room here than in my cottage and I felt lost in the uncluttered surroundings. I’m used to a bit of mess – chaos some would probably call it – and the large living room with all that floor space and upholstered furniture not piled high with books, printouts or notepads was intimidating.

Having unpacked my clothes, which took up only a couple of hangers and one shelf in the five-door built-in wardrobe in the bedroom, I poured myself a whisky from the minibar and took the envelope from the front pocket of my bag. I carried it over to the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs.

My address in Rågeleje was secret so readers usually sent their letters to my publishers. From time to time fellow writers would send me signed copies of their books, as I would to them. It was an unspoken agreement and a way of announcing that yes, you had just had another book published. At times it felt like pressure, at other times gloating, especially if the book in question had been well received. I was rarely pleased to receive these trophies, and they were positively unwelcome if I was suffering from writer’s block.

Please don’t let it be from Tom Winter.

Tom Winter was a crime writer who had proclaimed himself to be my rival on several occasions. I wasn’t terribly worried about his challenge, but it annoyed me that reviewers were always comparing us, as it was mostly to Tom Winter’s advantage. We had never met and yet he insisted on sending me a copy of every book he wrote. So far, that amounted to five. I had never returned the compliment, but that didn’t seem to worry him.

I ripped open the envelope and stuck my hand inside. As I expected, it was a book. I pulled it out and turned it face up.

It was a copy of
In the Red Zone
, my latest but not yet published crime novel. The cover was dominated by a close-up of a traffic light and, if you looked carefully, you could make out different figures and a single skull in the lamps.

I frowned. Who would send me a copy of my own book?

There was no signature on the title page that might reveal the sender. I checked the envelope for further information, but there was nothing.

I thumbed through the pages. Words and letters flickered before my eyes. A few sentences jumped out long enough to be decoded, but were soon overtaken by more words. The note had been inserted approximately halfway through. I went back a couple of pages to remove it. Perhaps that was the clue I had been looking for, an explanation from the sender?

It turned out not to be a note, but a photo.

A photo of Mona Weis.

THE PICTURE OF
Mona Weis was the size of a packet of cigarettes. She was leaning against a white wall, smiling, and her hypnotic blue eyes were aimed straight at the camera. I estimated it must have been taken around the time I knew her. Her hair was the same style and she looked very much like she did two years ago, which would explain why the colours had started to fade. The photo itself was slightly scratched, the corners bent and the back a little soiled as if it had been lying around someone’s drawer for a long time.

I sat in my hotel room for hours staring at the photo. Slowly I drank my way through the minibar. When I reached the Baileys, I put down the photo and began studying the book itself. I examined the cover. It was brand new, no scratches or marks of any kind. I carefully went through the whole volume, page by page, and checked the text for marks or other signs. You can tell if a book has been read. It doesn’t smell quite the same once its pages have been turned. Everything suggested this copy had never been opened.

To my regret, I had removed the photo without paying attention to where it had been inserted. Perhaps it was unimportant, but still I was annoyed at my carelessness. It had been in the second half, which was where Kit Hansen was murdered, but that was all I could be sure of.

None the wiser after examining the book, I looked at the envelope again. I turned it over, I sniffed it, I peered inside it and I poked my fingers right into the corners. There was nothing that revealed anything about the sender. My name was typed on a white label and stuck on the envelope a little askew, as if it had been done in haste or just indifferently.

Finally I leaned back in the chair and stared at the coffee table. The three objects – the envelope, the book and the photo – lay side by side, like an assembly instruction in reverse order.

Was Verner playing a joke on me? He had probably discovered the real nature of my relationship with Mona and he was the type who might decide to punish me by pulling a stunt like this. It would have been relatively easy for him to get hold of a photo from Mona’s flat, had he wanted to, but I had no idea how he would have got his hands on the book. I had signed the copy I had given to him. But then again, he had contacts everywhere.

The thought was tempting, but I couldn’t even convince myself. Verner simply didn’t have the finesse to pull it off. My rejected-boyfriend theory wasn’t very convincing either, and my earlier excitement at explaining the true facts of the case to Verner was replaced by a growing unease.

I felt nauseous, but not enough to be sick. No matter how hard I tried to relax, my breathing was laboured. My fingers tingled and my legs felt leaden. All I could do was sit there and stare at the three objects in front of me, but no amount of staring at them revealed anything.

The light faded until I sat in darkness.

Suddenly I remembered my dinner with Verner. I glanced at my watch. I was meeting him in the restaurant in half an hour. I forced myself to shower and change. The familiar movements helped me relax a little, but my hands were still shaking when I put the photo and the book back in the envelope and brought them with me down to the ground floor.

Roughly half the restaurant’s twenty tables were occupied. Smaller parties, most of them American couples, from what I could hear. I was the only one sitting alone. Eating on my own has never bothered me and I usually bring my notebook so I don’t get too bored.

I ordered a whisky, a 12-year-old Bowmore, a double. Verner never made an effort to be on time, so I settled in for a long wait.

I had met Verner through Line. We happened to be seated next to each other at a golden wedding anniversary in Line’s family. I had dreaded the event, but when I found out the person next to me was a police officer, my mood improved considerably. Back then he had a mane of black hair and was only a little chubby, though he had already developed a significant double chin. A prominent nose combined with his small, deep-set eyes made him look anything but charming. Not that this prevented him from being loud-mouthed and drowning out most of the other
guests
at the table with his bragging manner. We talked for most of the dinner and he agreed to a partnership. He would help me with my research in return for the occasional dinner.

When I met up with Line later in the bar and raved about my new contact, she went mad and said I could forget about that. The man was a pig and I should stay away from him. I think I told her to relax, which had the opposite effect. We didn’t meet up again until we left the party. On the way home, she said nothing. It wasn’t until we got back that she explained her behaviour.

For Line’s confirmation, at the age of fourteen, the whole family had gathered as they always did whenever there was something worth celebrating. The party was held in some function rooms on Amager with the obligatory speeches, songs and free-flowing alcohol. Line had her first glass of wine on that occasion, a family tradition her sisters had also experienced. Verner, too, stuck to tradition. He had knocked back quite a bit and became rather belligerent. After the dinner, the programme was less formal. Coffee was served and the guests mingled while the children played in the function rooms. Line had gone to the lavatory. She felt a little dizzy from the wine and had been looking at herself in the mirror. The clichéd speeches about coming-of-age and all the challenges she would be facing as an adult whirled around inside her head and she imagined what her face would look like in five or ten years’ time.

She snapped out of her reverie, unlocked the door and walked straight into Verner’s arms. At first she grinned and pushed him away, but he refused to let her go.
Instead
, he tightened his grip and pushed her back inside the cubicle. He ran his hand over her throat and grabbed one of her breasts. She kept shouting and pushing him away, but he forced himself against her while trying to kiss her. His breath reeked of alcohol and his shirt was drenched in sweat. She managed to free herself and ran out, while behind her Verner muttered something about it all being a joke. Line keeping running until she was outside in the fresh air. When she had stopped feeling nauseous, she returned to the party. Verner had started singing drinking songs as if nothing had happened. She never told her family.

Her story made a deep impression on me, obviously. I felt physically sick and very angry and rather embarrassed that I had succumbed to his charm. Line calmed me down. It was a long time ago, but still she had no intention of forgiving him.

I assured her I would have nothing more to do with him, and yet, when he called some months later, I found myself agreeing to have dinner. It was with some disgust, a feeling I have always had in his company. There was something about the way he casually asked me how Line was that made my stomach turn. I tolerated him because, in my own clever way,
I
was exploiting
him
. However, Line would never be able to understand that, so I didn’t tell her. She knew nothing about our dinners until some years later.

I had been sitting in the restaurant with my whisky for ten minutes when Verner appeared. He was flushed and I could see beads of sweat on his scalp through his thinning
hair
. He was wearing a crumpled grey suit and a white shirt stretched tight over his huge belly. His bulk seemed to swell with every meeting.

With a groan, he let himself flop into the chair opposite me.

‘Hello, Frank,’ he panted, wiping the sweat off his brow with a napkin from the table.

‘Hello, Verner,’ I replied and held out my hand.

He gave me a warm and moist handshake.

‘Christ – that job will be the death of me.’ He wriggled out of his jacket, which he tossed on a vacant chair at the next table.

We ordered our food. I had fish of the day and white wine, Verner a steak, rare, and beer.

‘What a bloody mess, this murder, eh?’ Verner said after some small talk about family and the weather.

I decided I might as well get it over with and told him about my relationship with Mona Weis two years ago. He listened with a lewd smile on his face.

‘You’re a dark horse,’ he said. ‘Was she good in bed?’

I ignored his question. For want of anything else, I introduced him to my theory about Mona’s rejected boyfriend and his revenge on her and me using my script as his model. My lack of conviction must have been obvious, but I had nothing else to offer.

Verner shook his head. ‘Everything is a mystery to you, eh, Frank? You’re always looking for a complicated solution.’

He fell silent while the waiter served our food.

‘It’s far too elaborate to be a crime of passion,’ Verner continued. ‘Jealous men act on impulse. They don’t go
around
planning something like that. Possibly the disposal of the body, but not the murder itself.’

‘But … do the police know if she had a boyfriend?’

‘They’re working on it,’ he replied. ‘She would appear to have been single for some months, but there are rumours that she had affairs with older and married men so she might have had a secret lover.’ He smiled. ‘Your name came up.’

‘I told you, it was several years ago.’

‘I know, I know, but that kind of gossip has quite a life span. Affairs in a small town like Gilleleje, especially one that involves a famous writer, aren’t easily forgotten.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

Verner shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’

‘Not yet!’

‘We’re going to have to tell them about the book.’

‘Are you sure? It was you who said we shouldn’t.’

Verner heaved a sigh. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘Once the book is published … when is it again?’

‘In two days,’ I replied.

‘In two days,’ he repeated and looked tired. ‘Then we could be faced with an even bigger problem.’

I raised my wine glass and studied him as I drank. His smile had vanished and his small dark eyes were focused on the plate in front of him, but he didn’t eat. He just sat there, staring at his steak.

In the Red Zone
would be published on Friday, the first day of the book fair. It was all arranged. Interviews and talks had been scheduled, posters printed and stacks of books would be on display. If the police decided to stop
the
book, it would have serious economic consequences for my publishers and for me.

‘It doesn’t look good,’ Verner said, looking up. ‘If you had been upfront about your relationship, I could have told the Murder Squad straightaway. Now it’ll seem as if we’re hiding something.’

‘What have we got to hide?’ I protested. ‘How could we possibly know how much Mona’s murder resembles the one in the book? Very few details have been made public. For example, I haven’t read anything about the diving gear or the marble bust.’

‘Of course not,’ Verner snapped. ‘It’s standard procedure to withhold that kind of information while the investigation is under way. The problem is I think I’ve drawn attention to myself by my considerable interest in the case.’

‘That doesn’t make us murderers,’ I declared.

Verner scrutinized me. ‘Well, at least I’ve got an alibi. I was in a bar with some colleagues. Police officers.’ He spoke the last word in syllables.

‘What are you saying?’ I asked, a little too loud, unable to control my temper. Several guests stared. As we didn’t say anything, but merely glared at each other, they turned their attention back to their food. Verner didn’t reply.

‘There is something else,’ I whispered.

‘Now what?’ Verner asked. ‘More secrets?’