Farewell to Freedom (23 page)

Louise recalled the Roma girls as she absentmindedly reached for the plastic mug in front of her. If someone didn't know any better, they'd have no idea the girls were actually for sale. They looked like any other teenagers in their loose white low-waisted pants and tight tops. Grinning and goofing around, they stood in a little cluster waiting for the next customer to stop and flash his lights. One of them was wearing a headband and was nothing more than a child.

Louise tried to focus and put the Roma girls out of her mind.

“What do we know about the girls you saw the Albanians collecting money from?” Willumsen asked.

Toft, who was visibly moved by the sad fates of these girls, said they were being put up in a number of cheap hotels.

“They can get a room for 5,000 kroner a month, and then of course there's no telling how many people they cram into one room.”

“We need to get these girls to talk,” Willumsen decided, poking a couple of the pictures with his finger.

Mikkelsen was still for a moment before he finally nodded.

“We could arrest them,” Mikkelsen began. “But prostitution isn't illegal per se, so we can nab them only for working without a valid work permit and smack a 500-kroner fine on them. And in cases like this, you need to have all your evidence spic and span, otherwise the courts won't have it. You can be sure, if we ask the women if they were being forced to prostitute themselves, that they will most definitely say no—not because they don't want us to help them, but because they dare not say otherwise. They don't get a simple scolding if they don't do what their pimps say, after all; the pimps break them down psychologically with threats of retaliation against their families back home. They'll kill their parents, burn down their houses, rape and sell their sisters. That kind of thing creates such a deep-seated fear that the girls
choose
to keep quiet and just obey the pimps, no matter what. And if we go to the pimps, they'll just claim they don't know a thing about extortion or human trafficking. They'll say the women are turning tricks because they want to. So I agree we need a little more,” he finally concluded with an eye on the throbbing blood vessel on Willumsen's temple.

“We could also drag things out so long that they have time to really ramp up their business,” Willumsen said testily. “Then they'll have a chance to abuse even more of their girls because no one is intervening.”

Toft pulled the plastic cigarette out of his mouth and rolled it back and forth between his fingers but stayed out of Willumsen's vortex. Experience had taught him that he would get farthest by dropping the subject now and waiting to bring it up again later when Willumsen's blood vessels weren't throbbing quite so obviously.

“When we investigate human-trafficking and prostitution cases like this, the outcome always depends on how patient we can be,” Mikkelsen said, leaning forward, ignoring Willumsen's tone. “I think we'd be wise to spend some time developing an overview and tying all the pieces of the case together before making our move.”

Mikkelsen spoke calmly and rationally, and Louise watched Willumsen's blood vessels continue throbbing. Willumsen's active vocabulary lacked words like “patience” or “overview.” And yet, he seemed like he might be buying it this time. At any rate, his face grew less gruff, he nodded a couple of times, and for the time being at least he stopped interrupting with comments. Instead, he changed the topic by pulling a couple of photos out of the stack and sliding them out into the middle of the table.

“Overview,” he repeated, dwelling on the feel of the word in his mouth, as he pointed to one of the pictures. “That's what we'll do then. But take a look at this, will you, and tell me what our friends are up to.”

The picture showed a small group of men, standing around a bench on Strøget, the famous pedestrian shopping street in the heart of Copenhagen. They were concentrating on something, but it was hard to see what. Arian was standing behind them. There were also pictures of money changing hands. Hamdi was in only a couple of the photos.

“The matchstick game,” Stig said, and then Mikkelsen explained:

“It's a ‘dexterity game' fairly common among Albanians—and it's not for small potatoes. They might make up to 4,000 or 5,000 kroner a day.”

Willumsen nodded as Mikkelsen explained that the police went after these games regularly.

“They are damn good with their hands. You have to guess which box the matchstick is under. Usually what happens is that the group gathers in a little crowd. One of them runs the game, while a couple of them keep an eye out for police, and then there's one or two who pretend they're lucky winners. Then when some random person passing by stops to try his or her luck, the fraud begins. It's all sleight of hand, and there's basically no chance of winning,” he said, adding that the downtown precinct regularly charged people with disturbing the peace or gathering without a permit. After a couple of those, they were usually banned from hanging out on Strøget at all. “But I don't know how much that impedes them, really, and it's certainly possible that they also use the distraction of the game to pick some pockets.”

“I suppose Arian and Hamdi organize the games and then give the guys who run the games a little cut for doing the work,” Louise guessed, pointing out that both of the Albanians were welfare recipients. “Arian came to Denmark in 1997 when he was granted asylum and then a residence permit. He's thirty-one and lives alone in his apartment out in Valby. It's subsidized public housing. In addition to that, he receives 1,800 kroner a month in welfare benefits.”

“Well, he must be doing quite well since he can afford to buy an Audi A4!” Stig exclaimed with poorly concealed jealousy.

“Exactly,” Louise said, noting that a few con games couldn't be financing his lifestyle. “Hamdi arrived in Denmark the following year. He's twenty-six and also has a permanent residence permit. He lives in a fairly large one-bedroom apartment on Vesterbrogade and gets the same benefit check each month.”

Willumsen nodded with his hands folded under his chin contemplatively. The room suddenly turned quiet, and everyone tried picturing the possible scenarios and figuring out what their next move should be.

“Is anyone out on Valdemarsgade watching MiloÅ¡ and the girls right now?” Willumsen finally asked, breaking the silence.

Lars sat up a little straighter.

“The girls went out with a female friend in the late afternoon,” he reported. “The friend picked them up at MiloÅ¡'s apartment. He didn't leave the apartment until later in the evening when he met a male friend at a bar on Victoriagade.”

“But he was already back home an hour after that, and I talked to him on the phone for a bit,” said Louise, who had been watching the building from the doorway across the street. “It sounds like the girls have calmed back down again, and there haven't been any signs of commotion since the episode with Hana. No one has contacted them, and they said they didn't feel watched. Now their plan is for Hana to move to the friend's place tomorrow—the friend who came to visit. She apparently has a guest room. I understood from MiloÅ¡ that the apartment was feeling a little too crowded, given Hana's long-term stay.”

“How long?” Willumsen asked.

“Well, he says she's going to stay for the full three months she's allowed on her tourist visa.”

Willumsen nodded.

“All right. Let's call off the stakeout on Valdemarsgade,” he decided, his eyes on Louise and Lars. “Make sure you give MiloÅ¡, Pavlína, and Hana your cell numbers so all three of them can get in touch with you if any problems should arise. And let's focus our efforts on the Albanians. We still need a list of the women working for them, and you're going to need to get photo documentation of money changing hands. If there's a demonstrable pattern, we'll be able to use that in court. Do we have anything else from Central Station?”

Mikkelsen nodded and said that Arian had shown up at the same location that morning and had accepted payments from the same girls as on Tuesday.

“We have pictures, but unfortunately they made me. Arian was really paying attention today, as if he knew he was being watched. Hamdi sat down on the bench so that he could see everyone who was anywhere nearby when the money changed hands. I expect they've already set a new location to accept payments in the future.”

“Right. Get to work,” Willumsen urged. “It's up to you guys to make sure we have enough to bring them in so we can find out if they have alibis for the evening of the Skelbækgade murder and the Kaj Antonsen murder Friday night. We'll find out next week if CSI got any useful DNA from the murder locations. Meanwhile, keep focusing on collecting evidence on the two Albanians.”

Louise looked over at Stig to see if he had noticed that the boss had backed down and agreed to wait. Their eyes met and she smiled at him. They would never say it aloud, but it was kind of amazing to know that even Willumsen could be moved if you kept at it long enough.

29

T
HERE WERE NO CARS OUTSIDE THE CHURCH WHEN
C
AMILLA
arrived Saturday morning. Louise was supposed to meet her, and she knew that the sexton would arrive at any moment as well. She opened the back hatch of her car where she had the flowers for Kaj's funeral service; the wreath was in the front seat. When the woman at the flower shop had asked her if she wanted to order a sash and what it should read, Camilla drew a blank at first until she settled on a basic “Rest in Peace,” which was printed in gold. She had thought that would be better than “Forever in Our Hearts” or any of the other standard phrases, but walking out of the flower shop she had of course had second thoughts and regretted not just leaving the sash blank.

Now all the self-recrimination came rushing back. If only she hadn't sat down on that damn bench with a bag of beer and for once just left a good story alone. Looking at the flowers in her car, she was overcome by tears, even though she didn't actually think she had any left.

Camilla sniffled and checked her watch, noting that she still had ten minutes until her appointment with the sexton, so she pulled the bucket of small bouquets for the front pew out of the trunk, and after she set it on the ground, she carefully picked up the large bouquet for the altar. With the bouquet under her arm and the bucket of flowers in her hand, she started walking up to the church, the gravel of the drive crunching beneath her high heels.

The sun was shining down on the white church with its red tile roof, and fluffy banks of white clouds slid lazily across the blue sky, but the cheerful spring weather didn't do anything to raise her spirits. She could sense the deep abyss just below the surface that had been threatening to swallow her up for the last week. Camilla knew that the only things holding it at bay right now were the careful makeup she'd applied that morning and the dark suit, which was so tight. They gave her the sense that she could hold herself together no matter what happened.

She set the bucket down and grabbed the door's iron handle. The pastor had prepared her, warning her that she would need to push with her shoulder if she had trouble pressing the handle down. But the door opened without any trouble and she walked over to the bench just inside the entrance to set down the altar bouquet. It wasn't until she turned around to go back and get the bucket that she stumbled over something.

It felt solid and yet soft under the sole of her shoe. She jumped back reflexively and felt her pulse speed up, her heart pounding.

The towel was dark blue, exactly like before, but that wasn't why she stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the bundle on the stone floor.

She was staring because it was totally silent. No movement, no sound. She knew what was in the towel, but she couldn't make herself bend down and check, and it wasn't until she ran for the pastor's kitchen door that it hit her that it could also be a dead animal. Maybe a cat, she thought, bounding up the five steps to the door and furiously banging the knocker, hoping the pastor was home.

A cat, she thought again, hitting even harder as she yelled for Henrik.

And then everything started spinning as she admitted to herself that it wasn't a cat or some other animal, and that what was wrapped in that towel was no longer alive. She felt something fragile inside herself shatter as images of babies, dead and alive, flitted through her head along with Kaj, lying there alone in that courtyard in all his brutalized wretchedness. Everything got all mixed up, ultimately exploding in her mind like a sea of light.

Help! Help me, she sobbed, failing to support herself on the broad door, sliding down to the stoop, her façade cracking completely as the abyss engulfed her.

She didn't hear the footsteps running across the gravel courtyard, and didn't see the person who leaned over her and put a hand on her shoulder. Nor did she register the taste of blood that spread through her mouth from the wound in her cheek caused by her own teeth. Nothing reached her where she was.

In a swirling roar, she was pulled down into a black darkness that shut out the lights and sounds of reality.

30

L
OUISE PROPPED HER BIKE UP AGAINST THE OUTSIDE WALL OF THE
church. She swung her bag over her shoulder and unbuckled her helmet as she strode toward Camilla's silver-gray VW Polo, its hatchback door wide open and the driver's side door ajar. She figured Camilla must be bringing things in, and decided to help out by carrying something when she walked over to the church.

The back was empty, so she shut the door and checked the back seat before carefully removing the wreath from the passenger side door and pushing the driver's side door shut with her elbow.

The flag wasn't at half-mast yet, but there was still a little over an hour until the funeral. Louise knew that Mikkelsen was planning to come. He still seemed genuinely shaken up, as though he'd lost a family member, Louise thought, but he hadn't chastised Camilla for her article even once. To the contrary, he said that he ought to have talked to Kaj right away, that maybe he could have prevented the tragedy that way. And he had reminded Willumsen again that you couldn't blame people who weren't familiar with the world of prostitution if they broke some of the unwritten rules that people lived by in this part of town.