Life and Limb (32 page)

I
da Marie was clutching four-year-old Martin. He had crawled up and wriggled in between them at five in the morning to occupy the warm spot in the double bed and had instantly fallen asleep. Now he was half awake and looking up, too sleepy to say anything yet.

‘I give up,' she said across the head of her son. ‘This business with Mum. I can't face it.'

Wagner tried to hide his relief. He put his arm across the child and pulled them closer.

‘Why? What did the lawyer say?'

He didn't want to seem completely dismissive of the time and effort she had put into this. She sighed and ruffled Martin's blond hair.

‘Now that we can't examine Mum, we don't have a very strong case, do we? And I don't want her exhumed. Can you imagine how she would react? She would spin in her grave and send us packing with a top C aria as her final salute.'

He chuckled.

‘That sounds like her.'

Ida Marie reached over and stroked his cheek.

‘And what about you? I haven't had time to think about us. How is your case going? Have you found her, the missing woman?'

He smiled and it was a little strained this time.

‘Not yet. We have some leads, but nothing firm. We hope she's still alive, although we keep having to widen the scope of the investigation and it's now much bigger than we first thought.'

She caressed his neck. He loved it when she did that. He leaned back to savour her touch a little longer. ‘I want you to take care of yourself,' she said.

He thought that if only she knew how he dreaded that day – hopefully in the distant future – when it would become apparent that he had failed to do precisely that. He was also glad he had never got around to telling her about the morning he thought he was about to drop dead in their bathroom. That would have been the ultimate insult. A man still had his pride, after all.

He gently extricated himself and got out of bed.

‘I'll make some coffee. And some tea.'

‘Yes, I was going to ask you about that,' she said in a drowsy voice. ‘Why have you started drinking so much green tea?'

‘What's wrong with green tea?' he muttered, heading for the kitchen.

The stem-cell bank, StemBank, was located in Finsensgade in new, imposing and very light rooms.

The company had been set up by the venture capitalist Claes Bülow, who remained its main shareholder. After merging with another stem-cell bank, HappyLife, StemBank had consolidated its position as the only player in Denmark. Rumour had it that the company was about to go public, but so far there was no evidence to support that.

StemBank's promotional material stated that its clients – families – numbered around 3,000 and other rumours hinted at prominent individuals, possibly even members of the Royal Family, who had chosen to store their children's umbilical cord blood in the company's state-of-the-art storage facilities.

Wagner and Jan Hansen had finally managed to get an appointment with Bülow, who appeared to spend most of his time travelling around the world taking care of his many projects. He was a small, round man with a long face that would have been better suited to a larger body; as is so often the case, Wagner thought as they shook hands. Mother Nature had been fickle with her gifts. In the media Bülow was frequently pictured with long-legged blondes on his arm, so Wagner assumed that he must have had another attraction – charm, possibly. Or money.

A proud Bülow showed them around the facilities while chatting nineteen to the dozen, as if trying to sell them insurance for a long and happy life.

‘Our laboratory is brand new and equipped with the latest technology. Here we carry out a range of analyses of blood samples. After collecting the umbilical cord we extract the blood that contains the important stem cells, then store it.'

Wagner considered that Hansen could not have put it better himself or with greater enthusiasm. And, indeed, Hansen barely took his eyes off Bülow's lips while they extolled the virtues of his company, and Wagner took the opportunity to have a good look around the fêted lab.

‘This is where we centrifuge the blood twice and remove red blood corpuscles and plasma, until we're left with twenty millilitres of nucleus-rich, white blood corpuscles with CD34 plus stem cells.'

Hansen looked like the cat that had got the proverbial cream. Wagner restricted himself to nodding as he let his eyes roam over all the new apparatus that must have cost a fortune. Not to mention the salaries of the three lab technicians he had counted. Where did the finance come from? He didn't know the names of any of the streamlined devices with flashing red numbers and beeping clocks, and nor did he care. Instead he tried to calculate if the fees from 3,000 families could pay for this hardware, and he concluded that they probably couldn't. A loan or some other source of income would have been needed to keep the company going.

‘We store the umbilical cord blood in freezer bags with two compartments so that one, which contains fifteen millilitres, can be defrosted and possibly used at a transplant,' Bülow said. ‘The remaining five millilitres can be used later when advances in genetic research make that possible.'

‘
If
advances in genetic research make it possible,' Wagner couldn't refrain from saying. Bülow politely chose to ignore him.

‘We're certified by the Danish Medicines Agency and we're subject to their annual inspection regime,' Bülow stressed, as if that in itself would ensure that in the very near future the company would be able to perform magic with human cells and guarantee eternal life. ‘Everything is stored in accordance with the regulations and procedures outlined in the
Human Tissue Act
.'

‘Regulations and procedures,' Wagner muttered, tasting the words. They were bland, he concluded. He much preferred terms such as
allegro
,
vivace
and
scherzo
, not that this was something he could say out loud.

‘We understand that your company's accounts were last audited by Hammershøj Accountants. Under the supervision of Carsten Kamm.'

‘Yes. That's correct.'

Did he detect a frisson of tension? Kamm might have phoned to warn his client that the police would be stopping by. Bülow looked around the lab, where the three technicians in white coats were each working on separate tasks – one next to a very advanced microscope, the second by a spinning machine that looked like a tumble drier and the third appearing to cultivate cells in petri dishes.

‘May I suggest we proceed to my office to conclude this conversation,' Bülow said and led the way.

‘So where do you store everything?' Wagner enquired.

‘What do you mean by “everything”?' Bülow answered, sounding slightly distracted as he hurried down a long corridor. ‘Here. We can sit down in here. Coffee?'

Bülow looked at them like a waiter in a five-star restaurant.

Wagner shook his head, as did Hansen.

‘We store everything in our freezer facility. Kamm, did you say? What about him?'

‘And where is that? The freezer facility?' said Hansen. ‘You see, my wife and I have been talking about … well, she's pregnant …'

Bülow smiled warmly.

‘Congratulations. Delighted to hear it. The facility is in the basement, but that's off limits, of course. We can't grant the public access to something so precious.'

‘Your audit,' Wagner said, having made a mental note of the information he had just received.

Wagner found a photo of Mette Mortensen and pushed it across the desk to Bülow. He glanced at it.

‘Poor girl,' Bülow mumbled. ‘Such a tragedy.'

‘She helped prepare your annual accounts,' Wagner said. ‘Did she work here on the company's premises? Did she use your computer, as is standard procedure? Did she ask any questions you were uncomfortable about answering?'

The last question was a shot in the dark. But he had been thinking about it: Arne Bay had said that Mette had boasted about her detective skills. She was an ambitious girl, keen to get noticed and stand out. She might have asked questions around the company before taking her concerns to her boss. Although she may not have had time to do that – or maybe Kamm had dismissed her concerns.

Bülow's face was a picture, like watching a ball refuse to settle in a slot on the roulette wheel.

‘Yes,' he said at last. Wagner was well aware why Bülow would admit this: Mette might have had time to tell someone about the meeting and there had probably been witnesses.

‘She came in here one day with some queries which we managed to resolve quickly.'

‘What sort of queries?' Wagner said.

‘I don't remember the details,' Bülow said, flippantly. ‘I referred her to the accounts department. They dealt with her. They were trifles, I believe.'

‘But you met her in person?'

‘Fleetingly.'

Wagner wondered for a few seconds how much further they could pursue this. They had no actual evidence and what, precisely, did they suspect the man of doing? Bülow might not have borne close scrutiny, and he might also have been ugly and charmless, but since when had that been a reason to deprive someone of his liberty?

‘I don't believe you have anything to do with this case,' Wagner said in his most affable voice, ‘but just for the record before we leave, we'd like you to account for your movements on Saturday the twenty-third of June and Sunday the twenty-fourth of June, when Mette was found dead at the stadium.'

Bülow paled. Wagner got up and put his hand on Hansen's shoulder.

‘Take your time. My colleague here will take your statement. That will also give you an opportunity to discuss the new addition to the Hansen family.'

Wagner looked at his watch and winked discreetly to Hansen, whose ears reddened.

‘I'm afraid I've got another appointment.'

‘We need to get something on him. I'm sure there is something we've overlooked.'

Wagner spoke to the members of his team who had gathered for the lunchtime meeting.

‘Mette Mortensen had her fingers in the accounts of both Marius Jørgensen & Sons and StemBank.'

‘Among others,' Eriksen interjected.

‘Among others,' Wagner said, nodding. ‘But right now our investigation will focus on those two. Two silver sequins were found at the undertaker's in Vestergade, which probably came off Mette Mortensen's T-shirt. We believe Mette started to suspect some kind of criminal activity and that was the cause of her death.'

He drummed his fingers on the table.

‘We believe we're dealing with the illegal trade of human tissue. The tissue is removed at the undertaker's and stored at StemBank. Or so we think. But we lack something to connect the two businesses. So what is it?'

He scanned the circle. ‘What have we overlooked?'

Kristian Hvidt cleared his throat.

‘Perhaps we should review Mette's columns of numbers and letters. With the information we now have it might be easier for us to make sense of them.'

Wagner's mobile rang. He nodded to Hvidt to indicate consent, then, ‘Wagner speaking.'

‘Is that the Crime Squad?' said a high-pitched female voice.

‘Yes, how can I help you?'

‘I'm calling from Aarhus Hospital – the old Kommunehospital. One of our service assistants has found a coat in the uniform depot.'

Service assistants. Uniform depot.
The day was crammed with unmusical words.

‘Yes?'

‘The description matches the coat of the woman who has been reported missing. Kiki Laursen?'

‘Please don't touch it more than absolutely necessary,' Wagner said. ‘We'll despatch a Forensics officer at once.'

‘H
ere. Drink this.'

Kiki felt something cool against her lips. It forced her mouth open and water flowed down her throat, making her swallow.

It took her a while to realise that he was supporting her neck so that she could drink. With the hand which only minutes ago had been abusing her.

‘Are you hungry?'

She wanted to shake her head. She didn't want anything from him; she didn't want to touch anything he had touched. But, to her amazement, she gave a faint nod. He reached for something which he put under her head before lowering it again. She thought she had to be dreaming when her head was suddenly resting on a soft pillow. It was like floating. An unwarranted gratitude washed over her. She tried to analyse it as waves of blood rolled inside her head and there was a tingling sensation behind her eyelids. The pain throbbed in her groin and all the other places.

‘Wait here.'

The absurdity of the message would have made her smile if she had been capable of it. But her lips refused to obey. She almost felt shock when he put what felt like a blanket over her before he got up and left. She drifted off into black pain under the blindfold he had put over her eyes. She had never been this comfortable in all her life.

He came back with an open tin and a spoon sticking out. She could tell this from his movements when he started feeding her, one spoonful at a time. Beans. Baked beans in tomato sauce. If she survived, she would never open another tin.

If she survived.

Given the little energy she had left in her, she had to marvel that she could still think this. Her survival instinct really flabbergasted her. She had never believed it was so strong.

‘Who are you?' Her lips had started to obey, possibly reinvigorated by food and water. At first she didn't produce a sound, but her second attempt was more successful.

‘Who are you?'

She already knew, of course. She knew his name. And yet she knew nothing at all.

‘They thought they could use me like a tool,' he said as he fed her the last few spoonfuls.

‘They all did,' he said. ‘Arne, too. In the end I had to go it alone.'

She told her brain to keep up.
Go it alone.
He had broken away from the network in which he and Arne worked. When? Had he decided that Mette Mortensen should die? The code in the book had given her no answers, only directions for where to find him.
Johnny …
Mentally she corrected the name: Arne Bay had been playing with high stakes when he had tried to blackmail a very dangerous man.

‘Where …' She could feel him lean towards her. She sniffed his breath as he came closer. She summoned up all her strength.

‘Where am I?'

He sighed. The flow of air settled on her face.

‘You're with me. You're where you belong.'

She only had sounds and smells to go by. Slowly her senses returned. The air was clammy and stale, like they were in a barn. His voice echoed without any obstructions, so the room had to be large and empty for the most part. Every now and then she heard a plane flying above her somewhere, possibly carrying tourists to and from southern Europe. But mostly she heard birds, and she could tell them apart – she had learned that. There had to be an open window somewhere, or perhaps there were no windows at all, because there was also a terrible draught. A barn somewhere. A warehouse?

When he put her back in the coffin and left, she lay very still, holding her breath as she concentrated. Then she heard the sound and she, who never used to cry, slowly began to sob. It was the sound of swans – a whole flock flying right over her as they chatted loudly to each other. Their wings whooshed through the air, producing a noise like cotton wool being compressed. She recognised the sound from her childhood, from when she had been happy, with her grandmother who lived close to Silkeborg and its lakes.

She was crying her heart out now. Why, she had no idea, because the swans gave her only one tiny clue: she must be near water.