Life and Limb (36 page)

D
icte's sense of direction had long since given up the ghost, and her body ached all over from the unpredictable bumps and turns, when the black van took a sharp right, drove down what sounded and felt like a potholed gravel road and came to a sudden halt. The ignition was turned off and she heard the driver's door open, then his footsteps fade, along what sounded like a tiled footpath. Then all went quiet, or as quiet as it could be during a thunderstorm.

She sat for a while listening to the rain drumming on the roof of the van until she could make out other sounds: the distant hum of cars; a dog barking somewhere; what sounded like a seagull screeching and birds chattering. Finally, with hundreds of thoughts in her head – she opened the door as quietly as she could.

To begin with, her eyes needed to acclimatise to the darkness, but eventually she could make out the countryside. There was a lake. She was close to the shore. One flash of lightning after another struck the water, terrifying the birds but simultaneously lighting up her view of the shore on the opposite side and the tower from which the bird life could be observed. She recognised the tower. As far as she could ascertain she was close by Årslev Engsø. She and Bo had gone for walks there. She made a spur-of-the-moment decision and sent him a brief text message. There were numerous text messages in her inbox, probably from him, and she could imagine his rage and anxiety, but she didn't have time to deal with them now.

Up on her right-hand side there were two buildings. A light was on in one of them. It looked like a boathouse of some sort. The other lay in darkness, but she could see broken windows and a dilapidated building that could have been a poorly maintained warehouse. There was a big sliding door made of what looked like Perspex, but that too was smashed in some places as if schoolchildren had used it for target practice. A sign hung down above the entrance. She had to walk up close in order to be able to read it:
Marius Jørgensen & Sons
.

The boathouse door opened and she quickly slipped into the shadows behind a log pile covered with a tarpaulin in time to see a stooped figure moving towards the warehouse. She held her breath as he slid the door open with a rusty creak. He was holding something in his hand, but she couldn't see what. At worst it could be a gun, she guessed. She should be prepared for him to be armed.

She tiptoed closer when she heard his steps fading further inside the building. What kind of place was this?

He switched on the light. She stood hidden in the shadow of the door and saw a naked light bulb that lit up part of the space while everything else was shrouded in darkness. She could distinguish the contours of rectangular boxes, many of them piled helter-skelter as if a giant had tossed them around. Coffins. This was a coffin warehouse. But a pitiful example, because the rain was dripping down in several places and the wind howled right through the room.

Reject coffins, possibly – old and no longer fit for purpose, for some reason. She sniffed the air. There was an acrid aroma mixed in with the rain and the damp. She stared almost blindly into the warehouse and thought she could make out old soot streaks up the walls. Perhaps the warehouse had once caught fire and the owners had never got round to cleaning up. That might explain it.

A flash of lightning rent the sky in half, and she looked up. Roof tiles were missing in several places. Some windows were covered with cracked and chipped Perspex.

He walked towards the corner and squatted down just outside the beam of light. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she could hear his voice.

‘Are you hungry?'

There was no reply. She crouched down on all fours and crawled further inside. Now she could see. He was talking into a coffin.
Jesus Christ.
He had put her in a coffin.

She heard a faint whimper. She didn't dare stand up to have a look, but she could hear that he had lifted her up and was carrying her across to the opposite corner. Dicte pressed herself against the concrete floor.

‘Bloody well eat, will you? I know you can.'

The voice was irritable. There was a clink. A spoon? That was what he had been carrying. A spoon and some food. Not a gun.

‘You've got to stay healthy. Otherwise we can't play our game.'

She heard him force-feeding his prisoner. Then she heard a sound as he put down the food and spoon on the cement floor. She heard the woman groan, louder this time.

‘Yes. You have to. You're mine. I can do whatever I like to you. You don't belong to him any more.'

The scream was the most heart-rending sound she had ever heard. It came from a place she had never been and couldn't begin to imagine. It wasn't loud – the woman didn't have the strength to scream. Nonetheless, the high pitch cut her to the quick. Without thinking Dicte half rose. And as she did so she accidentally knocked over an object which rattled and rolled across the floor.

‘What the f…?'

He stopped what he was doing and started looking around the room. She held her breath. Perhaps he would think it had been a cat or a mouse. In the middle of the floor he bent down and picked up the object she had knocked over. It must have renewed his suspicions because he looked around the room.

‘Who's there?'

She fumbled for the knife in her belt and carefully pulled it out. He came closer. She could see his boots and his trousers. He was bending over her now.

‘Who the hell are you? Get up!'

She launched herself the second he kicked out. She had been aiming for his torso, but his movement deflected the knife and it plunged into his thigh, so deep that it was stuck there. He staggered back a few paces, clutching his leg. He stood there for a brief moment staring at her. Then he grabbed hold of the knife and pulled it out. He came towards her, brandishing the bloodstained blade.

‘You're a journalist,' she heard him say. ‘Arne talked about you. Are you alone?'

He glanced around furtively. She tried to gain time so as to use the knife strapped to her shin, but he was quick and lunged at her. The world turned black as his boot hit her jaw and she was flung backwards. He stood up, straddling her with a leg either side.

‘Hello, Charon.'

She didn't know why she said it. But out it came.

‘Have you ferried any of the dead across the river recently?'

His face cracked a grin.

‘Your stepfather says hello,' she lied. ‘He's very upset. He told me about your mother.'

Shadows flitted across the man's face, but she was unable to read his expression.

‘How the hell is that any of your business?' he hissed.

He kicked her again. This time in the ribs, sending her flying against the cold wall. The pain overpowered her and she couldn't breathe.

‘Fucking bitch.'

‘Winkler,' she said with great effort as she tasted blood. ‘He says you're very intelligent. Were the dead bodies your idea? Taking out their eyes and replacing them with glass ones instead of coins? And placing them by the stadiums to mislead the police and point the finger at Bay and his gang?'

He stared at her. A smile played on his lips, then it was gone. He spoke in a completely normal, calm, matter-of-fact voice.

‘The idea came from Claes. To begin with. Kosovo and Poland. He wanted to do something spectacular. Something that would teach others not to mess with him.'

‘Others? In the food chain, you mean? Buyers? Couriers?'

He nodded.

‘He wanted them to know what happened if you broke ranks and went to the authorities. Most people got the message.'

‘And Mette?'

He let out a strange whistling sound to signal contempt.

‘Claes was pissed off with the Mette business.' He mimicked what she guessed was supposed to be Bülow's voice: ‘“Not in Denmark. Don't you understand we can't get away with this in Denmark.”'

‘How do you know Claes Bülow?'

‘We go way back. We were at school together. Years later he was hospitalised with some sort of lung problem at the Kommunehospital and we bumped into each other again. He told me about his umbilical cord blood venture. We were both interested in the human body and its immense resources.'

‘Without a thought for the next of kin,' she said.

He squatted. He was agitated now. She could smell his breath – it smelled of decay.

‘You don't get it, do you? Hardly anyone does. Those people are dead, for God's sake. Dead! They don't feel a thing. They just lie there and go to waste because some well-meaning relatives get sentimental. “Oh no, not the eyes, not the skin, not the bones … You mustn't take any of it.” As if it's going to make any difference. Other people are dying because relatives won't let go of their dead!'

He took a deep breath. He seemed weakened. Blood was dripping from his trousers, staining the fabric, but he didn't seem to see it.

‘So Claes told you to kill Mette because she had got wind of your business. And you killed her in the same way you killed the others. You drugged her in Bay's flat and killed her at the undertaker's and removed her eyes and bones as you usually did with dead bodies. Then you drove her to the stadium and dumped her body in the car park while everyone watched the game. And then Bay turned up?'

He nodded. She could see he was tiring. Something milky white was moving across his eyes. Did she dare retrieve her second knife?

He dropped the knife, but didn't seem to notice it. It rattled across the floor and landed a few metres behind him. She briefly considered lunging for it but she couldn't possibly reach.

‘Arne visited me at the hospital while I was working, after he woke up on the Sunday. He followed me to the stadium and saw me dump the body.'

Charon struggled to breathe. There was irritation in his voice.

‘He used it against me. He wanted more money.
Blackmail
,' he muttered. ‘My own brother. I had given him and his boys so much work. But he had an Achilles heel … women … always women. He really liked Mette. He didn't see the big picture. The overall aim.'

‘So Bay had a way with women,' she concluded and was reminded of Bo's infatuation theory. ‘But you didn't. You were jealous. When you saw Kiki, you wanted her. Is that why she's still alive?'

‘You miserable leech of a journalist,' he spat. ‘What the hell would you know about that? She's a stupid black bitch, that's all.'

Dicte groaned.

‘If you say so.'

She could hear the tears of rage in his voice.

‘She loves me,' he announced. ‘Of course she loves me. I'm the one keeping her alive.'

A flash of lightning lit up the hall. Dicte was completely unprepared for the sight revealed behind the man. A small creature, naked and smeared in blood from head to foot, staggered towards them. The face was distorted as if in the throes of a painful death.

The creature bent down. For a moment she squatted on the concrete floor, swaying. Then, with what looked like a huge effort of will, she stood up. The exertion made her moan, and Charon spun around. Kiki raised the knife in her hand. Dicte seized the knife strapped to her shin. Everything happened like a well-choreographed dance.

He grabbed Kiki's arm and pulled her down to the floor with a deep guttural grunt, as though the whole world had betrayed him. Again and again he banged her head on the concrete floor. Dicte weighed the knife in her hand and lunged forward. With her free arm held high, she jumped onto the man's back and grabbed his hair. He tried to shake her off but he couldn't, then she felt the knife slice through something soft, and sticky fluid spurted out over her as though from a hot spring.

He slumped to the ground with the knife still in his throat – blood and life pumping out of him until there was none left.

She collapsed on the hard concrete floor. Her hand soon found another hand and she cradled Kiki Laursen's bloodstained head in her lap. The woman's lips moved and Dicte bent over her.

‘Freezing,' Kiki muttered. ‘Cold.'

In the half-light Dicte fumbled around for a blanket or a sack but found nothing but an old shoe – the object she had initially kicked by accident, she guessed. She took off her jacket and jumper with difficulty and carefully covered Kiki's shivering body.

Another flash of lightning streaked across the sky. It illuminated the woman by her side and also Charon's body. It also lit up another object. Dicte stared at it in the brief second the light lasted.

It was a small sandal, pink with tiny straps that were decorated with rhinestones.

‘T
hey're saying she's lucky she's had all the children she wanted. They had to remove everything and give her a temporary colostomy.'

Bo grimaced as though in pain and tucked his
Herald Tribune
under his arm.

‘But apart from that?' he said as they left the hospital where Dicte had been visiting Kiki Laursen. ‘Three weeks in the intensive care unit. Will she ever be herself again?'

Dicte nodded, mulling over the word ‘herself'. Could anyone ever be the same person they were yesterday? Would
she
remain the same? Would Laursen? She thought it highly unlikely.

‘She seems strong and determined.'

Bo put an arm around her shoulder and moved the newspaper to the other hand.

‘Now, that reminds me of someone …'

Dicte shook her head as she walked towards the car park.

‘You can't compare my three-day luxury convalescence at the hospital with the hell she has been through. That wouldn't be fair.'

‘If you say so. Listen, don't you have something you need to do? As we're here?'

She had procrastinated long enough. If it wasn't for Bo she would probably have carried on, but she couldn't avoid it forever. She looked towards Building 6, then at the car park where she'd had the row with Anne and Torsten. Anne had phoned later to explain that the relationship, which stretched back four years, to the time when she'd had an operation for breast cancer, had needed affirmation, and had fallen into Torsten's arms. Dicte could still feel the betrayal and the disappointment, but it was fading with time. One day they would find each other again, she and Anne.

‘Come on. Let's get it out of the way.'

Bo began steering her in the direction of the dialysis ward.

‘Did you hear about that surgeon?' he said as they walked.

Dicte nodded. The story had just hit the news and the hospital had been the focus of media attention for a week now. A prominent kidney surgeon had admitted to procuring new corneas for his lover through very dubious channels. The case had been linked to the human-tissue scandal and so far two eye clinics in Denmark had been shut down while police investigated. The surgeon had resigned.

‘But if he hadn't talked, you lot might never have discovered a link to Denmark.'

‘“You lot”?' she said. ‘I haven't had anything to do with that case for a long time. Not since I wrote the story about the coffin warehouse by Årslev Engsø.'

‘No, but you pull the strings and decide which stories the others write, don't you, editor-in-chief?'

She elbowed him in the ribs. He grabbed her arm, spun her around and held her close.

‘I'll wait in the cafeteria. And don't you dare return with some ridiculous scheme to give away a chunk of yourself. You're mine and don't you forget it. Your skin, your hair and your exasperating determination – everything.'

He kissed her. Tenderly, because he knew that she was still bruised.

‘You're intolerable, but I still love you. I wonder if that's going to be my epitaph?' he said.

‘I really hope you're not thinking of taking an early ticket. That would be so unfair. After all, you're younger than me.'

‘Hell, no,' he said. ‘I won't risk someone nicking my skin and bones so that some guy can walk around with my arse on his face or become a rich, famous photographer because he's the lucky recipient of my corneas.'

She wanted to laugh, but grew serious instead.

‘No one will ever be allowed to do that. I promise you. Unless you wish it. Decide to do something for humanity for once. Seriously, I'm considering it myself.'

He pushed her away.

‘I'm thinking about it.'

While she was looking for the right hospital staff, the case resurfaced in her consciousness. She didn't want to think about it, but there was something about her surroundings and her visit to Kiki Laursen that brought it all back. The evening with the thunderstorm was particularly hard to forget.

Bo had appeared soon after she had confronted Charon, but before that Dicte had called an ambulance and all the vehicles had arrived at almost the same time. Bo came rushing in, believing that this time the stakes really had been too high and that she had paid the price. Which, in a way, she had. In the form of a broken jaw, two cracked ribs and two new teeth. The latter, especially, offended her vanity.

She knocked on the door to Inger Hørup's office. It was ajar and when no one replied, she pushed it open. The nurse was on the phone and waved her in. She quickly concluded her conversation.

‘You've been in the wars,' said Inger. ‘I confess I've been following the story in the newspapers.'

Dicte held out her hand and smiled.

‘You've had your own dramas, from what I've heard.'

Hørup shook her head.

‘Sad. Very sad. But he made the right decision when he resigned. It was the only thing to do.'

She looked at Dicte.

‘How can I help you?'

Dicte gulped.

‘I wanted to find out if Peter Boutrup … my son … I mean, I might be able to find a name. I promised him. The name of his father.'

‘Oh, no, you're far too late. Don't worry about that now.'

The world spun on its axis for some very long seconds.
Too late.
Why hadn't she come sooner? Why hadn't he called to demand that she kept her end of the bargain?

‘He received a cadaveric kidney a couple of weeks ago,' Hørup said. ‘The operation went well. Much better than we had expected.'

The relief spread across Dicte's whole body.

‘Is he still in hospital?'

Hørup shook her head.

‘He was discharged today. I think they took him back to prison – or they're just about to.'

She thanked the nurse, said goodbye and walked to the cafeteria. She wondered what Boutrup looked like now. Was he still pale and thin, or had his body started to flesh out? Was he still bitter or had his shell cracked as he got his life back? Had he become another person? The person he was before the illness – whoever that was? She found Bo at a table in the cafeteria.

‘Ready to leave?'

He got up and tossed the newspaper in a bin.

‘Any news?'

She told him.

‘Do you want to see if he's still here?'

Did she? He didn't need her now. She mulled it over for a little while, but she couldn't handle yet another rejection and more harsh words.

‘I think we should go.'

Together they walked to the car park and that was where she saw him, some distance from Bo's car. There was a police officer on either side of him. He was taller than them. He was also broader and he walked with bouncing steps, like a man who has just been given a new life. He turned around at that moment and stopped for a fraction of a second. Then he nodded briefly to her and got into the back of the police car.

‘You would have done it,' Bo declared, following her gaze. ‘You would have given him your kidney, wouldn't you.'

She watched the car as it pulled out of the car park, and the truth of his words sank in.

‘You're a very clever man,' she said, slipping her arm through his. ‘Now let's go home.'