The Absent One (8 page)

‘Stop!’ Ditlev shouted, as the ostrich halted and glanced around, disoriented. It was about a hundred yards away. ‘Shoot it in the head this time,’ he said. ‘One shot at a time. You go first, Saxenholdt.’

The hunters stood still as the lad, holding his breath,
raised his rifle and fired. The shot was a little low, so the animal’s neck was torn off at once and its head disappeared backwards. But the crowd roared its approval, including Torsten. What use did he have for a three-bedroom flat in Berlin, anyway?

Ditlev smiled. He had expected the animal to drop to the ground, but for a few seconds it ran about, headless, until the uneven terrain made the dead body topple. There it lay, twitching momentarily before its head sank to the ground. All in all, it was quite a sight.

‘Bloody hell!’ the young man groaned, as the group fired a few salvos at the remaining pheasants. ‘An ostrich, I’ve shot a fucking ostrich! I’m getting some pussy tonight at Victor’s Bar. And I know exactly whose.’

The three of them met at the inn and were given the drink Ditlev had ordered. It was clear that Torsten needed it.

‘What’s wrong, Torsten? You look like shit,’ Ulrik said, swallowing the Jägermeister in one gulp. ‘Are you angry that you didn’t win? You’ve shot ostriches before, for Christ’s sake.’

Torsten spun his glass a few times. ‘It’s Kimmie. It’s serious now.’ Then he drank.

Ulrik poured another round and toasted them. ‘Aalbæk is on the case. We’ll get her soon. Relax, Torsten.’

Torsten Florin pulled a box of matches from his pocket and lit a candle that was on the table. There’s nothing sadder than a candle without flame, as he often said. ‘I hope you’re not assuming that Kimmie is just some silly little woman walking around in dirty old rags, waiting for your daft private detective to find her. He won’t, Ulrik. For
God’s sake, it’s Kimmie we’re talking about. You know her. They won’t find her, and it’s a problem that’ll cost us dearly. Do you understand that?’

Ditlev set his glass down and glanced up at the inn’s rafters. ‘What do you mean?’ He hated Torsten when he was like that.

‘She attacked one of our models in front of the fashion house yesterday. She’d waited for hours. There were eighteen cigarette butts stamped out on the pavement. Who do you think she was waiting for?’

‘What do you mean by “attacked”?’ Ulrik seemed worried.

Torsten shook his head. ‘Take it easy, Ulrik. It wasn’t all that bad, just a single punch. The police weren’t called in. I gave the girl a week off and a pair of tickets to Kraków.’

‘Are you sure it was her?’

‘Yes. I showed the girl an old picture of Kimmie.’

‘No doubt?’

‘No.’ Torsten looked irritated now.

‘We can’t allow Kimmie to be apprehended,’ Ulrik said.

‘You’re bloody right we can’t. And we can’t have her getting close to us either now, can we? She’s capable of anything, I’m sure.’

‘Do you think she still has the money?’ Ulrik asked, as a waiter stopped by, wanting to know if there was anything he could bring them.

Ditlev nodded at the man, still drowsy at this early hour of the day. ‘We have everything we need, thank you,’ he said.

They were silent until the waiter bowed and left the room.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ulrik. How much did she get off us back then? It was almost two million. How much do you think she spends on the street?’ Torsten sneered at him. ‘Nothing. That means for sure she has enough money to buy whatever she wants. Even weapons. If she hangs out in the inner city, there are plenty to choose from, I know.’

Ulrik’s bulky frame began to fidget. ‘Maybe we should reinforce Aalbæk’s team.’

‘Who did you say you wished to speak to? Assistant Detective el-Assad? Is that what you said?’ Carl glanced at the handset. Assistant Detective el-Assad?! That was one hell of a promotion.

He transferred the call and, a second later, heard the telephone ringing on Assad’s desk.

‘Yes?’ Assad replied, in his broom closet.

Carl raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Assistant Detective el-Assad. How dare he?

‘Holbæk Police called to say they searched for the Rørvig murder file all morning.’ Assad stood in Carl’s doorway, scratching the stubble on his dimple. They had been studying files now for two days, and he looked pretty knackered. ‘And do you know what then? They just don’t have it any more. It’s blown away with the wind.’

Carl sighed. ‘So let us assume someone removed it, OK? I wonder if it was that Arne fellow, the one who gave Martha Jørgensen the grey folder with reports about the murders? Did you ask whether they could remember what colour it was? Did you ask if it was grey?’

Assad shook his head.

‘Oh, well, it’s not important. The man who took it is dead, according to Martha, so we can’t talk to him anyway.’ Carl’s eyes narrowed. ‘And there’s something else I’d like you to answer honestly, Assad: can you please tell me
when you were promoted to assistant detective? You should be really careful, going around impersonating a police officer. There’s a section of the criminal code that is very strict on this point, actually. Section 131, if you would like to know. You could get six months in prison.’

At this Assad tilted his head back slightly. ‘Assistant detective?’ he said, holding his breath for a second. He raised both hands to his chest as if to protest his innocence, which was draining from him at that moment. Carl had not seen such indignation since the prime minister’s reaction to press allegations that Danish soldiers had indirectly participated in torture in Afghanistan.

‘That would never occur to me,’ Assad said. ‘On the contrary, so. I have said I am assistant assistant detective. People don’t listen properly, Carl.’ He dropped his hands to his side. ‘Is that my fault?’

Assistant assistant detective! God in heaven! This sort of thing could give a man an ulcer.

‘It would probably be more accurate if you called yourself assistant detective vice-superintendent or, even better, assistant police vice-superintendent. But if you must use that title, then it’s OK with me. Just make sure you enunciate it very clearly, do you understand? Now go to the car park and bring the old banger round. We’re going to Rørvig.’

The summer cottage was in the centre of a cluster of pine trees. Over the years, it had slowly chewed itself into the sand. To judge from the windows, no one had stayed here since the murders. Broad, opaque surfaces showed between decaying beams. A depressing scene.

They looked up and down the tyre tracks that wound their way among the other cottages in the area. This late in September, of course, there wasn’t a soul for miles.

Assad shielded his eyes with his hands and tried in vain to peer through the largest of the windows.

‘Come on, Assad,’ Carl said. ‘The key is supposed to be hanging back here.’

He stared up under the eaves at the rear of the cottage. For twenty years the key had been hanging where everyone could see it – on a rusty nail right above the kitchen window, precisely where Martha Jørgensen’s friend Yvette had said it would be. But then again, who would have taken it? Who would wish to enter the house? And the burglars who ravaged these summer cottages every single year during the off-season would have to be blind not to notice there was nothing to find here. Everything about the cottage signalled that one might as well just turn around and leave.

He reached for the key and unlocked the door. It surprised him how easily the old lock turned and the door yielded.

He stuck his head inside and recognized the stench of days past: mould, mustiness and abandonment, the smell that inhabits old people’s bedrooms.

Carl felt around for the light switch in the small entryway and found the electricity had been disconnected.

‘Here,’ Assad said, waving a halogen torch in Carl’s face.

‘Put that away, Assad. We don’t need it.’

But Assad had already stepped back into the past, the cone of light dancing from side to side above wooden
settle beds painted in old-fashioned colours and traditional blue enamel kitchenware.

It wasn’t entirely dark in the cottage. Weak grey sunlight managed to penetrate the dusty windows, making the room look like a night scene from an old black-and-white film. A large stone fireplace. Swedish rag rugs criss-crossing broad wooden floorboards. And then there was the Trivial Pursuit game, still resting on the floor.

‘Just as it says in the report,’ Assad said, tapping the Trivial Pursuit box. At one time it had been navy blue, but now it was black. The board itself was not quite so filthy, but almost, as were the two pie game pieces still lying on it. In the heat of the struggle the pies had been knocked from their squares, but probably not significantly. The pink pie had four wedges, while the brown pie had none. Carl guessed that the pink pie was the girl’s. If so, she’d no doubt had a clearer head than her brother that day. Perhaps he’d drunk too much cognac. The autopsy report suggested as much.

‘It’s been here since 1987. Is the game really that old, Carl? I can’t believe it.’

‘Maybe it took a few years before it made its way to Syria. Can you actually buy it in Syria?’

He noticed how quiet Assad had become, and then glanced at the two boxes filled with question cards. A single, loose card lay in front of each box. The final questions the siblings answered in life. It was rather sad, when you thought about it.

Carl let his eyes wander across the floor.

Obvious traces of the murders were still visible. There
were dark stains where the girl had been found. It was clearly blood, as were the dark specks on the game board. In a few places he could see the crime-scene techs’ circles around fingerprints, though the numbers accompanying each circle had faded. And he could barely make out the powder used by the forensics team, but that was understandable.

‘They didn’t find anything,’ Carl said to himself.

‘What?’

‘They didn’t find any fingerprints that couldn’t be traced back to the siblings or their father and mother.’ He looked at the board again. ‘It’s strange that the game is still here. I would have thought the crime-scene techs would’ve taken it with them for closer examination.’

‘Yes.’ Assad nodded, tapping his forehead. ‘Well put, Carl. I remember it now. The game was actually presented in the prosecution of Bjarne Thøgersen, so they
did
take it with them then.’

They both stared at the game.

What was it doing here?

Carl frowned. Then he pulled his mobile from his pocket and called headquarters.

Lis didn’t sound terribly excited. ‘We’ve been expressly notified that we’re no longer at your disposal, Carl. Do you have any idea how busy we are? Have you heard about the police reforms? Or should I jog your memory? And now you’re stealing Rose from us.’

That one they could damned well keep, if it was any help.

‘Hey now, hold on a minute. It’s me! Carl! Take it easy, OK?’

‘You’ve got your own little slave now, so why don’t you talk to her? One moment, please …’

He looked confusedly at his mobile and didn’t return it to his ear until he heard an easily recognizable voice on the other end.

‘How can I help you, boss?’

Carl furrowed his brow again. ‘Oh, who is this? Rose Knudsen?’

Her hoarse laughter could make anyone worry about the future.

He asked her to find out if a blue Genus Edition of Trivial Pursuit was still among the articles taken from the Rørvig murder. And no, he didn’t have a clue where she should search. And yes, possibilities abounded. Whom should she ask first? She would have to figure that out on her own – just as long as she was quick about it.

‘Who was that, Carl?’ Assad asked.

‘It was your competitor, Assad. Be careful she doesn’t nudge you back to wearing green rubber gloves and driving a mop bucket.’

But Assad wasn’t listening. He’d already squatted down to inspect the blood splatter on the game board.

‘Isn’t it strange there isn’t more blood on the board, Carl? After all, she was beaten to death right here,’ he said, pointing at the stain on the rag rug beside him.

Carl pictured the bodies in the crime-scene photographs he’d seen earlier at headquarters. ‘Yes,’ he said, and nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

She’d been struck so many times, and had lost so much blood, yet there was very little of it on the game board. Christ, it was a shame they hadn’t brought the case file
with them so they could compare the photographs with the scene of the crime.

‘As I remember, there was a lot of blood on the board in the photos,’ Assad said as he poked the hexagonal mark at the board’s centre.

Carl kneeled beside him, carefully inserted a finger under the board and lifted it. Sure enough, it’d been moved a tad. Contrary to the laws of nature, additional splatters of blood had stained the floor an inch or so in under the board.

‘It’s not the same game, Assad.’

‘No, I don’t think so, also.’

Carl gingerly let the board fall back to the floor and then cast a glance at the box and the light outline of fingerprint powder around it. Twenty years ago it’d been a shiny box. The powder could be just about anything, now that he really saw it. Flour, white lead – anything.

‘I wonder who put that game here then,’ Assad said. ‘Do you know the game, Carl?’

Carl didn’t respond.

He was looking at the shelves bordering the room, just below the ceiling, where Eiffel Towers of nickel and Bavarian steins with pewter lids recalled a time when such objects were typically brought home from travels abroad as trophies. At least a hundred souvenirs bore witness to a family with a caravan and familiarity with the Brenner Pass and the wild forests of Harzen. Carl pictured his father, who would have gone into nostalgia overdrive.

‘What are you looking for, Carl?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘But something tells
me we ought to pay close attention. Can you open the windows, Assad? We need more light.’

Carl stood up and once more studied the entire floor surface while his hand searched his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes and Assad banged on a window frame.

Except for the fact that the bodies were gone, and that someone had tampered with the game, everything was apparently as it had been.