Life and Limb (12 page)

‘A
rne Bay?'

The man opposite glowered right through Wagner. Not a single facial twitch revealed if he had heard the question. Not even a nod.

‘We're hoping that you'll be able to help us with our enquiries and answer some questions about your movements last Saturday night,' Wagner continued. ‘The more accurately you can account for your movements, the sooner you can leave.'

Arne Bay turned his head and looked out of the window. Then he yawned audibly and, in the short-sleeved T-shirt, stretched so that the tattoos on his upper arms and forearms could clearly be seen. He remained silent.

Next to Wagner, Jan Hansen cleared his throat.

‘We've got a witness who saw you leaving Waxies club in Frederiksgade at around one a.m. on Sunday morning. What do you have to say to that?'

‘A witness?' Bay said finally. ‘That depends on how big her tits were. I only remember tits of a certain size.'

Wagner groaned inwardly. This wasn't going to be easy. PET had warned him that Arne Bay was a tough nut. No one had cracked him in an interview so far and he had been imprisoned previously for serious offences, including rape.

‘Are you able to account for your movements on Saturday evening from seven p.m.?'

Bay looked straight at him. Then he rocked back on his chair and made a pumping gesture with his right hand.

‘You mean this kind of movement?' he taunted. ‘I would have thought you lot knew all about that. That's all you ever do, isn't it – sit around tossing yourselves off.'

He tipped his chair forward.

‘Certainly sounds like it, given the mess you've made of this case. And now you're hoping that I'll ride to your rescue. Kiss my arse!'

Wagner kept staring at the man opposite him while Hansen squirmed. Perhaps he should have brought Ivar K back in with him, but he couldn't play favourites; and besides, Hansen would get his act together when it really mattered.

‘Flunitrazepam. Does that mean anything to you?' Hansen asked. ‘Perhaps you know it as Rohypnol?'

Bay made no reply.

‘It was found in Mette Mortensen's blood. Huge quantities.'

Still no comment.

‘Someone had spiked her drink. You bought her a drink, didn't you?'

Bay looked up at the wall, at a point between them.

‘Since when is it a crime to buy a beaver a drink?'

‘What do you think your friends in the Danish Front would say if they found out your girlfriend was mixed race?' Hansen asked out of the blue.

Wagner had his gaze fixed on Bay. Hansen must have hit the nail on the head because the man curled his upper lip into something resembling a snarl.

‘She's not my girlfriend. She's my slave. And the Danish Front are a bunch of impotent nancy boys.'

The words were as harsh as his voice.

‘She'll be upset when she finds out that you've been charged with the murder of Mette Mortensen, don't you think?' Hansen persevered. ‘Who's going to screw her now? I mean, her husband is no use in his wheelchair. Paralysed from the waist down, isn't he?'

They had been given a friendly briefing from PET, who were keeping an eye on Bay and his cronies. Wagner hadn't been sure the information would prove useful but, judging from the man's reaction, perhaps they could break down his defences. He quickly got the mask back in place, although there was a different rage in his voice this time.

‘Fuck you!'

‘It's her fault he's in a wheelchair,' Hansen persisted, merciless. ‘They were on holiday in Italy and she drove the car over a cliff after a drunken night out. Ever since then she has been looking for sex on the side.'

Hansen leaned towards Bay.

‘You do know she's only in it for the sex, don't you? You could wear a bag over your head, for all she cares.'

It happened so fast they never saw it coming. Bay pushed back his chair, hurled himself across the table and landed an uppercut on Hansen. Wagner actually heard Hansen's jaw rattle.

‘You're lying, you sack of shit!'

Wagner shot up from his chair and opened the door to the corridor.

‘We need some help in here.'

By the time two officers appeared, Bay was holding Hansen in a stranglehold.

‘Calm down now,' said one of the officers. ‘Everybody take it easy.'

‘Fuck you,' Bay said, cold as ice.

He let go of Hansen as abruptly as he had attacked him, nudging him free with something that looked like tenderness, before calmly sitting down again.

He shrugged.

‘You can't get me. You think you can. But you'll never get me. I have no weak spots.'

Hansen rubbed his jaw but held up his other hand to indicate that the two officers could leave.

‘We could charge you with assaulting a police officer on duty,' Hansen said.

Bay smiled wryly.

‘But you won't,' he said. ‘You would rather hear what I was doing on Saturday night.'

Hansen nodded.

‘Yes, we would rather hear that.'

For the first time it seemed as if Bay was really trying to think. Wagner looked for signs of fabrication. He followed the man's eyes around the room until they came to rest on the table and his hands, which were half clenched in what was perhaps a permanent state of aggression.

‘That's the problem,' he said. ‘I was so pissed I can't remember.'

‘Can't remember what?' Hansen said, feigning patience. ‘Start with what you do remember from that evening and the rest might come.'

He spoke without much hope in his voice.

‘I met a few boys down at Bridgewater,' Bay mumbled. ‘Around eight o'clock.'

‘The Irish pub by the river?' Wagner asked and got a nod in return.

‘Around ten or ten-thirty we walked up to the Sherlock Holmes.'

‘In Frederiksgade?' Hansen interjected.

‘Yep.'

‘What did you drink and how much?' said Wagner.

Bay shook his head.

‘How the hell would I know? Three or four pints at Bridgewater and a couple more up at the Holmes, maybe.'

‘Who were you with?'

Something guarded appeared in his eyes.

‘Just a few guys.'

‘The boys you meet when you go to beat up Pakis in Gellerup or ambush an Iranian wedding?' Hansen asked.

Wagner hoped he knew what he was doing and shot Hansen a warning glance.

Bay shrugged. ‘Whatever.'

‘And then you went down to the club? Who went with you?' Hansen prodded.

‘I was alone.'

The lie was obvious. Wagner sent Hansen another glance and this time Hansen picked it up. First they had to map the man's movements; the names would have to follow. Giving names was always a sensitive issue, whether you were a tough skinhead or an innocent young girl. No one liked dragging other people into police business.

‘What happened next?'

Bay shrugged.

‘What normally happens at a club? You have a couple of drinks, you check out the pussy to see if there's anything worth bothering with.'

‘And was there?' Hansen asked through gritted teeth.

‘Not really. Just her, that girl, but her gob didn't look like it could do any good.'

‘What did you talk about?' Bay rolled his eyes upwards, clearly regarding the question as hopelessly naive.

‘We didn't talk, for fuck's sake. The music is loud – in case you've forgotten. We had a drink, danced a bit. I wanted to check out the goods, didn't I. She didn't have much of an arse on her.'

‘What was she like – apart from that? Wagner said. ‘I'm thinking about her mood – if that was something you noticed. Did she seem happy? Nervous? Scared?'

‘What the hell would she be scared of?'

No one spoke. Bay's face cracked into a smile and he flung out his arms in a gesture of warmth.

‘Me? Come on, man. I'm a
pussycat
,' he said.

Wagner stared at him and wondered why Mette Mortensen had wasted her time on a man who, viewed in the most charitable light, was a ticking time bomb with his tattoos, bulging muscles and cold menacing eyes. Or maybe he could turn on the charm? Or had a magnetic appeal for women and the envy of other men? Some women liked a bit of rough – but had Mortensen been one of them?

Bay shrugged again. It seemed to be a habit of his.

‘She was just run of the mill. She wittered on about her job. It sounded really boring, but she seemed to think of herself as some fucking Sherlock Holmes, analysing numbers as if they were important clues in a thriller.'

He waved his hand.

‘I just let her witter.'

‘You just told me you didn't talk,' Hansen said.

Bay glared at him.

‘That's what I'm saying. It was she who spattered words around like diarrhoea from a chicken's arse. Not that I was listening to half of it, but sometimes you have to pretend to get a bit of minge. This isn't Einstein.'

Suddenly Bay looked embarrassed – perhaps because he had inadvertently mentioned a famous Jew, Wagner thought, but refrained from commenting. As far as Hansen was concerned, well, it was possible he had never heard of Einstein – he carried on with his line of questioning unperturbed.

‘Okay, why did you leave together?'

‘Why do you think? I was trying to talk her into coming home with me, but she insisted on walking down to the river and going to some more bars. We ended up back at Bridgewater. From then on I don't remember very much.'

‘Because you were drinking?'

Bay shook his head, as if he didn't understand it himself either.

‘I didn't drink any more than I usually do.'

‘Do you remember if you met anyone? Did you chat to anyone?'

Again Bay shook his head. He didn't seem to be lying.

‘I think there was a group of us. Some of my friends, but she also met someone she knew. It's all a bit foggy.'

‘Try to describe the person anyway,' Hansen said.

Silence filled the room for several long seconds. Bay shifted on his chair. He briefly shut his eyes as if trying to visualise the pub and recall any fragments of memory. But by the time he opened them again he still hadn't said anything. Wagner thought he could detect fear in the man's eyes – surely an unusual emotion for this thug.

‘I have no idea. I can't remember a bloody thing until I woke up in my bed on Sunday morning.'

E
very now and then she had a need to experience life close up. To hear the sounds of a child's first cry of grief and hunger; to inhale the scents of purity and innocence, knowing that life started at a point where everyone was the same and had a chance, and death was remote, far off in an uncertain future.

Dicte walked down the corridors of Skejby Hospital, home to Denmark's largest maternity unit. She knew it was Anne's half-day. Whenever Dicte needed to talk she would catch up with Anne at the hospital, which was near her house in Kasted. Anne was a midwife and her job was to bring life into the world – into the real world – while Dicte dealt with the opposite end of the spectrum, describing and examining lives that had begun so innocently and culminated in a violent, unjust end. In this way they complemented each other, she and Anne, who had been friends since they met on a course where they had found each other like two orphans seeking refuge. Anne, adopted into an East Jutland vicarage and unloved by her vicar father, and Dicte herself, a refugee from Jehovah and all his works, including her own family.

That was how they both viewed it: they were each other's family. But sometimes it felt as if the family ties were wearing a little thin. Anne had spent a year in Greenland with her husband and son, and had come back to Denmark a couple of months ago. The friendship was still there – it always would be – but it hadn't been nurtured and neither of them had been clever enough to realise that.

Dicte was contemplating this when she heard Anne's voice from around the corner. She felt a yearning for the old friendship. It seemed as if Anne had withdrawn a mite, even though she couldn't put a finger on when or how, and from time to time Dicte wondered if it was her imagination playing tricks on her.

Anne was in the process of winding up a conversation with a colleague. Dicte could tell this from their intonation, even though she had no idea what they were talking about.

‘Hi. Have you got time for a coffee?'

Anne looked fleetingly at her, gave a gentle nod and carried on talking to her colleague for a few more minutes. She appeared to be throwing herself into the conversation with renewed vigour and opening up new topics, so Dicte found a chair and sat down to wait.

Finally, after another five minutes of gossiping about what sounded like nothing, Anne turned to her, glancing at her watch as she did so.

‘Gosh, is that the time? I promised to pick up Jacob from school. Come on, I've got ten minutes.'

The embrace was brief and perfunctory. There wasn't enough time to go to the canteen, so they found a vending machine deeper in the labyrinth of white corridors.

‘So how are you? Are you getting anywhere with the stadium murder?'

Anne blew on her coffee in the plastic cup. Dicte searched for the appropriate tone and once again experienced an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty, then dismissed it.

‘Have you been following the papers?'

Anne shook her head.

‘I've been so busy here. We're massively understaffed right now: loads of people on holiday, a few off ill with stress, and it's not as if we can stop the children coming, can we?'

Dicte nodded; she knew the situation well. The place was like a factory. It was tempting to romanticise childbirth, but the truth was that the children were practically popping out on a conveyor belt and someone had to stand there to receive them.

‘Have you seen that two identical murders were committed earlier? In Poland and Kosovo?'

Anne nodded vaguely.

‘Yes, I've read a bit about that and we do talk about it here. You know how we love to gossip over coffee and cake.'

‘When you can find the time,' Dicte added with a smile.

Anne nodded.

‘And that's not very often.'

‘I had lunch with Torsten today.'

Anne stiffened noticeably.

‘Really?'

‘He thinks it might be a serial killer. He talks about how the lambs must be silenced inside a person like that.'

She elaborated with a few key words. Anne understood her at once; nevertheless she continued to look as if she was mentally somewhere else. Dicte also repeated Torsten's remark about her and the lambs she felt a need to silence, and told her about the woman who'd had a go at her in the ladies' toilet.

Anne looked at her and Dicte could have sworn there was irritation in her eyes.

‘So what is it you want from me?'

Dicte took a sip of the bitter coffee.

‘Your honest opinion, I think.'

‘About what? Whether it's a serial killer or not? That's Torsten's area of expertise, so perhaps you should listen to him. And I'm sure you can handle some brain-dead woman in the Ladies. Do you want me to comment on your own inner lambs?'

Anne's gaze was direct. Dicte struggled to find the words.

‘Perhaps,' she said.

‘But you already know the answer to that,' Anne said and looked at her with a little of her old, affectionate indulgence. ‘You already know it's true. You keep running to silence your past and to distance yourself from it. To distance yourself from mistakes – not all of your own making. From the choices you made and the consequences you're living with.' she shrugged and added with unaccustomed bitterness, ‘Don't we all?'

The world was forever changing. Perhaps friendships did, too, sometimes when you weren't paying attention.

Dicte left the maternity ward with Anne and walked with her to her car. The words lay between them and she started to ransack her brain to find out if she might have said the wrong thing or done something to cause Anne to be angry or disappointed in her. She may well have blurted out something stupid and ill considered. But the good thing about their friendship was that such behaviour was permitted. Thoughts and words had always had free rein without having to go through overly strict censorship, and neither she nor Anne had ever been particularly touchy.

‘How are things at home? Have you started to settle down after Greenland?' she asked just as they reached Anne's car, and even she could hear it sounded forced.

Anne pressed the remote and the car unlocked with a happy
pling
inconsonant with the mood.

‘Okay.'

‘Just okay?'

Anne opened the door and put her bag on the passenger seat. She turned around and again gave Dicte the kind of brisk hug she had got into the habit of giving, rather than the long embrace of the past. Dicte blinked away tears and told herself she had something in her eye.

‘Just okay,' Anne said. ‘Love to Bo.'

There was no point in getting upset. That was her conclusion as she rolled down the hill by the old church in Skejby towards Kasted. The fields lay side by side here – the borderland between town and country – and the wheat stood green with flashes of yellow, waiting for summer to take a foothold.

If Anne wasn't interested right now then good luck to her. Dicte would probably find out why one day, and until then they would just have to make do with a shadow of what once was. They were adults. They both had their own lives to lead.

Dicte parked next to Bo's battered car in front of the yellow house that had once been the fortress of a bikie gang. Huge iron posts were still concreted into the ground. They had supported a tall fence, built to keep prying eyes away. She noted that yet another pane had cracked in the panelled window facing the road, and wondered whether it might be cheaper to invest in brand new windows rather than merely replacing the glass.

She opened the door and was pounced on by an exuberant Svendsen wagging her tail, followed by Bo stomping out in what she now saw were the Doc Martens she had ordered.

‘Oh, they really suit you,' she lied.

He laughed.

‘Then take a good look, because it's the last time you'll see me wearing them. They're completely uncool and they're not even comfortable.'

‘But they do send a signal,' she pointed out. ‘About belonging to a particular group. They look as if they were made to be marched in step with.'

He bent down, took them off and cast them aside. Svendsen stuck her snout first into one then into the other, sniffing the leather with interest.

‘It's not a signal I want to send.'

Together they went into the sitting room. She considered telling him about Anne but decided against it.

Then Bo said, ‘Someone rang for you. He sounded very insistent.'

She had squatted down to scratch the dog's chest. Svendsen sat utterly still, as if the slightest movement might ruin this delicious experience. Her eyes rested on Dicte, expressing the kind of rapt bliss of which only a dog is capable.

‘What was his name?'

Bo checked his scribbles on the notepad by the telephone.

‘Peter Boutrup.'

She briefly trawled her brain but found no one of that name in her mental address book.

‘No idea who that might be.'

Bo tore off the note and gave it to her.

‘Okay, I'll give him a call,' she said and had already forgotten her promise when she went into the kitchen to feed the dog.