Life and Limb (8 page)

Kamm opened the door to the open-plan office where Wagner counted eleven employees. There were several empty desks.

‘What happened to the contents of Mette's desk?' he asked. ‘It's important that we see them.'

Kamm ran a hand across his scalp. He glanced at his watch again and looked as if he had made a decision.

‘Okay. I'll look into it and get back to you. They're probably in a box somewhere unless the cleaners have already been in. Allow me to show you around quickly …'

The two men were briefly introduced to the rest of the staff, and they asked the usual routine questions; jotted down everyone's names; noted facts, alibis and who the victim had worked with closely. But no one really had much to add about Mette Mortensen.

‘Wanker,' Ivar K muttered as they left. ‘Bastard should be strung up from the nearest tree.'

Wagner would probably not have expressed it quite like that. But he was a whisker away from agreeing.

‘H
is son?'

Bo pointed to a pane in one of the bedroom windows. ‘This one is punctured as well.'

Dicte stepped closer and saw the condensation that had spread from the centre of the glass.

‘This house will be the ruin of me. That's nine so far.' She marked the casement on a piece of A4 paper on which, for the benefit of the glazier, she had sketched the four six-pane rustic windows in the house. ‘The son, yes. And the moral of that is? A father plays football with his son and he ends up a football hooligan and a Nazi. You'd better watch yourself!'

‘With Tobias?'

Bo beamed as he uttered his son's name. There was something about fathers and sons, Dicte thought. Pride at having produced a male child, would be her guess. Girls invoked a father's protection; boys invoked pride. It was old-fashioned. But that's the way things were.

‘He had no major genetic predisposition to violence.'

‘That's what Adolf's mother said.'

Bo grinned.

‘She might have been right. He made others do it. So what are you going to do about the son?'

Dicte calculated the cost of nine new panes. The figure was eye watering because she had to add the cost of the two large windows in the living room.

‘Shit. It'll be more than fourteen thousand kroner.'

She looked at Bo, who had reclined on the bed. On the bedside table was his glass of red wine from the dinner they had just eaten. She drank from her glass and placed it next to his.

‘I have to find him. And I have to talk to Wagner.'

‘Why? Kosovo?'

She didn't reply; instead she lay back with her head on his shoulder.

‘I'm ruined,' she said again. ‘This place is a bottomless pit.'

‘That's what Scrooge McDuck always says,' Bo said in a Donald Duck voice, stroking her hair. Seemingly cheered up by thinking of his friends in Duck Town, he quoted Donald reciting from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
; his favourite quote he reserved for very special occasions.

‘“God save thee, Ancient Mariner. From the fiends that plague thee thus! Why look'st thou so? With my crossbow I shot the albatross!”'

Dicte smiled. She wanted to give in. She would have loved to let the evening descend into wantonness and cartoon language, but her visit to Winkler still weighed heavily on her mind.

‘I think the killing of Mette Mortensen was politically motivated,' she said quietly. His body pressed against hers. Even so she carried on.

‘I think that members of the town's extreme right are behind it. For reasons which I have yet to uncover.'

Dicte's sombre mood, however, was not a product of the killing. Nor had it been triggered by the knowledge that a remarkable number of right-wing extremists appeared to be creating some sort of stronghold in Aarhus, or by the various reported episodes of violence that had made an impression. Not even Frederik Winkler's patient account of the symbols that played such an important part for these kinds of ideologies was able to shake her. Everything from the number eighty-eight, which represented the eighth letter of the alphabet and was therefore a covert way of saying ‘Heil Hitler', to the use of branded clothing such as Hooligan Streetwear and Pitbull, and also Ralph Lauren and Burberry. Brands worn by the Casuals. Or the fact that the number forty-six was used to represent the Danish Front, again because of the position of the letters in the alphabet.

It was none of these things. It was the man himself.

It was the impotence at the heart of his belief that he had to fight the world of which his son had become such a big part. It was a father's loss of the most important person in his life and his urge to make sense of it all to compensate himself for what he had lost. That was what was boring its way into her and it had hit a tender spot. She couldn't ignore the presentiment that the father's way of dealing with his son's decision might lead to the demise of one of them – the son or the father, depending on how the end of the story played out. The son would either kill the father, or the father would sacrifice his son.

‘Remember, it's not without risk,' Bo said. ‘You can't cite freedom of the press and the fourth estate and all that sacred journalistic bullshit in those circles.'

‘Tell me something that isn't without risk.'

His hand grabbed her hair and forced her head back. He raised himself over her on one elbow and she saw the tiny smile behind the stern facade.

‘Writing columns, back-page stuff, articles about the festival week program and the opening of the ice rink. Me …'

‘
You?
'

She tried to reach for the ball and return it, but her heart wasn't in this.

‘You're more dangerous than any of them.'

She nudged him away and felt his disappointment, but she wasn't in the mood for intimacy right now.
Sons.
How did you know which paths they would choose? Could you know anything at all?

She took her wine glass, went into the living room and switched on the television. A little while later Bo appeared and sat down next to her. She missed his hand combing through her hair, but she couldn't face the consequences.

‘It's happening again,' he said, staring at the television. ‘You're doing it again.'

He was right: it was a repeat performance; she was not proud. A case came along and she was swallowed up and allowed herself to be pulled away from him, into a dark room where evil and hatred walked hand in hand with death. She could fight it as much as she wanted, but experience had taught her it was futile. She reached out and lightly touched his hand.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Me too.'

The officer at reception in Aarhus police station recognised her at once.

‘I want to talk to John Wagner. Could you tell him I'm coming, please?'

She was on her way to the lift when he called her back.

‘Do you have an appointment? You're a reporter, aren't you? Svendsen?'

She pressed the button to call the lift.

‘Dicte Svendsen. But you can tell him it's Sleeping Beauty.'

For a moment the officer looked as if he might make some response, then he reached for the telephone. The door to the lift opened just as she heard the receptionist telling Wagner that he had a visitor. It closed and she was sucked up to the third floor, and when the door opened Wagner was walking towards her.

‘More like the Ugly Sister, if you ask me. What do you want?'

For a moment she thought he was going to push her back into the lift, but then he nodded towards his office, indicating that she should follow.

‘Jan Møller,' she said, sitting opposite him, even though he had not asked her to sit down.

When he didn't say anything – just stared at her from his post by the window – she continued.

‘He beat his girlfriend to a pulp. Son of Erling Møller, managing director of Jakta.'

‘Tell me something I don't know,' Wagner snapped. ‘Such as where I can find him.'

Sometimes one drew a blank; it had to be taken in one's stride. She reached for the next ticket in the raffle.

‘Arne Bay, also known as Arne the Celt. Formerly of White Pride, now the Danish Front. Son of archivist Frederik Winkler. Wears Doc Martens and has a huge Celtic cross tattooed on his back. He's a player in the local scene of radical right-wing loonies.'

She had drawn another blank. She could see it in his eyes, which were showing signs of merriment.

‘What is this, Svendsen? Are you losing your touch? We already know that. What do you think we do around here?'

He pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Stick to journalism for once and leave the investigating to us.'

The pulse in her temple started to throb. He was normally more cooperative than this. What the hell had gotten into him?

‘That's what I'm doing,' she protested. ‘I come here and pass on anything I happen to snap up during an interview because I know you're looking for a lead on the stadium murder.'

He was grinning broadly now.

‘“Happen”? Dicte Svendsen, pull the other one.'

She leaned back, worn down by his resistance. Perhaps he was right. She should stick to journalism, pamper Bo and win his trust and his heart over and over again.

She tried one last time.

‘Then you probably already know that, in Europe, a murder with a similar modus operandi was committed. The eyes had been gouged out. The bones replaced with PVC pipes.'

It was her conscience that had dragged her to the police station – and, of course, the hope of horse-trading with Wagner in one of those swaps they were so good at. Now she cursed her own scruples. The police could damn well plough their own furrow, without any help.

‘Well, well, well.'

In spite of himself he looked impressed, though he quickly covered it with yet another smile. This time, though, she saw how tired he really was. The smile didn't reach his eyes; it didn't even reach the corners of his mouth.

‘You're well informed as always,' he went on. ‘God knows where you found out, but thank you, we've already received the information from Poland.'

He placed his hand on a thin file on his desk. ‘We may have legal restrictions in the EU, but fortunately we still have Danish investigators heading various Europol offices.'

Dicte heard the last sentence as no more than bubbling porridge.

‘Poland? Who said anything about Poland?'

She could tell from his face that he was about to say something but stopped himself. The adrenaline started flowing. Perhaps she hadn't drawn a blank after all?

‘What are you talking about?'

He tried to be casual, although she could see his interest was aroused. She paused for dramatic effect, perhaps because she had fought for it and had a primitive urge to savour her victory.

‘Kosovo.'

She heard the triumph in her own voice.

‘Kosovo?'

He leaned across the desk and pushed the Poland file aside. There was concern written over his face; suddenly she felt ashamed to have exploited the deaths of others to raise her profile in a petty rivalry of her own making.

‘Tell me about Kosovo,' Wagner said.

‘Y
ou're going to see him, aren't you? Your football boyfriend?'

‘He's not my boyfriend.'

Why couldn't
he
just leave her alone? He always had to pry into her life. His creaking wheelchair was forever by her side – like now, because he'd snuck up on her while she was getting dressed.

Kiki Laursen extended her right leg, pointing her foot more than she would normally have done. Women have to arch their feet when putting on stockings – everyone knew that.

‘He's my lover.'

Slowly she rolled the delicate nylon stocking all the way up to her thigh, where she attached it to a suspender belt, revealing a glimpse of naked flesh. Classic, simple and effective. She loved getting dressed for sex.

‘He's rough with you. What does he use? His fists? The whip? The cat-o'-nine-tails?'

She relished the red welts on her thighs. She relished the memory of pain.

‘It varies.'

She put on the other stocking. Carefully, she rolled it up her thigh and felt the softness of her own skin as she did so. Soon his hands would be all over her. Soon he would be forcing himself inside her, pulling her head backwards by the hair and making her moan.

‘Where are the children?'

Always the children. He never tried to hold on to her; they had passed that point long ago. But there were the children – they could always be used. If he felt sorry for himself, they had to keep him company. If she played around too much, she had to be reminded of her responsibility and their existence. He had to tear her feelings apart and snatch any joy from her.

‘Emma is at Monique's and Oliver has gone to play football. I've already told you.'

He wheeled himself closer while she attached the second stocking and put on her slip. His hair was flat at the back because his head always rested against the wheelchair. Nevertheless, he had been an attractive man at one time and they had produced two children together. Perhaps they had even loved each other, and it was possible that some of that love still lingered – but where?

‘It wasn't your fault,' he said out of nowhere. ‘Back then. You know that, don't you?'

This came as a bolt from the blue, because they never talked about it. Her thoughts raced at the speed of lightning, trying to work out why he would bring this up now. What did he want?

‘You couldn't help it,' he continued. ‘Couldn't help it happening the way it did.'

She had to get out of the house. She slipped into her skirt, put on her blouse and buttoned it. Then she stuck her feet into high-heeled shoes and felt better at once. There was nothing like shoes to bring you to your senses. Shoes put her on a par with any situation and clad her in effective leather armour. They were green, the colour of hope.

‘Everything'll be all right, you'll see,' she said without knowing what, specifically, she was referring to. ‘Buller will be here in a moment, so you'll have company. You can go to Føtex and do the shopping for tomorrow.'

Thank God for disabled carers. Buller was worth his weight in gold. Unfortunately he had started making noises that the council wasn't paying him enough. He could earn much more if he took a job in a factory. That was just how it went. There was a shortage of workers, and social work required flexibility. They had to turn up at all times of day and night.

She sighed and donned her jacket. The end result had been that she had to give Buller a little extra under the table, on top of what she was already giving him.

As always she kissed
him
on the head, but he waved her away irritably.

‘I'll be back in three hours.'

‘How long are you at it? One hour? Two? How long does it take him to come? How long does it take you?'

She had already turned her back on him, but stopped mid step. He carried on talking.

‘You can always bring him back here, you know. One day when the children aren't around.'

‘See you later,' she said over her shoulder.

Sometimes, but not very often, she contemplated her life's journey. Today was one of those days. Perhaps last night's nightmare still echoed in her mind? She had dreamt about her childhood, if such a word could be used to describe what was no more than a time in the distant past.

Not last night, though. Last night she had been back between the damp walls in the three-roomed flat where no one ever cleaned or lifted a finger to make a better life for themselves. How she hated poverty – because it was in poverty that she had been brought up. Material poverty: no money, unhealthy food, being bullied at school because she didn't look like the others and didn't wear the trendy clothes everyone else wore, dressed as she was in her cousin's old coat and worn-down shoes. But mostly it was spiritual and intellectual poverty, with a mother who had left school at fourteen, who had never really learned to read and write or add up. She could, however, sign her name in large childish handwriting whenever she bought something on hire purchase or took out a loan at outrageously inflated rates from a loan shark.

Kiki reversed the car out of the garage. She loved the Alfa's discreet purr and the way it obeyed her if she so much as glanced at the controls. She loved its red leather seats and the
whoosh
as she accelerated and left everyone behind.

From an early age, leaving everything behind had been her goal. Her mother. Her two sisters – one more stupid than the other. But her father was quite another matter. She had never known him. He was a foreigner – her mother couldn't even remember where he was from – and he had been visiting with his band when he bumped into twenty-three-year-old Lene Laursen, who had been looking for a man to take her home for the night. Just like that. Nine months later the story took its unplanned course.

Kiki gunned the accelerator on Ringvejen. To her relief, the nightmare of her childhood dissipated with every kilometre she drove. The squalor, the piles of filthy clothes and the stinking rubbish. The cheap, unhealthy burgers covering the flat with a film of grease and the smoke from millions of roll-your-owns whose butts could be found in pot plants, in the toilet, on the windowsill, even in bed. Yellow nicotine-stained walls and yellow nicotine-stained fingers that insisted on braiding her hair. Her mother's friends, who dropped by every day with crates of beer and bags of crisps. Friends who liked pulling a little girl close, breathing beer fumes all over her, and demanding a kiss and a hug that lasted a little too long for it to be fun.

She shuddered as the last remnant of the dream disappeared, escaped out of the open window, just as she pulled out to overtake. Another fine mess, some might say. Others might pity her, but she would always argue it was nothing compared to the past. Now she was on top with her own business and the freedom to let those at home fend for themselves as best they could. She was in charge of her life and others. She only ever did what she wanted or what she could find the time to do and that made her feel alive.

And right now she knew exactly what she wanted more than anything.

‘Come here.'

He didn't kiss her. He had done that the first time only and he might never do it again. Instead he grabbed her by the wrist, pulled her inside his apartment and pressed her up against the wall. Within two seconds his hand was under her skirt. Another two and she felt his finger inside her. His nail scratched her. No kid-glove treatment here.

‘I told you to stay away, didn't I. I told you never to come here again and yet here you are.'

‘Yes,' she said softly. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You know very well that coming here is dangerous, don't you.' It wasn't a question.

She nodded. Her mouth was dry. Her vagina was wet. She couldn't think, she could only feel, and her entire body cried out for pain and for danger.

‘So what are we going to do about it?'

He whispered gently into her ear, but his lips were hard and his teeth bit into her. Her legs turned to jelly. She thought about the newspaper article and the description of the man who had last been seen with the victim found at Aarhus Stadium.

‘Punish me,' she begged him. ‘Beat me.'

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into his special room. He bound her to the wall with leather restraints, spreading her arms and legs. An electric shock went through her as he tore her skirt from the vent upwards in one rip. Her blouse got the same treatment. Thank God she had brought her coat. That had been the last practical thought she'd had.

He stood for a while observing his handiwork and she watched him through a red mist of desire. He stripped off his T-shirt and for the first time she got a proper look at his tattoos, which both repelled and fascinated her. There was a large black swastika right in the middle of his six-pack and it was surrounded by other symbols that probably had a deeper meaning which she didn't understand. The numeral 28 quivered on the left bicep and another, 88, appeared on the right. There were skulls and soldiers with distant eyes and helmets with SS written as back-to-front Zs. There was also a strangely shaped Y with a straight line going up through it and a Confederacy flag on his left pec and some words she couldn't read.

‘Do you like what you see, bitch?'

He took a step nearer. Now she could read the words:
We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.

She didn't know what the right answer would be. She decided to nod.

‘You're lying.'

She nodded again.

He came close. His hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. His face moved in on hers. His lips brushed her cheek, her forehead. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her on the lips. It was as if an unexpected tenderness rose in him, then he let go and slapped her face so hard she saw stars.

‘No one likes it. Absolutely no one. And they're not meant to.'

She felt her eyes watering. She refused to call this tears. She never cried.

‘Stop whining. Whining is for kids.'

His voice was harsh, but it broke halfway through the sentence. He turned his back on her. The dog came over to him and he squatted down beside it and let it lick his face. For the first time she saw the large cross on his back. It was an unusual design. The hands were at a right angle to each other and surrounded by a circle. It covered the area from his shoulders down to his waist.

He got up, turned to face her and met her gaze with changed eyes. She realised at that moment that she no longer knew him. She had never seen such an expression before. Not in any human being.

She started to shake.