Next of Kin (20 page)

‘What approach shall we take?' Ivar K asked while manoeuvring the patrol car through the rush hour traffic in Grenåvej as if he were on amphetamines. As always, Wagner would have preferred Jan Hansen's calm mind, but he was off on another job, and one shouldn't have favourites.

‘Careful,' Wagner said, closing his eyes and hoping luck would be on their side as they drove over the railway crossing. There were regular reports in the papers about the sporadic malfunctioning of the barriers and warning lights as trains crossed Denmark's busiest city-approach road. ‘We'll use the bank statement as cover. I'd like to get an impression of the man and his relationship with his aunt.'

‘We've got Eriksen's notes,' Ivar K chipped in.

Wagner gave a non-committal nod. Eriksen was a good all-round detective, but you couldn't accuse him of being a great psychologist.

‘It's just nice to form an impression,' he said. ‘So let's take it from the top.'

He caught Ivar K's eye as they whipped into the inside lane from the outside, Ivar then taking a quick look into the rear-view mirror and swinging out to overtake an unsuspecting Fiat Punto. With a cushion of five millimetres he nosed up behind the bumper of a brand new Volvo.

‘And no threats of reprisals, and no physical stuff, either,' Wagner said, referring to other interviews during which his partner's temperament had got the better of him.

‘Who, me?' Ivar K asked, his voice all innocence. ‘I'd never dream of it.'

Wagner's thoughts were drawn back to the previous day's drama with Rose as they made their way to Jens Jespersen's terraced house in Skødstrup. Perhaps he shouldn't have got involved. It was always doubly hard with people you knew and things could become tricky if the case turned nasty, which was a real possibility. Rose, it seemed, had inherited her mother's reserve in her dealings with authorities. As sweet and innocent as she might seem, she was obviously covering something up.

He shuddered at the thought of a possible rape and yet was impressed by how cool the young woman had been. Of course, it was a front. Something had happened and now it was a question of sitting back and waiting because, young though she was, Rose had her own agenda. He just hoped her mother had enough stamina to keep an eye on her and that Rose's love for Aziz didn't place her in impossible situations.

It lasted a second, no longer, while Ivar K at long last relaxed into the rhythm of Grenåvejen. For a second he was back at reception in the police station, meeting Dicte's eyes, as she stepped in with Bo Skytte. He had anticipated shock and panic, or fear and concern. It was anything but. He had felt an almost searing pain. It was what had made him conduct the interview of Rose himself. He had to see it for himself. He had to sense its existence.

You can do a lot of things to human beings, he thought, and they'll put up with it, perhaps even be frightened by it. But there comes a time when those nearest to you become victims and then your defiance and anger spill over and you are driven forward by righteous indignation. You could, to put it crudely, let yourself be pissed on for a while, until you are forced to react. And Dicte had been pissed on. She had been pushed around by insane executioners who sent her shocking films and messages, who had chosen her as the victim, whom everyone, including her colleagues, attacked. And now her daughter was being targeted, and even though the two things weren't connected, to her it would still have felt like a concerted assault.

He had no idea where she would direct her anger now. But his instincts told him that in one way or another she would find an outlet.

‘I was in hospital. You can check with Skejby Hospital.'

Wagner observed the man sitting on the edge of the chair while Ivar K asked the questions. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in jeans and a white shirt open at the front, revealing a remarkably hair-free chest and a thin, plain gold chain. His hair was of the pale blond variety, where the grey couldn't be seen, making him appear younger than he was. The complexion of his oval face seemed healthy enough from the outside, but his eyes were wary and full of reserve, like someone inured to humiliations and who would prefer to creep into bed and keep a low profile until the fuss was over. His mouth was soft, one that was no stranger to weeping, Wagner suspected.

‘What was the date of your hospitalisation and when were you discharged?' Ivar K asked in an unnecessarily low key, as though he might frighten Jespersen into taking cover behind the curtains.

The man cleared his throat and fiddled with a shirt button. Nervousness permeated the room along with the scent of the freesias arranged in a vase on the coffee table. Nerves didn't necessarily mean anything, though, Wagner knew from experience. Some people were made nervous by police presence and Ivar K could make the lips of even the most phlegmatic person tremble.

‘I don't understand why you want to know, but I'll have to check my diary,' Jespersen said. ‘I was definitely in hospital at the weekend you mention, because my operation was on the Thursday.'

He stood up and unfolded an elongated body. Everything about him seemed long and somewhat ungainly: his arms in sleeves which were too short, his feet in canvas deck shoes and hands and fingers that flapped in the air without purpose.

Wagner was in no doubt that Jens Jespersen was homosexual, but Ivar K must have been asleep in that lesson on the course. He let out a gasp when Jespersen quietly went back to his diary and gave them the dates.

‘I'm HIV positive, you see,' he whispered with sibilant ‘s's. ‘The medicine is keeping me alive, but there are complications.'

Ivar K shut up, and Wagner didn't have any immediate questions, so the silence boomed for a few seconds until Jespersen said, with desperation in his voice:

‘What's this all about? You appear to suspect me of something, but she died of natural causes, didn't she?'

There was hope in his voice. That was the way it was, thought Wagner fleetingly. Murder, whether involuntary manslaughter or something more premeditated, paid no heed to feelings. Neither those of police officers, nor anyone who had had even the most peripheral of contact with the victim. Next of kin were always in exposed positions. It was widely documented that the majority of violent acts took place within the family. In fact, Jespersen's family relationship plus the discovery of his name on Kjeld Arne Husum's bank statement had given them every cause for suspicion—not of the aunt's death, but Husum's execution.

‘We have reason to believe that Johanne Jespersen died as the result of an attack,' Ivar K said with care. ‘But, as you might understand, the dates we're after have nothing to do with her death. She had already been found dead by then.'

‘Attack? What kind of attack?'

Ivar K leaned forward in his chair. ‘What was your relationship with Johanne Jespersen? You're her sole surviving relative. How well did you know her? You lived half an hour's drive away from each other, didn't you? How often did you see her?'

Jespersen seemed to shrink under the barrage of questions. He sat looking bewildered for a moment, but then said, ‘I've answered all this before. What kind of attack was it? I don't understand. How can I be told my aunt died of natural causes and then find out there was an attack?' Hands flew through the air. ‘I know she wasn't found for a while, but surely you can't make such a mistake … I mean, how hard can it be to find a cause of death? Hmm?'

He looked at them, panic-stricken. When neither man came with a quick answer, his mouth seemed to speak of its own accord while his eyes moved from one policeman to the other.

‘We didn't see each other that often. I have my own work and travel a great deal. I work as a purser for Sterling,' he elaborated, which of course they already knew. ‘But I tried to pop round once a month,' he hastened to add. ‘To make sure she got the help she needed from the council and so on.' Once again his hand took to the air and his long fingers drew, for Wagner, an invisible flower.

‘I'm afraid she was terribly lonely.' It was said with a long, self-aware sigh. ‘But she was as bright as a button. She had a paper delivered,' Jespersen added. ‘
Aarhus Stiftstidende
. She knew what was going on locally.'

‘Were you close?' Ivar asked while Wagner watched the man's reactions. It was obvious moisture was gathering in the corners of his eyes, but what did that mean? Jens Jespersen may have been a very emotional person, moved to tears by TV programs about homeless dogs or neglected children. But was he a killer? Could he have worn Muslim clothes and cut off the head a man twice his size and strength? And was he capable of putting together the kind of manifesto that Dicte Svendsen had received? Was it at all likely that this man could support the death sentence—a man who, if he stepped on a spider, would probably go to any lengths to organise its funeral?

Jespersen squirmed in his chair, crossed one long leg over the other and began to gyrate one foot. Irritated, Ivar K watched, and an unease spread through the room.

‘I was her only relative,' Jespersen said through restrained tears. ‘Which means she was almost mine. Apart from my father's sister, who lives in Rødovre and whom I never see.'

His gaze wandered around the room. Wagner's followed. The house in Skødstrup was new and the garden wasn't yet established. From the large glass door in the living room there was a view of the patio and, beyond that, what looked like a field. Indoors, a dab hand had chosen golden and blue colours for the furniture upholstery and the curtains. Large antique floor candle-holders, a seven-armed candelabra in the middle of the table as well as a wealth of exotic plants and flowers bore witness to a strong sense of nest-building and creating a cozy home. ‘She was the only person who understood me.'

The statement filled the vacuum and grew, accompanied by a quiet sniffle and an embarrassed movement to dry away a tear and fiddle with the button again.

Wagner brushed aside his sympathy. ‘Understood what?'

Jens Jespersen looked at them as if it were obvious, which it was. ‘My sexuality,' he said. ‘I'm gay. I assume you guessed.'

Ivar K, a dominant male, mumbled something inaudible. Wagner was amused by some men's almost chronic homophobia, their fear of contagion.

‘You could talk about personal things then,' Wagner confirmed.

Jespersen nodded. ‘My parents could never understand. Johanne defended me. She spent many hours getting them to accept it.' Sounding bitter for the first time, he added, ‘Many years, but they never forgave me, and I never told them about my illness.'

Ivar K's voice was unnecessarily deep and masculine. ‘When did they die?'

‘One after the other, in the spring of 1998. Cancer,' came the laconic answer. ‘Now please tell me about the attack you mentioned.'

Ivar K chose this moment to lead the charge. ‘What was your relationship with Kjeld Arne Husum?'

‘Relationship?' Jespersen's Adam's apple shot up when he swallowed.

‘Yes, relationship.'

He shook his head, seemingly confused. ‘We didn't have a relationship.'

‘Perhaps you didn't even know him?' asked Wagner.

The nails of his long fingers were studied at great length.‘Ye-es, I did. In a way he was my aunt's neighbour. They saw each other …'

‘Saw each other?' Ivar K put his hand inside his jacket pocket and produced a copy of the bank statement. ‘This tells us that on the first of every month for the last two years you have transferred 1500 kroner into Kjeld Arne Husum's account in Arbejdernes Landsbank. For what reason?'

The voice, forced through the vocal chords and emerging as pure air, was barely audible. ‘Services rendered …'

‘Of a sexual nature?' Ivar asked with obvious repugnance.

There was total silence. Jespersen blinked, but a tear still found its way down his cheek. He nodded.

‘God preserve us,' mumbled Ivar K as Wagner considered whether now was the time to place a hand on his arm and ask him to relax.

Jespersen looked from one to the other, perplexed. ‘Not like that,' he faltered. ‘It's not what you think.'

‘And what do you think we think?' Ivar K hissed.

Jespersen stared at his lap. His legs were closed, thigh against thigh. His hands clasped. ‘Don't you even have a right to a private life in death?'

The question took both of them by surprise. Wagner coughed.

‘I'm afraid a violent death requires answers. It's our job and we're dependent on the cooperation of those nearest to the deceased. In the end it's about holding someone accountable for a crime that receives the severest punishment the law can give.'

Jespersen's lips began to move, without sound at first, then with words. ‘It was my gift to her,' he explained. ‘My thanks for all the years she had taken my side.' He eyed them. ‘Once she had been an attractive woman. She was widowed early in life. Then she took lovers. But she became older and the stream of lovers ran dry.'

‘And?' Ivar K wanted to know.

Jespersen's hands flew through his hair and landed on his knees. He studied them as though they were not part of him.

‘And then I thought I would cheer her up. Eroticism always meant a lot to her, so I decided I would buy her a lover. I got the idea in New York, where I lived for six months. I heard about rich old women at rest homes who paid for men out of their own pockets to come and—'

‘So you bought sex for her?'

Wagner could hear his own voice and the tone, and he was ashamed of himself, because he was unable to imagine an elderly woman having sex. Men, yes. But women? Perhaps he was a hidebound old flatfoot after all, just like Eriksen and Petersen.

‘So you struck up a deal with Kjeld Arne Husum regarding sexual services for your aunt?'

Ivar K put it into words. Jespersen nodded.