Next of Kin (9 page)

Wagner's mobile rang in his pocket. He wasn't sorry to leave the room and withdraw to the changing room, but the stench of decay followed him and nausea stuck in his throat. From the display he could see that it was Jan Hansen.

‘I'm in the middle of an autopsy.'

‘Of my man,' Jan Hansen replied.

‘Your man?'

‘I've ID-ed your Samsø man. Turns out he's the same man I was supposed to interview in connection with the Grønnegade case.'

‘The brewery worker?'

‘The very same. Kjeld Arne Husum, fifty-five years old, born on the tenth of July, 1950, in Ikast. His address is Grønnegade 5, second-floor flat to the right. I've matched his fingerprints. CFI has them on file from a previous conviction for assault.'

New implications and possible links cascaded over Wagner.‘What kind of assault?'

‘Pub brawl,' Hansen said. ‘The whole place was trashed and the publican got a chair wrapped round his head. Our man was sent down for three months.' Then Hansen cleared his throat.‘Perhaps we ought to run a DNA test. On the semen, I mean.'

It took a moment before the penny dropped for Wagner. Ida Marie's words and now this new information seemed to have numbed his brain.

‘Semen?' And then it dawned on him what Hansen was trying to say. ‘Of course. I'll sort that out.'

They rang off and Wagner returned to the autopsy room thinking how obvious it was. The thought was grotesque, but there was no way out. They would have to check the semen from the rape against Kjeld Arne Husum's DNA.

‘Hi. I'm Helle. I'm your new trainee.'

Dicte dropped her bag and it landed by her feet with a thud. She automatically shook the outstretched hand, which was delicate and slender like Rose's.

‘Hi.' It sounded abrupt and cold, but she had completely forgotten anything about a trainee arriving to fill in for Cecilie, who had gone on maternity leave. She felt that everyone in the office was staring at her, but most were probably staring at Helle, who couldn't have been a day over seventeen. Her skin was creamy, her eyes like emeralds and her hair polished mahogany. In the centre of her face were pouting, heart-shaped lips just waiting to be kissed. Utterly insufferable, Dicte concluded on the spot.

‘Welcome to Aarhus,' Bo said, sounding happier than he had at their breakfast table an hour before. ‘I'm Bo.'

‘I've heard so much about you,' Helle said, and really did look irritatingly lovely at the same time. ‘You're practically a legend in Copenhagen,' she added. ‘The celebrated war photographer.'

Bo laughed and said something self-deprecating. Dicte turned away, but from the corner of her eye she caught his and Helle's hands meeting in the air-space above the unromantic carpet in the newspaper office, ironically over the very spot where she had thrown up last Thursday evening. To her, their two hands seemed to be stuck together and she almost heard a popping sound as they let go of each other.

Stop it. Stop it right now. She was talking to herself, but she must have mouthed or muttered something because Helle looked at her with raised eyebrows.

‘Sorry, I missed that?'

‘Nothing.'

From his corner Davidsen cleared his throat. ‘Time for a meeting?'

‘Not now and not here,' Dicte said dismissively and switched on her computer. ‘I need to open my post and check my emails.' She pulled the pile of letters demonstratively towards her as a bulwark against the rest of the world.

‘Why don't I make us some coffee,' Bo offered. She couldn't recall ever hearing him volunteer to make coffee before. ‘I bet you drink coffee, don't you?'

Helle nodded and passed the litmus test with flying colours. ‘Black. No sugar, no milk.'

‘Strong stuff for such a young girl,' Bo schmoozed. ‘I suppose you smoke non-filter Cecils as well?'

Helle giggled. Her laughter sounded like a Christmas music box. Dicte watched her and Bo as they headed for the kitchen.

‘I don't smoke,' she heard the girl reply. ‘Only a joint every now and again,' she added. ‘Otherwise life would just be too boring.'

‘Absolutely,' grinned Bo, who also had an ongoing love affair with marijuana. He had tried to persuade Dicte several times, but following a bad experience in the mid-eighties when she had tried smoking some buds in Anne's chillum she had decided to stick to alcohol.

Their voices chirruped away in the kitchen.

‘Love at first handshake.' Holger Søborg, Cecilie's boyfriend who was ultimately responsible for Helle turning up, had missed nothing from his position on the sofa where he had his nose buried in today's
Politiken
. ‘She's twenty-three,' he added.

Dicte was not having any of this and gave him the finger. A voice inside her told her to be cautious. You never knew when you might need an ally. But Holger wasn't one of those allies she would want anyway.

‘Decorum, please,' Davidsen cautioned from behind the screen, where he sat as though chained to it. He took his job as head of the office very seriously. No one else did.

She ignored both them and the sinking feeling that she was losing ground, which was fast approaching an undignified state of mind. The pile of letters saved her; her hands had something to busy themselves with.

Then she spotted the envelope in the middle. White and innocent; light, flimsy and padded. She had seen another like it very recently.

While the show in the kitchen was commanding everyone's attention, she retrieved a tissue from her bag and eased the envelope out of the pile. She recognised the slanted capital letters forming her name and knew that she ought to pop the envelope in her bag and drive straight to the police station. She rose to her feet and went into the kitchen to find a knife to open the envelope. She was barely aware of Bo and Helle, who by now were deep in conversation about drugs. Hong Kong was mentioned. Perhaps Bo was telling her about his experiences in an opium den in Macau? Suddenly it seemed so trivial. But it wasn't trivial that he didn't even notice her.

Dicte headed back to her computer. Everyone was busy with their own work. She plugged in her headphones and carefully placed the disc in the drive. In a millisecond she was catapulted into outer space on a lonely rocket. There was only her in this world of threats and hatred and killing. Only her and, of course, a person whose entire body was shrouded in black; even the hands, which were holding a piece of paper, were concealed by black leather gloves.

The location could have been anywhere. A cave in the mountains of Afghanistan or a cellar on Samsø. A dark cloth had been hung up as the backdrop. What looked like the murder weapon from the first film was displayed on an indistinctive wooden table behind which the person was seated.

The voice was distorted as it began to speak. It was impossible to determine whether it belonged to a man or a woman.

‘Society, which is supposed to punish criminals, has failed in its responsibilities. Child killers and paedophiles walk freely among us. Drink drivers with murders on their consciences are allowed back into society after a few months. Rapists are re-integrated.

‘There are many of us who feel betrayed. We are growing in number and that is the reason for this manifesto. Punishment has been reduced to mere rehabilitation, revenge is no longer permitted. Nowadays the victims are the ones who are punished and the criminals are pandered to.

‘We call ourselves the United Victims. We demand harsher sentences and we want the death penalty reinstated in Europe. We are not alone. In Poland, for example, a new president will soon be elected and the front-runner is in favour of the death penalty. Lech Kaczynski is our man. More countries will follow suit as they realise that we have allowed ourselves and our democracies to be abused. It will no longer be possible to flout the law without any consequences.

‘We demand justice. We demand a society where victims' legitimate demands for retribution are respected, and where the punishment should fit the crime. We are ready to die for our cause. People will rise up to demand this. In the name of God and Allah.'

The screen faded to black. Dicte sat bolt upright in her seat.

This was insane. Nothing less. Complete and utter, idiotic, crackpot nonsense.

This is what she said to herself as she clumsily copied the film, then took out the original and managed to drop it twice on the table before she succeeded in slipping it back in the envelope. It was sick. There was no doubt about it.

The only problem was that one murder had already been committed in the name of this cause. Another problem was that more might follow. And another problem was that, as always, when extremists were involved, there was a grain of truth at the heart of it. A case in today's paper sprang to mind. A man of eighty-five was still free to walk the streets even though he had been convicted of raping a ten-year-old girl. The court had given him a sixteen-month custodial sentence, but he had appealed and was thus still a free man. For several nights in a row unknown assailants had smashed the windows in his house. Rough justice had meant that a small community close to Denmark's border with Germany was disintegrating and resorting to vigilantism.

‘Dicte.'

Bo's voice penetrated her thoughts. She peered up. The others had moved to the corner for a meeting. They could sit there for half an hour, calmly discussing the following day's front page. A football match perhaps, the odd crime story—always a winner—and a couple of interviews with people who were keen to be in the spotlight. They were laughing and joking. None of them had to deal with executions and mad murderers with dangerous ideas. The paper was keeping a lid on things for the time being. PET had spoken and Kaiser had obeyed, while she was left to be a human target for a campaign which was either copycatting international terrorism or perhaps was the real thing.

She stood up. She needed to get out.

‘Hey, where are you going?' Bo half got up from his seat on the sofa next to Helle.

Dicte didn't reply. She quickly stuffed the envelope in her bag, grabbed her coat and left.

‘What about Monday in two weeks' time?'

The patient flicked through her diary. ‘I've got a hairdresser's appointment then. And I'm having lunch with a friend afterwards.'

Ole Nyborg Madsen gritted his teeth. Of course, the hairdresser and lunch with a friend were much more important than your psychologist when you've just lost your husband.

‘Tuesday?'

The patient flipped over the page. ‘A chiropodist appointment. It's so difficult to get one and I'd be reluctant to cancel it.'

He couldn't imagine that she had ingrown toenails. With the immaculate make-up and slender, trim figure she had, she wasn't the type, he thought. But perhaps by chiropodist she meant a pedicure.

‘Well, then, maybe I'm a bit more flexible,' he commented, not without a little barb, which of course she failed to notice.

‘Thursday?' she said. ‘What about that?'

‘I'm on call for emergency services.'

They agreed on Friday, although he already had seven clients on that day. It meant he would have to cancel badminton with Johan, but that was the way it was.

He watched her as she left. She lived in Højbjerg, an upmarket area. She was sixty-one and he doubted she had ever worked a day in her life. Her husband had been MD of some large concern or other. Her local doctor had referred her. This well-to-do woman could now sit in his practice and whinge away at the taxpayer's expense, and he still hadn't detected even one sign of grief at her husband's passing.

He knew, of course, that grief could have many faces, and that behind the façade she was probably a very insecure, lonely person, but he had to admit that his sympathy was in somewhat short supply. It was easier to be insecure and lonely when you had the money for it.

As he made up his mind that he would say no to any more patients from the ranks of the affluent, his professional conscience stirred. What was he thinking of? She was his patient, and he should help her. She was a soul in need, even though it mightn't look like that from the outside. Didn't he have a nice salary himself, an attractive house and a well-groomed wife while being on the point of imploding?

Ole tidied up his surgery. Piled up the magazines and papers at one end of the table and put a couple of chairs back. Once again he noticed that his hands were trembling. A little snifter would work miracles but he was well aware that was a slippery slope. He was so bloody enlightened and could see through everything, but he couldn't do a thing to help himself. Now and then he felt like hammering on the windows with his fists to vent his anger, quite literally.

His agitation was getting the upper hand. He had to sit down and take deep breaths. Maibritt knocked on the door and came in.

‘Someone called a little while ago,' she said. ‘A Morten Agerbæk.'

He sat up. Morten Agerbæk. The name took him back to demos against the Vietnam War and the US, and nuclear power. ‘What did he want?'

‘He said you were old school friends. Something about a reunion.'

Ole pushed his chair back from the desk. Reunion. He hadn't given it a thought. Were they really so bourgeois that they would hold a reunion?

‘How many years is it now?' asked Maibritt, who was eight years younger than him.

He started counting. He went to university in 1970. The number of years was a hammer-blow.‘Thirty-five,' he gulped, then added, ‘For Christ's sake.'

‘Really? Well, he was going to call back. I told him you had an hour's break.' She gave him a searching look. ‘Shall I make some tea?'

He couldn't look her in the eye. Maibritt should have been the psychologist, not him. ‘Thank you. That would be nice.'

She left. But he had seen her perturbed look, her knowledge. She obviously considered him unbalanced. She couldn't see the logic to his anger. She was just saddened. She had lost someone, too—he shouldn't forget that—but how the hell could she be so cool about it?

The telephone rang and he picked up. ‘Ole Nyborg Madsen speaking.'

‘The Red Front! Down with capitalism! Power to the people!'

‘Morten?'

‘Can you remember that, eh? A bloody generation ago. When there was something to fight for. How are you?'

Now he remembered. Morten Agerbæk had always barked his words like some over-enthusiastic cartoon dog. He had always scored with the coolest chicks, as they said in those days. Perhaps it had something to do with his full-throttle approach to life.

‘Okay,' he said, feeling like a worn-out geriatric in the face of the other man's energy levels. He wondered whether Morten knew about Nanna, but didn't know how to ask. And then it came out anyway.

‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter. It must have been terrible.'

‘Thank you. Yes, it was. Terrible.'

Almost everyone had said the same thing when offering their condolences. For him the word was hollow, like a shell. Like a dead body when the soul has departed.

‘Drunken driver, wasn't it? Off with their heads, the bastards. Like those terrorists. Have you seen it? The article about the beheading?'

Of course he had seen it. Everyone had.

‘They should be beheaded, too. Off with their bloody heads. Their own, that is. Ho, ho, ho!'

As Ole listened to Morten's sonorous laughter, old forgotten feelings washed over him. Irritation; forbearance; jealousy. He read them so well, yet couldn't stop himself.

‘No, seriously now,' Morten said, calming down a little. ‘Two old idealists like us know that revenge is a primitive emotion and belongs to the Stone Age, don't we?'

‘Apropos the Stone Age,' Ole said, to his surprise. ‘Maibritt mentioned something about a reunion.'

‘Thirty-five years, matey,' Morten said. ‘We can't let that pass us by, can we?'

Why not? Ole thought, but didn't say it. What was there to celebrate, actually? A group of politically naïve idealists who became middle-class burghers? Young blood-and-guts revolutionaries, drained of words, wings clipped in exchange for monthly pay-cheques and a house in the suburbs?

‘House, Honda and hound,' he said. ‘Isn't that what we're like now?'

Morten laughed. ‘I drive a Škoda! At least it has a socialist edge.'

‘Isn't it owned by Volkswagen?'

‘Come on, Ole, for Christ's sake. We were young, weren't we? All young people should be communists, otherwise there's something wrong. That's what I usually tell my students.'

‘We need something to fight for,' Ole heard himself say. ‘Something to get us off the sofa. To man the barricades.'

‘What about fighting to get hold of all the others and arranging a party?' Morten asked. ‘When we're all together, with a few beers down us, after singing “The Internationale”, then we can see if we can revive the spirit from the old days.'

Spirit, Ole thought. Perhaps that was what was missing.

They agreed on who would call whom and to meet to plan in more detail. Ole sat with the receiver in his hand for a while after Morten had rung off. So much for their perseverance and genuine belief in a better world. So much for ideas. Thirty-five years and even Morten had come to heel. No more passion. No more fight.

He stood up and walked over to the window sill. Nanna was smiling up at him from her school-leaving photo. She had her mother's eyes, but she had his mouth, set in a measured smile, revealing obstinacy bordering on defiance. Her chin jutted forward. Her eyes glittered with life and expectations of the future. She had been planning to study social sciences. She had wanted to travel the world and perhaps work for one of the international organisations. The UN had been her dream.

He picked up the photograph and put it to his lips with both hands. They were trembling as never before.