The House That Jack Built (3 page)

Sunday
June 15

chapter 5

A
n insane droning
broke through his sleep, penetrating his ear canal. Lars sat up with a start, banging his forehead against the edge of the small bureau next to the bed.

“Ow, Jes —”

He doubled over, holding his hand to his head. The music started again. Blindly he fumbled for the infernal machine. He was on the verge of throwing it out the window when it occurred to him to switch off the phone.

Blessed peace.

Then an S-train thundered into the station across the street. The windows in the living room rattled. Welcome to Nørrebro.

He took a quick shower, ate some rolled oats, got dressed — loose-fitting dark blue shirt, jeans, and sneakers — had a cup of coffee and a morning smoke, then went out the door. They were meeting Frelsén at the Institute of Forensic Medicine at nine o'clock for the autopsy and post-mortem examination.

Twenty-eight minutes later, Lars was running across Blegdamsvej toward Frederik V's Vej. He ran along Fælledparken, Copenhagen's largest park, then looked up. Another one of those never-ending blue skies. A white Fiat 500 pulled up alongside him as he approached the entrance to the Institute of Forensic Medicine at number 11. Sanne rolled down the window.

“Good morning.”

“Hey . . . I mean, good morning.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to turn into an empty parking spot. He waited while she climbed out of the car.

“So we got lucky.” Sanne looked up as she locked the doors. “It took a few hours but in the end we found two Slovakian girls. They didn't want to say anything at first, but I took them to a café and made sure Toke kept his distance . . . Oh, yeah, it took a few lattes as well.”

“Good work. Tell me about it.”

They walked up the stairs to the entrance. Lars stopped outside the door, moved aside to let a group of students past. Sanne continued.

“Her name was Mira, from Bratislava. The two girls shared a room with her on Mysundegade. We went there afterwards — to get her personal effects.” Sanne swallowed. “It's all at the station.”

“Who was her pimp?”

“They mentioned two Kosovo-Albanian brothers. Bukoshi, I think it was. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Lars nodded.

“The girls weren't very keen on saying much,” she continued. “They say the brothers beat her in her room less than a week before she disappeared. On . . .” Sanne pulled out a notebook, “. . . May 4.”

“Denmark's Liberation Day?” Lars grabbed her sleeve and pulled her toward the door. “Come on. They're waiting for us —”

Just then the door opened and Ulrik walked out wearing a freshly pressed uniform.

“Lars, Sanne.” Ulrik nodded at them. “Glad I caught you here.” He hesitated, stuck his hands in his pockets. “I spoke with the chief of homicide this morning, Lars.” Ulrik looked at him searchingly. Lars didn't say anything, waiting. Ulrik sighed.

“You've asked to be transferred to the North Zealand department in Helsingør — is that correct?” Ulrik was breathing a touch faster now.

Lars shrugged. “I need a change of scenery.”

Sanne took an almost imperceptible step backwards and looked from one man to the other.

“You might have considered letting me know first. As your superior, as — your friend?”

“No, not really.”

Ulrik caught his breath. “You can't be in charge of a murder investigation if you're leaving the department. You're off the case.”

Lars pulled out a cigarette. At least this meant he could have a smoke.

Ulrik continued. “You've got nothing to say?”

Lars shrugged again, then lit the cigarette.

Ulrik took off his peaked cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“I'm taking over the homicide investigation.” He put the cap back on. “A woman was admitted to the Juliane Marie Centre. She was beaten and raped last night. You're taking that case. You've got Kim A, Frank, Lisa Bak, and Toke. Sanne and Allan are with me.” Ulrik's eyes flashed under his cap. “I understood you weren't thrilled about getting a new partner anyway?”

Dammit
. Lars glanced at Sanne. And Kim A of all people. He filled his lungs with one final drag, then stubbed out the cigarette with a twist of his heel.

Sanne gave him a wounded look as she followed Ulrik into the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

Chapter 6

S
tairwell 5, third
floor. The Juliane Marie Centre: Centre for Victims of Sexual Assault at Rigshospitalet. Lars stepped out of the elevator and scanned the signs hanging from the ceiling of the broad corridor. Department 5032 was to the right and down the corridor, parallel to Tagensvej. The idea behind the numbering system at Rigshospitalet was enticingly simple but in practice, it was more complicated to decipher than had been envisaged when the university hospital was built in the 1970s.

Lars walked the fifteen steps it took to reach the reception desk and showed the nurse his police badge.

“Lars Winkler, Violent Crime Unit. You received a rape victim here last night?”

The nurse studied his badge, nodded. “Early this morning. I'll get a doctor.”

He couldn't hear what was being said on the phone but less than a minute later a doctor approached from the end of the hall. She was short, stocky, with mousy hair cut in a bob and piercing grey eyes behind red designer glasses.

“Christine Fogh,” she said. “Follow me.”

She led him into an office with a window facing the University of Copenhagen's faculty of medicine, the Panum Institute. The treetops of Amor Park softened the view of the building's massive grey concrete porticos.

The doctor sat down on the edge of her chair, folded her hands between her parted knees, and waited. She didn't offer him a seat.

The air was heavy in the small office. Lars looked around. The only other chair was by the wall opposite the window. He sat down, took a notepad and pen out of his inside pocket. Sweat was trickling from his neck and armpits.

“I was just assigned this case ten minutes ago. I don't even know the victim's name. Can you give me the details?”

“The details?” She turned her head and looked out the window.

“Who is she, where did it happen, when?” He attempted a smile. She removed her glasses, placed them down in front of her, the arms pointing at him.

“Do you know how many sexual assaults are reported in Denmark each year?” she asked.

“I don't have the precise figure in my head, but I believe it's around three hundred?”

“Five hundred. Almost two a day.”

Lars didn't answer. Her face was aglow in the sunlight streaming through the window.

She turned to him. “And only one hundred result in a conviction.”

He tried to rally behind an answer. That often it was one person's word against another, that the figure also glossed over false reports, but she interrupted him just as he was about to speak.

“You also have to add to that the cases that are never reported. But this victim, Stine Bang . . .” She got up. “Follow me.”

Lars followed Christine out of the small office and down the corridor.

“She was on her way home from Nørreport, heading toward Trondhjemsgade, at about 2:40 a.m.,” the doctor continued. “She's riding her bike but gets a flat tire on Øster Voldgade, just past Nørreport. So she pushes her bike. Around Sølvgade, she senses someone following her. She starts walking faster.” Christine's shoes clacked down the corridor as her account became more and more staccato. “Just past the National Gallery, a man grabs her, hits her over the head, forces her across the street and into Østre Anlæg.” Christine stopped suddenly and lowered her voice. “He hauls her up the embankment, rains down punches and kicks on her. She's screaming but who's going to hear her? At the top of the bank, he continues the beating, tearing off her clothes and then pushing her forward. And there — in front of Danmarksmonumentet — he anally rapes her. She has a broken jaw and three broken ribs, internal bleeding, lesions and wounds covering her entire body, along with a severe concussion. We've started preventive HIV treatment.” Christine moved toward the door on the side of the corridor opposite Tagensvej, grabbed the handle. Then she lowered her voice and stared into his eyes. “Oh, yes. And her sphincter was millimetres away from being torn apart. Were these the kind of details you had in mind?”

Lars swallowed and followed her into the room.

Stine Bang lay on the hospital bed. Her head was slightly elevated and almost completely covered with gauze; what remained visible was black and blue and swollen. The area around her closed eyes was distended, and her nose was crooked. She was missing two of her lower front teeth. The cardiograph beside the bed emitted steady, monotone beeps.

Lars stepped forward and was about to say something when Christine grabbed his arm.

“Shh, she's sleeping. You can't wake her up.” She dragged him out of the room. “I just wanted you to see her. Come. We can talk in my office.”

Back in her office, both Lars and Christine assumed their previous positions. The notepad remained in his pocket. Christine cleared her throat. She took off her glasses once more, and looked down.

“I'm sorry if I came across as aggressive before. But this kind —” She broke off.

Lars nodded. “I've got a sixteen-year-old daughter.” He pictured his daughter, Maria, in a park, naked and beaten on the grass, unable to move or call for help. “If this is of any comfort, I don't think Stine will have any problems being taken seriously. Not by the police, the public prosecutor, or the court.”

Christine observed him from behind her desk.

“When do you think she'll be able to speak with us?” he continued.

“It'll probably be a few days. Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.”

“Did she give a description of her attacker? Who brought her in?”

“An old couple from Stockholmsgade were walking their dog around six thirty this morning. They found her half-conscious and ice cold at the foot of the monument.”

“Meaning that she was lying there for — three to four hours?”

“Her body temperature was down to thirty-five degrees. She'll probably get pneumonia on top of everything else. As for her attacker, she got nothing more than a glimpse of him. Black clothes, black balaclava. His Danish was flawless. Oh, wait a minute. Here.” She passed a yellow Post-it note across the table. “That's her girlfriend's number.”

Lars looked at the note: “Astrid” and a Nørrebro number. “Is she going to report it?”

Christine nodded. “Of course. Despite the statistics.” Lars's cheeks were burning. Christine continued. “I'm well aware of the police's standard snapshot of a rapist: a social outcast with no friends. How, then, do you explain that two out of three victims know their attacker?” Lars cleared his throat. She'd hit a sore spot. Christine held a hand up to hold off his protests. “But I think you might be right in this instance. It's unlikely the attacker is someone she knows.” She flipped through a pile of papers on her desk. “Here. We performed an evidence collection examination. We have sperm and saliva samples from the attacker. The lab has promised a DNA profile by the end of next week.”

“No fingerprints?”

Christine shook her head.

He handed her his card. “The problem with cases like this . . . well, I'm sure you're aware.”

“Yes, of course. Without prior contact between victim and assailant, the case is often solved by chance. Sometimes years later. If it's even solved at all.”

Lars got up. Years later. If. Exactly. He cursed Ulrik in his head.

They shook hands. He didn't want to let go. She smiled. Then he nodded and left the office.

Chapter 7

A
s Lars disappeared
down the stairs, Ulrik guided Sanne through the corridors of the Institute of Forensic Medicine. “You'll have to forgive me,” Ulrik said, still in shock. “You weren't meant to see that. I hadn't counted on it being so . . . hostile.”

The fluorescent lights flickered. The long corridor was empty. Sanne nodded, went along with it. As always. On the farm, when the boys used to come by with their mopeds at night, revving their engines for the girls, had she ever done anything other than just go along with things?

Ulrik interrupted her thoughts. “I don't know how many autopsies you've witnessed in Kolding.” His whisper echoed through the empty corridor. “But you've got nothing to prove. Just observe and listen to what's being said. Then we can discuss it afterwards.”

Sanne tried to keep up with Ulrik, walking quickly through a door, down another short corridor. They were in a long room with several small bays on the right. The other side was clear, creating a long connecting passage between the bays. The large, grey tiles covering the floor and the white glazed tiles on the walls made the room resemble an old-fashioned operating room.

Ulrik led her to the far end of the room where three dark shadows were visible under the fluorescent lights. Allan turned around as they approached, waved them over.

“Where's Lars?”

Frelsén and Bint stood on either side of the examination table with Mira's body. A large, gaping incision revealing bluish flesh and yellow fat ran from a point between her breasts and her pubis. She was lying on a table with diagonal grooves that allowed blood to run off. Today, however, they weren't necessary.

Ulrik removed his cap.

“Lars has applied for a transfer to Nordsjælland's police. I've given him another assignment. Until further notice, I'll be leading this investigation.” He looked around the room.

Frelsén snorted. “That is the stupidest thing I've heard in a long time,” he mumbled to himself.

“Excuse me?” Ulrik took a step closer.

“Yeah, yeah. I won't be poking my nose into your affairs.” Frelsén rested his hands on the table and leaned over the body, seemingly unaware of its presence. “But Lars is one of the best investigators I've worked with.” He let his gaze drift from Ulrik to Sanne.

She was fourteen again. The mopeds barking on a hot summer evening. The engine vibrating between her thighs.

“I think we should get back to the autopsy.” Ulrik was sweating.

“That's why we're here.” Frelsén winked at her. “Bint?”

Bint eased his hands into the opening and reached inside the body. Sanne looked away. She had witnessed a couple of autopsies at Syddansk University Hospital, but the atmosphere had been very different in that bright room. There were no windows here. No one was getting out of this one unscathed.

“Liver, 1,456 grams.” Bint turned to note down the weight. She focused on his hand, the felt pen dancing across the whiteboard. Heart, brain, and kidneys were already marked down. Her gaze followed Bint back to the table. Frelsén stood on the other side, studying the body's face.

“She's a strange mix. Eastern European — Czech or Slovak maybe. But there's something else too — Ukrainian or Georgian.”

Sanne leaned toward Ulrik, whispered, “How on earth could he know that?”

“The face,” Ulrik whispered back. “The bone structure, I suppose. I've never really figured it out. But he always hits the mark dead-on.”

Sanne returned to her original position. Ulrik was still sweating. Bint struggled to keep the intestines from moving on the scale.

“There's no body odour, no gasses.” Frelsén sniffed above the body. “In the old days we used to make a small incision by the belly button and hold a lit cheroot next to it — this was before the smoking ban. The flame could shoot up to three metres in the air.” Sanne closed here eyes, happy she'd had a light breakfast. Frelsén continued, unmoved. “But this girl, she's pumped full of glutaraldehyde. It destroys all microbial bacteria.”

“What?” Ulrik said.

“Glutaraldehyde. When I was at university, it was used to preserve the bodies for anatomy classes. They've switched to formaldehyde these days.”

Ulrik's Adam's apple jumped. Allan took two steps back and sat down on the room's only empty chair.

“And how —?” Allan asked.

“The smell is unmistakable. There are needle marks on her inner right thigh. This guy knows how it's done — or rather how it was done.”

“But why —” Allan tried to get up, but fell heavily back into the chair. “Why preserve her? You said she'd been beaten?”

Sanne stirred. Ulrik's gaze rested on her as she opened her mouth.

“She was beaten by her pimps less than a week before she disappeared. The bruises must originate from that.”

“Highly probable.” Frelsén pulled the electronic magnifier over her right breast. “Bruising on the chest and arms. From several days before she died. Take a look — the black is turning green.”

“And when were you thinking of telling us that?” Ulrik had turned toward her.

“I didn't get a chance — before . . .” She repeated what she had told Lars about the Bukoshi brothers earlier, the words practically spilling out of her.

When she was finished, Ulrik nodded. He ran his thumb along the sweatband of his cap. “And her last customer?”

Sanne shook her head. “The last one she was seen with was driving a white Opel Kadett. But one of the girls ran into her an hour later —” She pulled out her notebook, flipped through it. “At approximately 9:45 p.m. on Halmtorvet, heading toward Skelbækgade. She'd scored drugs on —.”

“Maria Kirkeplads.” Ulrik nodded. “Have you been there?”

“I was thinking about going down there today.”

“Take Allan with you. The drug addicts are peaceful enough, but the dealers can get aggressive when the police are in the vicinity. Where was Mira's usual corner?”

“Either Skelbækgade or Vesterbrogade, between” — Sanne checked her notes again — “Vesterbro Torv and Viktoriagade. I'll make sure I ask around there too.”

“Try the corner stores.” Ulrik put his cap back on, avoiding looking at Mira's body. “The owners always know what's going on. After you've been out to Maria Kirkeplads, bring the Bukoshi brothers in for questioning.” He nodded at Frelsén and Bint. “I want the report on my desk as soon as the autopsy's been completed.” He turned abruptly and walked toward the door.

Frelsén watched him leave, shaking his head. “I'm not finished.”

Ulrik turned in the doorway. “Well?”

“The crushed glass we found beneath her shoulder.”

Sanne shivered, remembering how Frelsén's Maglite had shone on something in the shallow water the previous day. Still, when Frelsén lifted the body's left shoulder from the table, she stepped closer. A dense pattern of major and minor wounds covered Mira's back.

“The waves pushed her back and forth, moving the body up and down on top of whatever it was, crushing the glass. We'll need the technician at the lab to put it back together, but I'd bet my right —” Frelsén stopped. He seemed to be considering something. A joke? His upper lip twitched, then he continued in a neutral tone. “It appears to be the remains of an ocular prosthesis. A glass eye.”