He stared out of the window, blinking at the brilliant winter’s day.
‘It wasn’t done in a tattoo parlour. Not with professional needles. They did this themselves. It came with the ceremony. An ordeal you had to undergo to join.’
Meyer closed his big eyes, sighed.
‘There was a gang called the Black Hearts. Small. They distributed dope and acid and cocaine from Christiania into Vesterbro.’
More papers.
‘There’s some intelligence in the files. They disbanded not long after Mette vanished.’
‘What are you saying, Lund?’
‘I’m saying Mette hung out with them. Wanted to join them. That’s why they gave her the necklace. The tattoo. There was an initiation rite—’
‘You said.’
‘If she wanted to join she had to . . .’
It’s coming clearer as she speaks. Makes her breath short. Makes her head spin.
‘Had to what?’
‘Let them do anything they wanted. Take whatever dope they pushed on her. It was a biker gang, Meyer. You know what I’m talking about. What she had to pay . . .’
Pay the price.
Two men. One she liked. One she hated. Both the same now with the pink tab of acid running through their veins too. A lone beast, a single intent.
Trapped in the mud and the mire, half naked, screaming at the lowering sky, Mette Hauge sees them.
Feels them.
Hand on her, fingers ripping at her clothes.
Faces the decision.
Give in or fight.
A fist in her face. The crack of bone. The shriek of fear and pain.
A choice made. In the Pentecost Forest where none can hear.
‘Here,’ Lund said.
Another photo. Nanna in the Rådhus security office, talking to Jens Holck, asking for the keys to the flat in Store Kongensgade, telling him she’s leaving.
The picture’s blown up.
Around her throat, fuzzy from the magnification, sits what looks like the black heart necklace.
‘She put it on when she changed after the Halloween party. Nanna had the necklace already.’
Pernille and Lotte both said . . . she was always going through drawers, looking where she shouldn’t, borrowing things without asking.
‘Nanna found that for herself.’
More pictures. A body floating face down in the water. The autopsy after. The shot marks of pellet wounds. A dead face. Grey moustache and scar. A fading mark on the arm.
Black heart.
‘John Lynge. Picked out of the water near Dragør on Sunday. Shotgun wounds to the chest and head. He had the tattoo. I got out his files. When he attacked girls before he made them wash. He cut their fingernails.’
‘We cleared the driver,’ Meyer said with a pained, bored groan. ‘He was in hospital.’
She hesitated. He seemed fragile. Upset by her presence.
‘They let him out at seven the next morning. We’ve got the logs. Vagn called the agency that employed him not long after. Birk Larsen used them too. So we never thought much of it. The agency gave him Lynge’s mobile. Vagn talked to him. He was trying to avoid trouble. For Nanna’s sake—’
‘But—’
‘Vagn shot you. Vagn killed Leon Frevert. Killed John Lynge.’
This much was clear.
‘You saw for yourself. He loved that family. Loved the boys. Loved . . .’ Thinking, imagining. ‘Loved what the Birk Larsens became. Something he could never find for himself.’
‘Lund . . .’
She peeled the nearest banana, took a bite, liking the way the images formed in her head as she spoke.
‘Vagn didn’t have the black heart tattoo. That part of the wood he took Theis wasn’t where Nanna was attacked. There’s no evidence she was ever there. Vagn didn’t know. Because he didn’t kill her.’
Meyer had his head in his hands, looked ready to weep.
Saturday morning, the day after Halloween, outside the house in Humleby. Bright and sunny. Paper monster masks from the night before blowing up and down the street.
Vagn Skærbæk paced around the plastic sheets and scaffolding, turning to stop and yell at an angry face in the blue glass windows of the basement.
Someone was walking towards him from the green patch of Enghaven park. One day soon Anton and Emil would play there on the new bikes Skærbæk had reserved in the toy shop in Strøget, paying for them with some smuggled alcohol he’d got on the side. Soon. . .
The man who was approaching was tall and muscular. He stopped at the house, checked the number, looked at the Ford then said, ‘Hi. I’m John. You called about the car.’
One more glance at the black vehicle.
‘It doesn’t look damaged.’
‘It isn’t. There’s nothing wrong with it.’
A pause.
‘Did you look inside?’
‘It was a misunderstanding, OK? A mistake.’
The two men stood in silence for a moment, eyeing each other.
‘Don’t I know you?’ Skærbæk asked, feeling a sudden and puzzling sense of recognition.
‘If there’s no damage . . .’ the man began.
‘I do know you.’
‘What happened?’
‘Does it matter? You’ve got it back. There’s no damage. Can’t we leave it there?’
Pasty face, sick maybe. Cheap clothes. Grey hippie moustache. Scar on right cheek. A memory swam through Skærbæk’s head, teasing him, refusing to surface.
It had been a long and difficult night. The argument with Nanna at the flat where he found her after Frevert’s call still rankled. Trying to find some truth among the lies she’d thrown at him, spitting, scratching with her nails.
‘You’re not going to the police, are you? She’s a good kid really. She didn’t steal it. There was an Indian boy who was messing with her. God, if I get my hands on him. I found your agency ID on the floor. Here . . .’
The man with the scar took the card and keys.
‘I don’t like the police,’ he said. ‘The car looks fine. Let’s forget about it. No harm done.’
‘I do know you,’ Skærbæk said again. ‘Maybe the agency. We use them sometimes . . .’
The bright morning felt confusing and strange. He’d scarcely slept in the Humleby house, listening to her cries and pleas locked in the basement, one floor below.
Now the young voice beyond the scaffolding and sheeting was back to high and shrill and getting louder.
Temper rising, Vagn Skærbæk went to the front door, bent down, looked at the blue glass and the shrieking face there.
‘Nanna! For fuck’s sake shut up! You’re staying there till I get your dad. I’ll be back here at twelve whatever. At least I’ll know where you are.’
Eyes to the window, blonde hair bobbing, she yelled, ‘Vagn, you creep—’
‘Just wait, for God’s sake! They’re supposed to be on a break, you know. Having a weekend away. From you for one thing.’
She went silent then.
‘Think about what your dad’s going to say when he hears, huh? Jesus. Ripping off a car—’
‘I didn’t steal the fucking car!’
‘Your raghead boyfriend then. Christ, you’re Theis’s daughter. Aren’t you just?’
The man by the black Ford shifted on his big feet.
Skærbæk barely noticed. He was thinking about what Nanna was wearing.
‘And take that bloody necklace off before your dad gets back. If he sees that . . .’
He left it there. Went to the road, to the man who was checking out the boot of the car.
‘There’s nothing missing, is there?’ Skærbæk asked.
The lid went down quickly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Damned kids,’ Vagn Skærbæk grumbled. ‘She can stay in that hole and rot for all I care. If her old man hears . . .’
The stranger was listening.
‘What did she do?’
‘Never mind.’ Skærbæk took out his phone. Tried to call again. Got voicemail. ‘Come on, Theis. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Best leave her there,’ the stranger said. ‘Kids need a lesson.’
A bleat from behind.
‘She’d have to listen for that,’ Skærbæk muttered, then yelled some more abuse at the blue window.
It was pointless. She’d never taken any notice of him. Of anyone really.
So he left the car with the man who looked vaguely familiar then stomped off back to the depot, cursing under his breath, juggling phone calls and schedules, callbacks and deliveries. Wondering how he might make everything fit, run along in one piece the way it should.
Twenty minutes later Vagn Skærbæk fell fast asleep on the chair in the office. Didn’t stir for three hours. And then a sharp, cruel nightmare woke him with a startling memory. Too real, it felt. Too real.
A bright day. An empty day.
John Lynge looked at the black Ford. Couldn’t stop listening to the high-pitched voice coming from the house, through the blue glass windows.
A girl’s voice. Strong and weak at the same time. Young and knowing too.
A girl’s voice.
He looked along the empty street of grey houses. Walked up to the window. Could see her through the stained glass. Bubbly hair. Beautiful face. Pleading eyes.
‘Get me out of here, mister.’
One more careful sweep of the deserted road in Humleby. Up. Down.
‘Get me out of here before that bastard comes back.’
Just after ten. A good hour to spare.
‘Please. I’ll give you something.’ She paused. ‘Some money.’
November. The month he always chose. He hadn’t expected the opportunity to come so soon. The very first day. But it would come. It always had since that first time set the wheels in motion, turning like clockwork once a year.
‘OK,’ he said, then went back to the Ford and found the briefcase he had left in the boot the previous night.
Opened it.
Scissors and a bottle of ether. A gag. Two knives, two rolls of duct tape. A screwdriver and chisel. A bottle of liquid soap, a sponge and some medical wipes. Two packs of condoms and a tube of lubricating jelly. He was a careful man and always came prepared.
‘Mister! Hey!’ squealed the young voice from the basement.
Lynge closed the briefcase, walked to the door. They’d left their tools there anyway. A crowbar, waiting, begging.
That was easy.
At the foot of the stairs the door was locked and bolted. Her glittery handbag lay outside, left there he guessed for when she decided to be good.
He picked it up. Tissues, a purse, a phone. A pack of condoms with a happy couple on it. Naked. Smiling.
Lynge lifted it to his lips and kissed the picture there. Laughed to himself.
The girl called out through the door.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
Lund fidgeted in her chair, blinking at the washed-out sun. There were more photos in Jansen’s file. He’d done a good job. Risked a lot to help her.
‘Vagn told Theis he got the call from Nanna. We’d worked that out. He locked her in the basement in Humleby overnight. But it was Lynge who attacked her there. Got her out the next morning. Took her somewhere else.’
‘Why didn’t Vagn go to the police?’
His voice was tetchy, hurt.
‘He didn’t realize who it was till Nanna was gone. He called the agency Birk Larsen used again. Vagn was checking. He’d remembered.’
‘Remembered what?’
‘Vagn loved Nanna. Loved them all—’
‘Then why did he say he killed her? Why didn’t he talk to us?’
She ate some more banana. Said nothing.
‘You need help,’ Meyer told her. ‘You should be in here. Not me. You break lives, you know that?’
‘Meyer—’
‘You broke your own. You broke mine. You break everyone’s and you don’t even notice enough to care—’
‘I care!’
A nurse appeared in the corridor, looking through the glass, checking out the sound of angry voices.
‘I care,’ she said more quietly.
‘No. You just think you do. If you care you’ve got connections. Relationships. You depend on other people and other people depend on you. You don’t connect, Lund. Not to me, not your mother, not your son. Any more than that bastard Hartmann connects. Or Brix . . .’
His eyes were shining. She thought he might cry.
‘I’ve got a family. Theis and Pernille had one too until this black fucking thing came along and ripped them apart. With a little help from us. Don’t forget that—’
‘I care,’ she whispered, feeling the tears begin to cloud her own eyes.
He wasn’t a cruel man. A hard man even. She’d judged him badly at the start. Meyer didn’t want to hurt her. He simply didn’t understand.
‘Vagn didn’t do it. When you’re feeling better. When you’re out of here, back at work. You can go and find the records. I’m so close. For God’s sake. You’ve got to help me—’
Jan Meyer threw back his head and howled.