The Seventh Child (66 page)

Briefly, he explained the reason for his visit: the anonymous letter. Then he handed it to her.

She held it motionless. There was no signature on the letter, and its only purpose had been to lead Taasing to Dorah Laursen.

“Who might have sent that to me, Mrs. Laursen?” he asked.

She shook her head, but he could see yet another layer of fear on her face.

“But did you
know
that it would be sent?”

“No, of course not.” Her voice was barely audible.

He leaned toward her. “Did you know
…
that I’d come?”

For another moment she sat motionless. Then she nodded, and to his surprise a large tear rolled down her fleshy cheek, coming to a stop in the corner of her mouth, where strangely enough it remained like a clear glass bubble.

“But how?” He let the question hang in the air; she wasn’t the kind of person that an experienced journalist would have trouble eliciting information from, but for some reason the tear distracted him.

“He
…
called, you know
…
”

Taasing nodded encouragingly. She took a deep breath and another crystal-clear tear followed. Then she said, “A man called. He told me it would be very dangerous to talk to anyone about this secr
…
eh, about
…
”

“The secret?”

“Yes
…
Because it was
…
a state
…
”

“A state matter?”

She nodded.

“Dangerous to whom?”

“For me
…
or
…”

“But what is it that you know?” The question was more direct than
he’d
intended.

“Or for my son,” she said.

“Your son
…
?”

“He’s from there too,” she sniffled.

“From Kongslund?”

“Yes. Yes. They helped me before.”

And then she described the events that
she’d
only ever shared with two people—first with the visitor
who’d
called herself Marie Ladegaard, and then with her son, because Marie Ladegaard had insisted she do so.

She told Taasing the strange story of how her little boy had been picked up early one morning in May 1961 by an unknown messenger from the famous Infant Orphanage Kongslund—and how
she’d
regretted her decision and threatened the matron to get her another child, which she finally did in February 1966.

It sounded like a fairy tale—or the babblings of a confused old woman—but she nodded the entire time as if to underscore the veracity of what she was telling him.

“But
…
it doesn’t make any sense.” Taasing was as mystified as the old woman herself, just as her first visitor had been.

“Was
she
the one who
…
did she reveal it?” Dorah asked. “
She’d
promised me she would never say anything if only I told my son what had happened. And I did. But even so, she
…
” Tears streamed now from both her eyes.

Taasing was transfixed for a moment by the shiny teardrops that had been triggered by his presence. Then he said, “Who is
she
…
?”

The old lady pulled out a handkerchief; it was very small and had tiny, red crocheted roses in the corners. “Marie Ladegaard. The matron’s daughter.”

“She’s been here?”

“Yes, she came. She was the first one that I talked to about Lars
…
about my son.” She sniffled into the handkerchief. “That was in
…
”

“2001?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze through her tears and then blew her nose. “That was seven years ago, but
she’d
promised. Forever.” Her tears pooled in lagoons at the corners of her mouth.

“Then where’s your child now
…
the child you gave up for adoption
…
the one you say was picked up that morning?”

“They never told me. But I was given a new one.” She set her handkerchief in her lap. “They told me to forget about the whole thing.”

“Because you got Lars?”

“Yes—all I had to do was wait for the delivery.” She sniffled.

“The delivery?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Lars now?” Taasing asked offhandedly. He couldn’t see how Dorah’s adopted son could be connected to the Kongslund Affair. Probably, she had simply forgotten the specific circumstances surrounding what was, in reality, an ordinary adoption.

“He’s a chauffeur.”

“But I suppose he can’t remember anything
…
about back then?”

For the first time, she seemed relieved. “No, he was too young.”

It was then that the nation’s most skeptical journalist made exactly the same mistake that the experienced investigator and security specialist Carl Malle had made. He didn’t ask any more questions about the matter.

He couldn’t see how there’d be anything of interest in the answers.

Before making his departure, he asked one last question. “And you’re absolutely certain that it was Marie Ladegaard who came here that day
…
back in 2001?”

She nodded again. That much she remembered.

Taasing stood, trying to conceal his anger in front of the old woman. It was yet another secret—a small but notable one—that Marie had kept from them.

And that was the matter that occupied his thoughts on his trip back to Copenhagen.

I was prepared for his anger and his questions.

He’d
used the long journey back to contemplate my role. And I’d prepared every single response and every possible maneuver, so it would just have to run its course. Either he accepted my answers, or the real reason I’d kept Dorah’s existence a secret would be revealed. That thought was the reason I’d spent most of my time waiting in Magdalene’s old wheelchair, slumped down, eyes closed, the way
she’d
often done. I needed her help more than ever.

Taasing arrived around noon. A startled childcare assistant came to get me right away.

Orla and Severin had once again chosen to be idle; they’d spent most of the morning sprawled on lounge chairs on the lawn. They’d barely spoken to one another and hadn’t even asked me how the case was developing. That morning I’d told them there was no news. They were hiding from the world, and I understood why.

Taasing stood by the window in the sunroom, looking at the two sleeping men outside. When I stepped closer, he sat without a word on the dark mahogany sofa with the gray-blue silk cover and got straight to the point. “What’s going on, Marie? Why did you keep your visit to Dorah’s seven years ago a secret?”

He was so angry that his usual, objective journalistic manner had vanished after only a few seconds. If Magdalene really was nearby—or was watching me from her seat on the Other Side—I didn’t feel it. This was a battle I had to fight alone.

“Why did you keep it from us?”

I sat cautiously in one of the antique chairs, letting my shoulder hang all the way down to the armrest before delivering the first of my carefully prepared responses: “If I’d told you that from the beginning, you would have gone to see Dorah. And I’d promised to protect her.”

It was a plausible explanation, and I took care to keep my lisp at a moderate level so that it wouldn’t annoy him, but where it might be enough to disrupt his legendary concentration.

“But you could have told us without giving us the name of the source,” he said. “I would have respected that.” His objection was just as logical as I’d expected.

“Yes,” I said after a brief hesitation, the intentionality of which I hoped he wouldn’t detect. “But back then you thought this case was current, and there’s no way I could have tracked down Dorah so quickly. So it was way too risky.”

Now I connected the first lie to another.

It was yet another logical, carefully prepared explanation.

“But later
…
later, when you admitted that the letter from Eva wasn’t new?” he asked.

“At that point I wasn’t even thinking about Dorah. I don’t know why she matters anymore.” I made my lisp worse, knowing it was at this point that my explanation would be put to the test.

For an instant I thought I’d succeeded. Then he asked the question I’d feared.

“But how did you actually find Dorah’s name to begin with?”
He’d
waited for just the right moment.

I said nothing.

He leaned closer, battle-ready, studying, over the rim of his glasses, a bizarre but interesting creature. “
There was another letter,
wasn’t there?”

Reluctantly, I had to admire his acuity and intuition.

“You’ve lied to us about everything, Marie, and you’ve been clever about it. But on the way back from Helgenæs, I realized that”—he hesitated for a moment—“that almost nothing of what you say is true. You’ve lived here too long.” He looked around the place. “It’s no wonder you’ve started mixing up fiction and reality.” He shook his head. “You’re living in a fairy tale, maybe even an ancient fable.”

I didn’t respond.

“You told us Eva hadn’t enclosed the letter for her child, which
she’d
asked Magna to pass on. She probably regretted it at the last minute, you said. But she didn’t, did she?”

I reached under my shawl and retrieved a single sheet of paper, then put it on the table. He hadn’t expected it, and I got the pleasure of seeing the dumbstruck look on his face.

For a third time, I’d been exposed, but this time I’d anticipated it.

Slowly, he removed the paper from the table and spun it around. The writing was dense on both sides, and the paper was so thin that the ink seeped through. I had kept it hidden for seven years, and there was not a speck of dust on it.

And in a peculiar way it was beautiful to hear Taasing’s voice, raw from tobacco, read the opening words that I’d read numerous times.

“My dear child. We were never meant to meet. I’ve long since realized that, and I think it is the best for both of us
…
”

I could tell that he needed a glass of red wine badly and probably also one of his menthol cigarettes. Although in her time Magna had filled the sunroom with clouds of smoke from her Bellman cheroots, Susanne would never allow it now.

“Ms. Ladegaard wanted to keep both your birth name and the name of your adoptive family a secret out of consideration for us both
…
”

And then he learned about the little woman—Dorah Laursen from Helgenæs—information that
he’d
demanded from me.

“It was only when I threatened to cancel my departure and tell my story that she showed me the adoption form that included the name of the woman who was to be your adoptive mother
…
”

He glanced up. “Dorah Laursen.”

I nodded.

“That’s why you kept Eva’s letter to the child from us. You didn’t want me to see Dorah’s name.” Taasing read the whole letter again. Then he said, “But it says nothing about the child. It was removed before she could catch a glimpse of it. And Dorah didn’t adopt her son, Lars, until five years later. I don’t think she’s lying
…
she’s not the type. I don’t see the connection.”

I took the paper from him. “I think Magna took us—and Eva—on a wild goose chase,” I said. “Dorah has nothing to do with all this. And that’s why I didn’t tell you about her. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course it means something.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and shook his head. “She gave up her little boy at the exact same time that Eva gave birth to her child. It might even be the same
…
”

“The same? You mean Eva might be
Dorah
…
?” I mocked.

“No, of course not,” he said. He wouldn’t be provoked. “But the
boy
…
the boy could be John Bjergstrand, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “But how would Eva’s son end up in an apartment by Svanemøllen with a mother who was certain
she’d
given birth to the child herself?” The sarcasm brought my lisp to the tip of my tongue.

He stood and walked to the window. Again he stared at the lawyers sleeping on the lawn. I saw the hunter’s frustration in his twitchy shoulder, but kept quiet to reassure him.

I’d given my final answer.

“I don’t understand it.” His shoulders sank. It was over.

“Nobody does,” I said. My lisp was back to normal. And I breathed calmly.

“I’ll have to borrow the letter and make a copy
…
there must be some lead.”

I handed him Eva’s letter for the second time.

“Dorah,” he said vaguely. “She knew I was coming
…
she’d
received a call from a man
who’d
threatened her.” He turned to me. “Have you mentioned her to anyone?”

I shook my head. “Not even Orla and Severin.”

He sat on the couch opposite me. “But Marie, I called
here
when I’d gotten the anonymous tip about Dorah and was on my way to Helgenæs.” He slammed his palms on the table. “We’re being wiretapped,” he said, a surprisingly nervous tone in his voice.