Lene Kaaberbol - Invisible Murder

The Finn shot Nina, Ida, and Sándor a collective angry look.

“Fine,” Tommi said. “Then you can be the fucking babysitter.”

The Finn flipped a defiant fuck-you finger at them all and vanished into the blue video room, presumably to relieve his frustration in the company of eighteen-year-old Sabrina.

Nina looked at Ida. There was barely suppressed panic in her dark eyes, and her bound arm was moving incessantly in an involuntary twitch.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Nina lied. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m here.”

LITTLE AFTER SEVEN, they finally hit jackpot in the identification lottery. At that point Søren had had an unsatisfying conversation with Malee Rasmussen, who pretty much repeated the stock phrases he was familiar with from the recording with near surgical precision: “It’s an investment. I didn’t know there was anyone there. I haven’t been there since February.” He hadn’t been able to find any holes in her shell, and finally he had had to admit defeat. Whatever she was afraid of, it made her completely immune to the pressure of more civilized interrogation methods.

Out of sheer desperation he had then spent almost twenty minutes watching a group of brain-dead young Finns subject themselves to various bizarre forms of bodily harm, all while laughing maniacally and yelling at themselves and each other. In English, with a strikingly pronounced Finnish accent. By the time his phone finally rang, he was profoundly grateful for the interruption.

It was his navy blue friend, Birgitte Johnsen.

“I just saw the description you sent out,” she said. “Of the man in the video.”

“Yes,” Søren said. “Do you know him?”

“It could be Tommi Karvinen.”

Søren sat up straight and slapped his pen down on the tabletop with a bang.

“A Finn?”

“Yup. One Nordic import we could certainly have done without. We suspect him of being heavily involved in trafficking, but the girls he’s involved with don’t talk. We haven’t been able to nail him. Aside from an old narcotics conviction from the late 1990s, he just has one suspended conviction for aggravated assault from 2003.”

“Suspended?”

“He beat up a john who had beat up a prostitute. His lawyer argued self-defense on the woman’s behalf, and that won him some leniency.”

“As in ‘how chivalrous of him to defend her?’ ”

“Yes, but the most interesting thing.…”

“Aha?” He could hear in Birgitte’s voice that she was looking forward to telling him the next bit. But did she have to sound like a grandmother holding out a caramel and then pretending she wasn’t going to let him have it?

“The prostitute, who of course was heard as a witness in the case, was Malee Rasmussen.”

Yes!

“Give me everything you’ve got,” he said. “Starting with the address.”

All the sudden his body was alive again. The feeling of defeat he’d been fighting all afternoon was gone. He leapt up and flung open the door to the hallway.

“Gitte!” he yelled. “Gitte, where are you?”

Christian came over to him with a printout in his hand.

“She just went downstairs for a power nap,” he said. “But I have something for you.”

Søren mechanically accepted the pages Christian was handing him.

“What is this?”

“The results from the Opel list.”

“Give me just the highlights. Have we got something?”

“Not really. No IP addresses of particular interest. No one belonging to any known groups. No criminal records, apart from a guy who was apparently into alternative lifestyles at some point back in the ’70s and had a minor drug conviction. Solid pillars of society right down the list with an average age just over sixty, which I suppose isn’t so surprising, considering the age of the car. These are people who bought German quality and kept it. The only thing is.…” Christian paused.

Come on, Christian, not you too. Give me my caramel!

“Yes?”

“It’s nothing too definite. The man is over eighty and retired. He worked for the city, in Buildings and Safety for damn near half a century. Not exactly obvious terrorist material.”

“Christian, what the hell? What about him?”

“He just … well, more specifically, his wife, the house is in her name … they just took out an sizeable loan on the equity. And we can’t see how they spent the money.”

“How much?”

“Six hundred thousand kroner.”

Okay. That wasn’t exactly small potatoes.

“Well. I suppose we know he didn’t spend it on a new car,” Søren said.

“No. It could have been a holiday home or something like that, but if so it’s not here in Denmark.”

“Send Gitte over there when she wakes up.”

“Will do. Where are you headed?”

Søren felt a famished predator’s grin spreading across his face.

“Off to catch me a Finn,” he said.

HE POLICE OFFICERwas female. In a way, it was two shocks in one.

Of course Skou-Larsen was well aware that the police force employed countless women, but when there was a friendly young lady on one’s doorstep, ringing one’s doorbell, well, “Whoops, the police are here” wasn’t exactly the first thing that popped into one’s head.

“Has something happened to Helle?” he asked, as soon as he realized the meaning of the identification she was showing him.

“No, no,” the policewoman said reassuringly. “We just need to follow up on all the leads in this case. Am I correct, sir, in my understanding that you own a 1984 Opel Rekord?”

“Yes.” She could see it in the carport, he thought, if she turned her head a little. But he supposed they had to ask. “Model E,” he said, to try to seem a little more accommodating. “An older car, of course, but very reliable. What is this in regard to?” She wasn’t in uniform, so it couldn’t be a traffic infraction. Or … did they not wear uniforms anymore?

“Would you mind if we came in for a moment, sir?”

We? It wasn’t until then that he noticed the second police officer, who was still standing on the sidewalk talking into his phone. Skou-Larsen furrowed his brow, but it seemed rude to say no, and it would also look suspicious in their eyes.

“Not at all,” he said. “My wife isn’t home, but perhaps I could figure out how to make us some coffee.”

The second police officer introduced himself as Mikael Nielsen, but didn’t want to sit down.

“You guys mind if I take a look at the car while you talk?” Nielsen asked.

Skou-Larsen felt a wasp-sting of irritation at the officer’s rude informality. You guys. As if he were talking to some street punk.

“Perhaps first you could just be so kind as to tell me what this case is about?” he suggested. “I can assure you that I haven’t done anything illegal.”

No one said, “No, of course not,” or any other similarly placating phrases. Both Mikael Nielsen and that young lady—what was her name now? Nystrøm, Nyhus, Nymand—were just observing him with an expectant neutrality that he found disagreeable.

“Of course, sir, we could also wait for a warrant,” Gitte Nymand said. Yes, that’s what she said her name was.

He waved his hand in irritation.

“No,” he said. “That’s fine. Check whatever you damn well please, for Pete’s sake.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Gitte said, rewarding him with a warm smile. “The whole thing will go much quicker this way. For you as well.”

He refused to let himself to be mollified. She might be more polite than her colleague, but the signal was very clear: They were in charge, and they could invade his car and his home as it suited them. The affront stung, and he decided that he didn’t feel like struggling with the coffee machine for their sake. Deeply ingrained manners made him wait until after she had sat down on the sofa before he allowed himself to settle into his favorite armchair. Maybe it was good that Helle had that extra choir practice; with any luck, he could get this all over with and have the constabulary out of the house again before she came home.