Username, page 12
Annoyed, she put the used dishes from breakfast in the hot soapy water. Jam had dried onto a plate, so she had to scrub hard to get it off. He obviously couldn’t be bothered to answer her either.
Sometimes she enjoyed being able to close the door to his room and not even feel she had a son, enjoy the silence, read her weekly magazines and relax. Almost as if she were alone, as if Karl wouldn’t be standing in the door at precisely six o’clock, looking annoyed at the dining table if she hadn’t managed to set it, or if she had got behind with the cooking. But he provided for the family. It was hard in the factory, doing the same thing day in, day out. Every so often, she felt sorry for him.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ She leaned against the doorframe of his room with the tea towel over her shoulder and her arms crossed. Today was one of those days when he annoyed her.
‘Mum, I’m chatting here!’ He detached his gaze from the computer screen and looked up at her. She never could judge whether it was contempt or pity she saw in his eyes. Maybe she was a despicable sight in the tracksuit with its saggy knees and her messy hair with several inches of grey roots because the colour needed to be done. But the hairdresser was something she absolutely didn’t want to spend money on, so she dyed it herself, and lately, there hadn’t been any money to buy hair dye in the supermarket. It had become so expensive and there were so many other things they needed the money for. Her son didn’t look much better. He was wearing a tracksuit, too, though a slightly newer and more modern version than her own. What was called a leisure suit nowadays, instead of a tracksuit.
‘You live here scot-free. You could help out a little from time to time. Can you not come and ‘chat’ a little to the dishes instead?’
It wasn’t meant to be funny, but he laughed at her, so the long, greasy fringe fell down over his pimpled face and hung over one eye. He did nothing to remove it.
‘It’s not as much fun as chatting here, Mum. Just come and see this babe.’
Reluctantly, she walked over behind him and looked at the screen. Curiosity took over. She had never dared ask him what he did on that computer for fear of being called ignorant.
‘Look. She’s only fourteen. And look at those jugs.’
The boy grunted as he laughed and took a swig of the Coca-Cola bottle that always stood next to the screen, beside a bag of crisps. She didn’t understand how he didn’t get fat, but he was thin and lanky. Probably took after her.
‘What kind of website are you on? You’re not staring at porn all day, are you?’
‘No,’ he sounded indignant as he set the bottle down hard.
‘We just talk to each other online. Not everything’s about sex, but you probably know all about that already, given you and Dad have your own bedrooms.’
It was one of the things she feared about him. His ability to hurt her and evoke memories of the past. He knew sex was a subject she couldn’t bear to touch upon in either thoughts or words. And certainly not in action, and she knew where the boy was coming from.
‘Aren’t you supposed to go to the psychiatrist today? He’s probably the only one who can…’
She couldn’t stand it today; he was annoying her. She raised the tea towel and swung it with all the force she could. The damp fabric swept over his mouth. He got up angrily with a roar and both hands to his face.
‘What are you doing, bitch! I’m bloody well moving out of here soon.’
‘So do it then! Do it!’ she shouted at him as she heard the front door slam. She sat down on his chair, which was warm from his behind, and looked at the pictures of the girls on the screen. There were all sorts of faces of various ages. Some challenging, some shy, some downright vulgar. There were girls and boys, beautiful and ugly. Profile pictures were positioned above the gallery. Inexperienced, she tried to take the mouse and click on one of the pictures like she had seen Dennis do. A lot of information about the girl popped up on the screen. Her username was ‘Naughty Belinda’. She was only twelve. What was he doing on the computer? Some of the girls were the same age as she had been, back then…
She let go of the mouse and got up quickly. Hopefully Dennis wouldn’t see she had touched it. She felt unwell again. She wasn’t going to the psychiatrist today, so she took a few tablets. They usually never spoke about the psychiatrist in the family. It was only when Dennis wanted to hurt her that it was brought up, without him having any clue as to what was behind it. She didn’t talk about what had happened back then either. She had loved her father. Loved him and feared him. And didn’t the fact he had taken his own life show he deeply regretted the anxiety he had filled her with each time she heard his footsteps in the hall at night, and the pain he had caused her when he closed the door to her room and lay with her? When she had heard he was dead, she had loved him unconditionally.
She went back to the kitchen and continued with the dishes on her own. As long as Dennis wasn’t in trouble again. Maybe she should get his dad to have a little talk with him when Dennis was home again. She knew he would come back when he got hungry enough.
31
The coffee machine sputtered, signalling the three cups of morning coffee were finally brewed. And that it needed to be descaled soon. Kamilla had just got the newspaper from the letterbox, still wearing her dressing gown. She read the headlines on the front page as she walked back to the kitchen.
Gitte’s father suspects ‘immigrant or mentally disabled teen’ of daughter’s murder headlined Anne’s article. Kamilla’s photo was positioned nicely above it. It hadn’t turned out too bad. She had captured the horror in the girl’s eyes. She cringed at how she had asked the girl not to smile. That the whole thing was in fact a set-up, an artificial photo, probably the same as most other photos taken in similar situations. She had even heard of journalists cutting onions to bring tears to the eyes of those they interviewed if they weren’t showing the right emotion. Maybe it wasn’t true, but she just knew if she ever experienced that, she would refuse to take the photo.
But why had Anne written this? After all, there was nothing to suggest an immigrant had anything to do with the murder, and the boy with learning difficulties wasn’t under suspicion at all. Wouldn’t it just evoke unnecessary feelings that would affect the innocent parties?
She took the jug from the coffee machine, poured the dark liquid into a mug and sat down. As she read on, she saw the connection. The headline was a sort of quote from Gitte’s father’s statements. Not facts. The headline was to attract readers. Make them believe there was news on the case. Get them to buy the newspaper. The same method used by gossip magazines. Enticing headlines that in reality reflected neither the truth nor the content of the article at all. Many people only read the headlines and look at the pictures, she thought, leading to false rumours often being spread by people who claim they read them in the newspaper, so ‘they must be true’.
Further on in the newspaper, she found Anne’s article from the playground. That image had turned out well, too. The childminder sitting with the little boy on her lap and the three girls next to her on the bench. When she had started getting the camera ready, the girls had just wanted to be in the picture. Fear in the playground said the headline in bold. In the text, the childminder, Bente Kristensen, spoke of how such crimes taking place locally affected her everyday life with the children. One of her quotes was pulled out and highlighted on the page: ‘We never thought about the danger before, it’s always been safe for children to play here, but now!’ Anne had also mentioned the dark car and encouraged readers to contact East Jutland Police if they had seen anything.
The scrape of paws and claws against glass pulled her away from her reading. Tarzan had climbed up onto the ledge and was trying to get in through the kitchen window, which was on the latch. She let him in. ‘Well, little Tarzan, why are you coming in that way?’
The cat jumped in onto the kitchen counter. It stood for a moment in the kitchen sink between the dirty cups and glasses, drinking water from the dripping tap, before jumping elegantly down onto the floor. When she closed the window, she noticed the sun was still shining from a cloudless sky. Perfect weather for her second assignment. They had called her mobile just as she was turning into the driveway after the trip to Brabrand the day before. Aarhus Tourist Office had asked if she would take some up-to-date photos in Den Gamle By when the weather was good. They were for a new tourist brochure. Just her kind of job. Nothing with skips, dead or kidnapped children, or posed teenagers.
32
‘Why the hell did she write that?’
His fist hit the day’s newspaper, startling Leander, who was sitting in the chair opposite. But the forensic pathologist knew his old friend’s temperament. He had always had it. Ever since he himself had come from England, all those years ago, and met the young Roland Benito, who had just started as a fledging police officer in Copenhagen. It was probably due to his Mediterranean roots, he had often thought. Roland’s parents were Italians of the warm-blooded kind. From Naples. His real name was Rolando, but it was quickly replaced by the more Danish Roland. As far as he knew, police work had always run in the family. Rolando Benito’s father had been employed by the Carabinieri Corps, the Italian military and security police, but had been killed by the Camorra in a Mafia showdown, after which his mother had fled to Denmark with the then four-year-old Rolando. Her sister was married to a Dane. But Leander hadn’t got all that from Roland—he never talked about his Italian family or his past. The question was how much he could remember.
‘That’s not what’s annoying you.’ Leander pointed to the photo lying next to the newspaper. A magnified, pixelated image of a boy with a haunted expression in his slightly squinting eyes. ‘Be glad it wasn’t an immigrant,’ he reassured him. ‘That could have caused a lot more trouble.’
Roland stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray that had already been filled up before lunch.
‘We have to do something. The phone’s been ringing most the morning. People are calling, because of the newspaper article, to say they saw the mentally disabled boy that day at the skip. The press usually uses us, not the other way around.’
Leander knew the press was always getting on Roland’s nerves. Especially in serious cases like this one. It was hard for him to admit they could be of help, too.
‘Take it easy, Roland. Just because he was seen behind the skip doesn’t mean he’s the murderer. And it was hardly him who abducted the other girl. What about the dark car seen in connection with both crimes? He doesn’t drive, does he?’
Roland pointed hard at the picture with his index finger. ‘We found it by reviewing all the photographer’s photos,’ he snorted.
The photo was taken over the crowd of journalists, police and spectators at the waste container. And there, furthest out in the right corner of the image, the boy was standing half-hidden behind the bushes near the other hatch they had overlooked. Taken during the half hour the doll had disappeared.
‘He knew about the door in the skip, I’m sure,’ Roland grumbled.
‘What’s wrong with him? Mentally disabled means so many things.’ Leander leaned back in his chair and put his folded hands behind his neck as he looked at the inspector, who was red-faced with excitement. His complexion was reminiscent of mahogany. Leander’s routine was to pay a visit to the police station and look in on Roland whenever they worked together on a case. There were always loose ends to follow up on. Besides, they enjoyed each other’s company. The fact they were both ‘foreign workers’ gave them a certain commonality.
‘Foetal alcohol syndrome. The boy’s mother was both a drug addict and an alcoholic, and she drank herself half to death when she was expecting him. But the foster parents claim he wouldn’t harm a fly. His name’s Kristoffer, by the way. Kristoffer Kjær.’
‘Sad fate. Can he even use a computer? Have you found anything on the girls?’ He rolled the tip of his little white handlebar moustache between two fingers, which he was in the habit of doing when his hands were at rest and not using their skills on dead bodies. Unlike Roland, he didn’t smoke.
‘We’ve gone through every email, but didn’t find anything suspicious. Jensen’s investigating the deleted emails. It’s not unlikely the girls would hide or even delete those kinds of emails. It’s a little against the law to lie about your age like that.’
Leander nodded. ‘You hear about children being offered sex on the internet. Girls want to grow up too fast today. They don’t think about the dangers,’ he sighed. ‘But is it possible to recover deleted emails?’
Roland sat, turning his pen around and around while looking at him. Technology-wise, they were probably at the same point in the investigation.
‘Mikkel Jensen says you can. He has a program that should work, but sometimes only a small percent of the deleted emails can be recovered, he says. He wants to try it before we pass the case on to the Regional Cyber Unit. They’re so busy, and as long as we don’t have reasonable suspicion the emails are linked to the murder, it’ll be difficult to get a rush on it. But don’t let any of this leak to the press. The more peace and quiet we have to investigate that website, the better,’ he added confidentially.
Leander nodded absently, keeping an eye on a greenbottle fly on the latch of Roland’s window. From the greenish metallic body, he recognised it as the Lucilia species, one of the smaller blowflies that searches indoors to find a suitable place to lay their eggs. Roland followed his gaze and smiled crookedly.
Leander knew his weakness for insects had always amused Roland.
‘What do you call it—the forensic pathologist’s little helper?’ he joked.
‘Yes, their larvae, the maggots, can help us a lot. Their eggs hatch in about a day, so if you have a body with maggots, you know it’s been dead for a day. Based on the larval development, we can determine the time of death more precisely.’
He again watched the greenbottle fighting its brave battle to escape through the glass window with an aggressive buzzing that sounded like a bee.
‘Did you know the maggots are also little doctors and can be used by medical science in contexts other than forensic entomology—as wound healers?’ he continued.
Roland made a face. ‘I’ve heard of it. But isn’t it just an old wives’ tale? Old soldier stories?’
‘No, no. It’s true. The method’s been used since ancient times and was practised in many hospitals right up until antibiotics were discovered. During World War I, maggot therapy was widely used to heal open wounds in war veterans. The maggots secrete proteolytic enzymes and antibacterial substances that stimulate wound healing. Very effective. Of course, the maggots had to be sterile.’
Roland shuddered visibly. Personally, he wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of having maggots crawling around an open wound. Fortunately, Gitte Mikkelsen hadn’t been in the skip long enough for maggots to have made their appearance.
‘Have you heard anything about the analyses of the mud from Gitte’s hair and clothes?’ asked Roland, changing the subject.
‘Not yet. Maybe today. I’ve sent another reminder to Copenhagen.’ He brushed invisible fluff off a trouser leg.
‘The skip’s emptied on Tuesday afternoons. Maybe the murderer knew that?’ muttered Roland.
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And would a mentally disabled boy have that knowledge?’
‘Mmm,’ Roland shrugged. ‘Good she was found so quickly. God only knows if she’d ever have been found otherwise.’
‘Did you find her bike and backpack? And what about the tights? And the strange object that made the mark on her back?’
‘Unfortunately, no. The entire area around Bazar Vest, and where we believe Gitte was on Monday, has been searched. No bike, no backpack, and no white tights—or mobile phone. We probably won’t find more until the actual scene of the murder’s found.’
Roland shook his head resignedly and looked out through the window at the blue sky. The fly had apparently found its way through the crack, or it was somewhere in the room, searching for a suitable place to lay its eggs. Leander chuckled to himself when Roland cast an inquisitive glance at the cardboard box with the remains of his pizza from lunch. He had obviously had the same thought.
‘You’d better throw it out,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Well, I’d better be getting a move on, too. I hope the young man has his alibi in order.’ He put both hands on the armrests of the chair, about to get up.
‘We have no other suspects. The girl’s father was the first obvious one, but he was at work and has a perfect alibi.’ Roland got up and took his tweed jacket from the back of the chair.
Leander got up, too. ‘While I think of it, the result of the DNA test is to come from Copenhagen today,’ he said.
‘About bloody time, too,’ Roland growled.
‘That’s an improvement, if you can believe it. Things don’t usually go that fast—and certainly not during the summer holidays. But let’s hope they’ve found something. It wasn’t the best of conditions. Moisture, pollution and decay are the forensic pathologist’s worst enemies. It can break down deoxyribonucleic acid—abbreviated to DNA. The rubbish from the container may have destroyed some traces,’ he explained.
Roland sighed heavily.
‘Luckily the girl was found so quickly; had she been in the skip for a long time, all traces could have been destroyed,’ reassured Leander.
‘I just don’t understand what the motive is,’ Roland said.
