Username, page 19
Amalie had heard it so often that she couldn’t be bothered hearing it again. She turned her back and pretended to do something on the computer. Her mum sighed loudly behind her and didn’t say anything for a while.
‘Have you made a new friend we don’t know about?’ she asked suddenly.
Amalie turned towards her abruptly. ‘Why?’
Her mum had a severe frown on her forehead, though she didn’t have many wrinkles. Not like the mums of her classmates. Mum was attractive, Amalie thought. She was wearing a little bit of lightlycoloured lipstick, and some mascara on her lashes, the same way Sofie and Line always did. Amalie was too young for that, too, she was told. She hoped she would look like her mother when she grew up. Her blonde hair was gathered in a ponytail, making her look even younger.
‘Well, it’s just I’ve noticed your clothes are often very dirty. You never play outside, so I thought… Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
She looked away. ‘I was with Nanna, I told you.’
‘Yes, that’s what you said. But Nanna says something else. What are you up to, Amalie?’ Her mum sounded angry and Amalie realised she had been caught lying. ‘I’ve also noticed you’re taking a lot of showers at the moment—several times a day. You don’t usually do that either,’ her mum continued, then she suddenly smiled.
‘Have you fallen in love? Do you have a boyfriend?’ There was something teasing in her voice that offended Amalie. She felt the tears welling in her throat. He had asked her that, too. Whether she had done that and whether she had a boyfriend. Her lower lip began to tremble.
‘Why can’t we just move far away? To Grandma, where I can have my own horse.’ She was becoming weepy now.
‘What do you mean your own horse? Do you know someone who has a horse?’
Her mum squatted down in front of her and took her face between her hands. She looked deep into her eyes. She saw the tears clearly now.
‘Oh, honey, you’re crying.’ She hugged her, and when Amalie smelled the safe scent of her mum and felt her protective arms, she suddenly didn’t feel quite so grown-up. She started to cry. Without really wanting them to, the words spilled out of her, interspersed with sobbing and sniffing as her mum held her, listening and stroking her hair.
48
Anne couldn’t lie in, despite it being Saturday. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. She had felt as heavy as a boulder when the alarm clock had rung at eight o’clock, and had almost fallen over a moving box when, sleep-drunk, she had tried to find her way to the bathroom. She hadn’t even unpacked in her new apartment before having to move again. It annoyed her this time because she actually liked this apartment, even though it was old, and the kitchen and bathroom were the epitome of seventies perfection. The bathroom had olive green tiles with a floral motif, and matching olive green sanitary ware, of course. The floor was grey-striped terrazzo, and cold; there was no underfloor heating. From the windows in the living room, she had a view of the City Hall tower, the famous landmark of Aarhus, which she didn’t consider particularly beautiful. But the sound from the bells of City Hall and the cars on Frederiks Allé made her feel at home—in Copenhagen.
Now she enjoyed the cold floor and being cooled down after the heatwaves at night. It was balmy in the small bedroom, where the sun baked on the façade until it set on the horizon. When it did actually make an appearance, it was unfortunately often in the evening. She had slept in only a pair of little knickers, yet she had sweated so much that the bedding was damp. It had been difficult to fall asleep after covering the murder of the woman in Gammel Egå. There was something spooky about that house. Something that reminded her of something, she just didn’t know what. Probably a horror film she had once seen in the cinema with Esben. There had also been something very contradictory in the house’s decor. She had noticed a little room with a modern computer on an oak desk. What did a ninety-year-old want a computer for? It seemed so out of place compared to the rest of the house’s old-fashioned decor. Maybe it wasn’t hers. A son or daughter perhaps? Anne took off her knickers and slipped into the shower.
After a quick shower, she put on some clothes and looked at her watch. She was due to be in the other apartment to meet the landlord in two hours. She lit a cigarette and looked around at the mess. Where was she supposed to start? Luckily there wasn’t much to pack, given she had never unpacked. Just the laptop on the table, some clothes lying around, and her toiletries in the bathroom. She had rented the apartment furnished, as she didn’t own a bed, a table, even a single chair. It was old and worn furniture. Not pretty. But she wouldn’t be able to thrive in an ‘Ideal Homes’ house. The new apartment she was moving into was for rent for a year, the quickest she had been able to find. It was furnished, too, and lay outside the city centre. A longer commute to the newspaper.
She found an empty cardboard box and started stuffing it, a cigarette dangling from her lips while she thought about Thygesen’s enthusiasm for her work last night. It was late when she had left the office, but Thygesen had still been at work, and he was completely different when it was only the two of them. He had praised her quick efforts, completely embarrassing her. Praise wasn’t something she was accustomed to. But she had also been the first on the scene. The other journalists had only started to show up when she and Kamilla had left, and the party was almost over. Today, the article Mysterious murder in Gammel Egå would be on the front page together with Kamilla’s photo of the white body bag fastened with straps to the gurney. All thanks to the good source she had made, despite it not being entirely legal. A friend by the name of Nordic, who had come into possession of a system, a kind of scanner, that could access the police radio frequency and intercept conversations between squad cars and the police station. She had even listened to it herself. For her, it had mostly been crackle, but Nordic could distinguish the words. He contacted her whenever something really interesting came up. Like the murder last night.
When everything was loose in the cardboard box, she took the vacuum cleaner and went through the apartment. She had to stop for a moment to tap the ash off the cigarette. As she leaned over the table to reach the ashtray, she saw a private email had arrived in her inbox. Rolling the cigarette against the edge of the ashtray to get rid of the excess ash, she thought about who it might be. Not many people had her private email address.
The carpets were once again in the same condition as she had received them—evenly stained. She made a cup of coffee and sat down at the computer. Her hand shook as she opened the email. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was just an email from a colleague at the newspaper in Copenhagen who wanted to hear how things were going in the provinces. Anne read it, but waited to reply until she had more time. That wasn’t going to be a short one. A lot more went on here in the sticks than they realised in the big smoke.
With the cardboard box containing her essentials, and the laptop under her arm, she went out into the hall. The other moving boxes were stacked up here, waiting to be dragged to the car. There was a small stack of advertisements under the letterbox, but as she gathered them up to throw them in the bin, a letter fell to the floor. Although it had been a long time since she had seen his handwriting, she recognised it immediately, even from a distance. She picked up the letter. Her name and address were written on the front, and as if he knew she wouldn’t open the letter, he had written something on the back of the envelope. There was no sender, only: I know where you live! She gasped with fear. Then she furiously ripped the envelope and its contents in two, then once more in quarters. She tossed the pieces of paper in the bin and ran down the stairs with the first cardboard box.
As she put the last box into the back seat of the car, she glanced up at the window on the fourth floor. She smiled. Never again, she thought. Never again would he find her. She was moving again, and this time no one would know where.
49
Dennis woke up at a friend’s. His mouth was as dry as sandpaper and tasted like sewage. His breath had to stink, too. He held a cupped hand up in front of his mouth and breathed into it to smell, grimacing at the result. Gently, he opened his eyes to narrow cracks, but immediately closed them again when the sunlight penetrating the thin curtains dazzled him. He turned to the other side and heard the sound of an empty beer bottle rolling across the wooden floor.
Torben had made up an old mattress on the floor for him—one he used for overnight guests. Torben’s arm with the snake tattoo on the bicep hung limply down from the bed next to him. His fingers were yellow with nicotine. Dennis envied his buddy. They had met in primary school. Neither had amounted to much since then, but, at the least, Torben had got his own apartment and worked in a warehouse at one of the supermarket chains in the city.
Dennis’ eyes slowly got used to the sunlight. The apartment wasn’t very big and, quite frankly, it was shit. Yellow water stains had penetrated the ceiling tiles and spread over most the ceiling. A bucket stood under the worst stain. The wet summer was doing its part to make the stains grow bigger. But better this than living at home with his parents, Dennis thought. He spotted his jeans tossed on the floor next to the mattress and fished a packet of cigarettes out the pocket. Freedom, that was what having your own place meant. Freedom to do as he pleased. He lit the cigarette and smiled as he laid his head back on the pillow and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. His parents were probably beside themselves now, given he hadn’t come home last night. Or they didn’t give a shit. The cigarette smoke reached Torben in bed; he began to move.
‘What the hell! Are you lying here smoking!? Put that bloody thing out!’ Torben sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. They were red and narrow, with yellowish sleep in the corners. He looked around and found the ashtray on the windowsill, reached for it and threw it on Dennis’ mattress. It nearly hit him in the head.
‘Put the fucking thing out!’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! Why the fuck can’t I smoke here?’ Dennis twisted around and threw the cigarette into the ashtray.
‘Look at this dump. It’s a fucking fire hazard.’
‘Not with the fucking wet ceiling,’ laughed Dennis.
Torben pulled on his worn jeans and went out to the cramped toilet, his upper body bare, while he messed up his bristly blonde hair. His urine splashed loudly in the toilet bowl. ‘For fuck’s sake, what do I look like! What the hell were we doing last night!?’ he roared as he caught sight of himself in the dirty mirror over the sink with its dripping tap and rust stains.
From the mattress, Dennis sniggered. ‘I can’t remember, but it was fun. God, is it almost one o’clock?’ He struggled to sit up and put on his watch. His head felt like it was expanding from within. ‘You don’t have any aspirin, do you?’
He took the aspirin with a sparse breakfast consisting of a slice of toast with butter and a cup of tea.
‘Do you not have any sliced ham or anything, man?’
‘You’re not at your mum’s house now. If you want ham, the butcher’s just around the corner,’ his friend retorted.
Dennis only sought him out when things were crazy at home. Really, the chair in front of the computer in his room was the only place he liked to be. If only the old fogies weren’t there, too. His mother was driving him around the twist with her rebukes and her coldness. But hitting him with a wet tea towel was the last straw. The limit.
‘I have to be at work by two; should you not be getting home to Mother now?’ said Torben viciously, throwing the cups in the kitchen sink.
That’s how they were, his drinking buddies. When there were no more beers or hash on the table and the party was over, they weren’t friends. If only they knew what he had done. His member throbbed, hardening so it hurt at the thought. Then they might look up to him a little and show a little respect. Still, he didn’t dare brag about it. Not even to them.
He got off the bus on the main road and slunk home with an empty feeling in his gut and a full feeling in his head. He hated the little shithole of a city where everyone knew each other. Every now and then, he saw faces behind the curtains in the houses along the main road. ‘Look, there’s Hansen’s lad. He was probably out drinking himself into a stupor again. Did he steal something this time?’ he imagined them whispering to each other. He wished he lived in a big city, where no one cared about each other and he could do whatever he wanted.
The three steps up to the front door were the worst. The hall stank of something fried that made him heave, thanks to his hangover. Then her voice cut through the smell and intensified the nausea: ‘Dennis! Is that you, dear?’
50
Of course the sun wasn’t shining now it was Saturday and he had time off to enjoy it. But it wasn’t raining either. It was rather balmy, so he had lured Irene into having a late breakfast on the garden table under the copper beech. The towels were ready on one of the garden chairs. He was going down to Ballehage sea baths later to take a dip. He let go of his thoughts so easily when he was floating around in the water.
He was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a small black Kappa logo on the chest. It had been a late night, after the murder in Egå, so he didn’t feel quite on top. A long day. He hadn’t made it in time for Irene’s dinner either and had completely forgotten to call her. Still, she smiled warmly as she set a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of him and sat down in the chair opposite. He was watching Marianna, who was wearing a warm jumper and playing with her doll’s pram. They looked like little dolls themselves at the age of five. The thought made his hairs stand on end. Doll child. God forbid Marianna ever calling herself that.
‘What is it, Rolando?’ asked Irene. She had never changed his name to Roland. She had married an Italian—and so it should be. ‘Are you thinking about the murder of the girl?’
He didn’t need to answer; she could usually tell what he was thinking. Twenty-eight years of marriage accounted for a lot, but Irene’s ability to understand other people’s problems was probably also a contributing factor.
He nodded. They had talked about it late into the night—how the case was affecting him, and how he was desperate to find the perp. More than ever. His gaze fell on the newspaper. The image the photographer had taken really captured the sober tone. The mood he had felt in the house last night. The mood of death. The flash had lit up the white body bag, so it was in full focus. The trees behind the gurney were almost black in the dark, yet with the depth that let you know someone could be hiding in the shadows. Had the murderer been watching? That was the feeling he’d had since. He peered several times into the dense trees and sensed there was someone in there watching him. He didn’t link the murder of Olga Halgren to the murder of Gitte Mikkelsen, so he had passed the case on to his colleague, Inspector Morten Holsted. He had enough to do with a child’s murder and a kidnapping. There was still no trace of Louise. They were completely high and dry.
‘Marianna’s much better. Cold isn’t as bad anymore,’ said Irene, placing a thin slice of cheese on half a bread roll without butter. The words tore Roland back to everyday life.
‘That’s good. She looks better, too.’ He waved back to the little girl who had spotted her grandad and was waving at him with both hands. She continued to dress her doll. ‘Is Rikke going to collect her today?’ he asked.
‘She’s coming late afternoon. You’re staying home, aren’t you?’ Irene replied hopefully, her mouth full of bread. The wind blew her hair down over her dark brown eyes. She pushed it behind her ear with an elegant motion that ended up sliding down her neck. He always had loved her elegance. All her movements reminded him of caresses. Italians usually had a reputation for preferring blondes, but that wasn’t true at all. It was Irene’s dark, exotic appearance he had fallen for.
‘Yes, I have the day off. It’s Saturday,’ he smiled. ‘My only plan is to look into Brabrand cemetery a little this afternoon. Gitte Mikkelsen’s being buried today. But I’ll hurry back.’ But just as the words were out, the mobile phone he had placed on the garden table rang. He took it and listened.
‘It’s the station,’ he whispered to Irene, who looked at him questioningly. She sighed. The conversation was short. Roland nodded a few times and ended up promising to go in. He looked at her apologetically and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead when he got up. She was obviously disappointed, but she didn’t say anything.
‘I have to, Irene,’ he said with regret in his voice. ‘A mother called. Her daughter’s been sexually abused by a man she met on the internet. She can give a detailed description of him. I’m sure we have him now!’
51
Kamilla opened the door to the young man shyly ringing the doorbell. Thygesen had immediately sent his nephew, a computer genius, over when he had heard her computer had crashed after the electricity had gone down.
It wasn’t hard to see he was Ivan Thygesen’s nephew. They had the same plump facial features, and eyes that almost disappeared in their high cheeks. But the eyes looking through the lenses of the Björn Borg thick black-framed glasses were attentive. The rest of his body bore evidence to his sedentary occupation and meals of a Coca-Cola and a burger between crisps and coffee. His complexion lacked fresh air and sun, and he smelled of garlic salami when he spoke.
‘Asbjørn,’ he offered summarily, holding out his hand. It was like clutching a lump of dough.
‘Kamilla,’ she replied just as briefly, directing him into the study.
‘That’s the one.’ She pointed to the computer as though it were guilty of a crime.
‘Aah, a Mac,’ he exclaimed with awe in his voice. ‘I know more about PCs, but…’
He sat down in Kamilla’s office chair, which at once seemed like a highchair. His buttocks spread out over the seat, which looked far too small.
