Username, page 30
He looked around for a doorbell. There wasn’t one. The woman who opened the door, after he had knocked a few times, looked confused at seeing such a finely dressed gentleman standing on her steps. She automatically pulled down the stained top of her tracksuit and shyly straightened her hair. It was shoulder-length, unkempt, and greying from the scalp and several inches down, where an unnatural red colour took over, making it look like the hair started there, because the grey hair blended into the white scalp. She needs to be renovated, too, he thought ironically.
‘We don’t buy from door-to-door salesmen,’ she said.
He showed her his police badge. ‘Morten Holsted, Criminal Investigation Department,’ he stated with authority. ‘Are you Vivi Hansen?’
She nodded and let him into a hallway where mud and water had been dragged in on the brown tiles. A row of dirty wellies lay on top of each other under a row of hooks with heavy jackets and rainwear, but there was a nice aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘Is it Dennis? What’s he done now?’ she said nervously, showing him into the living room, which, to his surprise, was neat and tidy with reasonably modern furniture.
‘No, it’s not Dennis. It’s about your grandmother, Olga Halgren.’
Vivi Hansen’s face didn’t reveal anything. ‘Gran? I haven’t seen her in years. Is she still alive?’
‘So you haven’t seen her recently?’ asked Morten, standing in the doorway to the living room as he hadn’t been invited to sit down. In the silence before she answered, he heard the clatter of a keyboard from a room behind a closed door.
‘No. So much happened in our family that we don’t see each other anymore,’ she looked away, peeling a withered leaf off a red geranium on the windowsill.
‘What happened in your family?’
‘What happens in most families, I suppose,’ she evaded the question.
‘Does it have anything to do with your father taking his own life?’ asked Morten directly.
A flinch passed over her face. She looked up at him, scowling, as if to assess how much he knew. ‘Gran never forgave us,’ she said tamely.
Morten caught a glimpse of something that might be a guilty conscience in her eyes.
‘May I sit down?’ he asked, pointing to the nearest chair.
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ replied Vivi Hansen, as if waking up from a trance. She stood by the window, looking out at the rolling cornfields of the neighbouring farm.
‘Who did she never forgive? You and your brother?’
‘Mostly me. She never cared about me,’ she said absently. ‘But what about Gran?’ She looked at him with eyes that still showed no interest.
‘Olga’s dead,’ he replied tentatively. ‘She was murdered,’ he continued, still not seeing any reaction.
Vivi Hansen sat down. Morten thought it was lucky there was a chair behind her.
‘Murdered,’ she repeated in horror, but she didn’t ask who, how, when or why. She stared down at the carpet and fell into a sort of trance again.
Morten knew she’d had mental health issues and had been hospitalised often. Maybe it ran in the family and was the reason for the father’s suicide—that kind of gene could be hereditary.
‘Olga mentioned a grandchild who visited her and used her computer. It’s not you?’
A crooked smile appeared on her grey face. ‘I don’t understand computers at all. But she was married before her wedding to Grandad. It could be a grandchild from her first marriage,’ she suggested.
Morten shook his head and felt the hollowness in his stomach as it rumbled with hunger. He squinted at the freshly baked bread, which was cooling on a rack in the kitchen. He could see it from where he was sitting. The aroma was making his hunger worse.
‘We’ve spoken to all of them. It’s not any of them. What about your brother?’ He focused his attention on the thin woman in front of him.
‘My brother? I haven’t seen or talked to him in over twelve years. We keep to ourselves out here,’ she laughed nervously.
‘And it couldn’t be your son who Olga called her grandchild?’ he asked, suddenly thinking of it.
‘Dennis? He doesn’t move out that room.’ She nodded towards the closed door and rolled the withered geranium leaf into a tiny dry ball.
‘But you can ask him yourself—Dennis!’ She shouted the name out so loud that it grated on his ears. It took a while before the door opened, and a young man in his twenties stood in the opening with an annoyed, questioning look on his face. He swept a greasy tuft of hair away from his pimpled forehead with a limp hand and looked at Morten with eyes that revealed an alcohol and hashish addiction. Morten knew the signs. Dennis didn’t ask who he was. He only looked condescendingly at the nice trousers with the crease and the gold chain around Morten’s wrist. A stark contrast to his own washed-out tracksuit.
‘What?’ he said, looking at his mother with the same disgust in his eyes.
‘It’s the police. Your great-grandmother’s dead. Did you ever visit her?’
‘Who?’ he said, and it seemed genuine enough.
‘There—you see,’ said Vivi Hansen with a telling look at Morten. ‘We don’t have anything to do with that side of the family.’
Morten got up and noticed a modern computer with a large flat screen on a desk behind Dennis. Why would he travel all the way from Mols to Egå when he had a much more modern computer at home, he thought. And Vivi Hansen certainly didn’t look like someone with that kind of ability. He apologised for the inconvenience and politely took his leave.
When he was sitting in his car, he took out the notebook and drew a bold line over Vivi Hansen’s name. He sighed and felt hungry again. He hadn’t even been offered so much as a glass of water.
He had just started the engine when an old woman on a black far-too-big women’s bike turned into the yard with a tray of eggs in the basket. The bike swerved when she spotted the car and had to brake, so she almost fell off. Morten jumped out to help her and just managed to grab the handlebars before it all went wrong.
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you. I have eggs for the Hansens,’ she said breathlessly. Her face was wrinkled and her teeth, no doubt her own, were yellowy. Periodontitis could be clearly seen when she smiled. But her eyes were full of life and curiosity. The Woman with The Eggs—the village gossip, Morten thought immediately with a little smile at the opportunity.
‘Those eggs look lovely,’ he said engaging in conversation. ‘Are they from your own chickens?’
The woman nodded proudly. ‘I have good chickens. Thank God there was no bird flu again this year. My chickens are all free-range. It produces the best eggs with orange yolks. Who are you?’ She blinked, her eyes running in the strong sunlight as she looked him up and down with an appraising eye. She clearly wasn’t used to seeing his type in Vivi Hansen’s driveway.
‘Morten Holsted. Criminal Investigation Department.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Has Dennis done something wrong again? He’s a bad apple!’ The latter she whispered confidentially with a glance towards the house. But Vivi hadn’t opened the door, nor could she be seen in the window.
‘No, it wasn’t Dennis this time. I came to let Vivi know her grandmother’s dead,’ Morten replied honestly, hoping to find out more.
‘Her grandmother. Oh, that poor thing. She must have had a sad life. Losing your son like that.’ She shook her old head, which, just like in The Woman with The Eggs, was wrapped with a patterned scarf to protect her from the sun.
‘How did she lose him?’ asked Morten, playing ignorant.
Again, the woman leaned in confidingly towards him, holding the bike by the handlebars and squinting towards the house to keep an eye on whether Vivi would show up.
‘It’s said he took his own life. It was the boy who got him convicted.’
‘What boy? For what?’
She looked up at him with eyes shining triumphantly at being the one in the know.
‘Vivi’s brother. He had his father convicted of incest. Said he’d abused Vivi, his own daughter—just think. Later it turned out he hadn’t, but by then, it was too late. Not so strange Dennis has turned out the way he has.’ She shook her head slightly and sent Morten a wise look.
‘Do you have eggs for me, Mrs Møller?’ Vivi’s sudden voice sounded abruptly from the steps. It startled the woman so much she nearly dropped her eggs again.
76
It had been a busy morning at the police station. He had retired to his office to think and to try to figure out the big picture. Copenhagen Police Station had been involved in the search for Gitte Mikkelsen’s unknown father. They were in the process of questioning friends and acquaintances of Gunda and Anders Pedersen and investigating the circumstances surrounding the illegal adoption. Roland had sent another officer to Vejle to talk to Nanette’s sister. He hoped it would pay off because he couldn’t let go of the feeling Gitte Mikkelsen’s father had played a major role in all this. That feeling had only intensified.
He called Aarhus Hospital and asked about Anne. Again, he had to explain he wasn’t a relative and elaborate on who he was before he was told she was fine. He sent her his best wishes. Her stepfather still hadn’t been found. He could have returned to Copenhagen. The Copenhagen police were working on that case now, too. Torsten Lund had been released on probation only, so the episode could put him behind bars for another few years, in addition to the years he still had to serve for the murder back in 1991. Roland had ordered security on Anne’s door at the hospital in case Lund should seek her out there. He realised it was lunchtime and went up to the canteen to get himself a smørrebrød.
He wasn’t quite done with his open-faced salami sandwich and Ramlösa water when a call came for him. There was news from the capital—it was important and he needed to hurry. On the way down to the lift, he wondered in which case there had been a development. Although he hoped it was about Gitte’s biological father, he had to admit the arrest of Anne Larsen’s stepfather would make him calmer.
A quarter of an hour later, he was sitting with Mikkel Jensen in the car in the police station car park. An aunt in Copenhagen, who had been Nanette’s support during the long and difficult pregnancy, knew the name of the man who had defiled her niece. She had called him a devil and made the sign of the cross when she referred to him.
‘We should have taken him in,’ Roland muttered bitterly as he made a quick turn from the car park out onto Sønder Allé. Mikkel clung to his seat belt.
‘He probably won’t show up for the blood test,’ he commented, sliding in the seat due to the sharp turn. ‘But the fact he’s Gitte Mikkelsen’s father doesn’t automatically make him her killer. Quite the opposite, I’d say!’
Roland didn’t look at him. ‘I have a strong hunch. He doesn’t have an alibi, and why didn’t he mention he’s Gitte’s father?’ he replied angrily.
‘Maybe he doesn’t know.’
Mikkel’s words made Roland’s strong hunch falter. Maybe he was right. Maybe Troels Mortensen didn’t know he was the father of the murdered girl at all.
A call came through on his phone.
‘Roland?’ It was DS Niels Nyborg’s voice. ‘I investigated this Troels Mortensen in more detail. He’s not all he seems.’
‘Go ahead, Niels.’ Roland concentrated on both the traffic and the conversation.
‘Do you remember the case from Næstved back in 1976, where two siblings accused their father of incest?’ began Niels.
‘Hmm, that was a long time ago,’ Roland grumbled, glancing at the rear-view mirror and overtaking a blue bus, after which they ended up behind a tractor, causing him to swear quietly and light a cigarette.
‘The two siblings were alone with the father after the parents’ divorce. He was convicted in the incest case. It was too much for the law-abiding office manager. He took his life by throwing himself in front of a train at Næstved station,’ offered Niels. ‘The mother didn’t want anything to do with the children because of the new man in her life.’ He paused. Roland could hear him drinking from his coffee cup before continuing: ‘After her father’s suicide, the girl was placed with a foster family, while the boy went to live with his grandmother. Why the grandmother couldn’t take both of them isn’t clear in the report,’ he continued. ‘When the sister was sixteen, she revealed there had never been any incest. Their father was a good and exemplary man who had tried to do everything for them, but the brother hated his father and blamed him for his parents’ divorce. The sister’s been admitted to psychiatric wards several times. The brother joined the military and was later stationed in Iraq. Guess who the brother and sister are?’ But Niels answered his own question without waiting for a reply: ‘Troels Mortensen and his sister.’ There was silence again while Niels waited for Roland’s reaction.
‘Great job, lad, but that doesn’t make him a killer,’ Roland finally said in a tired voice.
‘No, but he’s not mentally balanced. Then there’s his time as a soldier in Iraq,’ continued Niels. ‘He became friends with an American soldier who was killed by a roadside bomb. It made him unleash his military weapon on Iraqi civilians.’
‘We never heard of that in the press.’ Roland stopped the car in front of Egå Angling Association.
‘Do you think we hear everything? No one was seriously injured, and Troels was immediately discharged from the army. It says PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—in his file.’
Roland played with his car keys as he watched Mikkel run up to the shop door and shake it. He turned to Roland on the steps and shrugged with both arms resignedly, his expression saying they had driven in vain.
‘Well, the family’s past isn’t exactly as white as snow. Let’s take a closer look at Troels. We just need to find him first. Do you have his home address?’
Roland got the address and turned off the phone.
Mikkel climbed into the passenger seat.
‘The shop’s closed. The bird’s flown the coop. What was that?’ He pointed to the phone.
Roland quickly filled him in on what Niels had told him, then he made a U-turn and drove back.
Roland turned off on Grenåvej and parked in the yard in front of a nice detached house with a new tile roof. Remortgaged, he thought involuntarily.
There didn’t seem to be anyone at home, but as he rang the doorbell, he heard footsteps from high heels on a parquet floor. The door was soon opened by a fair-haired woman with masculine features. Her face looked bare and fresh without make-up. She looked at him curiously with tired grey-green eyes.
‘Is Troels Mortensen at home?’ he asked. Mikkel Jensen came up the steps and stood behind him, they both showed her their IDs.
‘Vera Mortensen. I’m his wife,’ she said, inviting them inside. She was dressed like a businesswoman on her way to a meeting. ‘He’s not home. Maybe he’s down in the fishing hut,’ she said kindly.
‘Fishing hut? Is he at the harbour?’ asked Roland.
‘No, he built a shed for all his fishing gear down in the back garden. I can’t stand the stench of fish and don’t want it in the house. Has something happened?’ She suddenly looked worried.
‘We just want to talk to your husband about a case we’re investigating,’ he replied, giving Mikkel a look that told him to keep his mouth shut and let his boss do the talking.
Roland looked around the living room, while Vera walked out onto the tiled terrace with its beautiful flowerpots and looked out into the large garden, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She was a solicitor, he knew. That probably explained the expensive furniture and the exclusive home decor. Apparently the angling business wasn’t such a goldmine, given the number of customers he had counted during his visit, so she had to be the majority breadwinner. The shiny brown leather sofa with accompanying deep armchairs was a Chesterfield. Though whether original, he couldn’t tell. Nor whether the large abstract paintings on the walls were genuine. An imposing dark oak bookcase matching the sofa arrangement in colour and style took up one entire end wall. It was filled with books, foreign souvenirs and family photos. Roland glanced over at them. Vera had a more feminine face in her wedding photo. Her make-up was elegantly done and she wore a white veil. Troels stood next to her, smiling, a white carnation in his buttonhole.
‘I can’t see him down there,’ she said apologetically, walking over to them silently, the soft carpet absorbing the sound of her high heels. Roland smelled her perfume; a heavy sweet smell that gave him the same headache as his father-in-law’s cigar did.
‘Is it something I can help you with?’ she smiled, telling them in the same breath she was on her way to a meeting at City Hall. She was a city councillor, she explained with pride in her voice.
‘We’ll find him,’ Roland assured her, not seeing any immediate reason to involve Vera yet. She smiled and showed them to the front door through the hall, which had an antique dresser and a mirror set in a gold frame.
‘You can check whether his car’s in the garage. If it is, he’s probably in the hut. Just walk through the gate here and all the way down to the bottom of the garden. I have to go now.’ She shut the door with an apologetic smile.
The modern detached house was built on a large hilly site. Roland noted the garage was empty. A huge lawn spread out as far as the eye could see. A medium-sized garden pond with goldfish, water lilies and other aquatic plants, surrounded by ferns and flowerbeds, had been laid out on a small terrace.
He didn’t make it all the way down to the hut. His phone played the James Bond theme in his pocket. It was Holsted.
‘Morten! Have you found the grandchild?’ said Roland, stopping in the middle of the lawn.
‘No. We’ve driven around the entire country to talk to all Olga Halgren’s grandchildren, but to no avail. I’m just back from Mols after visiting the granddaughter from the second marriage. Pretty interesting stuff. We need to talk as soon as possible.’
‘Interesting how?’ Roland looked at the little shed. It was painted in a greenish colour, blending in with the foliage of the trees that completely enclosed it. It was well hidden, at the very bottom of the garden. It looked empty. Mikkel studied the garden pool with interest.
