“Mental health problems,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “It started when she reached puberty. She lived with us for many years, but eventually the burden grew too heavy. So she moved into a residential home.”
“Was Johannes gay?” Søren asked suddenly.
“His sister said he wasn’t,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “I obviously suspected he might be. I mean, leather skirts and makeup? I’ve never met any of his boyfriends, but what do I know about gay men? I don’t approve of them and yes, for a time I believed he was gay. My daughter said he was merely a member of some club where men wore skirts and corsets. That he definitely wasn’t gay. She knew that because she had met his girlfriend. An older woman.”
“I’ll need to speak to your daughter,” Søren said.
“No,” Mrs. Kampe replied.
Søren regretted his strategy.
“I’ll need to speak to someone who knew Johannes,” he said kindly. “A friend, an ex-lover, or his sister.” He gave Mrs. Kampe a pleading look. “Right now, I’ve got nothing to go on.”
Janna Kampe looked at him for a long time. Then she took the scrapbook and flicked to the third page. Søren had noticed the picture, but paid no attention to it. The photo showed a curvaceous woman around forty, with thick curly hair held in place by a spotted bandana. Her smile sparkled. Søren skimmed the text. The article was about a vintage furniture store in Nordre Frihavnsgade. The owner’s name was Susanne Winther; she was a trained psychotherapist and now a passionate furniture collector. She loved spending her weekends tracking down hidden treasures at flea markets in and around Copenhagen, with her boyfriend Johannes. His name was highlighted, and the article was published two years ago.
“My daughter gave me this. She said the woman was Johannes’s girlfriend. She told me to tell Dad, to tell Jørgen. So Jørgen wouldn’t think Johannes was… a shirt-lifter.”
Søren wrote Susanne Winther’s name and the date of the article in his notepad. Johannes had had a girlfriend. Calling it a breakthrough might be an exaggeration, he thought wryly. But it was a start.
“It’s helpful,” Søren said. “But before I speak to her, I really want to talk to Johannes’s sister. I presume her surname’s also Trøjborg? Where does she live?”
“In heaven,” Janna Kampe said quietly. “She took her own life last summer. She suffered from schizophrenia and was frequently hospitalized. In the end, she gave up.”
Søren sat, shaken, in front of a woman who had lost both her children. He had run out of questions and got up to leave. Mrs. Kampe escorted him through the fine, cold house, and he promised to call her with any news.
When he drove back to the city, he could smell his own sweat.
Under normal circumstances, he would have dropped by Bellahøj police station and picked up Henrik, but suddenly he found himself at the junction with Jagtvejen, a long way from the police station, very close to Nordre Frihavn, and still angry with Henrik. He parked on Strandboulevarden and walked up Nordre Frihavnsgade where he soon found Susanne Winther’s store, which was called The Apple. When he entered, the first thing that caught his eye was a dozen apple-shaped bowls arranged on a teak table, which could easily have come from his childhood home in Snerlevej. Faint music could be heard and there was an aroma of apples and cinnamon.
“Be with you in a minute,” a voice called out from the back room.
Søren sat down in a high-backed armchair, which someone had updated by decorating its worn armrests with red appliqué apples. He thought about Vibe. About her open face, eyes that had trusted him since that high-school disco. He thought about Maja. The memory of the last time he saw her hadn’t faded. Her singular smell, sweet and enticing, and her foot, tiny inside her booties, even smaller in his hand. The lie weighed him down. Knud had urged him to live his life right, free from lies, free from secrets. He had said lies never expired, but Søren had been arrogant and believed his lie would dissolve and evaporate. And when that had happened, his life would once more consist of manageable fluctuations within a normal range. No more hurt. No more pain. Like all the years with Vibe. A nice, quiet life, free from drama, free from loss. Now he had ended up with the exact opposite. He was attracted to Anna. It was unprofessional and risky. Anna had upset his careful balancing act. What was it all about? Her yellow eyes, her volatility, her devil-may-care attitude. He didn’t even dare to think how scared he would be, all the time, if she were his. All that drama, every day, upending every stone, stirring everything up, turning everything inside out.
There were apples everywhere in Susanne Winther’s store. A mirror with a plastic apple frame hung on the wall, and on the floor lay a crocheted rug with a picture of a large red apple.
“Hi.”
Søren instantly recognized Susanne Winther from the picture. She was obese and very beautiful. White flawless skin, freckles down the bridge of her nose, and an impressive head of cascading curls, kept away from her face with a headband. She was wearing an apron with a large red apple and green trimming, and she offered Søren a plate.
“I’ve been baking,” she said cheerfully. “And made a fresh pot of tea. You looking for anything in particular?”
Søren suddenly realized how hungry he was and took a slice of cake.
“Someone’s got an apple obsession,” he remarked.
Susanne Winther laughed.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were looking for a dining table? I happen to have one in the back. Do you want to have a look? You did want a solid wood one, didn’t you? That was you?”
Søren stood up abruptly.
“I’m with the police,” he said, feeling guilty as he wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Susanne Winther chuckled and winked at him. Then she froze.
“Please tell me you’re joking?” she said. For the second time that day, he pulled out his badge. Susanne Winther buried her face in her hands.
“Is Magnus all right?”
Somewhere, at the back of Søren’s mind, an alarm went off.
“I’m here because Johannes Trøjborg’s dead, and I have reason to believe you knew him.” Søren waited for her reaction. She seemed relieved.
“Sorry,” she said and slumped down on a sofa. “But that’s dreadful. What happened? Christ Almighty. I’ve a little boy. Magnus. He’s seven months old, and he’s at home with his daddy. For a moment, I thought something terrible had happened to them. That they had been killed.” She gave Søren a dazed look. “So Johannes is dead? How? Did he have a crash? Why are you here?”
“Were you Johannes Trøjborg’s girlfriend two or three years ago?” Søren asked.
“Yes, we were together. For a year. But we haven’t seen each other for a long time.” Again she buried her face in her hands. “But, Jesus Christ, I spoke to him recently,” she said, “less than two weeks ago. We were really good friends, or whatever you call it when you don’t see each other very often. He wanted to see Magnus. He promised to call soon and arrange a time when he was less busy. That’s why I didn’t worry when I hadn’t heard from him. So he’s dead?” She stared at Søren.
“Did he have a crash?” she asked again.
Søren shook his head.
Susanne Winther closed the store and called her husband. Søren could hear her speak in a low voice in the back room. It sounded as if she were crying. Søren helped her carry two chests on the pavement back inside the store. Together, they walked to his car and Søren opened the door for her. The sun was shining, and he put on his sunglasses. He slid his cell into its holder and inserted his earpiece. Two messages. The first one was unimportant, and the other was from Henrik, wondering where the hell he was. There was still no sign of Dr. Tybjerg, and Henrik wanted to know if they should issue a wanted by police notice or what? They needed a breakthrough, no matter how small. Søren hated it when Henrik lectured him and was about to get annoyed when he spotted a newspaper headline outside a newsagent.