Stig Åge Thorsen’s face showed that he was still not following. Mørk had to spell it out: “Violence.”
Chapter 48
The entries in Erik Mørk’s database fell hard over the country and created much unhappiness. Jylland was heavily overrepresented since the client base of the Ditlevsen brothers was a significant source.
Thus, a handful of people were gathered outside a property in Kvaglund in Esbjerg. They all stood with their heads tilted back and were looking antagonistically at a man on the fifth floor who was half sitting, half standing in a window far above them. In one hand he was holding on to the transom that separated the lower panes from the upper, and he was crying. From time to time he looked down in terror. A middle-aged woman whose blue-fox-fur coat indicated that she did not live in the neighborhood shouted, “Jump, you beast. Come on, get on with it, we don’t have all day.”
A younger man chimed in. He sat on a moped, slightly apart from the others. “Yes, come on, dammit. Get it over with, you sissy.”
A kitchen window in the building opened and an agitated woman with dyed red hair and a checkered apron leaned out and looked up. The fur lady explained without prompting, “He’s a child molester. He molested two small children in Nakskov eighteen years ago. It’s outrageous that our children have been living with someone like him in their midst.”
“Our children, you mean. I don’t believe you have any children here.”
The fur lady didn’t reply but a comrade answered in her stead. His Danish was halting. “I have four children outside his door.”
The woman gave the group the finger and slammed her window shut. The shouting continued. Shortly thereafter a patrol car pulled up and two officers got out, a man and a woman. After making their way through the crowd that had now swelled in number, they disappeared into the entrance. On the fifth floor, the door to the apartment was covered with slurs such as “animal dung,”
“child fucker,” and “perverse shit.” Above these was some Arabic writing that most likely did not contain the friendliest sentiments. The male officer enabled their entry with a well-directed kick that broke the door handle and forced the door open. The woman walked in. She stopped a couple of steps from the wouldbe suicide and after a little while her colleague turned up behind her.
The man in the window was clearly desperate. “If you get any closer, I’ll let go.”
The female officer grabbed a nearby chair and calmly sat down. Cries from the street flowed together into a rhythmic, roaring choir. Jump, jump, jump. The cry was picked up all along the block and the echo came rolling with a slight delay, like a distorted bass.
“We’ll stay where we are, we just want to talk with you.”
The man did not react.
“It’s not worth it. Things can change and get better again.”
The officer spoke slowly and persuasively but her words were drowned out by the chanting from the street, so she ordered her colleague to go down and put a stop to the shouting. The man in the window glanced pleadingly at her, as if she could eliminate the evil of the world, but in this he was severely mistaken. As soon as they were alone she abruptly changed her attitude. As a child she had been her father’s little doll, until he drank himself to death. Little one, little doll-the last days had opened the door to a room inside her. She stood up and walked toward him.
“Jump or climb back in. It makes absolutely no difference to me.”
He stared at her in disbelief for one long second before he relaxed his grip. Cries of jubilation from the crowd accompanied his fall.
The shop owner in Arnborg, south of Herning, was not jubilant, in fact he was concerned. Three of his regulars had come into his shop but none of them greeted him. Now each one was standing there silent and very serious, without a shopping basket. One of them was standing by the marmalades and jams, the other by the wine, and the last one by the counter. The silence was broken by the sound of shattering glass as a jar of jam broke against the stone floor of the shop.
“Oops, that was clumsy of me.”
The shop owner reassured him, “That’s all right, Karsten, these things happen.”
“It’s just-oops-it just happened again. And again, and again and look at this.”
A crash punctuated each observation.
“Tell me, what the hell are you doing? Can you please leave my shop?”
The man by the wine section had carefully selected two bottles.
“These two look good, I think I’d like to have them tonight. Oh no, now I’m being clumsy too, what a mess.”
The taciturn customer by the counter leaned forward and laid a hand on the shop owner’s shoulder. The shop owner was large and strong, but the man by the counter was bigger.
“That tall guy from Sørvad works here, doesn’t he?”
“No, not anymore. Is that why you’re breaking my wares? I fired him this morning. I had no idea that he was… well, you know.”
This piece of information brought a smile to all three gentlemen and one of them took out his wallet.
“Now that paints an entirely different picture. We heard that you intended to keep him on in spite of his behavior. I think we had five jars of marmalade, two bottles of red wine, and I’m going to have twenty King’s. Plus we should have a round of cold ones in the next room.
The shop owner allowed himself to be placated when he saw the money and heard about the beer.
“Yes, why not.”
He called out to the back room, “Magda, can you make yourself useful with a floor mop and a bucket of water?”
Then he turned to the men.
“Dammit, you could have asked me first, you know me.”
They nodded somewhat sheepishly as what he said was right-they did know him.
Chapter 49
The lady in red is definitely an interesting factor in Per Clausen’s life. The difference in age and social status alone shows that there was something special about their relationship. The problem is, of course, that we don’t have any reasonable idea about where to look for her. The make of car, her red clothes, and two meetings in a certain location-and all this from over two years ago-is simply two thin a basis to work on.”
Simonsen grunted impatiently but this did not affect Poul Troulsen. A good presentation took time.
“According to Kasper Planck, the kiosk owner, Farshad Bakhtîshû, and his sons now recall that that the woman in red had a slight limp.”
“So what if she did?”
“It could be nothing, but there’s something else, and this time it has to do with the piece of paper with the woman’s name and address. One of the sons thought of a detail that struck him as unusual. The address that the woman wrote down was a street, so it ended in vej. That’s of course too common to be helpful in itself but the unusual thing is the dot over the j, which was shaped like a heart.”
“Which means?”
“Well, I grew up in Jægersborg and I know that in Gentofte County there is a distinctive detail in the street signs. If the street sign ends in vej then the dot over the j is printed as a little red heart. Other js or is for that matter are printed with a regular dot. This information is public but in practice it is only people from Gentofte who recognize the heart. Some find it so cute and appealing that they reproduce it in writing their addresses. My mother, for example, always wrote hearts over her j when sending a postcard. To this you can add the fact that the woman in red is most likely wealthy, which fits very well with the profile of that county.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that it seems reasonable to assume that our mysterious woman is from Gentofte. Go on.”
“Per Clausen had two connections to Gentofte in his life. In part through his own childhood and in part through his daughter’s schooling. The woman’s age indicates that the connection between the two of them originated through his daughter.”