Roland Triel Crime Story #1: Running Servant E-Book

Dennis Jürgensen

• Herausgeber: Tellerup
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Roland Triel Crime Story
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 621

Beschreibung

Danish designer Frans Jessen's sculptural design, the Running Servant, has grown from a single clay prototype into an international billion-dollar business. But success comes at a price—everyone wants a piece of it. Following an extensive copyright suit launched by two of his oldest friends, one of them is found dead—brutally deformed to emulate the Running Servant's shape. And his is only the first of the bodies to pile up. Seasoned investigator Roland Triel of the Copenhagen Police Department leads his team in the hunt for this methodical killer. Triel is secretly still reeling from a personal tragedy—his wife was found murdered in their home and his daughter, the only witness, was rendered mute after being raped and beaten within an inch of death. Four years later the case remains unsolved and Triel seems to be the only one determined to find the perpetrator who haunts his every thought. As the Running Servant case unravels, his wife's killer unexpectedly makes contact from tauntingly close, pulling him into a dark psychological game with a criminal he will do anything to catch. Join Triel and his team as they pursue the Running Servant murderer around the spellbinding city of Copenhagen in this captivatingly macabre psychological thriller.

Leseprobe

Running Servant

a Roland Triel crime story #1

by

Dennis Jürgensen

Translated into English by

Maria Olejaz

Intro

The last person to see Dorte Triel alive was her killer.

The only person to see Dorte Triel’s killer was her daughter, Andrea.

Prologue

The sky was gloomy when the referee blew the final whistle. As the girls left the field, sweaty and grimy after the match, a peal of thunder rumbled nearby. Andrea looked up into the grayish black emptiness which loomed over the town, mirroring her mood. Markus had not responded to her text message and if she had not missed the penalty kick two minutes before the end of the match, they would have won 4–3.

In the clubhouse a big mirror hung between the doors leading to the locker rooms. Andrea looked at herself. Although she didn’t think she was anything special, others claimed that she had inherited her mother’s attractive looks. Even dirt from the muddy patch in front of the soccer goal couldn’t hide this. She pulled her bangs aside and examined an abrasion on her forehead. The opponent hadn’t done it on purpose. When it happened, the referee had been close by, she was laying down, and it had given rise to the penalty kick. However, when she booted the ball past the outside of the goal post, her wound stung twice as hard.

A hand touched her shoulder. The coach, Claus, was standing behind her, a worried expression on his face.

„Does it hurt?”

Andrea moved away.

„It’s nothing.”

In the locker room the showers were already whizzing. The steam crawling up her nostrils smelled of sweat, dampness, and smelly feet.

Andrea checked her phone. No texts. She undressed and hit the showers.

When she came outside to her bike, most of her teammates had left.

„See you tomorrow, Dresen!”

She waved at Julie who was heading in the opposite direction with Sara.

„Andrea.”

She looked around. Claus was standing in the parking lot, waving at her.

„Do you need a ride?”

She was puzzled. Maybe that was why he was a mediocre coach. He needed glasses. She shook her head and pointed to her bike. He nodded and got in the car. Another clap of thunder attacked the town. Andrea wasn’t the religious type, but it sure sounded like God was mad at someone.

She biked toward the storm, battling the hard gusts of wind. Hopefully, she would get home before the rain started falling. On the main street the cars slithered slowly like snails from traffic light to traffic light in the gray afternoon, but suddenly the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra began playing cheerfully in her jacket pocket. Andrea braked and rested her foot on the curb, sure that it wouldn’t be Markus calling. If she had inherited her mother’s good looks, she had also inherited her father’s innate pessimism. She took out the iPhone.

„Hi, mom.”

„Hi, honey. How far are you?”

„At the mall. I’m on my way.”

„Do you mind picking up a pack of coffee, rye bread, and some milk?”

„A quart?”

„Yeah, that should do.”

For a few seconds, a series of flashes lit up the walls around her, making them look like they were on fire. The illusion was followed by a roar of thunder which drowned out the voice on the phone.

„What did you say?”

„Be careful with the lightning. You shouldn’t stand under a tree in a thunderstorm.”

„I’m thirteen years old, mom, not five, and there are no trees in the supermarket.”

As she turned onto Mintfield, the street where she lived, the street lights turned on. Dusk was lurking in the gardens she passed by. The asphalt was still dry, and it seemed like the storm had moved on, although the air felt electric. In number 19, the lights were on in the kitchen, but she couldn’t see her mother through the window. She put her bike in the shed and heard a whistling from her pocket. She took out her phone. It was a text from Markus. Her pulse quickened as she read it.

„Hi Andrea, do you want to come to the movies with me on Saturday at 2? I won two tickets for the new fantasy movie. :-) Markus”

She ran down the stairs to the basement door and let herself in. A few weeks before, she had gotten a room in the basement, so now she had her own entrance. It meant that she could now sneak her friends in and out of the house but still go upstairs and eat for free. It sort of felt like moving out.

She put her soccer uniform in the laundry basket in the utility room, hurried into her room and waited five minutes before responding to Markus, even though waiting was hard. Boys didn’t like it if you responded too eagerly. Sara said that it could come across as cheap or desperate.

She had spent about fifteen minutes with her homework in front of her and music in her ears when she remembered the groceries. The milk and the other items were still sitting in her sports bag. She had forgotten all about them after the invitation from Markus, so she retrieved the groceries from the utility room and went upstairs. The door to the ground floor was closed and her hands were full, so she had to push down the door knob with her elbow. Somewhere in the house her mother’s phone was ringing. Thick fumes coming from the kitchen had covered the rooms in a haze, Elton John sang Someone Saved My Life Tonight. Andrea found the stove abandoned and the frying pan sputtering with meatballs that looked more like charcoal than food. Cracked potatoes were bubbling desperately in an almost empty pot. Puzzled, she turned off the stove and the radio.

She called out.

„Mom?”

A monotonous creaking, which reminded her of warm summer days in the hammock, sounded from the entrance hall. Andrea walked out there.

„M . . . om?”

Her vision narrowed, as if she was looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. A body was hanging over the stairs leading to the first floor, swinging from a blue nylon rope lashed to the banister at the top. The head was bent downwards at an alarming angle, and the face was covered by smooth, light-colored hair, which enveloped the cheeks like a prayer veil. Andrea saw scattered drops of blood fall from the half-opened mouth onto the gray stair carpet that her father had laid this very spring as a safety measure. The arms were hanging limply, with hands bent awkwardly backwards, fingers weirdly flexed as if after a death struggle. One of the peach colored slippers that Andrea had gifted her mother for Christmas was lying by the bottom step. The other was still attached to the foot of the corpse. A small chest of drawers was turned halfway out from the wall with a vase toppled over and one of the pictures hanging askew.

She heard the distant voice of her father, coming from her childhood. If something very serious was to happen while she was alone, she should call 112, state her name and location. And suddenly she actually thought she could hear her own phone ringing distantly from the basement. On the other hand, if something inconceivable was to happen she should run as fast as she could and seek help. This situation clearly belonged to the latter category, but she found herself no more capable of moving than her mother hanging by the rope.

The floor groaned as the door to the living room opened. Someone grabbed her from behind, pulling her backward. Andrea struggled, tried to kick and fight, but her attacker dodged her and then locked her arms in place, restraining her. She was forced into the dark living room and tossed on the floor. The door to the hall slammed shut.

Chapter 1

„Well, you seem excited this morning, Cheetah!”

Frans came down the stairs into the hall, ready for his morning jog through the woods. Normally the dog would wait for him with the calm of a Nubian jackal, but today she trotted impatiently back and forth in front of the door.

„If I didn’t know any better, I would think you had a date with a cheeky Rottweiler.”

The three-year-old Doberman barked as she leaped towards him and placed her front paws on his shoulders. Frans couldn’t help laughing. He kissed her forehead, which really wasn’t advisable unless you knew her well. Cheetah was well-trained and disciplined, but she wasn’t a dog to be joked around with.

As soon as he opened the front door, the dog slipped out and ran into the courtyard. Here she nosed about while Frans stood at the top of the staircase, taking deep breaths of air. The treetops swayed in the wind and the leaves whispered in the woods. His woods, he might add. A single car passed by on the road out front, but other than that it was as quiet as the peak of a Norwegian mountaintop. This was one of the reasons why he had bought Casablanca in the first place. He cherished how huge it was and how it was isolated from neighbors and other nosy types. It wasn’t because he necessarily needed the sixteen rooms and the five bathrooms, but when you were a public figure who enjoyed the esteem of his peers in the business world and who was worth 950 million Danish kroner, a cottage just wouldn’t do. Sure, Frans had grown up poor in a suburb just outside of Copenhagen, but he had happily left that time behind. He left the socialist dream to others.

He began swinging his arms and bouncing in order to loosen up his muscles before the run. His first forty-five years were behind him, but he was tall and still slender. He made sure to only eat until he was no longer hungry and not until he felt full. This wasn’t out of a vain fear of gaining weight; he had a high metabolism. Rather, food just didn’t interest him. What did interest him was staying in shape. He considered this important for a man who had a job as demanding as his.

„We’re off, Berit!”

Out of habit he found himself calling into the empty house before closing the door. His wife was in Prague, so she couldn’t hear him, but the dog could. She bounded up the stairs and took to jumping all around him, barking loudly. It was a strange behavior. This dog was usually calm.

„Okay, okay! I just have to stretch. Sit!”

Cheetah immediately obeyed. While the muscle in his left calf softened, he stroked the dog’s dark brown fur, which had always reminded him of the interweaving of different types of wood in a precious antique. He found it remarkably beautiful. If Berit had been a dog, she most definitely would have been a Doberman. Slim, graceful, and cool, but with a hidden warmth once you got to know her.

Frans got ready and gave the order.

„Let’s go!”

They ran down the stairs, across the courtyard, and into the woods.

If nature had provided Frans with a strong physique, then fortune had likewise given him a remarkable amount of tailwind in life.

Ten years earlier, a totally unknown Frans Jessen had devised a design that he had patented under the trademark Running Servant. In principle, it was just a piece of bent metal that in time was refined and diversified into a range of practical and artistic functions.

The first Servant was a small silver candlestick, produced in a limited stock, which was quick to sell out in the few stores that had decided to take a chance with this new design. Over the years, the initial concept had developed into a high-volume production of a collection of more than twenty-five different Servants in gold, silver, and platinum, spanning from egg cups and flower stands to mobiles and fruit bowls.

The company had exploded in size, from just two employees—the Jessen couple—to a high-profile enterprise of more than three hundred staff members. Just within the last twelve months, sales had skyrocketed in the huge Chinese market, which seemed to have an insatiable appetite for European—and especially Danish—design.

Since the new year, he had held more than seventy meetings, visited eight countries with twenty-two stores, and spoken with countless numbers of people. And then there was the upcoming opening of a store on Strøget, the main shopping street in Copenhagen.

The only fly in the ointment was that he and Berit were gradually drifting apart. Ever since she had started her own small jewelry company, she had been traveling a lot. Often, she would travel with her head of sales, Ernst. Frans had brought it up a couple of times, implying that the situation seemed a bit odd. But Berit had remained cool: „What are you talking about? Ernst? But you know he is gay. Stop being so paranoid all the time, Frans.”

Maybe he was being paranoid, but during the last ten years, he had learned a thing or two about life and about people. When you were worth as much as he was, people were eager to get a slice of the cake, and he just couldn’t be present everywhere all the time.

Frans mumbled to himself as he ran with long strides through the forest.

„Gay! I bet he isn’t any gayer than I am. If I ever catch them together, I will cut off his dick, and you . . . you will get a well-deserved spanking my dear.”

He was a mile into the woods when he realized it had been a while since he had seen Cheetah. She would usually scour both sides of the path, occasionally crossing it, but now, she was nowhere to be seen. He looked to his left through a cluster of beech trees onto a large crop of fields plowed for the coming autumn. Sometimes she would follow the scent of a hare or deer.

He slowed down as he kept looking around.

„Cheetah?”

His call wasn’t reciprocated by the usual barking.

„Cheeeetaaaah!”

He searched his pockets but had left the whistle back home.

„Oh well, she should be able to catch up with an old wimp like me . . .”

He kept running. Suddenly, he heard Cheetah bay loudly. Frans turned toward the sound. The dog kept barking, and it sounded like she was running somewhere fast, but where? Maybe just beyond the spruce thicket he had just passed. He jogged back down the footpath.

„Cheetah! Come here, girl! Come here at once! Cheetah!”

A single sharp crackle resounded through the empty woods, followed by a series of miserable wails cutting through the wind.

„Cheetah?”

He sprinted down the wheel tracks to where the spruces transitioned into deciduous forest. A vast thicket of bindweed and blackberry grew tall and thick on both sides of the path, making it impossible for him to look beyond the tracks.

„Cheetah, where are you, girl? Hello? Cheetaaaaah!”

The dog remained silent.

He could feel himself growing downright worried now. Something was wrong. That loud crackle he had heard just wasn’t right.

He kept walking. The thicket grew thinner a little further down the path. The view would be better there.

„Cheee–”

Without warning, something dark came soaring in a high curve over the thicket. It sailed towards him, forcing him to jump aside. His first thought was that it was a large bird of prey, but before he could even finish that thought, the triangular head of his beloved Doberman landed on the forest path with a heavy thud. It bounced about, much like a pointed ball would do, before skidding to a halt, leaving a long trail of blood behind.

Frans felt a cry escape his lungs. With terror and shock, he stared at the dog’s head where it had settled a few yards away in the middle of the right wheel track. Cheetah’s mouth was still half agape. He could see blood trickle steadily down the sharp teeth, and he imagined seeing a feeble steam rise from the nostrils, as if her last breath had hidden itself in the severed gorge.

Frans fled toward Casablanca.

He just managed to clear the thicket when he tripped over a heavy branch protruding from a large oak tree. As he fell to the ground, the attacker was upon him. He could feel how one alarmingly strong hand pressed his face into the soil, while the other hand twisted his right arm backward and upward into a painful position. Frans screamed at the top of his lungs.

„Help! Help! Assault! Heeeeeelp!”

In that moment he deeply regretted his selfishness and the many signs reading NO TRESPASSING that he had decided to have put up in order to keep the public away. There were no forest workers in the woods today and there was no one in the house.

„Help! Help! Heeeeeeeeelp!”

His assailant did nothing to quiet him. In fact, he didn’t say a word, which only served to deepen Frans’s utter sense of panic. The sphincter in his bladder gave up and he felt his pants turn warm and wet with piss. He mustered a sense of control and attempted to fight back by knocking his opponent off. It was futile.

„Damn it, you’re breaking my arm!”

The assailant wasn’t particularly heavy but was surprisingly strong.

„What do you want?” Frans wailed, his face still firmly pressed into the ground. He could feel a shattered snail shell grinding between his teeth. He spat furiously. „I’m going to kill you.”

He felt the grip on his arm and the pressure on his back lessen as the perpetrator eased off. Frans reacted like a wounded animal; he stayed down, too afraid to move. Instead, he changed his approach. Be calm. Negotiate. Accommodate. Use psychology.

„Look,” he said to the soil in the wheel track, „I am going to get up very slowly now and then we will . . . d-discuss the problem, okay?”

There was no response.

Frans dared to lift his upper body and turned slowly around. He only just saw a dark shadow before something hard hit him over the left temple.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself halfway standing, halfway hanging against the trunk of the large oak tree. Pain riddled his body. He had a splitting headache, an aching band pulled tight across his forehead as if he had been fitted with a medieval instrument of torture. He could feel a burning sensation under his arms and from the gnarled bark of the tree, the remnant of a broken branch was boring into his back just above his left kidney.

In his disoriented state, he attempted to move only to realize that it was impossible. There were at least four strong ropes tied around his body. The main one went under his arms and was responsible for holding him propped up against the trunk. It had been tied painfully tight around his ribcage. A second rope further down held his arms tight by his sides against the tree, while a third one over his ankles ensured that he wouldn’t move his feet. He could only feel these ropes, since the fourth and final rope was fastened tightly over his forehead, pressing his neck into the bark and making it impossible for him to look around.

He felt claustrophobic, his panic growing. Beads of sweat ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. He feared that it was blood, but the drops tasted salty rather than metallic. Again, he tried to move his head, but immediately felt the rope bite into his flesh and the bark cut into the delicate skin at the nape of the neck. Something was swaying back and forth in front of him. He was still dazed but managed to focus on . . .

„Cheetah?”

Frans momentarily forgot his own agony as he tried to comprehend what had happened to his beloved dog. She was suspended by a sturdy rope, making her thin neck droop down weakly like the nozzle of a waterskin. Individual black drops fell steadily into the withered leaves below, but even worse: someone had exercised a bizarre form of violence on the headless dog, making the four legs protrude from the body in a grotesque fashion.

Frans cried out in despair, pulling and tearing at the ropes which only served to make them bore themselves even deeper into his flesh. He sobbed with rage. Tears were streaming down his face while he howled curses and oaths into the woods and cursorily acknowledged that he was ice-cold from his own urine and that, perhaps, he had also shat himself.

„I am going to kill you, you filthy pig!”

He attempted to look around for his enemy, but the rope forced him to only look ahead at the abused body of his Doberman.

„I’ll find you, you psychopath! I’ll fuck you up!”

A twig snapped close by.

Frans grew silent except for his sniveling, his body quivering with cold. If someone had been at the house, his cries for help might have been heard. The neighboring farm was too far away and there were no other buildings nearby. This was how it was when you were a multimillionaire with your own estate, something his tormentor was apparently aware of.

Frans strained his eyes looking as far left as he could without moving his head. Someone was treading softly trough the dry leaves. He felt a cool sensation, which should have been a relief against his burning temples. Frans felt his hope founder further. Whatever was pressed against his sweaty skin was about the size of a small coin. With a hole in it. A gun or the muzzle of a rifle. For what seemed like forever, the metal pressed against his pounding head.

„Just shoot, goddammit! Don’t just stand there, kill me!”

But this seemed to be the point. Psychological terror. Frans sobbed hopelessly and squeezed his eyes shut to avoid looking at his maimed dog.

„Open your eyes.”

The voice was low, half a whisper, completely neutral in tone.

„Why are you doing this to me?”

Frans felt nauseous. He needed to vomit and would probably do so shortly, consummating the foul trinity of bodily fluids, but it didn’t matter anymore. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated.

„What have I ever done to you?”

He squirmed despite the pain this caused.

„If you think this will get you any money, think again.”

The command was repeated in the same barren voice.

„Open your eyes.”

„No way, you sick piece of shit! Just shoot me! See if I care!”

The cold metal pressed even harder against his temple. He could hear the sound of a gun being cocked. Frans opened his eyes.

„What do you see?” the voice asked.

„What do you think I see?”

The barrel of the gun bored into his temple as if it was going to drill into his skull. The voice repeated the question tonelessly and without any hint of anger, aggression, or agitation.

„What do you see?”

Frans was crying now.

„My . . . my dog . . . the remains of my dog.”

The cold metal opening was removed. Frans waited. Then he felt the barrel of the gun again. Further down. By his heart.

„Try again,” the voice whispered. „What do you see?”

„What do you mean?” Frans wailed in desperation. „What is it that you want me to say?”

Silence.

An arm entered his line of vision from the left. The assailant was wearing camo and a thin surgical glove. The fist was clenched and drew slowly nearer. Frans prepared for a punch in the face, but instead the hand opened up. In the palm of the hand was a Running Servant. The smallest model, known as The Miniature in the stores where it was sold. The silver version, of which tens of thousands had been sold just this last year. They were especially popular as earrings or as candleholders for the Christmas tree.

„Do you see it now?” the voice asked.

„D-Do you m-mean a Running Servant?” Frans stuttered.

The hand was clenched again and pulled out of sight. The barrel returned.

„The dog . . . It . . . You have . . . It looks like a Running Servant, but . . . what . . .” tears were streaming down his face again, „. . . does it mean?”

„Your life,” the voice said.

„Yes, yes, this is my life.” Frans saw an opportunity for dialogue and a sliver of hope that he might make it through this nightmarish ordeal. „The Running Servant is my life’s work.”

„And your epitaph,” the voice said, shattering what little remained of his hope.

Chapter 2

As Lene Sylvest pulled into her driveway, she noticed a man standing across from her house on Mintfield 19. He was standing on the sidewalk, observing her seven-year-old daughter, Sille, who was playing soccer with a friend in the yard.

Lene pulled the grocery bags out of the trunk and locked the car, scowling at the stranger. He wore a neutral overcoat, dark pants, and black shoes. Nicely dressed, actually. He had thick silver hair which was currently billowing in the wind. He had dark gray, piercing eyes. She found the look in his eyes disturbing and couldn’t help but feel like she had seen those angry, hateful eyes before. But where?

The man kept completely still. He was staring intensely, but she couldn’t determine whether he was looking at the girls or the house. It could, of course, just be someone waiting for a ride, but he didn’t seem restless enough. He wasn’t glancing up and down the street or checking his watch. For lack of a better word, he seemed . . . parked.

She stood by the garden gate, rummaging through her bag for her keys while glancing at the man out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the roof of the house. She tried to follow his gaze but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Sille ran towards her.

„Hi, mom!”

Lene entered the garden.

„Hi, honey. Hi, Maja. What’s up?”

„We’re playing soccer.”

„I can see that. Why’d you take off your jackets? It’s too cold to be running around outside without a coat.”

„But they’re goalposts. Come on, Maja, you can be the goalie now.”

Lene peeked at the man again. He was still as unmoving as a statue. She went inside and directly into the kitchen to put the groceries away. When she was done, she placed herself by the window where she could look over at Mintfield 16. The man was still there. It was unsettling that she couldn’t tell whether he was looking right at her. Lene was startled when the phone rang. It was her husband, Steen.

„Hey, honey, where are you?”

„On the motorway. I left a bit early today, but there’s been an accident. A collision, I think, so I will be home the usual time. Maybe a bit later.”

„Well, please hurry.”

„You sound kind of . . . Is something wrong?”

„I’m not sure. I just got home. Some man is standing outside number 16. He keeps staring at the house.”

„At Peter and Marianne’s house?”

„At our house.”

„Well, who is it?”

„I have no idea.”

„Well, what does he look like?”

„I don’t know. A man. He looks normal enough, but that doesn’t really prove anything, does it? And the girls are playing right outside in the garden.”

She could hear an ambulance through the phone.

„He is probably just waiting for someone or for a cab, maybe. Or maybe it’s one of those nosy types who wants to take a look at the murder house.”

„Would you please stop calling it the murder house?”

„I’m not the one who came up with the name. It was that guy, Thor Brandt. In his book.”

„Yes, I know. There is no need to spread the term and help him sell any more copies. Sille and Gustav are probably already hearing about it at school.”

„I’m sorry. Look, he is probably just taking a look around. The other day a bus came with fifteen people. They even brought a guide who stood there outside the garden giving an entire talk about it”

„You didn’t tell me that.”

„You were away on that seminar, honey. A guy from the soccer club told me that Mintfield has made it onto some murder tour where people are driven around to famous crime scenes.”

„That’s terrible, Steen! We never should have moved here. If I had known any of this when we signed the lease . . .”

„Relax, you know it’s only temporary, and it fits our budget right now. As long as that guy stays on the sidewalk, it’s not like he’s going to do anything illegal. As long as he keeps his pants on . . . If the girls are in the garden, he can’t even see them over the hedge, right?”

„You’re probably right. Wait!”

She saw Maja kick the ball over the hedge.

„Now what?”

Lene squeezed the phone.

„The ball went over the hedge. Now Sille is going to get it.”

„Well she knows the traffic rules, she’ll be fine. What is the man doing now?”

„Nothing.”

„It’s just like Kaj from Purchasing. He is such a dullard, you wouldn’t believe . . .”

Lene fidgeted back and forth in front of the window, listening with half an ear to her husband’s story from work.

The ball bounced across the road, hit the curb a few yards away from the man and then rolled slowly away. Sille climbed halfway up the garden gate and called to the man. He didn’t react. Sille tried again. Lene could feel her alarm bells starting to ring. Sille opened the gate and ran out.

The hedge was tall, so for a moment Lene couldn’t see Sille, but then she appeared on the opposite side of the road, farther down near number 12, where the ball was still slowly rolling along the curb.

Lene scrambled into the living room without really knowing why she was reacting like this.

„What’s happening?” Steen wanted to know.

„I just need to see what Sille is up to.”

„You are such a helicopter mom. You promised you would stop coddling them so much. Remember what happened at the water park last summer?”

She ignored him.

„Anyway, the cars are starting to move now and the police are here. Call if anything happens.”

Steen hung up.

Lene went to the patio door. From the door, she could see a decent part of the street. Sille had made it all the way down to number 8.

Lene made her way out to open the front door. Maja was sitting on the lawn waiting. The man had kept to his place. Lene held up her iPhone as discreetly as she could, zoomed in, and took a picture of the stranger. He still wasn’t moving. Sille came running back with the ball, shutting the gate behind her.

„Hi, mom.”

„Please come inside, Sille.”

„Sure, we’ll just finish our game really quickly.”

„No, immediately! You too, Maja.”

The girls gathered their jackets and did as they were told. Lene shut the front door.

„What did you say to that man on the sidewalk?”

Sille gave her an innocent look, like she couldn’t understand what she had done wrong.

„I asked him if he would please help us get the ball, but he didn’t hear me. So, I went to go get it myself, and the other man kicked it to me.”

Lene frowned.

„The other man?”

„Yeah.”

„What other man?”

„The one further down the street.”

„Do you mean old Mr. Petersen in number 8 or Mr. Lowitz in number 6?”

Sille shook her head.

„I don’t know who he was, but he was looking at the man in front of our house.”

Lene felt her stomach turn.

„Go to the kitchen. Have a seat and I will make you some nice hot cocoa in a minute.”

„Yay!”

The girls kicked off their shoes.

Lene opened the door slightly. The man in the overcoat was gone. She went out onto the landing. From where she stood, she could see no one on her part of Mintfield. She walked down to the garden gate and out onto the sidewalk. She looked up and down the street. There was no one there besides herself.

Chapter 3

„Did you hear about that really nasty case up near Hornbæk?” Mia Ambrell asked as she drove away from the Copenhagen Police headquarters.

Karsten Thunøe didn’t respond. He was preoccupied with reading teletext pages on his smartphone.

Mia raised her voice.

„Hello? Earth to Karsten!”

He glanced up at her.

„What case? When?”

„Late this morning. Rasmus in the finance department told me. His girlfriend works at the police district handling the case. This man goes for a jog in the woods with his dog. Suddenly, the dog is shot and beheaded. Afterward, the man is knocked out and tied to a tree. When he regains consciousness, the attacker has hung the dog’s dead body from a branch in front of him. The man attacked is Frans Jessen.”

„That guy with those Running Servant things?”

„Yeah, that’s the one.”

„Must be an unhappy costumer.”

„That’s not funny.”

„It’s a little funny.”

„Because he’s rich?”

„No, because my wife spends way too much money on that crap. We could open our own store selling Running Servants with the crazy amount of them we have at home. Has anyone been arrested?”

„As far as I know, the perpetrator has vanished without a trace.”

„What happened to Jessen?”

„He got a few bruises, but he freed himself from the ties.”

They stopped for a red light at an intersection overlooking Copenhagen’s harbor. Karsten put his phone in his pocket.

„Seriously, what kind of world are we living in if you can’t jog in the woods without your collie being beheaded?”

„It was a Doberman. They are such beautiful dogs,” Mia sighed. „We had two when I was a kid. My dad would train them every day. They make very reliable watch dogs.”

„You are right about that last part.” Karsten said, adjusting his large body in the passenger seat. „I worked as a night watchman in my younger days.”

He ran his hand over his crew-cut hair and looked thoughtfully out the window. The light changed, and Mia turned right, past a large railway freight terminal.

„Yes?”

„It was while I was applying to get into police school. I was doing a round at a large car dealership. The secretary had failed to tell me that there was an unleashed dog on the premises. With no warning, a Doberman came rushing out a gateway, like a cannonball. I hit it over the head with my nightstick. That didn’t exactly get us on friendlier terms. It tried to bite my arm, so I ran and tried to keep it off. I dropped my phone and didn’t have time to open the gate, so I had to seek refuge on top of a shed. I sat there nearly two hours in the rain until a patrol car came to the rescue.”

„You hit that poor dog with a nightstick?”

„You’re missing the point here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have any children today.”

„You should have just spoken to it sternly. Dobermans react to voice commands,” she explained. „Did you know that the breed was created by a German man named Karl Friedrich Louis Dobermann?”

„He sounds like a determined fellow. Did he rape a German Shepard?”

She sighed. Karsten was a capable policeman, but he could be terribly vulgar at times.

„He worked as a dog catcher and as a tax collector. He created Doberman dogs to defend himself against other people.”

„If you work as a tax collector, I can see needing more than good spirits and a canary bird, I guess. Anyway, to return to the case, the assailant must be quite a cold-blooded devil to bring down a killer dog like that.”

„My thoughts exactly,” Mia said. „I wonder if someone is out to get Frans Jessen.”

Karsten gawked at her.

„Is that supposed to be a joke?”

He continued.

„It’s almost as if that man’s hobby is making enemies. Don’t you remember everything that went down in the media concerning the copyright to the Running Servant? And then there were the accusations that the company was using child labor in India to make the alloys they use.”

„Exploitation of third world countries isn’t exactly new for industries in our part of the world.”

„This case was particularly serious. There were multiple deaths, including an eight-year-old boy who fell into the liquid metal.”

„Well, this is also a serious case,” Mia said.

„I would like to think that it belongs to Animal Protection”

She protested.

„Now you’re the one missing the point! Frans Jessen was knocked out and tied to a tree where he was forced to look at his dead pet, which had been severely abused. That’s equal parts homicidal assault, threats to one’s life, and loss of liberty, plus animal cruelty.”

Karsten shuddered.

„Those Dobermans just give me the creeps.”

Mia gave up. He could be obstinate and irritating when he was tired or in a bad mood. She could easily picture him as a night watchman in his younger years. Karsten Thunøe was six-foot-six and built like a tank. He was constantly on a diet, but she only ever saw him eat junk food, chocolate, and pastries. He also had the largest hands she had ever seen. His hands were the size of dinner plates, which he liked to demonstrate each year at the Christmas party. However, he was also a mysterious man. She had known him nearly eight years and she had never caught even a glimpse of his wife or children. Not even in photos. She knew practically nothing about the private life of Karten Thunøe.

„Thanks for the ride,” he said. „I’m getting my car tomorrow . . . I hope.”

„You would have done the same for me.”

„Nope. I would have just gone home.”

Mia laughed and shook her head at him. They passed by a mall and the H.C. Ørsted Power Plant as they drove out of the city. Traffic was heavy.

„Did you get new glasses?” he asked in the unengaged way that she found men often used.

„You catch on quick. I’ve had them nearly two months.”

„Yeah. I thought so. They suit you.”

„Thanks.”

He mostly said this to boost her self-esteem. He liked Mia as a colleague, but he couldn’t help wondering about her style. There really wasn’t anything to do about that nose—unless she got a plastic surgeon—but the butch hairdo, angular horn-rimmed glasses, and heavy lipstick really weren’t doing her any favors. She was even straight, or at least he believed she was. There had been several times he had considered mentioning the glasses and the hairdo when it was just the two of them, but he knew it wasn’t appropriate to comment on a colleague’s looks. It might even get him suspended. It wasn’t his business anyway, and it wasn’t really relevant after all. Mia was a patient and careful investigator with a good intuition.

She noticed him looking at her.

„What?”

„How are things at home with . . . Mogens?”

„Are you referring to my son or my boyfriend? Neither of them is called Mogens.”

„Both of them.”

„Oliver is studying in the US, and Thomas has . . . vanished.”

Karsten adjusted himself in his seat.

„Should we issue a missing person’s report?”

„Nah, wouldn’t that imply that I miss him? He had an affair with my former friend. It lasted a year and a half. Can’t believe I didn’t realize. I work in the Criminal Investigation Department.”

„You should pay back some of your salary to the department.”

„Probably.”

„Then again, you don’t necessarily see the splinter in your own bed as easily as you see the beam in the burglar’s ear.”

Mia shook her head at his made-up idiom. She stuck out her bottom lip.

„And then my dad died last week.”

Karsten frowned.

„You know you can share these kinds of things with me instead of just dealing with them on your own. What are good colleagues for?”

„Thanks. There’s just so much . . . I mean, we witness misery every day at work. I only really think about it when I’m at home trying to fall asleep.”

„How old was he?”

„Sixty-nine.”

„Sick?”

„Cancer. He underwent surgery and had chemo. That crap was just everywhere, lungs and several other places. He kept on drinking and smoking. It was a total waste of the doctors’ time.”

„Hans-Jørgen Ambrell. I’ve heard of him.”

„He was Triel’s superior in the flying squad. That was a long time ago.”

„Were you close?”

She shook her head.

„I never really got to know him. He was a buttoned-up kind of man, a John Wayne type. When he retired, and my mom died, he moved into their old vacation cottage. My brother and I need to clear it out and sell it now. The place is a total mess. He was untidy and untrimmed, often drunk. I could barely stand visiting him. Too damn tragic to witness. All he cared about were old unsolved cases. Not that he ever solved any, I don’t think. The last time I saw him, he was in hospice care, shortly before he died. It was like the cancer had hollowed him out; he was unconscious from all that medication. I sat with him several nights. Sometimes he would come to and start babbling on about all kinds of weird stuff, about a bear he had hidden in the closet and about the water heater. Important stuff, apparently.”

Mia’s eyed started to sting. She changed the subject.

„Have you heard that Janus Mikkelsen is going to be a father?”

„Janus? The teen?”

„Yeah, the one with the black hair. Really nice guy. Always seems happy.”

„Well, I will have to remember to welcome him to the sleepless nights.”

„Speaking of death,” Mia paused as she turned the car down a street. „Have you seen Triel lately?”

„This morning, but I don’t think he’s dead. He was breathing.”

„He’s so skinny. He looks ill.”

Karsten crossed him arms over his chest.

„Now that you bring it up, he never should have returned to headquarters. Bulbjerg did him a disservice allowing him back.”

„He is one of the best we’ve had in Homicide,” Mia objected. „Triel’s talent might just rub off on Bulbjerg.”

„Triel had his golden age, like the dinosaurs. He’s just a fossil now.”

Mia looked at him.

„Are you out to get his position?”

„Chief Investigation Officer Karsten Thunøe?” He pretended to think about it. „That would earn me a polished brass sign on my door, an increase in salary, and a company car. No, I just think that Triel has lost sight of things. He lets himself be distracted by the past. Did you know he had shock treatment?”

„Come on. Nobody uses that anymore.”

„He. Has. Had. Electro. Shock. Therapy.” Karsten said, emphasizing his words with rhythmic claps of his giant hand against his thigh. „You can ask Henning yourself. First someone murders his wife and cripples his daughter, then some psychiatrist sticks his fingers into an electrical outlet. I can only imagine what that would do to a brain. Triel is a functioning shell of the man he used to be. He should be on disability pension, and that has nothing to do with my own ambitions. It’s like he can’t focus anymore. He sits at home every evening just chewing on Mintfield 19.”

„Or so you think.”

„He has a copy of every single file and photo, even though it could get him fired.”

„That’s not true, Crew Cut, and you should know better than to spread gossip like that. It was a rumor started by that asshole Marsholm. He was always nagging Triel.”

„Maybe so, but trust me, that case keeps churning in his head. Trouble is, this is a Jack-the-Ripper case. It will never be solved. Trust me. All leads are cold by now. The train has left the station and the station has been demolished.”

„Maybe one day . . .”

„Forget about it, Mia. Elvis has left the building. You know that just as well as I do. Forty-eight hours after a homicide, the chances of finding the perpetrator are only fifty percent—and we’re talking four years here.”

„Maybe Andrea knows something. They just can’t get her to speak.”

„Nor will they ever. She had her tongue cut out.”

„Her tongue was cut into, from what I’ve heard. That’s not entirely the same thing.”

„She’s been traumatized for life.”

„Is that what it says in Thor Brandt’s book?”

„Well, he should know.”

„Why, do you think he is the perpetrator?”

„Oh, shut up.”

But Mia wasn’t going to let it go.

„Well, have you asked Triel if any of this is true?”

„No! I won’t fucking ask the man if it is true that someone cut out his daughter’s tongue.”

„So, you are building your case on speculation, just like Thor Brandt. Wouldn’t you keep trying to solve the case if it was your family?”

„As a father, I get it. But he is ruining his life over something he cannot change.”

„Karsten, Triel’s life is already ruined.”

„He still has Andrea.”

„Does he though?”

Chapter 4

The next morning, a pelting rain fell on the building housing the Copenhagen Police headquarters, splashing into the round column-lined courtyard, painting the white façade a grayish color. Chief Investigation Officer Roland Triel arrived at work at about eight in the morning, if there weren’t any cases requiring immediate attention. Today, he was soaked. His coat was dripping, and his shoes squelched as he shuffled up the stairs toward his office. He walked into the restroom; it smelled of urinal pucks and he could hear a toilet cistern running. He pulled pieces of tissue out of the dispenser. Water droplets ran down his arms with a tickling sensation, but he didn’t do anything to stop their path.

Triel stared into the mirror. Sometimes he wished that there were no reflection staring back, as this would imply that he had died. The Shadow was awake. He felt its presence oscillating in his skull like a vigilant cobra. Some days it accompanied him from the moment he woke up in the morning until he turned off his bedside lamp at night. Other days it was dormant, curled up, hateful, waiting for revenge.

Dark gray eyes, under whose gaze seasoned murderers and rapists had crumbled, looked back at him from his reflection. There was still an untamed, almost tiger-like quality to them, but he had a sedated look about him, as if his eyes had retreated further back into his furrowed face, hiding from full view. Triel ran his tongue over his dripping lips. He had parentheses around his mouth, which made it look too wide.

He tossed the tissue into the trash can and took out his phone. The display was foggy. He wiped it on his sleeve and then answered it.

„This is Triel.”

„Hey, dad, it’s me.”

In the mirror his face unfolded like a flower in the sun.

„Hi, honey. How are you doing?”

„Super! I got an A-plus in Danish and Markus just invited me to join him and his parents on their autumn holiday to Gran Canaria. They are just so nice.”

„That all sounds good, but can you afford it?”

„I only have to pay for my own plane ticket and pocket money, and I am making a bit at that babysitting job. It also helps that I still live at home, right?”

„Right, well then everything is in order, I suppose.”

„Well . . . there’s just one thing . . .”

„Yeah?”

„I know you don’t really like talking about it, but have you gotten any closer to solving mom’s murder?”

The Shadow slid across his reflection almost unnoticed. His gaze turned hard and implacable.

„Not yet, honey, but I will. Some day. I won’t give up. He won’t get away.”

„But he did, you know. It’s more than four years ago now.”

„You know it takes time to solve crimes, Andrea. I need leads or clues to find him, and evidence to nail him down—or a confession, of course.”

There was a break in their conversation, where he could feel his head spinning. The cobra was filled with poison today.

„What if you never find a suspect or any evidence?”

„Then I’ll have to work with what I’ve got.”

„Will you kill him when you find him?”

The question made him envision himself raising a gun and firing it towards a face devoid of features. Triel clenched the phone and turned his back on the mirror.

„I don’t think so, Andrea. I’ve fantasized about it a thousand times, but no. I have to do my job and put my faith in our legal system.”

„But then he might get off too easy. What if he is released and does it again? I’m scared.”

„Don’t be. He will never get close to you again, honey. I promise you that. If he does, then . . . well, then I will take matters into my own hands.”

She didn’t respond.

„Hello? Are you there? Andrea?”

He looked at the phone. It was turned off. The humid weather had probably drained the battery. Triel put it in his pocket and left the restroom. The cistern was still running. Someone flushed the toilet in the innermost stall and unlocked the door.

The weather cleared up around noon. The rain stopped but the sun stayed resolutely behind a cover of clouds all day.

When Triel went to purchase a Coke in the vending machine in the hallway, he realized that his wallet was missing. He spent some time searching for it. In his coat, his shoulder bag, and then in his office. At last, he acknowledged that that it was truly gone and he made the necessary calls to block his cards and order a new health insurance card.

Three characteristic knocks sounded on the door.

„Come in, Henning.”

Triel’s oldest and closest colleague stuck his white-bearded, Father-Christmas face inside the door. As usual, he resembled an unmade bed with a wrinkled shirt, a worn-out fishing vest with a spoon bait poking out of the breast pocket, and a pair of unflattering trousers that had been pulled slightly askew. And he wasn’t even working undercover.

„So you are awake.”

„My wallet’s gone missing.”

Henning Jovst adjusted his greasy glasses, which had been modern when ABBA won the Eurovision Song Contest.

„You can have mine. There’s no money in it anyway.”

Triel was annoyed and changed the subject.

„Do you have something interesting in that dossier you are waving about?”

The old investigator held out the dossier in front of himself like he had never seen it before.

„This? This is going into the archives.”

„The archives are in the basement, but maybe you haven’t worked here long enough to know?”

„Twenty-seven years.”

„Oh, okay, then you’re excused.”

The detective inspector stayed put. He looked like a school boy who had come in for a scolding in the headmaster’s office. Triel was puzzled.

„I know that rain makes for good fishing weather, but you’re not getting off work. Also, the rain has stopped.”

Jovst was rubbing a striped bait between his fingers. He wasn’t looking Triel in the eyes.

„We’ve received a notification. Janus Mikkelsen received it. He thought I should take care of it. The notification came as an email with a photo attached.”

Triel leaned forward, making his old office chair give off an alarming croaking sound.

„Spit it out, Henning, before you become constipated.”

„I forwarded the e-mail to you, and only to you. The woman living in the house at Mintfield 19 has reported a mysterious man. He was standing outside her house yesterday for what seems to be quite a long time. She got nervous. She has small kids and . . . She photographed the culprit on her phone. When you enlarge the photo, it becomes quite easy to recognize the man in question.”

Triel’s face suddenly looked vacant. While Jovst explained, Triel turned his computer toward himself, launched Outlook Express and opened the e-mail. He opened the attached photo and saw himself standing on the sidewalk across from Mintfield 19.

„I’m not very photogenic.”

Jovst ignored his remark.

„This isn’t the first time, is it?”

Triel could think of no reason to lie.

„I go there every once in a while. But always during the day.”

„Look, I empathize Roland, you know I do. But you can’t do that.”

„I just stand on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. It makes it easier to focus on all the details of the case when I can actually see the house.”

„That may very well be, but you are making the residents feel unsafe. What if some journalist . . . What if Thor Brandt hears about this? Then what? Bulbjerg is going to freak out if this makes it into the papers. The police are vilified enough as is.”

„I can’t see that I am doing anything wrong. Mintfield 19 is still an open case. In principle, I am just doing my job.”

„No, because you were never assigned to this case, as you might remember.”

„Hmm, yeah.”

Jovst shrugged his shoulders and gave him a resigned look.

„It’s up to you. I just want to say it: You risk getting in trouble.”

„What did she say? The woman in the house.”

„Nothing. She just thought it was suspicious behavior. She’s obviously read too many crime novels and thinks that perpetrators return to their crime scenes.”

Triel confided in him.

„It’s still my house.”

„Yours? But I thought . . .”

„It wouldn’t sell, Henning. So, I ended up renting it out through an agency.”

„I had no idea.”

„Promise me you won’t tell anyone, not even Mia or Karsten.”

„Of course.”

„I promise I won’t pester the tenants. I was just in a mood yesterday. Made myself believe that I could move on if I just stood next to the house.”

Jovst moved toward the door.

„I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about, and Janus won’t say anything. He’s a good kid. Have you heard he’s going to be a father?”

Triel felt a pit in his stomach. He remembered when Dorte had told him the good news. The happiness in her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful than in that moment.

„That’s good news. It’s not just gossip, right? You know the guys and their pranks.”

„He’s running around telling everyone himself.”

Triel rested his chin in his hand.

„We should find an appropriate gift.”

„I propose a fishing game or a fishing rod. Boys love to fish.”

„And if it’s a girl?”

„The same.”

„You have fish on the brain, Henning.”

„Why do you think I married a sea devil?”

When Triel was alone again, he spent a long time staring at the photo of a man so angry and intent on righteous revenge that he could barely recognize himself.

Chapter 5

A small red-eyed tree frog landed on his forehead. It lingered for a moment, making him look like he had a malignant growth. He lifted his arm to brush the frog away, but it had already jumped on. It landed in the leaves of a withered floor plant next to the futon.

The man with the birthmark opened his eyes and gazed into the dim room. The only source of light in the living room was a terrarium on a table. Behind the glass, three small frogs with bright yellow colors were visible. They were highly poisonous. Several harmless tree frogs were hopping about the living room.

He would often release frogs where he lived. They reminded him of his time in Nicaragua. It had been a trying mission, but he had enjoyed the hot weather, the jungle, and the excitement. Seven persons had been assassinated. He had been part of a group of four soldiers, all hired by the US Army through a straw man. Everything had gone according to plan. Afterward, they had partied in Managua, where there was an abundance of both booze and hookers, but he had grown tired of the other group members and had moved on.

The mission had paid for the next four years of his life, but he was running out of money. To solve this problem, he had accepted a new assignment, the first phase of which had already been executed. The operation was much riskier as it took place in Denmark. Unlike in an African republic or a Central American state, you couldn’t just murder people without expecting to set in motion a comprehensive system that would do its best to solve the crime and catch the perpetrator.

This meant that he had been forced to spend an extra long time on research before actually doing anything. This was an operation which he could not afford to have go wrong. The fee was by no means large. Two hundred thousand Danish kroner could not be considered a lavish amount for taking a human life. He would have set the price higher, had it not been for a potential hidden bonus that amounted to the staggering sum of 100 million Danish kroner. This plan of action was, of course, unknown to the man he had spoken with on the phone. The client had simply demanded that the people on the list disappeared, preferably after they had suffered.

The forest rumbled as a regional train sped by behind the house. The vibrations propagated through the floor, making the glass in the terrarium rattle slightly. Then everything fell quiet except for the wind, which occasionally made the house groan lightly.

The man with the birthmark turned in the futon. It was daylight outside. He switched on a lamp on a small table next to the futon before sitting up. He dried his face on the sleeve of his army-colored T-shirt. He purposely kept the living room very warm and humid because both he and his frogs preferred it that way.

He looked at his watch. In another five hours, phase two of the plan would commence and he had quite a lot to prepare. He got up from the futon and walked barefoot across the floor, carefully avoiding stepping on any of the small amphibians scattered across the rough floorboards.

Tight-fitting blinds in front of the two windows ensured that no one could look inside. Not that there was much chance of anyone coming by. The house was completely isolated, surrounded by forest and fields. The mailbox was located at the bottom of the plot and the owner of the house never got any visitors. The railway tracks did, however, run right behind the house and he never knew if one day a train would be forced to do an emergency stop right outside.

He didn’t take any chances. Everything before, during, and after a mission was planned in great detail. Thoroughness, experience, and daring were key factors.