Death Sentence

19

I WAS COMPLETELY shattered after the first day of the book fair.

Every year the hordes of people came as a total surprise to me. After living for so long in the cottage where I could control who I saw, walking through the exhibition hall felt like a constant infringement of my personal space. It was a relief to leave Forum and inhale air that hadn’t already been breathed by tens of thousands of book fair visitors. I hailed a taxi and I may have jumped the queue. I heard someone shout out after me as I flopped down on the back seat.

At the hotel reception, Ferdinan was busy typing on the computer.

‘Arrghh, useless thing,’ he exclaimed, oblivious to my presence. He tapped the keyboard hard and clenched his jaw. ‘Come on, you stupid machine.’

I cleared my throat and he straightened up, startled.

‘I just can’t work these … machines,’ he said and smiled, embarrassed. ‘How can I help you, Mr Føns? A table in the restaurant?’

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I’m dining with a friend tonight,’ I replied.

He nodded. ‘Another time perhaps.’

‘Definitely.’

I did a Columbo: I pretended to leave, but turned around when I remembered something.

‘Listen, Ferdinan,’ I said, casually. ‘Do you remember my guest on the first day? Big broad man with thinning hair?’

Ferdinan looked up at the ceiling, but soon lit up in a smile.

‘Oh, yes, a large gentleman, I remember him well. I directed him to the restaurant on his arrival.’

‘Did you see him when he left?’

No,’ Ferdinan replied immediately. ‘The kitchen was busy so I helped out there most of the evening. Sometimes we all have to muck in.’ He smiled. ‘Has your friend gone missing?’

I sighed. ‘He wasn’t entirely sober. I wanted to know if he asked for a taxi or if he drove himself.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ferdinan said. ‘The last time I saw him was in the restaurant with you.’

‘How about a slim woman, petite, wearing a short skirt and puffer jacket?’

Ferdinan shook his head. ‘Not her either.’

I thanked him and went up to my room. I was due at Bjarne and Anne’s in an hour and I had just enough time to kick off my shoes and splash some water on my face. Their flat was less than half an hour’s walk from the hotel and I needed some fresh air so I decided to go on foot. It was windy. Large clouds drifted across the sky and there were crests on the water in the Lakes. Quite a few people had braved the weather; joggers darted between puddles and pedestrians as though they were on an obstacle course.

I wondered how much I should tell Bjarne. I desperately wanted to leave as soon as I had got Mortis’s address and spare Bjarne and Anne my problems, but I also needed support. I couldn’t get that from Finn, that much was obvious, and I had no one else. This realization made me feel very alone. The years in the cottage had protected me to some extent, but also narrowed down my circle of friends to very few people I trusted completely, and I didn’t feel I could burden even them with my troubles.

Bjarne never changed. In the last ten years he had let his hair grow and wore it in a ponytail. Combined with his round, horn-rimmed glasses and casual clothes, he looked like an ageing hippie.

He gave me a bear hug practically before I crossed the threshold and I could feel that he certainly hadn’t lost any weight in the past year. Anne, too, embraced me and we exchanged greetings.

Since giving up his dream of being published, Bjarne had worked as a teacher at a sixth-form college. With Anne’s financial resources and her job as a social worker, they could still afford the large flat overlooking the Lakes, although the area had been greatly gentrified since our Scriptorium days. Inside the flat the second-hand furniture had long since been replaced with Danish design classics and the kitchen extended to include a breakfast bar and a dining area. The bookcases no longer held tattered, dogeared books we had nicked or scrounged; now attractive hardbacks and special editions covered the walls in the two connecting reception rooms. In the absence of children, they had discovered and been able to afford good taste twenty years too early.

It wasn’t long before Bjarne and Anne’s hospitality had banished my dark thoughts and we chatted and joked like we always had, over a wonderful meal of coq au vin with generous quantities of an excellent red wine. I needed to relax, take my mind off things, and it was astonishingly easy in their company. You couldn’t tell it was a year since we had last seen each other. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like a brook in an old forest running over stones long since polished smooth.

When we left the table, I realized just how drunk I was. I struggled to keep my balance and found it hard to focus. Bjarne took me by the shoulders and led me into the reception room where we sat down with brandy while Anne cleared the table. There was a moment’s silence, and my thoughts flew back to the gravity of my situation. Bjarne must have detected a shift in my mood because he asked if anything was wrong.

Even though I wanted to confide in him, I found it almost impossible to know where to begin. My brain was a massive knot with countless ends you could tug at, most of which would either snap or simply tighten the knot if you started pulling them. Moreover, the alcohol had given my tongue a will of its own, so it took a while before I was capable of replying.

‘Someone has copied my murder,’ I said at last and groaned.

‘Not to worry,’ Bjarne said casually. ‘You’ve got plenty of them.’ He swirled the brandy around his glass and inhaled the bouquet. ‘It might not be a conscious imitation.’ He sipped his drink. ‘By now you must have murdered hundreds of people. No wonder someone has accidentally repeated one.’

‘That’s not the—’ I began, before Bjarne interrupted me.

‘Surely there is a limited number of ways in which to kill people? You must know that better than anyone. Being innovative is difficult. Even you find it hard not to repeat yourself these days.’ He shrugged. ‘Forgive me, but some of the most recent murders you’ve committed seem a tad elaborate, if you ask me.’

‘Elaborate?’

‘Yes, I know that graphic violence has practically become your trademark,’ Bjarne said. ‘But you’re trying too hard. The execution of the murder, the description of every detail of the act overshadows the rest of the story.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I muttered.

‘I’m speaking as your friend, Frank,’ Bjarne continued and placed his hand on my knee. ‘The explicit torture and murder scenes have taken over. The plot has been reduced to a weak glue that connects the murders and the characters are all stereotypes. Your stories have no bite these days.’

We had always been honest about each other’s work. At the time of the Scriptorium, we could be merciless in our verdicts, at times so harsh that objects were thrown and doors were slammed, but Bjarne’s words didn’t upset me. What irritated me was that he didn’t understand.

‘Bjarne …’ I caught his eye and he seemed to realize that I was trying to tell him something important. At any rate, he shut up. ‘Two people, real people, have been murdered. They were killed because of me … or in ways which I have described.’

Bjarne stared at me as if he expected or hoped that I would start to laugh. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat.

‘Is that why you want to get hold of Mortis?’

I nodded.

‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘Mortis couldn’t kill anyone. Don’t you remember how thin he was? Nothing but skin and bones.’

‘And hatred,’ I added. ‘If the police were to ask me if I had any enemies, Mortis would spring to mind. I think he hated me with all his being.’

Bjarne shook his head. ‘He was jealous. There’s a difference.’

‘One thing can lead to another,’ I said. ‘I stole his woman and I was successful with—’

‘He wasn’t jealous of your books,’ Bjarne interrupted me. ‘On the contrary, he felt sorry for you. You know what he’s like, utterly uncompromising when it comes to literature. In his eyes, you had lost your way, you had strayed from the light and were on the road to hell. That was enough of a punishment for him.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’

Bjarne drank his brandy before replying.

‘Only a couple of months ago, actually. He called to ask if I wanted to buy some of his books.’ Bjarne closed his eyes and massaged a temple. ‘I declined. It’s not as if we need any more books, but …’

‘But?’

‘Well, it sounded as if he was in trouble.’ Bjarne sighed. ‘It didn’t occur to me until afterwards. I’ve tried to push it from my mind … until now.’

‘When did you last visit?’ I asked.

‘It’s been a long time. He lived in north-west Copenhagen then, 43 Rentemestervej, I looked it up, but I don’t know if he still lives there.’

‘I’ll find out,’ I said.