Death Sentence

33

WHOEVER HAD LEANED the book against Linda Hvilbjerg’s front door – and it had to be the killer – hadn’t bothered wrapping it. No envelope this time and nor did I need to turn it over to know which book it was. I recognized my breakthrough novel, Outer Demons, from the back alone.

I took a step back and stared at the book. My heart started to pound. The sense of being under surveillance returned. It was as if someone was watching me from a control room with monitors everywhere to display every reaction of my body and face and microphones to pick up every sound I uttered. Graphs illustrated my pulse, sensors registered my sweat production and body temperature, and an emoticon conveyed the information about my current state of mind.

Right now the emoticon would signal horror. It would look like The Scream by Edvard Munch.

But I didn’t scream. I was too scared to scream.

Minutes before I opened the door, I had been ready to go to the police and tell them everything. I was prepared to run the risk that they might imprison me, suspect me of murder – not unreasonably – and I had braced myself for long painful interrogations in a dark interview room with bright lights, good cop/bad cop routines and all the other clichés.

The book changed everything.

Even before I opened it, I knew I couldn’t go to the police. I knew that whatever I was about to find out would mean I couldn’t talk to anyone. When I discovered the book with Linda’s photo at Hotel BunkInn, I had believed it would give me a head start, that I could anticipate the killer’s next move and would have enough time to do something about it, but now it seemed to me that I had fallen in with the killer’s plan. It had always been his intention that I would contact Linda and put myself in a situation where I would be the one to discover her body.

But the game wasn’t over yet. That was what the book was telling me. It signalled that I had no will of my own, but would have to keep on playing for as long as the killer was entertained.

Outside birds were chirping. A breeze wafted mild air through the hall, a welcome change to the smell of death in the living room.

I looked up from the book and across the street. There was no one around. The area seemed deserted by all other life forms except birds. Only the trees moved in the wind, scattering autumn leaves on the pavement.

Slowly, I took a step forwards and knelt down. Still looking across the street, I picked up the book and pulled it towards me. I stood up, stepped back, closed the door softly and locked it. The sound of birdsong disappeared.

I went back to the living room and sat down in the chair. Linda’s body was hanging with her back to me as if she had turned away in contempt. I turned the book over with shaking hands and realized I had been right. It was Outer Demons, a cheap paperback copy, but apparently unread, like the other greetings the killer had sent me.

I found the photo roughly halfway through the book. My heart stopped.

If I hadn’t just seen my daughter, Ironika, at the book fair, I would probably have struggled to recognize her from the picture. She seemed very grown-up, but in that slightly affected way children sometimes have when they mimic their parents. Her eyelids were dark and she wore a little blusher on her cheeks. Her hair was carefully tousled and she had a challenging, almost defiant expression in her blue eyes. A curtain or a rug hung in the background, and the lighting was simple but professional. It looked like a school photo.

I turned the photo over. The name of the photographer, Inger Klausen, the name of her company, K-Foto, and their telephone number were listed on the back. At that moment, I hated Inger Klausen for even having looked at my daughter.

I put the book and the picture of my daughter on the table in front of me and buried my face in my hands. A howling sound started to build up inside me and it travelled up to my chest. It couldn’t be suppressed, but rolled out through my throat and mouth. My entire body shook from crying, despair and impotence.

I clenched my hands, stood up and screamed at the ceiling. The sound frightened me, but gave me some relief, so I carried on until I had no more air left in me. The tears were streaming down my cheeks and a mix of wailing, shouting and snarling erupted from my throat.

I went over to Linda’s body, stood in front of her frozen face and howled as loud as I could. A last remnant of self-control prevented me from bashing away at her.

‘What do you want?’ I yelled. ‘What is it you want?’

Linda Hvilbjerg didn’t reply. She only stared stubbornly back at me.

It started to get dark outside. The living room turned grey and alien and its designer furniture was reduced to unrecognizable shapes. The stench of death and decay was pronounced. I could no longer ignore it and ultimately I think that was what drove me on.

With the police out of the picture, I didn’t need to worry about leaving the house, or the crime scene as it now was, undisturbed. Besides, I owed Linda Hvilbjerg some respect. I took off my jacket and the shirt I’d taken from Linda’s wardrobe, and went out into the kitchen to fetch a knife. In the living room I cut Linda down and carried her upstairs. She was heavy, heavier than anything I had ever carried, and when I laid her down on her bed, my naked upper body was covered in sweat and blood. I removed the paper from her mouth, closed her eyes and pulled the duvet over her. At the door to the bedroom I gave her a final glance.

I washed myself again, put the shirt and jacket back on and picked up the novel before I left the house.

Linda owned a Mercedes Smart, one of those cars you can park in a phone booth and costs a small fortune despite its size. I didn’t know where to go. The smell of death haunted me and I was aware of the state of my clothes. First I had to find something clean to wear.

The engine started at once and I headed for the city centre. It was early Sunday evening, and there were few people in the streets of this Copenhagen suburb.

Close to the local railway station, I found what I was looking for. A Salvation Army charity shop was located in the basement of an older building facing Vigerslev Allé. The steps leading down to the shop were piled high with black bin bags, donations from well-meaning people who thought that others might find a use for the 1980s bell-bottoms they had now definitively outgrown.

I parked on the pavement, close to the entrance and got out after checking there was no one around. The steps down to the shop were wide and deep and around ten bin bags were lying there. I squatted down on the edge of the top step, grabbed hold of the first bin bag and tore it open. The tear revealed pink colours, white tights, princess dresses and teddy bears. I threw the bin bag aside and took a new one. It was full of suits, but I soon discovered that they were far too small for me.

When I ripped open bin bag number three, I was joined by a tall, thin man in a long coat. His dark hair was wispy and his stubble revealed it was a while since he’d had a shave. I threw him a frightened look, but he merely nodded to me and sat down on the steps where he started on the bin bag I had just discarded. He didn’t waste time rummaging through the bag, but tipped out the contents in front of him and studied the clothes through narrow eyes. He held up a jacket, but realized – as I had done – that it was too small and tossed it down the steps.

I copied his example and emptied the contents of my bin bag on the pavement. It was full of curtains and bed linen. I kicked them aside and started on the next one. The man held up a small pink princess dress. Something made his eyes light up and he stuffed it inside his long coat and smiled with satisfaction. Then he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. In the glow from the lighter, I saw that his face was pockmarked and it was dark around one of his eyes. He hummed to himself as he stretched his lean body and grabbed another bin bag.

My next bag contained children’s clothing. Small socks, shorts and T-shirts spilled out and buried my feet. I kicked them out of the way. People really did throw away an unbelievable amount of children’s clothes. Surely there must be something somewhere I could use. Irritably, I glanced at the man next to me. He had found a pair of corduroy trousers. He turned them over and over while nodding to himself, then he stood up and held the trousers up to his waist. His cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he looked down himself with approval. A little ash fell on the corduroy trousers and he brushed it off carefully.

The anger rose inside me. Those trousers would have suited me. In fact, they were too big in the waist for him and a little too short for his long skinny legs. I was supposed to have found them. I was there first. They belonged to me.

I got up and stepped over to him. At first he didn’t notice. He was focused on his trophy and grinned idiotically at his luck. Finally, he looked up. His half-open eyes stared into mine with wonder and he frowned. Without a word, I grabbed hold of the corduroy trousers and yanked them from him. However, he had a strong grip and I only succeeded in pulling him closer.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he grunted.

‘Let go,’ I said. ‘They’re mine.’

‘No, they’re bloody not,’ he replied tugging at the trousers. ‘I found them, find your own.’

I let go of the trousers, but only to shove the man hard in the chest. He fell backwards and the cigarette slipped out of his mouth. His eyes were no longer half closed, but wide open, and he stared at me in disbelief.

‘Give them to me,’ I ordered him.

He tried to get back on his feet, but I pushed him and he fell again. His head snapped backwards and he hit it against the pavement with a sickening thud.

‘Shit!’ I swore and knelt down by his side.

Wailing noises were coming from his mouth and his eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them again and looked at me, there was fear in them. He let go of the trousers and scrambled away from me.

‘You’re a psycho, man.’

I took a step towards him and held out my hand. ‘I’m really—’

‘Stay away from me!’

I picked up the trousers and got back to work. The bin bag he’d ripped open lay exposed like a cadaver and I searched through it quickly. There were several pairs of trousers, jumpers and even a pair of shoes. I cradled everything in my arms and walked back to the car. With some effort I managed to open the door to the passenger side and dumped the clothes on the seat.

The man in the long coat had reached the next set of steps where he sat down, hugging himself and glaring at me.

I ignored him, got in the car and drove off.