The Hanging Girl

EPILOGUE

They stood for a few minutes, following the flashing blue lights until they faded away in an ocean of green trees.

Carl inspected Assad’s chalk-white bandage. It was tight and secure.

“What did the doctor say to you, Assad?”

“I showed him that I can bend my thumb, and then he gave me a shot of antibiotics.”

“And?”

“I could bend it, Carl, what more is there to say?”

Carl nodded. In a couple of hours Assad would be sitting on a scheduled flight to Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen, and the burn unit at Rigshospitalet was only a fifteen-minute drive from there. He’d talk Assad round in the end.

“Are we agreed about what to do now?”

“Yes, we drive to Listed.”

They’d hardly driven halfway before they heard Assad’s cell, and he put it on speakerphone. The person on the other end introduced herself as Ella Persson, police secretary from Kalmar, saying that she was calling on behalf of Criminal Inspector Frans Sundström.

“We’ve found out who sent for the police and ambulance at the Nature Absorption Academy on Öland,” she said. “By listening to the tape again from the emergency dispatch center, it appears that it was the leader of the center, Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi’s voice. We also have reason to believe that it was the same person who cut you free. There’s certainly nobody else willing to take credit for it. Criminal Inspector Sundström thought you’d be interested. He thought it would put Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi’s actions in something of a different light. He just wanted you to know before you arrest him.”

Carl looked out over the landscape that the same Frank Brennan had trawled all over many years ago. And while he thought about that, Assad answered the police secretary that she could report that Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi had passed away and that they’d presumably receive a report from the local Bornholm Police.

They spent the remainder of the journey in silence. That information would take a while to sink in.

* * *

There was an aura around Christian Habersaat’s house in Listed that hadn’t been there before. The house was suddenly in the past. The estate of a deceased, a DIY offer, one man’s monument of a failed life. There were still secrets in a way, of course, but the mystery was gone.

They looked in the windows and noticed how effective Rose’s efforts had been. Apart from a few packing materials and furniture that had been used as shelf space, there was nothing left to remind anyone that there’d been a complete manifesto of a crime collected here.

They looked over at the double doors of the garage and noticed that the authorities had fitted it with a padlock.

“Shall we wait for a locksmith so we can come in via the house entrance to the garage, or shall I just open it?” asked Assad.

Carl was about to ask how he intended to do it without tools but before he could, Assad put his good hand in between the doors and jerked them. The padlock was still hanging where it had always been, but the fitting wasn’t, so the doors flung open to reveal a darkness that their eyes had to adjust to.

The sight was the same as before: tire tracks, old inflatable water toys, and tins of paint on the shelves, empty cardboard boxes here and there.

They leaned their heads back, looking up at the beams with the Windsurfer sail, skis, and ski poles.

They went back to the entrance, trying to get a better angle to see what might be lying on top of the other stuff. And when they still couldn’t see anything new, they walked right out of the garage. And just there, standing at a very specific angle, it looked as if there might be something lying on top of the sailcloth, pushed right back toward the end wall.

“We won’t get up there without a ladder, Carl,” said Assad.

“Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

He put his hands around Assad’s shoe and pushed him up. Amazing how Pirjo, slight as she was, had managed to shift him. He was heavy enough to give you a crook in your back.

“Yes” was all he said from up there.

“Yes, what?”

“Here’s the shovel blade. About one and a half meters long with white capital letters on it. I can’t see what it says, but we already know that.”

Carl shook his head. How absurd could it be? If only there’d been a ladder back then, the search for Frank would’ve ended there.

“Take a photo of it. Put the flash on,” groaned Carl. It didn’t feel very comfortable standing like this anymore.

There was a flash and Carl prepared to bend his knees to help his friend back to the ground again.

“Just a second, Carl,” he said. “There’s something hanging on the wall behind the shovel. Give me an extra push up.”

Carl struggled. It was the sort of maneuver that could go wrong, so he braced himself and pushed him up as well as he could.

“Yes!” he shouted from up there. “You can let me down now.”

“What is it?” asked Carl, straightening his back.

Assad passed it to him. It was a crisp white envelope. No dirt or dust and no cobwebs. Just as untouched and unused as if it had come straight out of a drawer.

To the investigators was written on the front in Habersaat’s unmistakable handwriting.

They looked at each other.

“Open it,” said Assad, and he did.

It was a compact and handwritten page of paper, which had been used before because there was something printed on the back.

To the investigators written again at the top, finishing with Habersaat’s signature.

“Read it aloud, Carl. I can’t read his crawl.”

“Scrawl, Assad, but never mind!”

He read:

You worked it out, then, and the mission is complete.

My suspicion of Bjarke was strengthened when sometime after Alberte’s death I found this thing, which Bjarke had apparently used to sell Christmas trees. I thought I remembered him working on something of the sort and found it up here while the whole island was looking for it.

But even though a lot pointed to my son, my suspicion of my wife’s ex-lover was also strong. Yes, I knew full well about their relationship. My network on the island has many mouths, and through which I also received strong indications that the man with the VW Kombi was the same man who met up with Alberte.

Then I found the splint at the crime scene, and several other things gave me hope that I was wrong about Bjarke. The desire for revenge and the ingrained urge to protect go hand in hand too often, unfortunately. And I couldn’t find a motive for Bjarke. Why should he kill a totally unknown girl? It didn’t make any sense. I knew he wasn’t interested in the opposite sex. That was a subject June and I argued a lot about. She found it really hard to take in. But I think that in the police we have a broader moral compass than so many others.

So my investigation pointed toward the man in the VW. And it continued that way until I found the crucial evidence that, despite everything, Bjarke did have a weighty motive.

I found it when one day, a month ago, I annexed Bjarke’s old room for my investigation material, and found this in a box with old PC games.

That’s what you can see if you turn the paper over.

Carl turned it over.

It was an old print of shortcuts to the Star Trek game, with notes in pencil, and at the bottom in very small capitals was written:

TO FRANK

It was the poem Bjarke had written about his fascination with him. They knew what it said.

“Read the rest of what Habersaat wrote, Carl,” said Assad.

It was only after finding this poem that I seriously understood it all. Bjarke was in love with the same man as my wife. And he killed Alberte because he’d been pushed aside to make way for the young girl. Bjarke must’ve written it sometime afterward. Probably just before he moved out from here. It’s now so clear and logical to me, and it’s breaking my heart.

I apologize with all sincerity for being so insistent in my determination to pin a crime on an innocent man, when all along it was my son who’d committed the terrible crime.

Now I’m leaving his fate in your hands. I can’t find it in me to go after my own son. So it stops here.

Christian Habersaat, April 29th, 2014.

They stood for a long time without saying a word.

They thought the same.

“He wrote this the day before he called you, Carl,” said Assad finally.

Carl nodded.

“He’d already made the decision to kill himself before that.”

“Yes. Of course it’s a small comfort, what with everything else.” Carl shook his head. “If only we’d seen that letter a bit earlier. Rose was right. Habersaat knew that his son was involved somehow or other.”

“Yes, but not that it was his wife who did it. We’d never have found that out if we hadn’t investigated in the way we did, Carl. June Habersaat would’ve taken it to the grave.”

He nodded. “We should call Rose and tell her she was right in connection with Habersaat, and that June Habersaat has confessed to everything.”

Assad gave him a thumbs-up with his remaining healthy thumb, selected Rose’s number, and activated the speakerphone.

It was a while before someone answered. They were just about to hang up.

“This is Rose’s phone, you’re speaking with Yrsa,” said the voice. It certainly wasn’t Rose.

“Er, is that you, Rose?” asked Carl. Had she fallen back into the role-play?

“No, I said it was Yrsa. I’m Rose’s sister. Who am I speaking with?”

Carl was still unsure, but if she wanted to play, then she could play.

“Carl. Deputy Police Superintendent Carl Mørck, Rose’s boss, if I can put it that way.”

“Oh,” she said, as if it was bad news. “I’ve tried calling you, Carl Mørck, but your cell doesn’t pick up.”

“I apologize, the battery has died. What—”

“Rose isn’t good,” she interrupted, her voice sounding worried. “I arrived here an hour ago. Rose and I meet once in a while on a Saturday for a cup of tea, you know, and I found her in the bedroom. She didn’t recognize me at all. She kept saying that she’d done what she had to and now she just wanted out of it all.”

“Out of it all?”

“Yes, she’d cut one of her wrists with a pair of scissors. She also claimed to be Vicky, our other sister. She said she’d been hypnotized to believe she was Rose, but that she didn’t want to be her because she was a bad girl. That the hypnosis had gone too deep. She said he told her that he couldn’t help her because she was a cup that was already full.”

“That’s awful.” Carl looked at Assad, who was standing shaking his head.

This couldn’t be true.

“She’s been admitted to Nordvang Hospital, so you shouldn’t expect her anytime soon, if she ever comes back.”

It was Assad’s idea that they should drive down to Aakirkeby and order flowers for Rose and have them sent by Floragram. Then they could buy a bunch to put by Alberte’s tree at the same time.

“You are aware that we can take the same route to the tree that June Habersaat took?” said Assad, when they were finished in town.

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” answered Carl. “But this time we won’t drive quite like last time, okay? I don’t think this car is up for it either.”

Assad sent him a grateful smile.

* * *

They stood for a long time watching the branches and the tree and the small bunch of flowers at the bottom of the trunk. The first time they’d stood in front of this tree, the leaves had barely come out. Now they were already dark green.

“I hope that her parents can finally find some peace,” said Carl.

Assad didn’t comment. He probably doubted it.

They bowed their heads for a moment out of respect for the far too beautiful and naive young woman who never had the life she dreamt of. And then they drove off.

They were speaking about Rose and what they could do for her, when the folk high school suddenly appeared on their right-hand side.

“Stop the car, Carl,” said Assad when they reached it.

He jumped out, crossing the road toward the boulder with the school name engraved on it.

“Are you going to give me a hand?” he shouted after he’d pushed a couple of stones aside that surrounded the base of the boulder.

Carl only just reached him when Assad rolled a dark stone to one side, which was covering a small hole.

“Here it is!” he said triumphantly. “This is where they exchanged messages, Carl. Where June Habersaat left the false note.”

Carl nodded and bent down. It was seventeen years ago, and yet the little hole was still there. He scratched down in the earth in the hole. It was strange to think.

Then the tip of his finger touched something smooth. Was it plastic or just a small stone? He took his pen from his breast pocket and poked it down in the earth, jostling the object free. It was a small clear plastic pocket of the type often used for stamps or recipes. The plastic was totally opaque after so many years in the ground. Strange that it hadn’t been covered more.

“There’s something inside,” said Assad.

He was right. Carl opened it carefully, pulling out a small piece of folded paper. It was in reasonable condition, although the paper had yellowed and become damp.

Carl unfolded the piece of paper and held it so they could both read it.

Dear Alberte, it began.

Forget what I said yesterday. I really want to see you again when you get back to Zealand from the school. My number at the commune is 439032**

It was no longer possible to read the last two numbers. But the writing underneath was clear enough:

Until next time. I love you boundlessly.

Frank

Assad and Carl looked at each other. Frank must have left the message on the same morning Alberte had cycled out to meet her terrible fate.

Assad held his bad hand while Carl put his hand to his neck.

If only he’d left his declaration of love a few minutes before, none of this would ever have happened.

Carl sighed, but felt a little pat on his shoulder.

He looked into a pair of bright brown eyes, framed by smile lines.

At least they were together in sharing this awful knowledge.