Death Sentence

concerned with writing a spectacular crime scene and had knowingly allowed this factual error.

Linda’s killer had to be an expert. It shook me – physically as well – as I sat there on the bench. All the time I had regarded myself as an authority in the field, but it was clear that I didn’t have the necessary practical experience to describe all the details accurately and this was what had enraged the killer. He knew more about the body’s reaction than I did. He wanted to educate me, highlight my inadequacy and my errors.

I had met my master.

Impressions from the world around me slowly returned. I noticed the traffic and the sounds from the street. The wind got hold of me and reminded me of the season and my flimsy clothing. I opened my eyes and looked around. I had walked almost in a trance before I sat down and now I saw that I was outside the Zoological Garden in Frederiksberg.

There was still another two kilometres to my hotel, but I covered the distance with brisk, purposeful steps.

I pushed open the door to the lobby with both hands and crossed the room. Fortunately the reception was unstaffed so I picked up my key and went straight to the lift. It took for ever before the doors started to close and just before they met, they were blocked by a hand. The doors opened again and revealed Sergeant Kim Vendelev, the boy detective from Vesterbro police station.

‘Frank Fons,’ he said and entered the lift.

I held my breath and waited for the inevitable continuation. He would arrest me and take me down to the station. He briefly looked me up and down, but his facial expression didn’t change even though I was wearing my spoils from the charity shop: blue shoes, brown corduroy trousers, a red pullover and my own black jacket, which by now was rather crumpled. I was still holding the book and I sneaked my hands behind my back to hide both the book and their shaking.

‘Glad I caught you,’ he continued. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

The doors closed and the lift started pulling us up inside the building.

‘I was just about to go home,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken forensic samples all day, but we’ve almost finished now.’ He exhaled heavily.

As did I, mentally. If he wanted to arrest me, he would have done it by now.

‘Have you found anything?’ I asked, although I didn’t want to know.

‘There’s plenty of evidence,’ he said. ‘Too much, almost, but this is a hotel. A lot of people pass through so there’s a mountain of paperwork to process – you know, the kind that solves crimes.’

‘You’ll get there in the end,’ I said. It was hard to keep calm. Two people in a lift take up a lot of space and it wasn’t easy to hide my nerves. I was sweating and I couldn’t help tapping my foot.

‘But while we were working, I heard some of my colleagues say something about the deceased.’

‘Yes?’

‘They said that Verner Nielsen had shown an interest in a murder on the north coast, more specifically in Gilleleje. That’s near where you live, isn’t it?’

I started to feel faint. My body was swaying slightly and I had to fix my eyes on the doors in order not to fall.

‘Are you OK?’ Sergeant Vendelev said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

At that moment the doors opened and I fell on my knees out into the corridor. I dropped the book when I instinctively tried to cushion the fall with my hands and it landed a short distance from me. I started wheezing.

‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’ Sergeant Vendelev asked anxiously.

I shook my head.

‘It’s OK,’ I panted. ‘I just don’t like lifts.’

‘Perhaps you should have taken the stairs?’ Vendelev suggested and picked up the book with one hand while helping me to my feet with the other.

I staggered towards my room.

‘I think I had better make sure you get to bed in one piece,’ the sergeant said.

Vendelev supported me to my door where I struggled to insert the key with my still trembling hands. He led me to the nearest chair into which I collapsed and placed the book on the coffee table. The top of the photo stuck out so you could see my daughter’s eyes. The sergeant went to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water. I accepted it gratefully and gulped half of it down.

‘I didn’t know you were claustrophobic,’ Vendelev said, sitting down opposite me. ‘But then again, I don’t suppose there are many lifts in Rageleje?’

I shook my head and drank the rest of the water.

‘Because that’s where you live, isn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘It’s a remarkable coincidence that Verner shows an interest in a murder near where you live, after which he’s murdered at a hotel where you’re staying, don’t you think?’

I agreed that it looked like more than a coincidence, but suggested that this was what separated reality from fiction; in fiction nothing was coincidental. He appeared to reflect on this and nodded to himself with his eyes fixed on Outer Demons, which lay between us. He reached for the book.

‘Yes, it’s very strange that—’

‘Thanks for helping,’ I interrupted him and took the book before he could pick it up. ‘But I think I had better get to bed.’ I nodded in the direction of the bedroom.

‘You’re sure you’re feeling better?’ he asked and got up.

I nodded.

He kept looking at me. ‘The power of phobias is extraordinary,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen grown men break down in aeroplanes and police officers run away from a domestic spider … By the way, haven’t you written a novel based on phobias?’

I tried to swallow the last drops of water from the glass.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘In the Red Zone.’

‘In the Red Zone,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll make a note of that. Phobias are fascinating, perhaps I ought to read it.’

My breathing had almost returned to normal, but my heart was still pounding like a marathon runner’s.

‘I think you should,’ I said and managed a smile.

‘Right,’ Vendelev exclaimed. ‘I’ll leave you in peace so you can recover. We can always discuss Verner’s pet project some other time.’

I nodded and smiled, even though I knew that if I ever saw Sergeant Vendelev again, it would be in handcuffs.

35

THE FIRST THING I did when Sergeant Vendelev had left me alone in my hotel room was to take off my clothes and have a shower. My body smelled of sex and death and Linda Hvilbjerg’s blood was still smeared across my legs. I showered for more than half an hour before I felt clean again.

I put on a fresh set of clothes and sat down on the sofa with Outer Demons. My strongest feelings of horror had subsided and been replaced by a sense of purpose, prompted by my discovery. I had found out what motivated the killer: factual errors in my books. Now I had to think of a way to stop him.

Outer Demons was my third book and I hadn’t put much effort into researching it. Verner had helped me with minor aspects, but the book had practically written itself and I didn’t want to wreck it by making it technical or didactic. Consequently, I might be looking for several factual errors; it was only a question of which ones had offended the killer the most.