Death Sentence

intrusive noise. Music was out of the question. Even the racket of chainsaws or lawnmowers sometimes destroyed my rhythm.

I felt best when I rose at the same time, ate the same breakfast, wrote roughly the same amount of text during the day and finally rewarded myself with a whisky in the afternoon with Bent.

I’m sure that a totally predictable life would have made me want to scream in the Scriptorium days. Back then we wrote in response to experiences and unique events, not in routine and repetition. If anyone had told me then that I would spend ten years writing in a holiday cottage, I would have laughed at them. I had wanted to travel, see the world, and I never wanted to write the same story twice.

The reality turned out to be something else. Reality was a day with fixed working hours, weeks all the same and months distinguished from each other only by the changing weather and the nature of gardening tasks.

My days were filled with thoughts of when to rake up leaves while I typed my way through quotas of words and sentences with the regularity of a train timetable.

This rhythm was only rarely disturbed – until the telephone rang one morning.

Monday

37

FROM THE MOMENT I discovered Outer Demons on Linda Hvilbjerg’s doorstep, I felt the next move was up to me. The killer had held off murdering Linda until I had taken my place on the stage and everything suggested the ball was now in my court. I knew the victim – my own daughter – and it was impossible to do nothing.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became what I had to do. Pointing out the error regarding the Osterbro post office must be an invitation. Just like the killer in Outer Demons, he was offering a way we could communicate, a chance for me to contact him rather than wait for his messages.

In the book, the killer sent his letters straight to the detective, Kenneth Vagn, who replied via the PO box. This was my opening: I would write to him and he could reply directly to me.

Monday morning I checked out of the hotel.

Ferdinan apologized profoundly and gave me a substantial discount. He placed the entire blame on his own drooping shoulders and, when I left him in reception, he didn’t look like a man who wanted to stay in the hotel business. But then I probably didn’t look like someone who wanted to stay in the book business.

My time in Copenhagen was far from over, but I couldn’t bear to stay at the hotel any longer. I had to get away from the strained atmosphere and Ferdinan’s wounded eyes.

When I finally sat in my car, my body filled with relief. I felt in control, not just of the car, but also what would happen next.

It was time for me to play my part.

My first stop was Nordhavn station. There I bought a newspaper, some magazines, sweets and crisps. I made sure to get the right change for the photo booth. Then I drove to the post office where I bought a large envelope in which I placed my message and delivered it to the PO box mentioned in Outer Demons. I didn’t doubt for a moment that the killer had taken the same box as was mentioned in the book. When I posted the envelope, I had the feeling the act forged a bond between us, that a connection was established like a conversation through a switchboard.

Now all I had to do was wait.

That was why I had bought something to read. But newspapers and magazines weren’t a substitute for whisky. I parked by the post office and walked across Trianglen and down Nordre Frihavnsgade. Vinborsen appeared like an oasis. I bought two bottles of Oban single malt, an 18-year-old, and a set of rustic whisky glasses in a gift box. Back in the car, I ripped off the wrapping paper and poured myself half a glass. The first mouthful made me shudder, but I forced down the rest of the contents and placed the glass by the handbrake.

I had no illusion of catching the killer on his way in or out of the post office, so I turned the key in the ignition and drove off. It was mid-morning, the traffic was tolerable and there were plenty of parking spaces in the otherwise busy Osterbro area.

I wasn’t going far. Kartoffelr?kkerne lay around a kilometre from the post office. After less than five minutes I turned into the street where I lived ten years ago. Property prices had more than quadrupled since then and it was clear that the rise in values had given the area a facelift. Several of the more than 100-year-old, two-storey terraced houses had been fitted with new windows and roofs and the small front gardens were well tended and practically all of them displayed teak garden furniture and Weber barbecues.

I parked a short distance from the house where Line now lived with another man. The man my daughters regarded as their father. No one appeared to be in. Line must be at work and the girls at school. Their front garden gave the neighbours a run for their money. The area was landscaped with tiles, flowerbeds and a few areas of freshly mown grass. This had to be Bjorn’s doing. Line had never been one for gardening, though she was otherwise very practical. I smiled to myself at the memory of Line who with graceful movements offered to help out in the garden, but quickly had enough and invented an excuse to leave. ‘Why don’t I make us a cup of coffee?’ she would say and disappear into the kitchen. Half an hour later she would appear with the world’s best cappuccino with an intricate pattern painted in the froth.

I sank into my seat so I could just about see over the dashboard and poured myself another whisky. The warmth from the alcohol and the memories spread through my body. Once upon a time I had lived here, worked here and been happy. I had everything I could ever want. A house, a wife, children, and the job that made it possible to provide everything they needed.

I have always despised people in interviews who claim they have no regrets or that they wouldn’t have done anything different in their lives. Everyone has hurt someone or acted selfishly and others have suffered as a result, but very few are prepared to admit it. The worst offenders are those who acknowledge they have upset other people, but almost celebrate it under the mantra: ‘It made me who I am today’. Who the hell do they think they are? What’s so special about them that it’s OK for them to hurt others? And if they hadn’t done it in the first place, wouldn’t they have been better people? If they don’t wish to change anything about their lives, aren’t they lacking in self-awareness or, at least, imagination?

I had imagination in spades.

A few drops of rain started falling on the windscreen and hit the roof like little water spears. The sound of drops hitting the metal was loud and steady and it increased slowly. The drops diminished in size but grew in number and at last generated almost constant noise as they hammered down on the car. In a few minutes, the temperature inside had plummeted. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter, sinking further into the seat.

It was impossible to make out contours outside; everything was distorted by the veil of water cascading down the windscreen. Every now and then I could make out people darting through the rain, enigmatic figures with distorted limbs moving behind the water curtain.

I thought about switching on the wipers, but dismissed the idea. I had no idea how long I would be sitting there and didn’t want to draw attention to myself. If communicating through the PO box really did work, it might not be necessary for me to stay so close to my former family, but if the killer wanted to carry out his plan regardless, then this was the only place I should be.