Death Sentence

‘Is this a joke?’ I asked, mostly to say something.

‘I’m telling you, this is your murder.’

‘What possible connection—’

‘The woman was alive and equipped with an oxygen tank when she went in,’ Verner interrupted me. ‘She has the same physique. Everything matches. Even the weight used to hold her down.’

‘A marble bust?’

‘Precisely.’

‘And you’re sure it happened in Gilleleje?’

‘Yes.’

My head started to ache. The murder Verner described did sound exactly like one of the killings in my new novel, In the Red Zone. It was the story of a psychopathic psychologist who subjected his patients to their greatest phobia, not in order to cure them, but to kill them in a way that realized their worst nightmare. Hence the murder in the marina involved a woman who had a fear of drowning. The psychologist dived down with her and studied the woman’s panic as she ran out of oxygen and suffocated. He got off on her terror in the cold dark water, her pupils widening and her screams muffled through her mouthpiece and the mass of water. I had murdered other characters via their fear of needles, tight spaces and spiders. Not one of my best efforts.

‘Frank?’ Verner’s tone was harsh.

‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I said.

‘What should we do?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s impossible. It must be a coincidence.’

‘She’s dead, Frank. That’s no coincidence.’

‘But the book has only just been printed,’ I protested. ‘It hasn’t even been published yet.’

Verner had to get back to work. He was on the beat in Copenhagen and dealt mostly with prostitution and petty crime. Murder wasn’t within his remit, so he had nothing more to tell me the first time he called. Thanks to an extensive network within the police force he was normally able to sniff out the information I needed for my books, be it arrest procedures, traffic regulations or ways to kill people. He assured me he would follow the investigation during the day and keep me posted.

It seems to me now that not telling anyone about the possible connection to my book was an unfortunate decision. However, Verner had supplied me with confidential information for years and was probably panicking at the thought of the consequences if he was found out. I was probably too shocked to think straight, though for a moment I fantasized about how the publicity could boost sales. I quickly dismissed that idea, though. It was just as likely the police would stop publication out of respect for relatives or concern for the investigation, and I needed the money. In the last ten to twelve years, I had written a book every eighteen months, and I relied on the income. Not that I lived a life of luxury. Since the divorce, the cottage had become my permanent home – contrary to the terms of the lease – and although it was in reasonable nick, it wasn’t exactly a palace.

‘The Tower’ was one of the older holiday cottages in Rageleje, third row from the beach, on the north coast of Sj?lland, with a spacious garden consisting mainly of lawn surrounded by tall birches and spruces. It was only ten kilometres from Gilleleje Marina, where I regularly bought fish from stalls on the quay.

It was local knowledge that made me pick the marina as the crime scene in In the Red Zone, but now it felt like a mistake. I couldn’t imagine ever shopping at the marina again. In fact, I couldn’t even begin to understand why anyone would commit a murder in the sleepy little fishing village.

So I decided to potter around the cottage doing odd jobs in an attempt to forget that a woman had been killed. It wasn’t easy. I work with death every day. Not an hour goes by without me thinking about new ways to kill people or inflict pain and injury. I turn ordinary household articles and utensils into murder weapons or instruments of torture all the time, but only in my imagination.

Now someone had tried it out for real.

I never got round to raking up the leaves or writing the 2,500 words that constituted my daily target. An hour later, having given up on keeping thoughts about the murder at bay, I comforted myself with a whisky, even though it was only just gone eleven. I sat on the terrace and watched the autumn sun battle large drifting clouds. Piles of fallen leaves were spread around the garden. The wind took hold of the tall trees and shook them, and sometimes a cloud of birch seeds would scatter across the terrace. Several of the tiny three-leaved flakes landed in my drink. They floated around on the surface like pieces of a puzzle, and I studied how they sank to the bottom of the glass as they absorbed the liquid.

I have never quite understood the English phrase ‘copycat murder’. I assume it has nothing to do with cats. In Danish you say that a murderer ‘aped’ another, which makes more sense to me. I can imagine that apes, like children, enjoy mimicking someone else’s movements. The more I thought about ‘copycat’, the more absurd it seemed.

I had drunk my whisky and so I went to fetch another one, along with one of the advance copies of In the Red Zone I’d received a couple of weeks ago. Back on the terrace, I flicked through the book and found the place where the murder occurred. It was roughly two-thirds in and lasted seven pages. The murder was the book’s emotional climax, the scene I tended to plan most carefully.

Kit Hansen, the name of the fictional victim, is a beautiful 28-year-old redhead, slim and fit with large breasts. Her fear of water and of drowning stems from a tragedy in Sharm el Sheikh, where she and her boyfriend go diving by themselves only a few days after completing their training course. They get caught in a fishing net on the seabed. Kit manages to free herself and tries desperately to save her boyfriend, but he is helplessly entangled and she is forced to watch him drown. Bereaved, and laden with guilt, she has to return to Denmark and tell his family how he died, after which she suffers a breakdown. She loses her job with an advertising agency, withdraws from the world and becomes increasingly dependent on prescription drugs. Some time later her neighbour falls in love with her. He is the only person to look after the reclusive woman and slowly his love is noticed and reciprocated. With his help, she quits taking the pills. He also encourages her to see the psychologist, Venstrom, who ultimately murders her. The story ends with the neighbour killing Venstrom, but not before he has been subjected to a torture based on his fear of needles.

I flicked back in the book to the description of Kit Hansen and wondered to what extent she resembled the murdered woman – or, rather, vice versa. If it really was a copycat killing, did the real victim have red hair? Did she have a scar on her shin where the fishing net had cut right through to the bone when she struggled to free herself at the bottom of the sea in the Egyptian diving paradise? How far would the killer go to find a victim who matched the fictional character?

The alcohol was starting to take effect. My body felt heavier and it was getting harder to think clearly. I reread the chapter where Kit Hansen was murdered. Things seemed more and more unreal and I started to doubt if Verner had even called me. Perhaps it had all been just a daydream, a subconscious displacement activity to avoid doing any work.

I decided to go to Gilleleje to see for myself. I needed to find out if a murder really had been committed and, if so, try to establish how far the circumstances surrounding this murder matched mine – or if Verner was simply being paranoid.

2

THE TOYOTA HADN’T been exercised for several months and it protested loudly when I turned the key in the ignition. Finally, it surrendered and I drove along the coast to Gilleleje. Most of the road was flanked by holiday cottages and spruces, but in a few places there was a clear view of the sea. The waves had white crests and in several places the beach was reduced to three to four metres of shingle by the salty foam. It was high tide.

There were few people out and about. November is well outside the tourist season and the cafes and pubs