This was big stuff.
The entrance to the house was blocked by crime tape. On the other side of the tape policemen searched wearing suits and gloves, writing in their notebooks, marking trace evidence, dusting for fingerprints, and marking shoeprints.
According to the radio report Sara had heard on the scanner, the victim was a white male, 46 years old. But I already knew that when I got there. I recognized the house and knew that it could only be Didrik Rosenfeldt. The house used to belong to his parents when I was a kid. And Didrik would come down here on summer vacation from boarding school. He was my sister’s age, and I remembered them hanging out together one summer. But something happened and she dumped him and never spoke of him again. He was a real asshole as far as I knew. He used to come down here and flirt with almost anything that had a pulse. He spent his time hanging out on his parent’s yacht in the port, drinking with his friends from the boarding school, harassing people who were different than they and had less money. A real prick, I would call him. That probably hadn’t changed a bit.
I looked around at the small crowd of neighborhood kids who had gathered in front of the house, peeking in. In the middle, a tall skinny guy stood out. He had a green Mohawk and wore a leather band with spikes around his neck, a leather jacket, and several piercings in his eyebrows, lips and nose. He wore black make-up on his eyes and lips. He stood out in stark contrast to this crowd of high society upper-class kids. In his hands he held a camera that never left his eyes, constantly taking a series of pictures. As I got close to him I noticed that he was missing two of his fingers on his right hand.
“You must be Sune,” I said when I approached him.
He didn’t look down at me, just kept on taking pictures non-stop.
“Mmm …”
“I’m Rebekka Franck. Did you see anything yet?”
“Nope.”
“Has the body been taken out yet?”
“Nope.”
Great, I thought. Then there was a chance we could get a picture of the covered body on the way into the ambulance. That was always a good shot for an article of this kind.
“Don’t you think it’s weird, since the body was found at six o’clock this morning?” Sune asked me.
Now that he said it, I did. It was three in the afternoon. Weren’t they in a hurry to get the body to the lab right away and find the cause of death?
“Yeah, what does that mean?”
“That the body has been hard to get out. Maybe it was lying under something or was tied to something.”
I nodded. This guy knew how to use his head. Not many could do that these days without getting hurt.
“Sounds likely.”
“It must at least be a messy crime scene since it has taken them so long. There are a lot of people in there.”
I nodded again. This guy had been at a crime scene before. And it probably wasn’t here in Karrebaeksminde where he got that kind of experience.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.
“Nope.”
”Copenhagen?”
”Christiania. Have been and always will be a Christianite.”
Ah, a free spirit from Christiania. Also known as “fristaden,” the free-state. It was an area in Copenhagen that had around a thousand inhabitants. They lived by what they liked to call a collectivistic anarchy. Some called it a socialist anarchy. It meant that everybody living there got to take part in all the decisions. To the Christianites, as they called themselves, it meant they were different from the rest of the society and that they lived by their own rules. To the rest of the world it meant that this was a place you could go and buy pot on the streets of Christiania where they sold it out in the open even if it was illegal in the rest of the country. They were a state within the state that the police didn’t touch. They even had their own flag, red with three yellow dots. Today things had changed though. The liberal government had sent in the police and tried to fight the illegal drug trade, and they wanted to remove all the houses that the Christianites had build themselves.
My guess was that Sune wasn’t too thrilled about the police in general. I guessed right.
I kept a close eye on the activities behind the crime-scene tape and soon I spotted the detective who seemed to be in charge. He came out of the house and headed towards one of the police cars, and I yelled at him.
“Excuse me. Rebekka Franck, reporter at Zeeland Times.”
He stopped and stared at me. He then approached.
“Rebekka Franck?”
“Yes.”
Surprisingly he smiled at me.
“You don’t remember me?”
I really didn’t but wouldn’t disappoint him. Besides, I really needed his comment for my article.
“Well, of course I do,” I lied.
“Michael Oestergaard. You used to take dancing lessons at my aunt’s dance studio. Jazz ballet.”
“Miss Lejrskov’s class. Michael. Oh yes, I do remember.”
I really still didn’t, but I remembered my dance teacher. Michael looked to be at least eight or nine years older than me. How could I have remembered him?
“Exactly. I used to hang out there with my brother and look at all the pretty girls. So you are a big-shot reporter now? I must admit I have been following your career. It has brought you around the world?”
“Sort of.”
“And now it has brought you to Karrebaeksminde. I heard from the old Miss Jensen in the tourist-information-desk down on Gl. Brovej that you had come back.”
“And she was right.”
That woman did a little more than informing the tourists around here.
“So you work for the newspaper down here now?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you probably want a comment for your article?”
“I would love that.” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe his courtesy. Normally I wouldn’t get a single word out of the police until they had a press conference, and then I would only get what all the other reporters got.
“Well, I can’t say much.” He lowered his voice and got closer. “But it ain’t pretty, I can tell you that.”
“But what can you tell me about what happened here. Is it a murder?”
“No doubt about it. Someone broke in through the back door and killed the guy.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“No, but we might begin with his wife,” he laughed. “He wasn’t exactly known as one of God’s better children, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t, I’m sorry. So you will be questioning the wife in the near future?”
“Sure, but don’t write that. That would be interfering with investigative information. You know that.”
“Then please just tell me what I can write.”
“Write that the victim has been identified as Didrik Rosenfeldt, CEO and owner of the world-known company Seabas Windmills, and known as a part of the famous and very wealthy Rosenfeldt family. He apparently was killed by an intruder in his summer residence, there is an ongoing investigation, and that … is it, I think.”
I wrote everything he said in my notebook.
“Why hasn’t the body been removed from the house yet?” I asked.
The detective sighed deeply.
”I really can’t get into that.”
Sune had probably been right.
“How did he die?”
The detective got an occupied look on his face.
“We don’t know yet. That’s for the crime lab to figure out. I am sorry but I really have to get on with my job …”
“But surely you must have an idea?”
“We do, but we won’t share it with the public, yet.”
I nodded. That’s what I expected. The crime scene must have been messy just as Sune said. I spotted Sune out of the corner of my eye. He took pictures of the body as it was finally removed from the house in a body bag and transported in an ambulance.
“Who found the body???
? I asked Detective Oestergaard.
”The housekeeper found him this morning, when she came to clean the house.”
“At what time?”
”She called us at six.”
“Can we talk to her?”
“Well, I guess I can ask her.”
I had to pinch my arm. I’d never met this kind of cooperation from the police. Were they always like this or was it because he knew me? Anyway, he left me for a second and came back with a small Philippine woman with an empty look in her eyes and an expression like she had seen the devil himself and lived to tell about it. It seemed she was still in shock and I knew I had to be careful.
I greeted her with a handshake and introduced myself. The detective left us, his duty calling. I waved at Sune and signaled I wanted him to come and take her picture. He came right away.
“So, that must have been real horrible for you,” I began.
“I … I just walked in, like I normally do. Normally he isn’t in the house. I didn’t expect … I mean, how could I know?”
“Of course you didn’t know. Can you tell me a little about what you saw?”
She didn’t look at me but stared into open air.
“He was dead. Blood everywhere. On all the floors in the living room. All over the parquet. It was like a slaughterhouse. He was shredded to pieces. Ripped apart like an animal would kill its prey. No man could have done this. Only a demon.”
6
“Did you write this article about my father?”
The chubby redhead man in front of me looked like his father back in the days when I used to see him down at the port hanging out and drinking with his boarding school buddies.
He had been waiting for me at the entrance when I arrived at the newspaper the very next morning. He held the paper with a picture of Didrik Rosenfeldt on the front page.
“Yes, I did.” I opened the door into the editorial room.
Didrik Rosenfeldt Jr. followed me all the way to my desk.
“Can I help you, sir?” Sara said as she came out of the kitchen bearing a cup of coffee and a piece of cake on a plate.
“I want an apology from the newspaper. A formal one.”
I looked at him. “For what?”
“For publishing this,” he said and pointed at the interview with the housekeeper. “This line, where she says that a demon killed my father. Giving all kinds of details that the public shouldn’t know about. I don’t want you to write any more about this case. Do you understand?”
Sara placed a cup of coffee in front of me, and I took it.
“Did you want one too?” I asked.
He snorted and pointed at me with shaky finger.
“Do you know who I am, and what my family is capable of?”
“I think I might have an idea.”
“I warn you …”
“Or what?”
”Or …”
I put down my coffee cup and leaned toward him. I wasn’t afraid of anybody, least of all of him.
”Listen. You don’t scare me one bit, mister. I have faced a lot worse bastards in my time in Iraq. And by the way, last time I checked we have freedom of speech in this country. Besides, they were the housekeeper’s words, not mine. I just printed them. That is not illegal. So just fuck off.”
I hadn’t noticed Sune who had come in the room. Now I saw him smiling for the first time.
Didrik Rosenfeldt Jr. snorted again, very loudly this time, but soon realized that he was defeated. Blushing he turned around and walked quickly towards the door. Before he left he turned around and looked at me.
“This is not the last word in this case.” He disappeared out of the room. I shook my head and sat down starting my computer.
“What a prick. Just like his father,” I mumbled.
The two others in the room kept staring at me. Sara sat down and Sune started clapping.
“Way to go, Rebekka.”
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing? You just told the owner of the newspaper to fuck off.”
I looked up. “He’s the owner of the newspaper?”
“Well not directly. But his family owns the corporation that owns the newspaper.”
I felt my body getting heavier in the seat. “So he could have me fired for doing that?”
Sune sat down at the corner of my table. ”He probably wouldn’t, I guess.”
Sune looked at Sara.
“You’ll be just fine,” she said, not too reassuringly.
Moving through the day, I wanted to write a follow-up article about the murder. I couldn’t stop wondering about the case. And I didn’t want to. Now that I had risked my job and was probably going to get fired anyway, it didn’t matter if I upset Didrik Rosenfeldt’s son any more. I wanted to figure this case out.
A man like Didrik Rosenfeldt probably had a lot of enemies who wanted him dead. It could be for financial reasons. He was good for over $6.2 billion. That was 6.2 billion reasons to kill him right there. But he was also about to fire three thousand people in his company. That could have ticked someone off. He also had an investment company that may have made a bad investment for someone. Maybe he cheated someone for a lot of money.
And then there was the wife angle. He was known around town to be having affairs with a lot of women and bringing them to the summer residence. Maybe his wife simply had enough and she wanted him to suffer, to die a merciless death as revenge for humiliating her.
It had been seen before, but mostly in foreign countries. Denmark was a small country with only 5.5 million inhabitants. We didn’t have that many killings or even that much crime compared with many other European countries. And almost every murder case was solved. Ninety-six percent of the cases to be exact according to the police department’s own records.
I was very intrigued—and somewhat disgusted—by what the housekeeper said about the crime-scene and how the body looked when she arrived, and I wanted to know more. Maybe there was something in the way he died or in the way they found him that could tell me what kind of killer we were talking about. Could it have been a sex game that went wrong?
I picked up the phone and called my detective dance school friend at the police station, who was thrilled to hear from me, but he was of no help. They still hadn’t gotten the autopsy report yet, so they didn’t know exactly what had killed him.
Surprisingly, he ended the conversation by asking me out.
“Like a date?” I asked loudly.
Apparently it was so loud that Sara looked surprised at me with her headphones on. I smiled and pretended it was nothing, so Sara wouldn’t spread the word. She was information central around here. No doubt about that. And I had to be very careful what I let her know about me if I didn’t want the rest of the town to know it a few minutes later.
“I’m sorry, Michael. But I just got away from a bad marriage, and I need time to get back on my legs. And my daughter needs stability for now. But thanks. I’m flattered that you would ask.” I tried to let him down politely.
“But maybe another time then?” He sounded so disappointed. I never liked rejecting someone.
“Maybe. Let’s wait and see.” I said goodbye and put the phone down.
So they didn’t even know what killed the guy yet. Nothing new to put in the paper then.
I was beginning to get irritated and frustrated when I suddenly thought about my sister in Naestved. She used to date the Didrik and she and her friends hung out with him. I remembered how they hated him for not treating women well. My sister especially seemed to be angry with him after she dumped him. And it was more than just a normal hurt and anger after a breakup. She loathed him. Detested everything about him and his friends. Maybe I could make a sort of portrait of him.
I called headquarters and they loved the idea. So they hadn’t spoken to Junior yet. Fine by me. I would continue. Go out with a bang. Didrik Rosenfeldt was a respected business man and well known in the jet-set society; he came from a noble family one of the few left.
He was one step from royalty.
But he was also a prick, and I was going to tell the world the truth about him.
7
Henrik Holch gave his credit card to the caterer. He had brought in the staff of the world famous Noma restaurant to cater the party. Everyone knew they had just won the world’s best restaurant award last year. It had cost him a small fortune, but since he had a big one he hardly blinked when they gave him the bill.
“Just charge it to this card.”
Long after they all were gone he could still taste the oysters and reindeer tongue with Jerusalem artichoke and marjoram along with the 2007 Chataeuneuf-Du-Pape “Les Vielles Vignes” from Domaine de Villeneuve Rhone-sud.
As always, his party had been a huge success. Now he needed some time alone, doing what he liked to do.
He crossed the living room with remains of the party everywhere. His housekeeper would take care of that in the morning, before his kids came for the weekend. Not that he particularly enjoyed their company. They had become annoying over the years, just like their mother. He laughed to himself, as he opened a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a large glass.
For now he preferred to be alone, without the fear that anyone might interrupt him and find out what he was doing. Some things were to be kept to one's self, like his father said once, when he walked in on Henrik masturbating in his room.
In order to get rid of the stench of cigars he opened the big French doors that led out in the garden. Outside his landscaper had made a beautiful play of lights for the guests to enjoy when they gazed out the windows. It was indeed beautiful. He unbuttoned his white shirt under the Armani tuxedo and took a deep breath of the cold fresh February air. Everything around him was proof of his success and power. Yes he had been somewhat of a party boy who wouldn’t grow up, as his soon-to-be ex-wife called him. But so what? He deserved it. Yes he liked to do a little cocaine every once in a while, and yes he often had a few strippers attend the party and had sex with them afterwards.