* * *
THE STAFF ROOM was uncharacteristically quiet when Jeppe walked in. Normally it echoed with conversations and a cheerful hum, but serious investigations always sunk the mood. Jokes about sawed-off heads serving as soccer balls were a crude daily staple of the job. Certain other topics were totally off-limits, such as anything to do with children, or cases where the perpetrator got off due to shoddy work by investigators, or technicalities. And cases like this one. Violent criminals and murderers don’t normally cut into their victims while they’re alive. It was too early to guess whether they were dealing with a sadistic ex-lover or something even worse, but nonetheless, an oppressive silence hung over the staff.
Sitting beside Detective Thomas Larsen was the superintendent, her arms folded over her uniformed chest. She was probably dressed for the imminent press conference. Even though they hadn’t discussed it, Jeppe knew she would try to keep the knife-work pattern on the victim’s face secret from the public for as long as possible. Any details that suggested a seriously deranged perpetrator would be kept in-house for the time being.
How long would that give them?
One day, max two, but that was better than nothing. Jeppe’s eyes met the superintendent’s, and instantly he felt both reassured and nervous about her presence. After ten years of working together, they knew each other well. She understood his strengths but also his weaknesses. They both knew she was taking a chance by entrusting him with a case of this magnitude right now.
He looked his team over.
Torben Falck was one of the older detectives, who had grown round and complacent with the years. He took zealous care of his impressive, graying mustache, wore brightly colored suspenders, and excelled in making bad puns. If Homicide were a baseball team, Falck would be an indispensable outfielder. Maybe not the fastest, but a solid and thorough investigator.
Sara Saidani, next to Falck, was a bit of an enigma on Homicide. The superintendent had brought her over from the station in Helsingør a year ago for her coding expertise and her general ability to maneuver online—skills that made her far more useful in Copenhagen than elsewhere. But Saidani hadn’t yet found her place among her new colleagues. She had a certain charm with her dark curls and aquiline nose, but she seemed aloof, saying only what she needed, and never with a smile. Her hair was generally up in an untidy ponytail, her face makeup-free. She was a single mother of two daughters, and because she had no man in her life, Anette insisted Saidani must be a lesbian.
It didn’t matter to Jeppe. Both Saidani and Falck were good at their jobs and responsive; they fit in well enough. The one he did have a problem with was Thomas Larsen. He was a young detective, notorious for looking like a model from a jeans ad. His university degree was from Copenhagen Business School, and he had been an investigator at HQ for only six months. Even so, he seemed poised to advance at interstellar speed. There was something shameless about Larsen’s ambition, a provocative faith in his own infallibility that Jeppe could barely stand. He had tried and tried to get the nickname Butterfinger to stick to Larsen, but his otherwise-mischievous colleagues hadn’t taken the bait. And unfortunately, peanut butter appeared to be the superintendent’s favorite flavor.
Anette cleared her throat encouragingly from her regular spot by the wall.
The detectives’ eyes hit Jeppe like spotlights from a dark auditorium, and he felt a pang of stage fright. Now it was up to him to bring justice to a brutally murdered young woman.
“Okay, then,” he began from the front of the staff room. “Everyone is aware that the body found at Klosterstræde Twelve has been identified as a Julie Stender. We are in the process of locating her next of kin. Until further notice, we will be meeting here daily right after the end of each duty shift, eight o’clock in the morning and four in the afternoon, plus additional times as needed. We’ll all brief one another on developments. Let’s gather all the paperwork and photos in Anette’s and my office. I’ll have one of the secretaries prepare a bulletin board for us. At the video briefing, we will request backup from the other stations for door-to-door and street-level questioning along Klosterstræde so that we can take any witness statements while they’re fresh in people’s minds.”
Jeppe raised his voice over the sounds of rustling paper and clacks on keyboards. “Falck,” he continued, “you go back to the hospital and talk to Gregers Hermansen, if he’s up to it. Afterward, visit the owners of the café at Klosterstræde Twelve. They’re two young guys, the secretary has their names. They were the ones who found Gregers Hermansen lying on top of Stender’s body this morning, and they’re also currently at the national hospital under observation for shock. As far as I understand, they’re okay.”
Falck saluted in the Cub Scout manner with two fingers off the brim of an imaginary hat.
“Larsen will start investigating Julie Stender’s family background, friends, colleagues, romantic partners, and old classmates. As always, Saidani will handle Facebook and computer-related things, phones, and social media.”
Saidani looked up from her laptop and nodded, bouncing the dark curls of her ponytail. Larsen just sat still, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Werner and I will notify the victim’s parents, then pay another visit to Esther de Laurenti. The autopsy will take place first thing tomorrow. We’ll handle that as well,” he said, looking at his partner. “We have officers in both Copenhagen and southern Sweden actively looking for Caroline Boutrup and her friend.” Jeppe discreetly shifted his weight from one leg to the other to relieve his lower back. “And we need someone to check the surveillance cameras on the route. The banks, Seven-Eleven, in front of the drugstore, and so on. Who’s on that?”
Falck gave yet another Cub Scout salute.
The ringtone of Anette’s cell phone cut through the intense mood of the staff room; she took the call without stepping out of the room. Jeppe and the team waited while she barked her loud, terse responses.
A half minute later she ended the call and looked around at them eagerly.
“That was the Central and West Jutland office. They’ve been by the family house in Sørvad, but no one was home. Guess where the neighbor says they are?”
There was probably no point in guessing.
“Copenhagen!” she shouted, grabbing her jacket as she headed toward the door. “I’ll be darned if they’re not in Copenhagen right now! Staying at the Hotel Phoenix. Let’s head over, Jeppe! I’ll just call the front desk to hear if they’re in their room. Otherwise, I’ve got the father’s cell phone number.”
She was out the door before Jeppe managed to even say a word.
* * *
BREDGADE, THAT SWANKIEST of Copenhagen’s broad boulevards, was humming with lazy midday traffic. Anette parked the car round the corner and they walked through the drizzling rain to the hotel. A group of Japanese tourists had armed themselves with umbrellas and, bizarrely, the women were wearing white gloves, hearkening back to the happy electric boogie days of the 1980s. Of course, the Japanese tourists could be on their way to a dance battle, but she doubted it. Jeppe opened the gold-trimmed glass door of Hotel Phoenix, and they walked in.
The lobby looked like an inside-out meringue, crystal chandeliers dripping with diamond droplets and heavy brocade curtains framing the windows. Anette hated decadent decor like this and eyed a fountain in the middle of the white marble floor distastefully.