The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [66]
“It’s Karin,” he said, though it felt like a lie. This was not Karin anymore.
The shock went far beyond anything he had imagined. He felt like one of those cartoon characters hanging in the air above the abyss, foundations shot to hell, kept up only by the lack of the proper realization: that it was time to fall.
“How well did you know Karin Kongsted?” asked the woman officer, covering Karin’s face once more.
“She had become a good friend,” he said. “For the past two years, just about, she had a flat above our garage, and although it is completely separate from the rest of the house, still … it’s different from the way it would have been if she had been merely a nine-tofive employee.”
“I undertstand you hired her as a private nurse. How come you need someone like that?”
“I had to undergo renal surgery a little over two years ago. That was how we met Karin. And since then … well, we came to appreciate both her professional and her personal qualities. It was a major operation, and there are still medical issues. Complications sometimes arise. It’s been very reassuring to have her nearby. She is … she was a very competent person.”
It felt completely absurd to stand here next to Karin’s dead body and talk about her like this. But the woman wasn’t letting him off the hook just yet.
“I hope you understand that I have to ask you where you were tonight? You weren’t at home when we called.”
“No, I was home only briefly, then I had to go to the office. The company I run is not a small one.”
“So we understand.”
“I was probably at the office until seven. Then I went to a flat we keep—the company, that is—and worked from there for a little while. I had intended to spend the night there.”
“Where is this flat?”
“In Laksegade.”
“Can we call on you there later? It will be necessary to hold a formal interview.”
He thought quickly. The Nokia was still in his briefcase. And the briefcase was still in Laksegade.
“I probably should go home to my wife,” he said. “She must be very distraught. If you like, I can come to the local station tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow morning?” Show cooperation, he counseled himself. It might be important later.
“We would appreciate that,” she said politely. “Although the case is now being handled by the homicide department of the North-Zealand Regional Police.” From her own briefcase, she drew a small leaflet with the stirring title “Regional Police Reform: This Is Where to Find Us.” She circled an address in ballpoint pen. “Can you come to this office tomorrow at 11 a.m.?”
HE WONDERED IF they were watching him. The taxi slid through the midnight traffic like a shark through a herring shoal, and he couldn’t tell whether any specific car stayed behind them.
Don’t be paranoid, he told himself. They could barely have established cause of death yet, and they surely hadn’t the manpower to follow everyone connected to Karin. Yet he couldn’t help glancing around as he alighted on the sidewalk outside the Laksegade flat. The taxi drove off, leaving the street empty and deserted. There was a certain time-bubble quality to the place—the cobbled stones, the square-lantern-shaped streetlights, even the fortress-like headquarters of the Danske Bank, which from this angle looked more like a medieval stronghold than a modern corporation domicile.
He let himself in and snatched up the briefcase. There had been no calls to the Nokia while he’d been gone.
Twenty minutes later, he had fetched the car and was on his way home. Now he felt reasonably certain that he wasn’t being followed—the motorway was sparsely trafficked at this hour, and when he turned off at a picnic area between Roskilde and Holbæk, his Audi was the only car in the parking lot.
He got out the Nokia and made the call. It was a long wait before the Lithuanian answered.
“Yes?”
“Our agreement is terminated,” said Jan, as calmly as he was able.
“No,” said the man. Just that: the bare negative.
“You heard me!”
“The money was not there,” said the Lithuanian. “She said she gave it back to you.”
“Don’t lie