They exchanged respectful and knowing looks.
“Are you waiting too?” one of them asked, and five minutes later all three of them were chatting together as if they were old friends.
It was funny how much they had in common. The corner in the waiting room where they were sitting quickly became the center of good taste. Tight, light jeans and tops from F?tex or H&M, earrings, necklaces, rings, and bracelets from Tiger or somewhat dubious shops on the side streets. All three of them had carefully styled hair extensions and high-heeled boots, but, as one of them said, once in a while you could also wear moon boots with fake fur. Yes, it was funny how alike they all were.
They had one further thing in common, much to Michelle’s surprise. They were all fed up with being pushed around by the system and having all sorts of demands put upon them. And as if that wasn’t enough, God help them, they all had the same caseworker: Anne-Line Svendsen.
Michelle laughed, throwing her head back. There was another girl sitting directly opposite them. Her face was furrowed and she had punk hair and eye makeup that was far too black: ugly through and through. She was staring at them in a tense and uncomfortable way, almost as if she were jealous. Michelle smiled to herself because that girl had every reason to be, with her weird fashion and odd mannerisms. She was tapping her feet as if she were hitting a drum pedal, and she looked like she was on speed or something, her glare becoming slowly more and more intense. Maybe she just needed a cigarette. Michelle knew the feeling well enough.
“Freaking weird that anyone here would want to associate with you three wet blankets,” came the sudden tirade obviously directed at Michelle and the other two. “Shit is gold in comparison to people like you.”
The girl next to Michelle seemed taken aback as she turned to face the punk. It was the one who had said her name was Jazmine and who was otherwise pretty cool, just not right now. But the second of the two girls, the one called Denise, reacted ice cool, giving the punk the finger, even though Jazmine tried to stop her.
“Where you come from, they probably haven’t learned to tell the difference!” hissed Denise. “But shit sticks together, they say, and the first land the Nazis invaded was their own. Did you know that, you idiotic punk?”
Michelle shook her head. That was a weird thing to say.
In a split second, the mood changed; you could have cut the air with a knife. The punk girl clenched her fists. She looked like she was capable of doing anything at that moment. Michelle didn’t like it one bit.
Then a number was called and the Jazmine girl breathed a sigh of relief when the punk gave in and stood up. But the look she sent their way as she walked over to the caseworker’s office didn’t bode well.
“Who the hell was that? It looked like you knew her,” Denise asked Jazmine.
“Not someone you should give the finger to, I can tell you. She lives a few streets away from me and comes from Iceland. Her name’s Birna, and she’s totally sick in the head. I mean, really screwed up.”
4
Friday, May 13th, 2016
“Yes, it was me who did it. I bashed her head in with an iron rod. She really screamed, but I didn’t care, just kept hitting her.”
Carl tapped the cigarette on the back of his hand, bringing it up to his lips a couple of times before putting it back down.
With his eyes screwed almost shut, he looked at the ID the man who sat opposite had handed him without being asked. Forty-two years old, but he looked at least fifteen years older.
“You hit her and she screamed, you say. But how hard did you hit her, Mogens? Can you show me? Stand up for a minute and demonstrate.”
The slender man stood up. “You mean you want me to hit the air and pretend I’m holding the iron bar?”
Carl nodded, hiding a yawn as the man stood up. “Hit out just as you did at the time.”
The man opened his mouth and screwed up his face in concentration: a pitiful sight. Sallow skin, shirt buttoned up incorrectly, pants hanging off his hips, the man grabbed his imaginary weapon and raised his arms, ready to strike.
When he let rip, his eyes opened wide with a perverse pleasure, as if he could see the body falling. He quivered momentarily, as if he had cum in his pants.
“That’s how I did it,” he said, smiling with relief.
“Thanks, Mogens,” said Carl. “That was exactly how you killed the young substitute teacher from Bolman’s Independent School in ?stre Anl?g, right? And then she fell forward facedown?”
He nodded, looking at him remorsefully, like a naughty child.
“Assad, can you come in here?” Carl shouted out to the basement hallway.
There was a sound of huffing and puffing from the corridor.
“And bring your Mexican coffee with you, Assad!” shouted Carl. “I think Mogens Iversen is a bit thirsty.” He looked at the man, whose face switched mechanically between friendly and subdued gratitude.
“But check first what information we have concerning the murder of Stephanie Gundersen in 2004!” he shouted again.
He nodded to the man, who smiled and squinted with confidence. His expression seemed to suggest that in this moment they were almost colleagues. Two souls working together successfully to clear up an old murder case. Nothing less.
“And then you hit her again while she was lying on the grass, is that right, Mogens?”
“Yes. She screamed, but I hit her three or four times more, and then she just stopped. I don’t remember exactly. It was twelve years ago, after all.”
“Tell me, Mogens, why are you making this confession? And why now?”
His gaze faltered. His mouth hung open, quivering, revealing a set of hideous teeth in his lower jaw, which much to Carl’s irritation reminded him that his own dentist had unsuccessfully tried to get ahold of him three times to remind him of his yearly checkup.
It was obvious from the way the guy’s diaphragm was shaking that he was fighting bravely with himself. It wouldn’t surprise Carl if he suddenly started crying.
“I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer,” he said, his jaw quivering.
Carl nodded while typing the man’s social security number into their system. “I understand you, Mogens. A murder like that is an awful burden to carry alone, isn’t it?”
He nodded gratefully.
“I can see here that you live in N?stved. That’s quite a distance from Copenhagen—and from the scene of the crime in ?stre Anl?g, I might add.”
“I haven’t always lived in N?stved,” he said almost defensively. “I used to live in Copenhagen.”
“But why have you come all the way here? You could just as easily have reported this gruesome crime at the local station.”
“Because you’re the ones who deal with the old cases. Even though it’s a while ago since I read about you in the papers, it is still you lot, isn’t it?”
Carl frowned. “Do you read many newspapers, Mogens?”