Fatal Crossing Read online

  ‘It's that journalist. The one who was here the other day.’

  Then three seconds later Liselotte's voice: ‘You won’t be speaking to my dad again. Ever.’

  ‘Eh ... what?’

  ‘He died last night. We don’t know where he was going, but he was walking down the road. They found him in a ditch. Police say it was a hit and run. He died instantly.’

  ‘I’m really very sorry to hear that.’

  Nora could hear how Liselotte struggled to suppress the tears.

  ‘And do you know what the worst thing is? A whole life, and all he leaves behind — everything he owned in the whole world — fits in a Lidl plastic bag. Christ, what a waste!’

  ‘I’m so very sorry. I won’t keep you any longer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Liselotte said harshly and rang off.

  Nora rang the duty officer at Ringkøbing police station.

  ‘You’re calling from Globalt? It's not often we hear from you,’ the officer said with a Jutland drawl.

  Once Nora had explained the reason for her call, he flicked through the incident report.

  ‘Yes, it says so here. A sixty-eight-year-old man was found three kilometres south of Søndervig in a ditch. Hit and run. A witness called us at 20.43 last night. She said she had seen what she thought might be a dark blue or black Jeep, a 4x4, or similar, hit the man. No distinguishing features on the car or the number plate. An ambulance was dispatched, but the man was already dead when it arrived. I don’t want you quoting me, but there's evidence that the dead man might have been under the influence of alcohol. We found an almost empty bottle of schnapps nearby.’

  He flicked through the report.

  ‘Right, I guess that's it. Oh, hang on ... Well, I don’t know if you’d be interested in this, but we found no skid marks at the scene.’

  Nora thanked him, put down her mobile, and sat for a long time staring at her father's apple trees without seeing anything at all.

  Then she pulled herself together and got ready to meet Torstein at his office.

  X

  The security guard glanced up, but showed no interest when Nora arrived through a swing door at the reception for the newspaper where Torstein worked. Ever since the Danish security services had found a bag at Copenhagen Central Railway Station containing a leaflet about Islam and a map of Copenhagen with the newspaper's address circled in red, the reception was staffed during opening hours by middle-aged security guards with blue sweaters and walkie-talkies. Nora still didn’t know if it was a teenage prank or an amateurish plan to bomb the newspaper, but she had a hunch that the most action the security guards ever saw was bleary-eyed journalists who had forgotten their mandatory ID cards and the obligatory conspiracy theorists who stopped by a few times a week hoping to expose radioactivity in the harbour, government corruption or to submit piles of handwritten documents detailing secret oil drilling on Greenland. She helped herself to a complimentary copy of the newspaper from the counter and could see that readers wouldn’t be troubled by political news today. A sprained ankle had forced a well-known TV presenter to pull out of Strictly Come Dancing, and the tragedy was printed in a large font — there could be no doubt that Nora was visiting a nation in mourning. She flicked through the newspaper and was confronted on page three with the story about the presenter's dance partner's heroic attempts to stay positive.

  Against her better judgement, she was sucked into the story about the young dancer who, from a distance, might bear a vague resemblance to Andreas. He had the same corn-yellow hair, the same upright posture.

  Again her thoughts jumped back to the past. They had been sitting in Hanne's garden that night after the leavers’ ball, because according to some ridiculous student superstition, everyone was supposed to stay awake all night. She could no longer remember why. Only that they had sat on separate swings on a rusty old frame under a lilac. She could still remember the sweet scent of lilac blossom in the twilight, the dew in the soft grass and Andreas's face turned towards hers. She had known it a split second before he said it.

  She jumped when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  ‘What's this I see, Miss Sand? I didn’t have you down as a Strictly groupie,’ Torstein said, glancing sideways at the article still lying open in front of Nora.

  She composed herself. ‘Oh, totally. What a tragedy. Why didn’t you get to cover that scoop?’

  Torstein looked down. ‘I can’t be trusted with such complex material. I’m afraid I’m stuck with crime until I learn my trade,’ he said with a sardonic smile, before flinging out his hand towards to door. ‘Shall we?’

  They walked to Nyhavn where with routine ease Torstein ordered Christiansø herring on rye bread and a shot of schnapps for himself, which he proceeded to knock back in one go the moment the waitress brought it. Then he leaned back contentedly and looked at Nora. ‘Bikers, you say. May I ask why?’

  ‘It's a story that might have links to Denmark.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, I’m only interested in one person. His name is Bjarke Helgaard. Do you know him?’

  The waitress brought Torstein's herring and Nora's prawn open sandwich. Torstein ordered another schnapps. ‘A bird never flew with one wing,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  ‘Bjarke Helgaard.’ Torstein tasted the name in between bites of herring.

  Nora nodded, her mouth full of prawns.

  ‘Bjarke. Now he's an oddball,’ Torstein said, bringing her back to the present. ‘Massive beefcake. Clearly on steroids. Used to frequent Box Copenhagen Gym some years ago where he was talent-spotted by the Needle.’

  ‘The Needle, the leader of Dare Devils?’

  Though she had lived away from Denmark for the last five years, even Nora had heard of the tall, skinny man with the piercing eyes and his terrifying power over parts of Copenhagen's nightlife.

  ‘The one and only,’ Torstein declared gravely. ‘Bjarke joined a gang of his enforcers, the thinking being that due to his size, he would rarely have to take his fists out of his pockets. All Bjarke had to do was turn up, grunt a bit and flex his muscles, whereupon people would suddenly find the money they swore they didn’t have. Things tended to sort themselves out when Bjarke was sent to deliver a message or collect a debt.’

  Nora caught the waitress's eye and quickly ordered coffee, before Torstein realised he needed yet another schnapps to tell his story.

  ‘Bjarke slowly rose up the ranks. My sources tell me he has a good handle on the Needle. He instinctively knows when to step up and when to step back without getting stung. He's no fool.’

  The coffee arrived and Torstein looked longingly at a bottle of Linie Akvavit schnapps making its way to a table of Swedish business people.

  ‘Do you remember the Brandy case?’

  Nora trawled through her memories. ‘She was that young mum who was killed some years ago in a gang shooting on Nørrebro, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Dreadful business. Brandy was killed instantly. As was John Iversen, leader of the local chapter of Blue Bulls. It seems Brandy's only mistake was going to the kiosk to buy cigarettes at the same time as John Iversen. You know what they say: smoking kills,’ Torstein commented dryly.

  ‘Did Bjarke have anything to do with that?’

  ‘Yes and no. But let me finish my story. At that time, Blue Bulls were at war with Dare Devils, and it was very, very tempting to think that the Needle had given the order to get rid of Iversen. It was — I can reveal to this closed circle — the first and possibly the only lead the police ever investigated.’

  Torstein took a sip of his coffee and picked up a sugar sachet from a bowl on the table.

  ‘Right, this was where Bjarke truly came into his own. Discovered his vocation, if you like. He went to the media and told everyone that Dare Devils had absolutely nothing to do with the incident. The media loved him. He said exactly what everybody expected him to say, but he was succinct, to the point and articulate. A me
dia star was born.’

  Something clicked in Nora's mind. ‘There was something about a baby in a pram, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, and this was where Bjarke proved his genius. He gave a long, tear-jerking speech about little Johnny, Brandy's son, who had lost his mother, and how the lads in Bjarke's — incidentally peace-loving and entirely innocent motorcycle club — had held a collection for the poor little lad in a crash helmet. So that little Johnny would have a chance and a future after all, as Bjarke phrased it. The money probably came from drugs or prostitution, but most people swallowed it raw. God help us. What a media circus,’ Torstein snorted.

  ‘Our rival paper ran the headline “The biker gang member with a heart of gold”. Ever since then Bjarke has been a regular fixture in news broadcasts and a talking head whenever there's trouble on Nørrebro. He has become an expert and he is straight out of central casting. He looks like a thug, but when he opens his mouth, he's capable of coherent and relatively sensible statements. Rumour has it Arte might even hire him for the lecture circuit.’

  ‘But he's violent?’

  Torstein shrugged. ‘He does have a few convictions for assault, but they’re more than five years old now. Bjarke has risen up the ranks and no longer needs to get his hands dirty.’

  Nora lowered her voice and looked at Torstein: ‘Now don’t go telling anyone what I’m about to ask you. Promise? If you tell anyone else, I put a source at great risk.’

  Torstein put his hand on his heart. ‘Scout's honour.’

  ‘You were never a Boy Scout.’

  ‘All right then, on my mother's grave.’

  ‘Your mother is alive and well and living in Torshavn.’

  ‘Oh, just tell me. What is it? Is it drugs after all? Is it the Albanian connection?’

  Nora chewed her lip and decided to take a chance. ‘No. It's not the Albanians or drugs. But do you think from what you know of Bjarke that he might have taken part in the rape of a young woman?’

  ‘Ha!’ Torstein's laughter made the waitress turn around with a frown. ‘That's one question I’m absolutely sure I can answer with a no.’

  Nora furrowed her brow. ‘And what makes you so sure? Do you know him better than you’ve let on?’

  Torstein grinned cheekily. ‘Bjarke is confirmed, utterly and irreversibly, gay.’

  Nora's jaw dropped, she had never suspected that.

  Torstein elaborated. ‘He lives with the Needle. Our little Bjarke isn’t into women. The only women in his life are the kind that are tattooed on his considerable biceps. Or the ones the Needle makes his money from.’

  ‘Wow, who would have guessed. Is it possible to get near him, Bjarke, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He has his own website. Just email him, he usually rings back quickly. Don’t forget, he makes his living from the media, and if he keeps appearing on TV, there are no limits to what he can achieve. A book contract, possibly an invitation to Celebrity Big Brother or Strictly. Who knows?’

  After a short pause he added: ‘That bit about him being gay — I wouldn’t broadcast that, if I were you. Bjarke thinks it's a big secret, and no one wants to be the first person to burst his bubble. It could prove hazardous to their health.’

  Nora gestured for the bill and started putting on her jacket.

  ‘Were the murders of Brandy and Iversen ever solved?’

  ‘Yes. It turned out that Iversen was the one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer was Brandy's pimp, who thought she had ripped him off by giving it away for free during her maternity leave, and he decided to make an example of her. Iversen just happened to get in the way when that little shit fired his pistol.’

  Together they walked back to his office.

  ‘When are you moving home? I miss my pickling partner,’ Torstein complained.

  ‘When London moves to Denmark, I’ll be there in a jiffy,’ she promised.

  ‘Hmm. Anyway, don’t be a stranger, we’ll go to my allotment next time,’ he promised and kissed her hand gallantly before he waved goodbye and slipped past the Securitas guard who discovered too late that Torstein wasn’t wearing the mandatory ID card around his neck.

  ‘Oi, you! Come back,’ the guard called out.

  X

  Nora found the website, emailed Bjarke from her iPhone, and got a call from an unknown number twenty minutes later.

  ‘Bjarke Helgaard. You emailed me.’

  His voice sounded so butch and commanding that Nora briefly wondered if Torstein had tricked her into hacking off a big, beefy biker who didn’t share his sense of humour and relaxed attitude to homosexuality.

  Nora introduced herself.

  ‘So why does Globalt want to talk to me?’ Bjarke demanded to know.

  Nora decided it would be a mistake to try to get anything out of him over the phone. A meeting would be better. Preferably in a public place, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘It's a bit complicated. But perhaps we could meet?’ she said, sounding hopeful.

  ‘Hmm. I’ve googled you, Nora Sand, and I don’t get why a journalist whose two most recent articles were about a man from Rwanda and a political scandal in the UK, would want to talk to a regular Dane from Nørrebro?’

  Bjarke Helgaard was a man you would be very foolish to underestimate.

  ‘I promise you it won’t take long and it’ll make sense eventually. Please could we meet, just for half an hour?’

  ‘You’re lucky that I like a good mystery. And that I have a window in my busy schedule. Flora's Coffee Bar in half an hour,’ he said and hung up without waiting for her reply.

  She caught the bus to Blågårdsgade and walked the last stretch. She ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso, and sat down at a table with a full view of the room. Ten minutes later Bjarke strolled in. He looked bigger and broader in real life than on the pictures in the paper. It was as if the photographs couldn’t quite accommodate the width of his shoulders.

  His blue eyes scrutinised her in a thorough but not hostile manner, before he sat down at the table with a cup of filter coffee.

  ‘So how may I be of assistance? A conflict in the Middle East or starving children in India?’ he quipped.

  Nora shook her head and decided to just go for it. ‘No. We’re going further back ... Do you recall the summer of ‘85? Lisbeth and Lulu?’

  If the question surprised him, he was remarkably adept at controlling his facial expression. ‘Lisbeth and Lulu?’ he echoed in a calm voice. ‘I haven’t thought about them for years. Why do you want to know about them now?’

  Nora cleared her throat. ‘Information relating to their case has become available, which —’

  ‘What kind of information?’ he interrupted her, now suddenly very interested.

  Nora took time to savour her coffee.

  ‘There might be a link to a British killer. That's all I can tell you right now.’

  Bjarke's voice remained deathly calm, but Nora could see a vein starting to throb in his neck. His knuckles whitened as they gripped the coffee cup even more tightly.

  ‘Who is the bastard?’

  ‘I don’t know if there really is a connection. So far it's just a hunch. So I need your version of what happened that night on the ferry.’

  The giant in the leather jacket didn’t appear to have heard her. ‘Who is the bastard?’ he repeated in a low voice.

  ‘He's in prison. So you can’t get to him.’

  Bjarke shook his head and looked at her again. ‘There's always a way. Always,’ he said bluntly.

  Then he raised his forefinger, and Nora caught a glimpse of the man who had fought his way up to become the Needle's second-in-command.

  ‘If I tell you anything, then in return you’ll tell me what happened to my girls. Is that clear?’

  Nora looked him straight in the eye to signal that she wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. ‘If- and I stress if- I find out anything, I’ll let you know, but not until I’m ready. I have your email address.
’

  Bjarke seemed to debate this for a moment, then he leaned back in his chair and flung out his arms. ‘Fair enough. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Lisbeth and Lulu. And what it was like at Vestergården?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to know what happened that night on the ferry?’

  ‘We’ll get to that. But I need to understand more about how things were back then,’ Nora explained.

  ‘Lulu was like a sister to me. All right, she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. But you could trust her. She kept her mouth shut, no matter what they did to her,’ Bjarke said, and his eyes grew distant.

  ‘One night me and Sonny robbed the cinema in Ringkøbing. Nothing that made us rich. A few hundred kroner in the till after a Saturday night. But Sonny helped himself to the biggest bag of sweets you’ve ever seen from the pick and mix. He had never been to the cinema before and was hell-bent on seeing one of those stupid Stallone films they were showing. We tried getting the projector to work, but the bloody thing started smoking. So we skedaddled and nicked a moped to get us home. Lulu was in the hallway when we came back. She saw us run to our rooms,’ he told Nora, then shook his coffee cup as if to make the last mouthful last longer.

  ‘Another one?’ Nora looked at him quizzically. He nodded briefly, and she went up to the counter for another round before he continued.

  ‘It took about twenty minutes from the moment the fire brigade was summoned to the cinema before the local cops showed up at Vestergården. It was just how it was. No matter what happened in Ringkøbing, they would blame us. Sometimes it was justified, other times not. But you could be damn sure that Kurt would throw a wobbly. Not just with the police, but also with us, if we stepped out of line. He’d already given me three warnings. If I was caught again, I would be chucked out, and that meant I wouldn’t be going with them to London. Back then it was the only thing I cared about,’ he said with a wistful smile.

  ‘Lulu saved our arses. I don’t know why. We’d never done anything for her. You just didn’t at Vestergården. But when the cops turned up and started putting the squeeze on us and picked apart our story that we’d been home all evening getting our beauty sleep, Lulu got involved. She could look the picture of innocence with those big blue eyes. I remember she wore a red nightdress with big bunnies. And she went right up to them, looked them straight in the eye and told them how she had been pacing up and door the corridor for the last hour because she had a tummy ache and couldn’t sleep, and nobody had walked past her.’