Authors: Mikkel Birkegaard
I felt best when I rose at the same time, ate the same breakfast, wrote roughly the same amount of text during the day and finally rewarded myself with a whisky in the afternoon with Bent.
I’m sure that a totally predictable life would have made me want to scream in the Scriptorium days. Back then
we
wrote in response to experiences and unique events, not in routine and repetition. If anyone had told me then that I would spend ten years writing in a holiday cottage, I would have laughed at them. I had wanted to travel, see the world, and I never wanted to write the same story twice.
The reality turned out to be something else. Reality was a day with fixed working hours, weeks all the same and months distinguished from each other only by the changing weather and the nature of gardening tasks.
My days were filled with thoughts of when to rake up leaves while I typed my way through quotas of words and sentences with the regularity of a train timetable.
This rhythm was only rarely disturbed – until the telephone rang one morning.
FROM THE MOMENT
I discovered
Outer Demons
on Linda Hvilbjerg’s doorstep, I felt the next move was up to me. The killer had held off murdering Linda until I had taken my place on the stage and everything suggested the ball was now in my court. I knew the victim – my own daughter – and it was impossible to do nothing.
The more I thought about it, the clearer it became what I had to do. Pointing out the error regarding the Østerbro post office must be an invitation. Just like the killer in
Outer Demons
, he was offering a way we could communicate, a chance for me to contact him rather than wait for his messages.
In the book, the killer sent his letters straight to the detective, Kenneth Vagn, who replied via the PO box. This was my opening: I would write to him and he could reply directly to me.
Monday morning I checked out of the hotel.
Ferdinan apologized profoundly and gave me a substantial discount. He placed the entire blame on his own drooping shoulders and, when I left him in reception, he
didn
’t look like a man who wanted to stay in the hotel business. But then I probably didn’t look like someone who wanted to stay in the book business.
My time in Copenhagen was far from over, but I couldn’t bear to stay at the hotel any longer. I had to get away from the strained atmosphere and Ferdinan’s wounded eyes.
When I finally sat in my car, my body filled with relief. I felt in control, not just of the car, but also what would happen next.
It was time for me to play my part.
My first stop was Nordhavn station. There I bought a newspaper, some magazines, sweets and crisps. I made sure to get the right change for the photo booth. Then I drove to the post office where I bought a large envelope in which I placed my message and delivered it to the PO box mentioned in
Outer Demons
. I didn’t doubt for a moment that the killer had taken the same box as was mentioned in the book. When I posted the envelope, I had the feeling the act forged a bond between us, that a connection was established like a conversation through a switchboard.
Now all I had to do was wait.
That was why I had bought something to read. But newspapers and magazines weren’t a substitute for whisky. I parked by the post office and walked across Trianglen and down Nordre Frihavnsgade. Vinbørsen appeared like an oasis. I bought two bottles of Oban single malt, an 18-year-old, and a set of rustic whisky glasses in a gift box. Back in the car, I ripped off the wrapping paper and poured myself half a glass. The first mouthful made me shudder, but I forced down the rest of the contents and placed the glass by the handbrake.
I had no illusion of catching the killer on his way in or out of the post office, so I turned the key in the ignition and drove off. It was mid-morning, the traffic was tolerable and there were plenty of parking spaces in the otherwise busy Østerbro area.
I wasn’t going far. Kartoffelrækkerne lay around a kilometre from the post office. After less than five minutes I turned into the street where I lived ten years ago. Property prices had more than quadrupled since then and it was clear that the rise in values had given the area a facelift. Several of the more than 100-year-old, two-storey terraced houses had been fitted with new windows and roofs and the small front gardens were well tended and practically all of them displayed teak garden furniture and Weber barbecues.
I parked a short distance from the house where Line now lived with another man. The man my daughters regarded as their father. No one appeared to be in. Line must be at work and the girls at school. Their front garden gave the neighbours a run for their money. The area was landscaped with tiles, flowerbeds and a few areas of freshly mown grass. This had to be Bjørn’s doing. Line had never been one for gardening, though she was otherwise very practical. I smiled to myself at the memory of Line who with graceful movements offered to help out in the garden, but quickly had enough and invented an excuse to leave. ‘Why don’t I make us a cup of coffee?’ she would say and disappear into the kitchen. Half an hour later she would appear with the world’s best cappuccino with an intricate pattern painted in the froth.
I sank into my seat so I could just about see over the
dashboard
and poured myself another whisky. The warmth from the alcohol and the memories spread through my body. Once upon a time I had lived here, worked here and been happy. I had everything I could ever want. A house, a wife, children, and the job that made it possible to provide everything they needed.
I have always despised people in interviews who claim they have no regrets or that they wouldn’t have done anything different in their lives. Everyone has hurt someone or acted selfishly and others have suffered as a result, but very few are prepared to admit it. The worst offenders are those who acknowledge they have upset other people, but almost celebrate it under the mantra: ‘It made me who I am today’. Who the hell do they think they are? What’s so special about them that it’s OK for them to hurt others? And if they hadn’t done it in the first place, wouldn’t they have been better people? If they don’t wish to change anything about their lives, aren’t they lacking in self-awareness or, at least, imagination?
I had imagination in spades.
A few drops of rain started falling on the windscreen and hit the roof like little water spears. The sound of drops hitting the metal was loud and steady and it increased slowly. The drops diminished in size but grew in number and at last generated almost constant noise as they hammered down on the car. In a few minutes, the temperature inside had plummeted. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter, sinking further into the seat.
It was impossible to make out contours outside; everything was distorted by the veil of water cascading down the windscreen. Every now and then I could make out
people
darting through the rain, enigmatic figures with distorted limbs moving behind the water curtain.
I thought about switching on the wipers, but dismissed the idea. I had no idea how long I would be sitting there and didn’t want to draw attention to myself. If communicating through the PO box really did work, it might not be necessary for me to stay so close to my former family, but if the killer wanted to carry out his plan regardless, then this was the only place I should be.
The sense that I had done what I could, the only thing I could do, helped me relax. I flicked through the newspapers, ate some sweets and slowly drank my way through the bottle. Outside the rain slackened off. It didn’t stop altogether, but persisted stubbornly in its gentler form as it grew darker. People returned to their homes and lights came on behind the windows.
Suddenly, the light was switched on in the house I had been watching. I hadn’t seen anyone return home, but it could easily have happened while I read the newspaper. From my position, I couldn’t see directly into the living room, all I could see was that the lamp on the windowsill had been turned on. I had no way of knowing whether it was Bjørn, Line or the girls who had returned home.
I had no intention of contacting them, but as I sat there in the emerging darkness with the chill creeping through every layer of my clothing, I wished I was on the other side of that window, inside the warm living room with the cosy lighting where the sound of the rain couldn’t be heard over children’s voices and dinner preparations in the kitchen.
I closed my eyes and could almost smell the food cooking.
SOMEONE TAPPED ON
the window.
The sound was loud and insistent. Slowly, I opened my eyes. It was morning. I squinted in the light and looked around to identify the source of the tapping. I was cradling the whisky bottle like a baby I was shielding from the cold. The glass was on the dashboard. There was still a drop left, but a feeling of nausea made me look away.
Someone knocked again. Close to me.
I turned to face the side pane and wiped away the condensation. Line was standing outside. She was leaning forwards, staring at me with a mix of incredulity and anger.
‘Frank?’
I think I mustered a smile, but it might have been a snarl because I had yet to surface completely. Slowly I found the handle for the side window and rolled it down. During this process the whisky bottle slipped from my lap and hit one of the pedals with an audible clonk.
‘What are you doing here?’ Line asked, before I had managed to roll down the window in full. She leaned
forward
even further, but flinched when the smell from the car hit her nostrils. She frowned slightly.
‘Hi, Line.’ My voice croaked and I cleared my throat. I was still drowsy from sleep and had no idea what to say. All I registered was a powerful urge to hug my ex-wife. ‘Any chance of breakfast?’
Line shot me a look of resignation. Her eyes scanned the car, the empty sweet wrappers, the newspaper and the whisky glass.
‘Have you been sitting here all night?’
‘Just a cup of coffee,’ I continued. ‘That would be nice.’
‘That’s not a good idea, Frank.’
‘I promise to behave … I … I’m not drunk.’
Line kept looking at me. Then she straightened up and glanced up and down the street.
‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ I said. ‘It’s important.’
She took a deep breath, still looking down the street as if to make sure we hadn’t been seen.
‘One cup of coffee,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I’m going to work in an hour.’
I nodded eagerly and started wriggling out of my seat. My limbs were stiff after sitting so long in the same position and I groaned silently as I got out of the car. Line had walked on ahead of me. She was wheeling her bicycle. The rear light was still on.
‘I’ve just taken Mathilde to school,’ she said, unlocking the front door. ‘I think she’s embarrassed I still take her.’
‘They’ve grown so big,’ I said. I cursed myself inwardly at the banality of my response.
Line sighed. ‘If only you knew,’ she said. As soon as she
said
it, she gave me a frightened look. She looked away again. ‘Sorry.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s OK … my parents keep me updated.’ That was a lie, but I hadn’t come to embarrass Line. In fact, I still didn’t know why I was here.
Much had changed since I lived in the house. Everything had been renovated and redecorated in pale colours. The furniture had been replaced and photos and bric-a-brac told stories of the inhabitants’ shared lives. I would like to have studied the photographs more closely, but Line carried on walking. The kitchen had been rebuilt and expanded to include a dining area and this was where we sat down. I was still wearing my jacket. Line hadn’t suggested that I take it off and I didn’t want to impose. The warmth in the house was welcome and I clutched the mug of coffee with both hands to drive the cold from my fingers.
‘What were you doing out there?’ Line asked after a moment’s silence.
‘Ironika visited me at the book fair,’ I said. ‘I barely recognized her.’
Line nodded.
‘She doesn’t want us to call her Ironika any more,’ she said. ‘She raised it herself at a family meeting some months ago. It took us completely by surprise. She just stood up and said she didn’t like being called Ironika and she wanted us to use her real name from now on.’ Line smiled to herself. ‘I was sad and proud at the same time.’
‘She has inherited her mother’s strong-mindedness,’ I said trying to ignore that Line had used the words ‘family meeting’.
‘The book fair was her idea, too,’ Line continued without acknowledging the compliment. ‘She didn’t tell me until afterwards.’
‘Yes, I was a bit surprised.’ I heaved a sigh at the memory of our conversation in the little cubicle. ‘I think she caught me at a bad time.’
‘She mentioned that you behaved a little strangely.’
I nodded. ‘These are strange times.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
I shifted my gaze to the coffee mug in front of me. It was good coffee. Strong and warm, brewed from organic beans in a cafetière. Line took milk or cream, but I always took my coffee black and she had remembered that.
‘I’m here because I’m worried about you,’ I said at last.
Line was about to say something, but I held up a hand to indicate that I would explain.
‘I’ve got a … fan,’ I began. ‘A very pedantic fan who has taken offence at some mistakes in my books. He sees it as his mission to educate me about my shortcomings, show me my errors, prove how it’s really done.’
Line threw up her hands. ‘There will always be people like that,’ she said. ‘I remember some of the letters you used to get—’
‘This is different,’ I interrupted her. ‘This guy wants to show me how it should have been done. Do you understand? He wants to
show
me.’
Line frowned. ‘Are you saying …’
‘He has killed people,’ I said.
Some seconds passed where neither of us spoke. Line scrutinized me as if she expected me to burst into either laughter or tears.
‘He acts out scenes from my books, right down to the smallest detail, to show me I got my facts wrong. It’s like a teacher marking my essay, except the red lines aren’t drawn in ink.’