“Come on, we’re going upstairs. I’ve something to show you.”
Anna had hung up her jacket in the hall but put her cell, the cable ties, and the screwdriver in the back pockets of her jeans. Warily, she followed Mrs. Helland up the stairs. There was a powerful scent of flowers, and when they passed the bathroom Mrs. Helland pushed open the door.
“I brought some of the flowers home,” she said in a flat voice. On the bathroom floor stood a large cluster of white plastic buckets with multicolored bouquets. They continued down the corridor, past a half-open door leading to a teenage bedroom, tasteful and tidy compared to how Anna’s room used to look when she was that age. The bed was covered with an old-fashioned crochet blanket, and next to the bed stood a low makeup table with a round mirror, bottles of perfume, and an iPod on charger. The curtains were drawn and the windows glared ominously at Anna.
“Nanna insisted on seeing a friend.” Birgit raised her arms and let them drop. “Life goes on.”
They had reached the end of the corridor and Birgit opened the door to a surprisingly large room. To the left, a desk was pushed against a bare wall and, to the right, there was a built-in couch with scatter cushions covered in coarse fabric. The end wall was one large window and a magnolia tree, naked in winter, grew outside. On the desk was a computer, which turned out to be on when Mrs. Helland nudged the mouse.
“I found something today . . .” she began. Anna looked at the screen and recognized the logo of an online bank she used herself. Mrs. Helland logged on using a pin code she copied from a piece of paper. A screen picture of account activities emerged.
“Look at this,” Mrs. Helland said, pointing to the screen. Anna followed her finger, but found it hard to figure out what she was supposed to be looking at. The blood roared in her ears.
“What is it?” she stuttered.
“Payments. Every month during the last three years. I’ve checked our bank statements. Seven thousand kroner per month, money Lars transferred from his private account to an Amager Bank account. And do you know who owns that account?”
Anna shook her head.
“Erik Tybjerg.”
They both fell silent.
“So what does it mean?” Anna asked, slowly.
“No idea. But we’re talking about a quarter of a million kroner.” Birgit let the amount linger in the air. Anna swallowed. Her brain was annoyingly sluggish.
“And you knew nothing about this until today?”
“No. The money came from Lars’s private account. I found the pin code in his desk drawer, and I logged on to see how much money he had left. Nanna got worried today and asked if we could afford to stay in the house, and I wanted to know where we stood. When I had accessed the account and found the transfers to Tybjerg, I went through Lars’s office systematically. Every drawer, every cupboard.” Mrs. Helland had been bending over the computer, now she straightened up and looked at Anna. The tears started rolling down her cheeks.
“You were right,” she whispered. “Lars was ill. Much more so than I could have imagined in my worst nightmares.”
“What did you find?” Anna dreaded the answer.
“A bag filled with blood-soaked tissues.”
“What?” Anna thought she must have misheard. Mrs. Helland went over to the couch, pulled out a drawer, and retrieved a plastic bag. It was stuffed full, but seemed light, precisely as if it really was full of tissues. Blood-soaked tissues. Fear started spreading through Anna’s body.
“I found another bag. Behind this one.” She swallowed. “Full of support aids. Support bandages, a neck brace.” She gave Anna a look of despair. “And a teething ring, the kind you give to babies, with deep teeth marks. The police told me he was covered in bruises, like after a fall. Old injuries. That he must have fallen, and he had fractures to several of his fingers and toes—they even found two healed cuts to his scalp, which weren’t sutured though they ought to have been. I had dismissed what they said, you know, because they suspected me. The police always leave something out, and they always say things that aren’t true. They lay traps.” Mrs. Helland was panting now.
“Erik Tybjerg was blackmailing him,” she whispered, “and I’ve spent all evening thinking about what he might have had on him.”
Anna waited for her to continue.
“Lars was diagnosed with a brain tumor nine years ago. He had surgery and made a full recovery. There has been nothing since. Last August we held a barbecue for Nanna when she graduated from high school. Lars was tending to the grill when he suddenly collapsed. We were frightened, but he made light of it. He sat on the lawn for ten minutes to collect himself and was in great shape the rest of the evening. He flipped burgers, happy as a clam, and joined Nanna and her friends in a croquet tournament.” Mrs. Helland looked at Anna. “Lars’s greatest fear was losing his intellect. Being slowly stripped of everything and ending up a vegetable. Shortly afterward, he moved out of the bedroom and into his study. I wondered why but not for very long. He didn’t want his snoring to disturb me, he said. And he was right, it had gotten worse, I must admit, so it suited me fine.” Again the tears rolled down Mrs. Helland’s cheeks in an asymmetrical pattern. “But this was the real reason.” She gestured toward the plastic bags. “He didn’t want me to know that his illness had returned. That the tumor had started growing again.” She looked into the distance. “I think Tybjerg knew about the tumor. He knew Lars had been seriously ill. Perhaps he tried to use it against Lars? Tybjerg has always been envious because Lars had tenure and he didn’t. I’m convinced Tybjerg was blackmailing him. What else could it be? Seven thousand kroner per month. That’s a lot of money. I’ve been trying to contact him today, but he’s not answering his phone or replying to e-mails. And do you know what really puzzles me?”