They were in the large white hall, the door to the living room was ajar, and Anna could see a white, comfortable sofa and a brass dish with polished seashells. Suddenly, Hanne slumped to her knees. She grabbed Anna’s hands, pressed them against her face, and the noise that erupted from her throat cut Anna to the quick. Shocked, Anna helped her into the living room. They sat down on the sofa and Anna let Hanne cling to her, realizing how close she was to solving the mystery. When Hanne had calmed down, she told Anna about her son.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I thought if I buried it, it would go away. It’s all my fault.”
Anna didn’t contradict her.
They spoke for almost two hours. At the end, Hanne asked Anna to go to the police.
“I can’t report my own son,” she whispered. When Anna had agreed, Hanne asked, “Would you like to see a picture of him?”
Anna nodded and Hanne fetched a box full of photographs. Anna had expected a recent photograph of the Asger Moritzen who apparently worked three floors above his mother, whom Anna must surely have passed in the corridors at the institute or might even have had as her dissection tutor on an Introductory Morphology course. But the box Hanne brought out contained pictures of Asger as a child. Photos of a smiling dark-eyed toddler with his mouth open, shiny saliva dribbling down his chin and a stripy rattle in his chubby hand; winter pictures of a child in a snowsuit with open and inquisitive eyes, like blotting paper, completely unspoiled.
“I have to get back to Lily,” she whispered.
Hanne and Anna said good-bye in the doorway. Hanne refused to let go of her.
“I’ll be there for you, I promise,” Anna said.
Hanne smiled feebly and released Anna’s hands.
“I’ll call the police when I get back,” she went on, “and you’ll take it from there, okay?”
Hanne Moritzen nodded.
Anna walked down Falkoner Allé, crossed Jagtvejen, and went around the National Archives. She felt relieved and calm.
She unlocked the entrance door and for a moment she stared into the darkness, her hand on the door handle, then she opened the door and walked up the stairs. She could hear singing from a children’s television program and something that sounded like an exuberant child bouncing up and down.
It was nearly over. All she had left to do was to meet with Professor Freeman tomorrow.
Chapter 17
When Søren arrived at the Natural History Museum, Anna had vanished. He had been driving to Copenhagen when she called and his blood had turned to ice.
“Help me,” she had said. He could hear her breathing heavily.“My friend Troels killed Johannes. He’s here. In the Whale Room at the museum. I’ve tied him to a bench. But I have to go now.” Then she had hung up. Søren called Bellahøj police station for backup and accelerated. A patrol car with two officers reached the museum at the same time as him. He told them what little he knew as they raced up the stairs. “The Whale Room?” he shouted to the young woman behind the counter. She pointed dutifully to the elevator. When they reached the fourth floor, they ran through the foyer and into a large room. A whale was mounted on the wall, several people had gathered and it was mayhem.
Søren pushed through the crowd. The man he had seen on the poster outside Magasin was sitting on a bench. He must be Troels. Søren was astonished. Troels was pulling and yanking his left arm, which was tied to the back of the bench. His wrist was bleeding, and he snorted like a wild animal.
“Sit still,” Søren ordered him. Troels refused.
“Sit! Still!” Søren thundered.
Troels turned his head and sent Søren a furious stare. His eyes were bloodshot. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he kicked Søren’s shin with his boot. Søren hobbled out of the way and let his colleagues take over.
“Now calm down,” one of them said. The other cut the cable ties and handcuffed Troels.
“What’s your name, apart from Troels?” Søren said, amicably, limping closer.
“Not fucking telling you, pig.” Troels scowled.
“Where is Anna?” Søren asked him instead. Troels’s eyes flashed.
“I’ll kill her when I see her.”
“Of course you will,” Søren said, humoring him. “It’s 3:22 p.m. and I’m arresting you and charging you with . . . assaulting a police officer.” Søren was aware that his colleagues were looking at him, but he ignored them. In a few hours, when he had more information, he would charge Troels with Johannes’s murder.
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,” he added. The light in Troels’s eyes changed; he opened and closed his mouth, then he accepted the situation. “Take him to the station,” Søren ordered his colleagues. “I’ll follow shortly.”