Suspicious

By Jens Laursen-Schmidt

A Nordic Noir murder mystery.

In Copenhagen, a man is found draped over a balcony, his head and hands missing. In Brazil, a woman in a posting for a Danish renewables company goes missing. Her pregnant partner is convinced the woman’s boss is involved, but no one will listen to her. That same boss finds himself in prison on charges of embezzlement and insider trading.

How are these three cases connected? Martin Bay, the investigating detective in Copenhagen, is assigned to work the case of the headless corpse, but is stunned when he realises the flat where the body is found is familiar to him. Where has he seen it before? And who was desperate enough to commit such a gruesome murder? Martin’s always-in-control confidence hides his imposter syndrome. None of Martin’s colleagues know he’s gay. He’s determined to keep it that way, but this case risks exposing his secret. As Martin races to untangle the web of lies, revenge, and power, an innocent face could be hiding a ruthless killer. No one is above suspicion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jens Laursen-Schmidt
• Release date: Jun 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9788797212875

Jens Laursen-Schmidt

Danish writer.Living in the Bible Belt of western Jutland, Denmark with his British husband.Accomplished international business leader, with international experience within Project Management and Learning/Development in the sustainable energy sector.Has published both novels - in Danish and English, as well as professional books on national economics and project management.

Book preview

SUSPICIOUS

JENS LAURSEN-SCHMIDT

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Kopiering af denne bog må kun finde sted på institutioner, der har indgået aftale med Copydan, og kun inden for de i aftalen nævnte rammer.

©Copyright 2023 by Jens Laursen-Schmidt – all rights reserved

Published by: Schmindo

Author: Jens Laursen-Schmidt

Cover art by: Gudrun Jobst

ISBN: 978-87-972128-6-8 Paperback

ISBN: 978-87-972128-8-2 E-book

http://www.jensl-s.dk

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 6TH, 2020

FORTALEZA

OCTOBER 1ST, 2019

FORTALEZA

OCTOBER 2ND, 2019 EARLY MORNING

FORTALEZA

OCTOBER 3RD, 2019

FORTALEZA

OCTOBER 13TH, 2019, LUNCH TIME

AALBORG AND LONDON

DECEMBER 23RD, 2019

AALBORG

December 30th, 2019

AALBORG

DECEMBER 31ST 2019

AALBORG

JANUARY 2ND, 2020

FORTALEZA

JANUARY 5TH, 2020

AALBORG

JANUARY 9TH, 2020

AALBORG

JANUARY 10TH, 2020

AALBORG

JANUARY 18TH 2020

AALBORG

FEBRUARY 1ST 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 6TH-7TH, 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 7TH, 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 7TH, 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 8TH 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 8TH, 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 20TH 2020

NORTH JUTLAND

FEBRUARY 21ST - 22ND 2020

FREDERIKSHAVN

FEBRUARY 21ST 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 22ND 2020

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 23RD 2020

AALBORG

FEBRUARY 24TH 2020

AALBORG

FEBRUARY 25TH 2020

AALBORG

MARCH 11TH 2020

COPENHAGEN

MARCH 12TH 2020

COPENHAGEN

MARCH 13TH 2020

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you for reading my books, that is what keeps me going.

COPENHAGEN

FEBRUARY 6TH, 2020

He had not had sex for over a month - not counting his left hand. All the guys he had a casual FWB relationship with were out of town or had the flu, or, more likely, just couldn't be bothered. It was 20 minutes since the call had come through on his work iPhone: 'You have got to come, we have a suspicious death, and you are the duty detective tonight.'

Yes, he was the duty detective all right, however being reminded about it on a night like tonight, when he had just set up a date with what looked like a hunk on Grindr, was not what he had in mind when he had sat down on his sofa wearing nothing but a tight t-shirt.

Now he had to postpone getting laid again, just because some guy had gone and died. Hang on! He didn't even know for sure if it was a guy. The duty officer who had called him had just talked about a suspicious death, given him the address and asked him to hurry, as the press was gathering.

The fucking press, that's all he needed. A bunch of hipsters, too full of themselves - most likely just out of journalism school - I mean who else would work the late shift on a Thursday?

Judging by what he had read online lately, it seemed apparent that most journalists had flunked spelling and grammar classes altogether. Really, is that what we have come to? He realised he sounded more like his old grumpy dead dad - the school principal - than a 35-year-old man well on his way to a successful police career in what was supposedly the happiest country in the world. Happy on a rainy Thursday with no sex - yeah, right!

Why would the press even be there at 11pm on a Thursday, at a - shall we say - not very prominent address on the outskirts of town? They had a seventh sense for smelling drama when there was none. Yes, it was a dead person, but we get them every other day, at least - so why run after this one?

Here he was, running down the well-lit stairs from the rented flat by the water that he could ill afford, but wanted. He desperately needed to somehow impress his older sister. The sister who had always considered him a failure - just because he, at the tender age of 35, still hadn't settled down with a family. Little did she know!

Running down the stairs towards the car park where his pride and joy - the Peugeot 2008 Automatic all black, with black windows in the back and black aluminium rims - was parked strategically below a streetlight, to dissuade the local punks from attacking it, and to show it off! No, it wasn't an Audi, nor a flashy BMW, but it was his, paid for in full. No car loan - paid in fucking cash!

He stopped to check that his kit bag was indeed in the boot - and that he had sufficient disposable gloves and white coveralls. And yes, there was enough of the hideous blue shoe covers he had to wear, if the suspicious death did indeed turn out to be something for which he had to call in all the technicians, on top of the pathologist and even more of his colleagues. Blue shoe covers! He had blue balls, that was bad enough…

Secretly, he hoped for a heart attack because of old age. Cruel thinking? Yes, but he needed to hook up with the hunk terribly. Talk about DSB, - a phrase he had picked up from a Kiwi colleague a couple of years ago in a bar in Christchurch, New Zealand.

First things first, though, let's find out if this death really is suspicious. The DSB could be managed manually.

He should have asked the duty officer for more info, but his head had been all screwed up with the thoughts of the guy he had just located online. He had looked hot in the pictures and had carried a decent - written - conversation; the guy had desires that matched his own. Versatile, BB and kinky. And now he had to put him off… Bearing in mind that he had not wanted to reveal his true profession to this new guy. Sorry, got to go, somebody has just died suspiciously, and I have got to go deal with it just didn't cut it. He had come up with something about a family crisis - not sure the guy had bought it. Shame, he had seemed a good shag. Judging from the dick pics, he certainly had the equipment required.

There was a wetness in the air, not unlike what you felt in the fruit and veg aisle when a spray delivers a mist to make you think the produce is fresh. A light drizzle, but not enough to warrant the windscreen wipers on all the time. He put the address into the built in GPS and was on his way to the supposedly suspicious death. What was he going to find? He called up the duty officer to get a few more facts.

'All I know is that the officer who found the deceased wanted a detective to look at it, as she thought it looked not only gross but also weird somehow.'

'Weird? Gross?' Strange words used to describe a crime scene.

'Don't know why exactly, but she said something about the guy being naked, hanging over a balcony and bleeding.' So, no heart attack then.

With that, all kinds of images had passed in front of his eyes, making navigating the nearly empty streets somewhat of a challenge.

'Hanging over a balcony. What does that mean? Hanging as in being hung from a rope, hanging as in leaning over the railing? And bleeding?'

'I don't know, just repeating what she said!' Actually, he had been more thinking out loud than speaking to the duty officer.

'Fine, I'll handle it. I'll keep you posted, though.'

Obviously more than just a cut to warrant a 'suspicious death' label.

He was there now, no doubt about it, judging from the flashing blue lights from the patrol car, that lit up the front of the block of flats - not unlike the one where he lived himself, except this one faced a train line and a motorway junction, rather than the tranquil waters of the inner harbour he could look out onto from his miniscule balcony. A small group of people had gathered, talking amongst themselves while casting quick glances up the front of the building four floors up. One or two filming with their phones - or was that guy livestreaming on Facebook? For real? He followed their gaze, and quickly understood why they weren't all constantly looking up at it, as spectators usually do when near a crime scene or an accident site.

He quickly looked away himself. No fucking doubt that this was suspicious. More than suspicious; no one ended up like that voluntarily. He stopped the livestreaming with a show of his warrant card.

What he had noticed was a man hanging over the railing of a small balcony, with no head attached to the neck - a conclusion further corroborated by the bloody marks on the side of the balcony, so bloody in fact that they appeared to be dripping down on the pavement below. So that was two check marks against the vague description from the duty officer. Was the guy naked as well? He had to look up again. Well, at least it looked that way. All he could see, apart from the apparent missing head, was a bare shoulder and what looked like a hairy chest. Check three! Gross? The Jury is still out on that. But there was something strange about the shoulder.

Even before seeing the details for himself, he knew that this was indeed something that needed the whole shebang: Coroner, detectives, technicians, and lots of guys in uniform to do the checks of the surrounding area. But he needed to get his own first impressions, before the hordes of death descended on the scene - incredible how many people made a living from death! As he walked into the building, he quickly made the necessary call.

Surprisingly, there was no one sticking their heads out the windows in the block. Normally, flashing blue lights in front of a house made the inhabitants flock like ants to a pile of sugar.

As he approached what he assumed was the entrance to the building, holding his kit bag, he was approached by one of the old crime hacks from a tabloid.

'Is it murder, Martin? Who is he? Why was he killed?'

Was it murder? Jeez! Which natural occurrence left a man with no head? He had absolutely no time for the hacks, especially Morten Quist. 'Seriously, Morten, do you really expect me to answer that now? You have been here longer than I have. Let me get in and get a look around, then I'll get back to you...''

'Like hell I will, you'll be the last to know anything, after the way you wrote about Louise last week in that rag of yours.' He brushed past Morten, who was still yelling questions at him.

'Do you really think you should say that out loud, sir?' He had thought he had just said it to himself, but apparently not quite. The officer standing guard at the door checking his ID card had obviously heard.

'No, no, I shouldn't. Anyway, tell me what you know. I assume you were the one who called it in as suspicious.'

'I wasn't, actually. That was Lone. She's upstairs with the old bird who called us.'

An old lady finding that on the balcony… there'll be a heart attack after all.

'Get these people further away from the entrance and confiscate the camera of the guy over there with the red North Face sweatshirt. He was livestreaming the body. I need the footage. Call for reinforcement if you need to. I have already called for the techs.'

He got to the landing on the fourth floor, without being stopped by anyone else. No movement from the three flats on each landing below. Not home, or out cold on sleeping pills? Working nights? We’ll, soon we'll know when the uniforms knock on doors to get information.

The door was open to the flat on the right, and he could hear gentle talk from there. The only other door on the landing, the one to the flat on the left, was closed with a crudely written sign that said 'Don't Enter'

Having knocked politely on the open door, he quietly entered. As soon as he rounded the door to the lounge, he was greeted by a woman in an ill-fitting police uniform, several sizes too small, the belly rolls clearly visible, who looked none too pleased with his presence.

'Who are you?'

'I'm the detective you called for'. Having shown her his warrant card, she calmed down and ushered him to the kitchen, while popping her head into the lounge where the owner was obviously seated.

'Mrs Larsen, I'll be right back. I just have to talk to my colleague. I´m sure he'll want to talk to you later.'

In the kitchen she quickly explained that she and the colleague he had met in the downstairs doorway had been called by Mrs Larsen, as she had heard a lot of noise from the next door flat and some screaming from a man. As they had been approaching, someone else had made a call to 112 anonymously, saying weird noises were coming from that flat, like someone was struggling. As they had got to the flat, they had found a closed but not locked front door, had walked in, found the place somewhat messed up, and found the body on the balcony. They had seen that he was obviously dead, checked the flat for other people, left and closed the door, and called it in.

'Do you want to see it for yourself?'

Where the fuck did they get these recruits? Of course, he wanted to see for himself. Did she expect him to leave the guy hanging there forever? Or until the landlord stopped by to collect the rent? Jeez!

Just as he turned around, the female colleague had a last remark that hit the proverbial nail on the head: 'He has no head or hands - and we didn't see them in the flat!' Suspicious in the first degree!

He left the Larsen flat, but before entering the other flat, donned his protective gear.

His first impression when entering was that it was familiar. He couldn't place why. He knew he had never been there, but it was as if he'd seen it - strange!

It was indeed a bit of a mess; the entrance was ok, there were a couple of coats hanging on hangers on the odd wardrobe thingy that was mounted to the wall, but as soon as he entered what was a kitchen, dining area and lounge all in one, it was messy: People had clearly been fighting: the dining chairs were tipped over. What looked like a plate of nachos with cheese was half on the floor, half on the tabletop, the plate nowhere to be seen. There was music playing from somewhere - Springsteen. It was playing loud, but not loud enough to muffle the sound of the dishwasher. On the coffee table was a Mac which looked somehow broken - at least the screen did - and a drink was spilled all over some papers and a magazine - a lemon slice looked weirdly out of place on top of a pie chart on the documents which reeked of alcohol - G&T anyone? No glass - that and the missing plate nagged at him. Next to the Mac was a pile of assorted coins on top of 75 British pounds in notes, and a few Euros and some receipts - almost as if a wallet had been emptied.

But of course, the principal reason for him entering the flat was on the balcony. The dead guy was naked - fully naked, as the first report had suggested. Again, the sense of familiarity overwhelmed him. Why was that? He knew for a fact that he had never set foot in this place before. Not an area of the city he normally frequented. But the guy…? Had he been with him? Was he someone he had arrested, interviewed? Gone to school with? No, that wasn't it.

The guy was hanging over the railing. The floor of the balcony was slippery with blood and goo - the old story that once you are dead all your muscles relax was obviously true, judging from the mess down the inside of the man's well defined and very hairy legs. Gross indeed! Check four. There were vague traces of footprints in the goo - relatively small footprints. Consequently, he decided not to go out to the balcony, instead looking to see if he could see traces of prints on the wooden floor of the lounge. There were some, so he moved along the walls as much as possible. He looked back at the balcony. There was some blood spatter on the walls, but quite high on the wall in a straight line, a bit on the ceiling as well. Nothing on the floor. He looked at the corpse again. Indeed, there was no head or hands. The image of newly killed chickens on his granddad's farm that he used to visit as a kid came to mind. He never enjoyed watching them being killed, but his dad insisted he learn that dinner didn't grow in the supermarket freezer. Did a four-year-old really need to know that?

As there was nothing he could do to the body - the techs would go ape-shit if he touched anything - he checked out the rest of the flat until the crew arrived. Indeed, no trace of the missing head or hands. Nor any of the implements used in their disappearance. It was gross but not unheard of, that crooks wanted to hide the identity of victims - but surely it must have taken some time to do that, and it was not that long since the alarm had been sounded - why leave the corpse in such a public place?

The bathroom had standard cheap rental apartment style fixtures, but the towels were thick black and obviously expensive, as were the toiletries on the shelf. No cheap supermarket AXE type shit here. It was all Jean Paul Gaultier, Boss and Kenzo. The guy has expensive tastes, but smells like a tart's bedroom if he wears it all at once! Only men's colognes - and only one toothbrush. But an enormous stack of thick black towels.

The expensive taste was carried through into the bedroom where again the familiarities began nagging at him. The walls were dark grey, with a very colourful abstract red painting over the bed, which itself was an enormous monster laid out with black sheets - albeit very ruffled black sheets, with several stains on them. There were stylish rugs on either side of the bed. In one corner of the room was a post-box red locked metal cabinet. The blinds were down.

There were several types of lighting in the room. He had flipped all the switches as he entered, and had switched on a big gothic chandelier in the middle of the room, as well as concealed red lighting around the edges of the ceiling.

Something looked like it had been spilled on the bedside table - but there was no glass.

Shit, the dishwasher! Had someone put all the glasses and plates in the machine to erase fingerprints? He sprinted to the kitchen, and opened the machine mid-program, to find only five glasses, two plates and some cutlery being cleaned.

What had happened here? He knew they would have to let the evidence speak, but he couldn't help already thinking. There was a lot of rage involved, but was it a hate crime? Was it a home robbery gone wrong? Revenge? If so, for what? Are we looking at contact killing or a distance killing?

Before he could get any further with his nosing around the flat, or lining up questions, there was a commotion at the front door.

The entire gang seemed to have appeared all at once, making so much noise that the occupants of the other flats were emerging. Damage control was needed, and fast. Nosing around more in the bedroom would have to wait.

He quickly got the guys separated: the uniformed guys into the corridors, the neighbours into their flats to be questioned, and the techs into the flat. No, he hadn´t touched anything, and yes, he had worn the protective gear, and no, the original officers hadn´t, and yes they were still in the building. Did those guys really think this was his first major crime scene?

Quickly one tech had got access to the flat above and had somehow rigged a sheet from the balcony above the victim, to give him - the victim - some decorum, and the techs some privacy from the lurking photographers. Mind you, nothing like a big white sheet with the word 'Police' in big blue letters to attract attention. Already he could see TV crews setting up shop below, with spotlights pointing up at the balcony.

He got one tech working on contacting all the phone companies, to do mast-drop - basically a download of all mobile phone activity on the telecom masts in the vicinity in the last 24 hours to give them an overview of who had been in the area. Also, two of the uniforms were told to collect video footage from all the CCTV they spotted in the area. All pretty much standard stuff, but stuff that could prove crucial later.

A quick look at his phone assured him that the news was out. Time to call his boss.

'Hi Jens, sorry to wake you… ahh you have heard…. from the TV station…. I see…. No, I couldn't call you earlier. I needed to get the facts together. It is bad, it's murder, a gruesome one at that… Yes, I´ll handle it…. Yes, the entire gang is here…. No, it's not Jesper, the usual coroner that is here. It's that new chick, Kristina something, the one who came on last month, when we had the guy in the harbour, the one missing a leg, remember? I´ll try to be back at the office at 9, then I'll let you know more… Yes, I´ll call when we know who he is. But just so you know: the press is all over it - rightfully so - the guy is naked, hanging over the rails of the balcony, with his head missing! - Yes, I said missing - so are his hands! Yes, of course we are looking for it and them. My initial thoughts are that we are looking at some kind of revenge, because of the violence, but that's just a gut feeling. One thing that bugs me though is a small footprint… oh and just so you know, some idiot was livestreaming the body on Facebook when I got here! Yes, I did shut it down, but it's out there! Yes, I know!'

What had got into him? Why so direct? Or was it just the fact that it was very early in the morning? Shit o'clock is a nasty time to hear about a gruesome murder, I suppose.

Back inside the flat, he had the techs doing their stuff, but with particular emphasis on finding some ID for the guy. He told them about the dishwasher being stopped mid-rinse.

'Good thinking, but most likely too late.'

As he was about to go back into the lounge to check on progress, Kristina, the coroner, came out to say the obvious in a very nonchalant tone.

'Yes, he is dead' - Really? Never thought of that!

'The initial cause of death seems to be the decapitation, but I'll know more when I get him on the slab. Look for a big knife, something like a meat cleaver. I don't know if the hands were removed pre- or post-mortem - for his sake I hope it was after!'

'How fresh…' He didn't get to finish the sentence…

'You mean TOD? Not that long ago - three or four hours max.' That stunned him a bit.

Three to four hours? Really? We only got the call two hours ago, and then it sounded like it was happening right then?'

'Look, I can only go by my initial findings. I'll know more….' She sounded like she was talking to an insubordinate teenager.

'When you get him on the slab, yes I know.'

As she turned to get out of the white suit and blue shoes, and don her high heels and short red leather jacket again, he couldn't help but wonder how she could look so good at this time of the morning? Did she not get affected by what she faced in her job? Could one be so distant?

Even though he had seen his share of dead people and other tragedies, it still affected him. She looked like she could just literally leave the blood-stained white coverall behind and go right out on a hot romantic date. Really? Is that even possible? Is it even humanly possible?

What about his own date?

She is a good coroner who not only does a good and thorough job within the confines of the white tiles of the autopsy room, but also puts on a believable show in the courtroom. Was 'show' the right term to use? Ah, what the hell, that's what she'd delivered two weeks ago when it was needed at the National Court. She had played a not insignificant part in putting two Swedish brothers behind bars for not just rape, but also for a brutal murder of two teens in one of the other suburbs. She had held the jurors captive, while delivering an enforcing, detailed and thorough explanation of her findings, and how said findings implicated the defendants. Even the defence solicitors had looked like they had given up - yet they were still impressed by her performance, and not just her short skirt.

Enough with the leather jacket clad coroner. He had another more recent murder on his hands. What was the reason behind this? Why the brutality? Why leave the guy on the balcony? Why were his trousers off? Did that signify anything? Were they off before he had met his fate? Where was his clothes now? Surely some neighbours could shed some light on what kind of guy he was, and/or who saw him recently, or on what had been going on in the flat. Being one of the standard seventies blocks, he knew from experience that the walls, though made of concrete, were no barrier to sound, so the one living above and below would have had a ringside seat to the sound effects of life in this flat. Out of normal social norms, they may initially deny it, but he knew that some of them knew. Interesting what the door-to-door would bring into the open!

His line of thought was shattered when a fight seemed to have broken out by the front door. Two of the uniformed officers seemed to be having difficulties keeping someone out.

'Look, I live here. Of course, I can come into my flat.' Someone was clearly pissed off.

'No, sir, you can't, it's cordoned off by police, it's a crime scene.' The uniform by the door tried to placate the alleged occupant of the flat.

'What do you mean, a crime scene? I live here.'

How one ruled out the other was not quite clear. Maybe he should interfere. Talking to the owner could be useful. And the owner was obviously not the victim then. Somehow, he had assumed that the deceased was the owner, or at least he was the occupant of the flat - or maybe not! 'Don't always go with first impressions!' - wasn't that the motto of his old mentor Kurt? If the victim wasn't the owner or the occupant, then that made a contact killing less likely, and thus made his work more difficult. Talk about a spanner in the works. Contact killings, i.e., killings where the victim and the perp knew each other, were the most common, and also by far the easiest to solve.

'Excuse me, sir, can we talk? My name is Martin Bay. I'm in charge here. And as my colleagues said, this is a crime scene, so no, you cannot come in!'

'Why not? I live here.' He sounded like a five-year-old.

'So, I heard'. How do you say this delicately? He threw caution to the wind and came clean:

'The reason you can't come in is that we have a dead man in here, a very dead man. To put it bluntly: it's a mess in here. I'm sure you don't want to see that. Once we have him out…'

'Him? Is Mark dead?' The guy all of sudden had more of a concerned, almost pleading tone to his voice.

'Maybe! Just who is Mark? '

'Mark is my boyfriend. He was supposed to come to town this morning. I was expecting to meet him at the door. Not those two gorillas. I have just driven up from Hamburg on a business trip.'

Gorillas was not an inadequate description of the two young - obviously fresh out of the academy - officers standing guard at the door. It looked like they had been paying attention when they were being taught about the effects of steroid use. They had obviously tried the theory out, judging from the pecs and biceps that kept threatening to rip their shirts apart at the seams. Where did they recruit those show-offs from? Was that really the best the new Jutland Police Academy could come up with? The future of the police force is bleak. Again, he heard the voice of his dad talking.

'Well, if it's Mark I've just seen, he won't be able to greet you.' Tactfulness was never a strong side of his!

'So, Mark is dead?'

He'd better play it safe: 'Someone is definitely very dead in this flat, a man. Who he is we don't know yet. Maybe you can help us identify him later?'

'Can I do it now? Look, I need to know!' The last part had almost been a plea. Though he could somehow sympathise with this guy's request, there was no way he could let him into the flat. That possible identification would have to wait until the mortuary. But let's see if he has a picture of this Mark guy.

'Look, we can stay out here in the corridor, but maybe sitting in the car would be better for us all.' He put a hand on the guy's shoulder, which made the exalted voice drop a few octaves. No way was he letting him into the flat, so definitely the car seemed the lesser of two evils.

'OK, let's go, I…' his voice had broken as he had stepped aside to let the two guys in full drab carrying a stretcher with an empty body bag on top into the flat. Seeing that he seemed to have grasped the seriousness of the situation he pivoted towards the stairs. A look of resignation flashed over the guy's very blue eyes.

Better catch up! For all he knew, this guy could be the perp! Perps have come back to scenes before, admittedly mostly to arsons. With a look to satisfy himself that the scene was in capable hands he went after the guy down the uninspiring concrete staircase. He had to dodge several curious stares and half-asked questions from people in doorways. Some neighbours were asking questions to the owner of the flat too, but he also dodged them. They were both determined to get to the bottom of the gauntlet as quickly as possible.

Not the most comfortable place to conduct a preliminary interview, but at least his car had offered a bit of privacy as it was parked around the corner from the building, and as it was a private car - not a black and white patrol car with the characteristic fluorescent yellow markings - it didn't attract attention from the news hacks or their camera crews. At the last minute, before the guy had exited through the front door, and thus would have faced the wolves, he asked him for a backdoor. The guy had led them out through the basement.

The guy was John Thisted - he was 36, 'I'm working as a key account manager for a pharmaceutical company - JS - Johnson Science.' So, he was really a sales rep: what's with these made-up-to-impress-others job titles?

'I have been in Germany for three days - I just drove up tonight,' he continued.

'Do you have a hotel bill and ferry reservation to prove this?'

'Am I a suspect?' John looked flabbergasted at the thought. Of course, you are dumb wit, it's your flat - I assume - so until further notice yes, you are a suspect: the prime suspect! People close to the crime scene are by default a suspect until ruled out by evidence - criminalistics 101.

'Just standard procedure to rule you out.' Did people actually fall for that shitty line?

'Ahh!' He didn't sound convinced. 'I don't have a ferry reservation, but you'll be able to see from the Brobizz registration when I crossed the bridge to Sjælland, I paid with my number plate - my car is the Audi Q5 Prestige over there.' - Ahh, so a well-paid sales rep then!

'Great, hotel bill, restaurant bills, that kind of thing?'

'You are thinking of me as a suspect!' He really was surprised. This is getting tedious.

'You must have them, surely. Here's my card - email me them with a screenshot of your Brobizz account statement as well.' The Brobizz technology was good. It'll show when the car crossed the Great Belt, and by looking at the footage from the surveillance camera at the pay station they could verify when he had indeed crossed. London was known as the scary example of a surveillance society, but Denmark wasn't far off - personally, he found it scary, but professionally it was great - it made police life so much easier.

He needed some facts: 'So, you own the flat?'

'No, I rent it from an ex - who has moved to Chennai for his work.' He looked like he didn't want to think of 'the ex'.

'For how long?' He looked up from writing on his electronic notepad.

'I have lived here for about 12 months - and have a contract for a further 18. By then I hope to buy something'. Something akin to pride had entered his voice; guess being able to buy something in today's house market on one income was something to be proud of.

'When you send the receipt, send the info of the owner as well.' He said it without looking up… he had to scribble all the details.

'You really are…' He had looked up with a face of disbelief.

'Verifying everything you say? Yes, I am!'

'OK - I guess!' Now it was a look of defeat.

He needed a short recap: 'So, other than you, the owner and your boyfriend whom you expected to be in the flat, who has keys to the flat?'

'Well, I guess it'll only be Mrs Larsen next door. She looks after the plants and the cat when I'm away.'

The cat? He had seen no signs of a cat. Hmm! No signs at all.

'Do you have a picture of your boyfriend? I have seen the deceased, so I may be…'

'I do! Here!' With urgency in his voice, he handed over the phone where the lock picture showed a late 20-ish blonde surfer-type on a beach - legs, arms and chest with no trace of hair, and mahogany brown.

'Maybe a strange question, but did your boyfriend shave his torso and arms and legs before this photo?'

'Yes, it is, but no, he didn't! Or not a lot, at least. Why would you ask that?'

'Because the diseased man has a very hairy chest and hairy arms and legs.'

'Good!' He had sounded so almost childishly relieved that he felt pity on him. He obviously realised the inappropriateness of his remark and explained: 'I mean, I don't…'

'I understand. You are happy, it's not your boyfriend!' he said, patting his shoulder.

'Yes, but then, where is he, Martin?'

'I have no idea.' How the fuck should I know? 'When did you last talk to him - your boyfriend?'

'Monday night, late from Hamburg, he was just about to board a plane in Sydney, where had been in a surf competition on Bondi.' Ok, so this surfer dude was indeed a surfer dude!

'Could you call him? Just to find out where he is.'

'Well, I guess! Now?'

'Now that we know he's not in the flat, yes!' But what we don't know is if he has been there before - like a couple of hours ago. But then again, there was no luggage in the flat.

The guy had displayed a pleading look on his face, and asked to be left alone in the car while he made the call. No way, not happening mate.

He picked the phone up, dialled the number and waited. No answer.

'Can you give me his number? I'll see if I can find where it was last used?'

He gave it - it was a Danish number.

'So, Mark is Danish?'

'Yes, he's from Holstebro originally, but now travels around the world for competitions. He is in the world's top 10. Mark Dahl. Maybe you have heard or read about him? Why is that important?'

'His nationality isn't, but that it's a Danish registered number makes it easier for me to get a trace on it, that's all.' He wrote the number down, then looked up. 'And no, I have never heard of him.'

A thought occurred to him.

'Your landlord, the guy you are subletting the flat from - do you have a photo of him as well by any chance?'

'I guess. Let me check. There should be one in the photo archive. Why?'

I ask the questions - yours are boring!

'Again, to compare him with the deceased.' Was that so hard to figure out?

The friend - the landlord - was familiar. But not because he was the dead guy on the floor, but because it was a guy he had met a while ago in a bar in the old part of town; a guy he brought home and 'entertained' for the better part of a weekend, but whom he had not seen since - understandably, if he was now in Chennai.

'Is my friend…, is Henrik the…'

'The deceased? No, he isn't - definitely not!' The dead guy was much bigger - everywhere - than Henrik.

'Phew! sorry!' Again, that concerned look - not unlike that of a child who thinks they are in big trouble.

'I understand - it's not nice to think that someone you know is dead!'

'But if it's not one of those two….'

Indeed, it's not one of them who is the dead - hairy – guy… Then who is it? And as for you, you had better hope the documentation from the bridge checks out! He needed to get rid of the guy to get back to the flat.

'Look, you obviously can't get into your flat tonight - or the next couple of nights. So, you had better find a place to stay, and then inform me, when you send the documentation we talked about earlier.' He looked at him, trying to gather from his looks whether he understood the message.

'So, I can go?' John had looked and sounded like he was in disbelief.

'Yes, for now I have no more questions for you - but I will have later.'

The guy practically scrambled out of the car, checked for traffic, and jumped into his Audi.

The bridge info better check out. Or he himself was screwed for letting this guy go.

It wouldn't count in the court, but his gut told him that this guy was not the killer. He may be a hardcore sales rep, judging from the car, but he had some kind of innocence about him - and he had big feet! But if that was correct - and he was sure it was - it meant that the four people who had access to the flat were not the deceased - he had ruled out the old dear by default. So, who was it then? Surely there must be some connection.

The tasks were piling up to be solved.

Back in the flat, after having avoided the press gang by going in through the backdoor, and after having donned a new set of protective gear yet again, he got hold of the chief tech.

'Lotte, have you seen a cat here?' Lotte pulled herself out from under the kitchen sink.

'No, why?' Her puzzled look was endearing.

'Because the guy renting the flat has one that is being looked after by the neighbour, she supposedly comes in to feed it.'

'Hmm, no, no feline here, but there has been one!' She flapped her arms despairingly, before trying to duck back under the sink again.

'How do you know?'

She stood up again. 'There is cat food in the cupboard and gravel - used gravel - in the bin on the balcony! And a litter box next to the terrace door. But no, no cat!'

He persisted: 'Anything else you have found so far?'

Realising this would drag on, she stood facing him. 'We have collected multiple samples from the bedroom. There were tons of sheets in the laundry hamper - all with lots of DNA samples, sperm, and other bodily fluids by the look of it. We may get something from the stuff in the machine. We'll know later.' She looked at him impatiently.

'Anything on the guy?'

She now took on a more lecturing stance, almost defiant.