The Stolen Angel Read online

  “Nymand is reopening the case,” said Camilla, drawing a rug over her legs. “This time, the death of Inger Sachs-Smith is being investigated as a murder.”

  6

  There was a knock on the door, and Rebekka Sachs-Smith stepped into Miklos Wedersøe’s office. Her long, fawn-colored coat was draped over her arm; she had her dark hair gathered in a loose ponytail and her Chanel sunglasses pushed up on her forehead.

  “Already started, I see,” she said somewhat contemptuously, hanging her coat on a hanger inside the door. “I’m rather curious to know what it is that’s so important you think I can just drop everything and come running.”

  With a look of annoyance she crossed the room and air-kissed Carl Emil in her usual cloud of perfume. She was an elegant woman in the classical sense. Soft cashmere cardigan and splashy silk scarf around her neck. And she was tall, slim, and quite as dark as her father, unlike Carl Emil, who was fair like their mother.

  “Thank you both for coming at such short notice.” Wedersøe courteously drew out a chair for her. “Coffee?” he asked, already opening the door into reception to relay the request to his secretary.

  They both nodded.

  Carl Emil sank back in his chair and gazed out the window.

  Through it there was a fine view of Roskilde Cathedral, the winter sun so bright it made the sky look pale. From the other window the city sloped down toward the fjord and the Viking Ship Museum. The office was exquisitely furnished. Brass door handles and lamps. Cabinets, desk, and chairs of mahogany, offset perfectly by the high white paneling.

  His thoughts miles away, Carl Emil heard Miklos inform his sister about the offer they had received for the Angel of Death and about the reproduction that had gone missing from their father’s property, but he felt barely able to distinguish the attorney’s words.

  One hundred seventy-five million dollars. He had not been intending to involve his sister at all, but the sum was so huge he could hardly afford not to ask for her help if they were to have any hope of finding the original and completing the deal.

  “Certainly not,” his sister burst out emphatically once the attorney’s secretary had served coffee and closed the door behind her again. “The Angel of Death has never been and will never be for sale, no matter how ridiculous the money.”

  She turned angrily toward Carl Emil.

  “Is this because you’ve run out of cash and Daddy’s no longer here to sort out your finances for you?” she inquired scornfully. “If it is, then sell the apartment or the car. Just keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you.”

  Carl Emil was the middle child, two years older than her, and the only one of the three never to have completed an education. His and Rebekka’s relationship had already taken a downturn when it was discovered he suffered from diabetes. As a child he became the object of his mother’s devotion, his sister turning toward her father, forever demanding his attention and recognition.

  “But I can’t sell the icon, can I?” he said, sinking back in his chair and battling not to lose his temper. “I don’t know where it is. Was it you who removed the copy from his office?”

  His sister stared at him as if he had thrown a rotten tomato at her.

  “Of course it wasn’t me,” she answered directly. “I haven’t removed a thing from that house. And none of us would have any right, either. Including you!”

  She turned to Wedersøe. “When did you receive this offer?”

  “I got the call at three o’clock this morning. My contact in New York had just received confirmation of the bid himself.”

  She looked across at her brother. “Does that mean you’ve known how much the icon was worth since this morning?”

  Carl Emil nodded grudgingly.

  “So you two bastards were thinking of selling it without my knowledge,” she concluded matter-of-factly, glaring at them both in turn. “Only now you’re stuck and don’t know what to do.”

  “Of course not. We wouldn’t dream of doing anything without your full acceptance,” Wedersøe protested. “That has never been our intention at any time.”

  She stopped him in his tracks with an abrupt gesture of her hand. “You must think I’m stupid. If that was the case you would have called me, too, but I didn’t even know you were looking for a buyer.”

  She shook her head, her lips tightened in anger.

  “Oh, come on,” Carl Emil interrupted. “We’ll be cashing in more than a billion kroner, less the twenty percent Miklos and his contact in New York will be getting in commission.”

  “My view is that we should consider it very seriously indeed,” Wedersøe added, looking her straight in the eye.

  For the first time, Rebekka’s gaze flickered briefly. A second later her brown eyes glared back at him.

  “Nothing’s ever enough for you two, is it?” she spat. “We made a nice little packet selling off Termo-Lux, all three of us. When are you ever satisfied?”

  Carl Emil could no longer control himself. He leaped to his feet and bore down on her threateningly. “Who are you to play holier-than-thou? You were the one who talked us into forcing Dad out in case he found out the Brits were waiting in the wings. You put the pressure on so Miklos could join the board, making sure we had enough votes on our side that Dad had no choice other than to pull out. None of that was my idea.”

  Rebekka rose to her feet, shoving him away in the process.

  “Oh, please, don’t give me that,” she said coldly. “You signed all the documents, each and every one, so it’s a bit late in the day to be playing innocent, don’t you think? Besides, you were perfectly aware of what was going on and couldn’t get your hands on the money quickly enough.”

  Her words hit him like a punch in the diaphragm. He had indeed been stupid enough to put his signature on everything having to do with the takeover.

  She turned to Wedersøe. “How much did you get out of it? Are you prepared to do anything at all if it means money flooding into your account?”

  “That’s enough!” Carl Emil burst out, grabbing her by the arm. “No one here’s even half as power-crazed as you, as well you know.”

  Whereas he had wasted his college years, she had been a model student. Since graduating she had supplemented her education with as many executive leadership programs as she could find, passing them all with flying colors. He was no match for her in that department, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

  “All respect to Frederik for pulling out. The difference between you two is that he was able to make a career for himself, while you simply sat yourself down in Dad’s chair,” he added, relishing how much it clearly hurt her.

  Their elder brother had been living in the United States for the last fifteen years working as a scriptwriter in the movie industry. He was the outsider who had turned his back on the family dynasty in order to pursue his dream. At the age of twenty-seven, he had gained admission to a reputable film school in New York, and during the last few years he’d been involved in several major Hollywood movies. Having no need of the money, however, Frederik had little interest in blockbusters. Alongside his movie work he had made a mark for himself as a financier and garnered a fortune on the property markets. He didn’t need to earn any more than he already had and had long since pulled out of the family firm. Neither Carl Emil nor his sister had heard from him since the Termo-Lux takeover.

  “Do you know where the icon is?” Carl Emil probed, taking advantage of his sister temporarily having lost her footing.

  “No, I don’t,” she replied, her mouth narrowed to a slit by seething rage. “But if I did, you can both be damn sure I wouldn’t be telling you.”

  “Listen,” Wedersøe cut in, still seated with his hands folded in front of him on the desk. “Perhaps it would make more sense to talk about who might have removed the icon from your father’s office. If someone’s out there trying to get their hands on it, there’s a reasonable chance they’ll be back once they realize what they stole was a copy.”

/>   He fixed his eyes on Rebekka.

  “Then it would be up to the two of you whether to find the real icon ourselves or sit on our hands and wait until someone else beats us to it.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Rebekka began in a slow, measured voice. “Even if you do find the Angel of Death, I will never agree to it being sold. All our other plans have succeeded. None of us is in need of the money. We’ve all gotten what we want.”

  “You have, you mean,” Carl Emil muttered to himself heatedly, decoding the look in her eye that told him he had lost. She was fully aware that the moment he gained true financial freedom he would be off, leaving her on her own, and the thought was obviously an unpleasant one for her to entertain.

  “The Angel of Death is staying in the family. It’s a part of our history,” she underlined. “I won’t sanction a sale, not even for that kind of money.”

  Carl Emil sighed heavily. She begrudged him, it was as simple as that.

  “And if you ever do sell behind my back, then I shall go to the papers and tell them all about how our greed and avarice killed our parents.”

  “While you’re at it, why not tell them about how our grandfather got his hands on it in the first place and kept one of the most fabled cultural treasures of all time for himself, hidden away so no one else could find it?” Carl Emil retorted sarcastically.

  “Absolutely not. That story remains within the family. But I will tell them how Dad and Frederik were tricked into selling the major part of their A-shares in Termo-Lux shortly before their value went up a hundred thirty percent.”

  “That story will boomerang back and hit you square in the neck,” Carl Emil pointed out, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “That may be so,” she said. “But the pen was in your hand.”

  She rose and bent over him. “If you start looking for the Angel of Death, I’m going to the media,” she whispered in his ear before straightening up and striding over to take her coat from the hanger.

  * * *

  When the door slammed behind her, Carl Emil sank back in his chair and wiped his brow while he tried to assemble his thoughts.

  “So, who’s on the trail of the icon?” he asked after a moment, suddenly fatigued despite the increasing sense of unease now niggling beneath his skin.

  Miklos Wedersøe looked at him and shrugged. “If only I knew,” he replied. “But it would have been nice if Rebekka had agreed to help us locate the original before someone else finds it first.”

  “She’ll come around,” Carl Emil said without conviction, letting his hands drop to his lap. “She needs time, that’s all.”

  “Do you think she could find it?” Wedersøe asked.

  “If anyone can, she’d be the one. I don’t think she knew the one in my father’s office was a copy, though.”

  “What a mess,” Wedersøe exclaimed, his voice revealing for the first time how much was at stake for him personally if the deal collapsed. “We’ve got the buyer there now. But if she’s not going to sell—”

  “We’re selling, of course we’re selling. What’s the point of having a billion kroner’s worth of stained glass stashed away someplace where no one can get any pleasure out of it? I’ll sort her out, don’t worry,” Carl Emil broke in angrily. “And if all else fails, we’ll sell without her.”

  “I think it’s safe to say she didn’t sound keen,” Wedersøe maintained.

  “Screw Rebekka,” Carl Emil reiterated emphatically, his mind made up. “But find out where we stand if she goes public with that takeover story.”

  Wedersøe nodded and sat for a moment before responding. “I don’t think it would be a problem. We should be able to refute her claims rather easily, and I would continue to maintain that in good faith, I advised your father and brother to sell.”

  Damn right you would, Carl Emil thought. He downed the rest of his coffee, the exorbitant fee he and Rebekka had paid the attorney for completing the deal flashing through his mind.

  It had been a race against time because they had needed to close the agreement before the public got wind that they were negotiating with the company’s British competitor without their father’s knowledge. In view of the commission Miklos had received for sealing the Brits’ takeover, he was anticipating no further problems on that account.

  He also failed to see what leverage his sister might have when everything boiled down. They had covered their backs, not least in preparation for the eventuality that the facts would leak and the public would find out they had been fully aware that selling the company would hike up the share value considerably. And it had been she herself who had suggested they make the most of that upward trend, with their father and brother on their way out.

  “Anyway, the deadline for complaint passed months ago,” Wedersøe added. “It’s a dead end.”

  Carl Emil nodded pensively, then got to his feet and picked up his coat from the chair.

  7

  Grete Milling wept when Louise got through to her on the phone.

  She had just come into the office after Friday’s morning conference. Lars Jørgensen had brought the coffee and put two clean mugs out on the desk. Her work partner was on reduced hours after his wife had left him on his own with their nine-year-old Bolivian twins. The children were with his mother this weekend, so he wouldn’t have to get home so early. He was planning to make use of the extra hours to tidy up all the files that had accumulated on top of the low shelving unit.

  He had just handed Louise a mug when her phone rang.

  “The lease on Jeanette’s flat has been terminated.”

  The words came out unevenly. The elderly woman sobbed heartrendingly.

  “And now they’re saying they’ll be sending the bailiffs in if I don’t come and clear the place out this weekend so they can paint and make it ready for the new tenants. They’ve already taken the money out of the maintenance account.”

  Louise put her mug down and drew her chair closer to the desk. “Is there any particular reason why this is happening now?” she asked. “Have they given you any prior notice?”

  “No, none at all,” fru Milling sniffed. “I’ve been paying her rent every month. I’ve got all the receipts here.”

  Louise heard a rustle of paper at the other end.

  “They claim they sent a letter. But my daughter’s mail gets redirected to me and I haven’t received anything from the rental agent at all. They said the bailiffs will come and clear the place and that everything will be sent into storage if I can’t take care of the matter myself.”

  Again her voice cracked into sobs. Louise let her cry.

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to stop them putting my daughter out?” the woman inquired once she had collected herself again. “What about all her things? And what’s she going to do when she comes home?”

  Louise hadn’t the heart to say how unlikely it was that Jeanette Milling would be coming home again.

  “She can always stay with me, of course,” the woman added as an afterthought, pausing to blow her nose before going on:

  “The lady who rang said it was the agent’s policy to terminate the lease automatically if a flat was left vacant for more than three months, though always with prior written notice. She said they’d already been more than obliging in Jeanette’s case.”

  There was nothing Louise felt she could say. Instead she listened.

  “If only there were some news I could pass on to the agent, then perhaps they would give us an extension. But when I called the Search Department to speak to Ragner Rønholt they told me the chief superintendent was in a meeting. Now I’ll have to go over and make sure Jeanette’s things don’t go missing,” fru Milling went on.

  The weeping took over again, and Louise cast a glance at her schedule. Not that she considered herself to be any more compassionate than her colleagues, but Grete Milling had somehow gotten under her skin. What she could do was call the Search Department and ask if there was somebody there who could deal with t
he woman, take some care of her. Otherwise the police in Esbjerg would have to get someone to clear the flat and make sure Jeanette Milling’s possessions were sent over so her mother could get them into storage.

  “Fru Milling, if you could just give me your number again,” Louise said, pulling a notepad out from under a pile, “I’ll try and get hold of Chief Superintendent Rønholt on your behalf and see if we can sort this out for you.”

  She jotted the number down with the pen Lars Jørgensen shoved across the desk.

  “Let me call you back once I’ve had a word with them,” she said and concluded the call.

  Louise turned to her computer, accessed missing persons, and clicked on the menu for nationwide.

  Jeanette Milling was number three on the list. There were two photos of her: a full-face portrait and another of her standing on a beach wearing an airy summer dress, her long hair lifting on the breeze, the sun in her eyes.

  The brief text was the same as the one that had been sent out to the various police districts when she was reported missing:

  Missing: Jeanette Milling, 30 yrs, resident Esbjerg. Last seen 26 July 2009, Fuengirola, Costa del Sol, Spain. Approx. 09:30 in hotel breakfast room.

  Beneath the two photos it went on:

  Information as to Jeanette Milling’s whereabouts after said time and date may be given to South Jutland Police or Copenhagen Police, Search Dept.

  The text was followed by a duty desk phone number.

  No further information had been received. Louise called her colleagues in the Search Department at National Police and was put through to Hanne Munk.

  Rønholt’s secretary had worked in the Homicide Department back when Louise first joined. She was a bubbly woman with a shock of curly hair and a preference for ethnic Indian clothes and joss sticks. She had almost driven Willumsen out of his mind, and Louise had no doubt whatsoever that the superintendent’s less-than-charming demeanor was why Hanne had jumped when the opportunity came to move to another department. Now she was with Ragner Rønholt, and her spiritual tendencies were a much better match for his passions for orchids and silent movies.