‘That’s great, Finn. I’m on my way.’
I hung up before he had time to reply.
It was only Saturday.
I felt I had been in the city for months. The prospect of again sitting for hours signing books held no appeal at all. I dragged myself into the bathroom.
A deathly pale face with black rings round the eyes observed me from the mirror. A huge purple bruise spread across a couple of ribs under my left nipple and it hurt if I breathed too deeply. I shuddered and stepped under the shower, turning up the water as hot as I could stand it. Even so, I couldn’t get warm. It was as if the events of last night had planted a chill in my body that had taken root while I slept. I pushed aside the memory of Marie and concentrated on my morning ritual. The familiar routine of trimming my beard, combing my hair and applying deodorant helped keep my thoughts at bay.
Breakfast was reduced to a cup of coffee and a crusty roll, which I wolfed down while I flicked through the newspaper. Reading the news had become a nerve-wracking experience. Every moment I expected to see Verner’s eyes staring out at me from one of the pages, though I knew that once he was found, I would hear about it before the newspapers did.
‘Will you be checking out tomorrow?’ Ferdinan asked as I walked through the lobby.
Suddenly I was unsure. I desperately wanted to leave the city as quickly as possible, but I had a case to solve and I couldn’t do that from the cottage in Rågeleje.
‘I might be staying a couple more days,’ I replied.
Ferdinan’s face lit up. ‘Ah, a woman perhaps?’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, nothing like that. I want to visit some friends.’
‘If so, you can get your old room back,’ Ferdinan said and smiled.
My heart galloped. The thought of staying in that room made me feel sick. I was sure no one would ever sleep in there again.
‘No, that’s not necessary,’ I replied and tried to smile. ‘I’m slowly getting used to the luxury suite.’
‘OK,’ Ferdinan replied. ‘Just let me know.’
I thanked him and hurried outside to my taxi.
I told the driver to take me to Forum, but once we were in motion I had second thoughts. How could I sign books as if nothing had happened? Shouldn’t I go to the police instead? Shouldn’t I do what I had put off for far too long, try to fix it all? I cursed myself. If only I had contacted the police straightaway everything would be different. Even though I now had a concrete clue, room 87 at Hotel BunkInn, I couldn’t pass on this information to the police without getting Marie in trouble and I didn’t want that.
I grew increasingly frantic, but I was also aware that it really was up to me to solve the case. It was no longer about an ingenious angle for an autobiography or research for my next thriller, this was about survival.
It looked hopeless. All I had to go on were the words of a drug-addicted hooker, the name of the hotel and a room number. However, it was the first time since the body of Mona Weis was discovered that I felt I had caught up with the killer. No matter how devious he was, he couldn’t have predicted that I would find Marie. Unless he had actually been following me last night, he couldn’t know I was breathing down his neck.
A plan was starting to take shape. I didn’t delude myself that I could overpower the killer physically, that was too risky, but I might find evidence in the room at the BunkInn, something that pointed straight to the real killer, something I could take with me and place in the room where Verner lay murdered. In this way I wouldn’t be directly implicated. It was simplicity itself. However, it required that I gained access to room 87 soon. When the booking of room 102 expired, it would be too late.
When we had almost reached Forum, I told the taxi driver to take me to Copenhagen Central station instead. Finn and his autograph-hunters would have to wait.
Hotel BunkInn is near the station, but I had to buy a couple of things first. Marie had told me that the man who hired her, Verner’s killer, had a beard and wore a hat and sunglasses. I already had the beard, but was lacking the hat and sunglasses. A quick visit to a shop took care of that. Of course, I couldn’t know what kind of hat he had worn or what his glasses looked like, but in my experience people don’t pay much attention to such details. Not if they staff a busy hotel reception, and especially not in Vesterbro where a hotel receptionist’s best qualification is a short-term memory.
I put on my disguise and headed for the hotel. It was a strange feeling. I thought people were staring at me, that they saw through my disguise and I was attracting more attention to myself rather than less. This made me walk faster, which in turn only made it even worse.
The hotel was much smaller than I had expected. Only a small facade fronted the street, and the reception was the size of a parking space. The dark red carpet and brown wallpaper did nothing to make it seem bigger. A young man appeared behind a reception counter of imitation mahogany and black marble. He was pale, gangly and wore jeans, a checked shirt and glasses with a strong steel frame. A pair of half-open eyes behind them registered my presence without noticeable reaction.
‘Room 87,’ I said in as calm a tone of voice as I could manage.
The young man turned to the board with keycards and found number 87.
‘You’re that author, aren’t you?’ he said when he faced me.
I was too flabbergasted to reply.
‘Johnny told me he had checked you in when he was on duty last Tuesday. We share the job, you see. I’m a student, so—’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said that you were a writer and that’s why you had asked not to be disturbed.’ He winked at me. ‘Don’t worry, we haven’t been in there.’
I nodded. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘But I could give you a couple of fresh towels. And some clean linen,’ the receptionist said, crouching behind the counter. ‘Since you won’t let us come in and change it.’ He sounded a little wounded. ‘Just leave the dirty linen outside, I’ll come and pick it up later.’
I accepted the stack of towels and bed linen he gave me and walked up the stairs. They squeaked and the red carpet was worn through in several places. Large patches of wallpaper had come loose and only seemed to be attached by the nails that held reproductions of classical motifs. In contrast to the Marieborg, I could easily imagine that a girl like Marie was a regular here.
Room 87 was on the second floor. It had a white panelled door with the number in brass letters. I glanced around to make sure there was no one in the corridor. I knocked softly. My heart seemed to have swollen and was beating against my ribcage, which hurt. I held my breath and bent forward to hear if there was any response on the other side, but I could hear nothing.
The lock buzzed willingly when I inserted the key-card. I entered and quickly closed the door behind me. It smelled of dusty carpet and stagnant air. The curtains were closed, which left most of the room in darkness.
I walked over to the window and opened the curtains.
Light flooded into the room and revealed a wicker chair with a matching round table, a standing lamp with a rice paper shade and a double bed with a thick, floral bedspread. Posters by Arnoldi and a few amateur drawings of the hotel hung on the walls. The bed didn’t appear to have been slept in, the bedspread hadn’t been disturbed and there was no sign that someone had even sat on it.
Apart from the table, it looked like the room was unoccupied. The wicker table had a glass top, and a newspaper, a map and a pair of sunglasses lay on it. I checked the bathroom. It was empty and the towels and soap were unused.
The wardrobe too was empty, only some flimsy metal coat hangers clanged into one another when I tore open the door.