‘Are you OK?’ Sergeant Vendelev said, placing his hand on my shoulder.
At that moment the doors opened and I fell on my knees out into the corridor. I dropped the book when I instinctively tried to cushion the fall with my hands and it landed a short distance from me. I started wheezing.
‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’ Sergeant Vendelev asked anxiously.
I shook my head.
‘It’s OK,’ I panted. ‘I just don’t like lifts.’
‘Perhaps you should have taken the stairs?’ Vendelev suggested and picked up the book with one hand while helping me to my feet with the other.
I staggered towards my room.
‘I think I had better make sure you get to bed in one piece,’ the sergeant said.
Vendelev supported me to my door where I struggled to insert the key with my still trembling hands. He led me to the nearest chair into which I collapsed and placed the book on the coffee table. The top of the photo stuck out so you could see my daughter’s eyes. The sergeant went to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water. I accepted it gratefully and gulped half of it down.
‘I didn’t know you were claustrophobic,’ Vendelev said, sitting down opposite me. ‘But then again, I don’t suppose there are many lifts in Rågeleje?’
I shook my head and drank the rest of the water.
‘Because that’s where you live, isn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘It’s a remarkable coincidence that Verner shows an interest in a murder near where you live, after which he’s murdered at a hotel where you’re staying, don’t you think?’
I agreed that it looked like more than a coincidence, but suggested that this was what separated reality from fiction; in fiction nothing was coincidental. He appeared to reflect on this and nodded to himself with his eyes fixed on Outer Demons, which lay between us. He reached for the book.
‘Yes, it’s very strange that—’
‘Thanks for helping,’ I interrupted him and took the book before he could pick it up. ‘But I think I had better get to bed.’ I nodded in the direction of the bedroom.
‘You’re sure you’re feeling better?’ he asked and got up.
I nodded.
He kept looking at me. ‘The power of phobias is extraordinary,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen grown men break down in aeroplanes and police officers run away from a domestic spider … By the way, haven’t you written a novel based on phobias?’
I tried to swallow the last drops of water from the glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘In the Red Zone.’
‘In the Red Zone,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll make a note of that. Phobias are fascinating, perhaps I ought to read it.’
My breathing had almost returned to normal, but my heart was still pounding like a marathon runner’s.
‘I think you should,’ I said and managed a smile.
‘Right,’ Vendelev exclaimed. ‘I’ll leave you in peace so you can recover. We can always discuss Verner’s pet project some other time.’
I nodded and smiled, even though I knew that if I ever saw Sergeant Vendelev again, it would be in handcuffs.
35
THE FIRST THING I did when Sergeant Vendelev had left me alone in my hotel room was to take off my clothes and have a shower. My body smelled of sex and death and Linda Hvilbjerg’s blood was still smeared across my legs. I showered for more than half an hour before I felt clean again.
I put on a fresh set of clothes and sat down on the sofa with Outer Demons. My strongest feelings of horror had subsided and been replaced by a sense of purpose, prompted by my discovery. I had found out what motivated the killer: factual errors in my books. Now I had to think of a way to stop him.
Outer Demons was my third book and I hadn’t put much effort into researching it. Verner had helped me with minor aspects, but the book had practically written itself and I didn’t want to wreck it by making it technical or didactic. Consequently, I might be looking for several factual errors; it was only a question of which ones had offended the killer the most.
After its publication I had received quite a few letters, but I couldn’t remember anyone complaining about specific details. Many felt it was a disgusting book they could barely bring themselves to read to the end, but this was because of the graphic violence, not because it was unrealistic.
I stared at the photo of my daughter. I was gripped with panic and it spread through my body. I placed the picture on the coffee table face down and concentrated on the book. I started flicking through it page by page. There were no notes, no marks or clues to guide me. When I had finished, I closed the book and pressed it to my forehead as if I could extract its secret through the power of my mind.
Outer Demons is a book about a monster, Henrik Booring, a rich man who has inherited the family fortune and need never lift a finger for the rest of his life. He can buy anything he wants – houses, cars and women – and he does so with no regard for the cost. Slowly, his tastes become more and more perverted and other people become his playthings. When he tires of straight sex, he pushes his limits with sadomasochism, sex with men and domination, but nothing really turns him on. After all, it’s only a game, an arrangement between consenting adults, and what he wants is the real thing, real pain, unadulterated horror. Booring’s first project is his neighbour’s daughter, a busty 15-year-old he has been spying on while she sunbathes. He tortures her in his newly built dungeon but, due to his inexperience, she dies far too quickly. Disappointed and dissatisfied, he starts to practise. He abducts several teenage girls and takes detailed notes during their torture to refine his methods. By closing up wounds quickly, transfusing blood, administering different types of medicine and even a defibrillator, he can keep his victims alive for longer, and he feels ready to attempt to crown his achievements: the Princess. He has become attracted to a 13-year-old beauty, the daughter of one of his domestic staff, and he knows instantly that he must possess her … fully.
In the meantime, the Flying Squad has started investigating the case. Inspector Kenneth Vagn is its public face, a thankless job as the media quickly lose patience and demand that the case is solved. Booring takes pleasure in the police’s frustration and taunts Inspector Vagn. Through a complex network of intermediaries and a series of riddles, a line of communication is established so that the two opponents can write to each other. Booring hints that soon he will be ready for the Princess, the object of all his efforts and the last girl he intends to abduct. He has perfected his methods of torture and thinks he can keep her alive for as long as he wants to. Inspector Vagn senses that time is running out and works on the case day and night. He is a walking zombie existing on coffee and pills. The Princess is abducted and Booring sends Vagn detailed descriptions of what he is doing to her, observed with the precision of a forensic examiner and a thriller writer’s talent for generating horrifying images. The inspector wears himself out following up every lead, no matter how vague or insignificant it appears, and in the end his persistence leads to the breakthrough. A builder who helped construct the dungeon in Booring’s house noticed several unusual features, including extensive soundproofing, air filters and a complex locking and alarm system. When the recent victim can be linked to Booring through her father who works for him, Inspector Vagn strikes. On his own, he pays a visit to Booring, and it ends with a showdown in the dark corridors of the dungeon where the inspector finally kills the murderer with a fatal shock from the defibrillator.