Life and Limb by Elsebeth Egholm Page B

glances at the cakes in the window and the attractive buildings further up the road. In Wagner’s mind the detective looked out of place here in academia country, where small, well-renovated closely packed houses bore the stamp of the quarter’s many craftsmen and architects and their ideas on light, glass and mute colours. Hansen fitted in better with the detached houses in Tranbjerg – with a lawn that was as well trimmed as his moustache and a hammock with room for him (and the magnificent muscles he had cultivated in the fitness centre), and his wife, who was a nurse at the Kommunehospital.
    â€˜Number thirty-five, did you say?’
    Hansen had the situation under control and pointed at a well-kept courtyard. The house was painted black and white, and the door shone like black lacquer.
    They rang the bell and Ulrik Storck opened the door, his face contorted with grief, but Wagner also noticed the measured scepticism he had detected in the man’s eyes the previous day.
    â€˜Come in.’
    There wasn’t room for much in the little house – Wagner guessed it measured around eighty square metres – but the furnishings were light, friendly and of modern design. There was also something else, and the aroma hit his stomach like an electric shock: someone had been baking.
    â€˜I had to do something with my hands,’ Marianne Mortensen explained, serving rolls with the coffee on the corner sofa.
    That’s what death does to you , Wagner reflected. There are so many different reactions. Some people break down weeping. Others bake rolls. No one reaction was more correct than any other, in his experience.
    While Hansen reached out for a second roll and its thick layer of organic butter, Wagner found himself overwhelmed by sympathy for the parents.
    â€˜We would like to form a picture of Mette and establish who her circle of friends was,’ he said carefully, turning to Mette’s mother. ‘I know this is hard. But I’m afraid it’s necessary.’
    Marianne fingered the untouched roll on her plate. She and her husband exchanged glances.
    â€˜Mette was a perfectly normal girl,’ she said. ‘She had boyfriends and girlfriends like most other kids.’
    â€˜Perhaps you could give us a list of names with addresses and telephone numbers,’ Wagner said. ‘That would be a great help.’ He glanced at Mette’s father. ‘We’d also like permission to read her diary.’
    Ulrik Storck nodded in reply. Wagner could not rid himself of the illogical impression that the solicitor was working.
    â€˜I have to ask this question: did Mette have any enemies?’
    â€˜A girl of twenty-two?’ Storck frowned. ‘What enemies would she have?’
    Wagner could have reeled off a whole list but instead let Jan Hansen into the conversation.
    â€˜Perhaps a jealous ex-lover,’ Hansen said, then sank his teeth into a roll. ‘Or someone at work? There could be several work-related things. Anything is possible.’
    Storck gripped the arm of his chair.
    â€˜An ex-lover,’ he said, snorting. You don’t seriously believe an ex-lover could have done what was done to Mette, do you?’
    He looked at Wagner.
    â€˜Have you really nothing better to suggest? It’s obvious this was some crazed lunatic. Mette didn’t know that kind of person. Have you rung the psychiatric hospital? Do they have a dangerous psychopath on the loose?’
    Wagner wanted to say something to soften the man’s dislike of them; instead his own resentment bubbled up, and he had to fight to restrain it.
    Marianne Mortensen was weeping silent tears. Ulrik Storck stood up and stormed off, returning with a green leather diary in a spiral binding. He tossed it onto the table.
    â€˜There you are.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Wagner said. ‘We’d also like to see Mette’s bedroom.’
    â€˜She rented a flat,’ Marianne said with a