The House That Jack Built by Jakob Melander Read Free Book Online Page B

Had they seen her with the Bukoshi brothers? But she’d had no luck so far. On Maria Kirkeplads, the square in front of the Church of St. Mary where junkies scored, some of the girls recognized Mira, but no one had really spoken to her. And who could really expect a drug addict to remember what had happened on a specific date more than a month ago? Allan had worked the phones all day, trying to track down the Bukoshi brothers. He had gotten nowhere until this morning.
    The car coasted out of the roundabout, drove up the alleys between the houses, and crossed Istedgade. They passed a sex shop, Private Corner. So there was still something left of old Vesterbro.
    â€œThey hang out at an Albanian basement club just up ahead. It’s called Shqiptarë. It’s number 10,” Allan said to the officer at the wheel. “Just pull up to the sidewalk here,” he said, pointing to the parking lot of an adult video store. “They’ll smell us a mile away.”
    The officer nodded and pulled in behind a beaten-up Peugeot on the left side of Abel Cathrines Gade, just outside number 14 and the windows of Videokælderen. Private booths, the sign in the window promised. The heat returned to her cheeks. Why couldn’t she just act natural? It didn’t seem as if Allan had noticed her embarassment, though. He was giving last-minute instructions to the officers in the front seat.
    Suddenly she realized what they were planning.
    â€œIt won’t work,” she interrupted. “If we all go barging in, they’ll take off. They’ll be heading out the back before we’ve made it down the stairs.” She shook her head and pointed at Allan. “You get out here. We’ll drive past the building and park a little farther ahead. The two of us —” she nodded at the officer in the passenger seat, “— will enter through the gate over there. When we get inside, Allan will go into the club. You stay here,” she told the driver, “but be ready to back up Allan.”
    The officer in the passenger seat twisted around in his seat. “She’s right. They normally have lookouts up there, in the apartments.” He pointed at the windows on either side.
    Allan leaned back. “That’s not a bad idea,” he conceded. “I’ll give you one minute, then I’m going in.” He opened the door and climbed out.
    The Mondeo pulled away from the curb, found a parking spot further ahead, past a basement bar. Sanne nodded to the officer in the passenger seat, opened the door, and jumped out.
    She went to the door and pressed the buzzer.
    â€œIt’s the police,” she said when the door phone picked up.
    â€œIt’s about time you did something.”
    She heard the buzzer opening the gate.
    In the courtyard, a couple of children were playing in a sandbox under a withered tree. The parents were sitting around a table with their coffees, watching Sanne and her colleague as they moved along the wall toward the staircase at the back of number 10. No one said anything. The sun was right overhead, turning the courtyard into a smouldering furnace. A radio was blaring from one of the apartments, mournful vocals over a primitive beat.
    â€œI’m going in,” Allan’s voice crackled over the radio.
    Sanne and the officer moved back against the wall. Sweat was trickling down her neck and from under her arms. She whispered to herself, one, two, three, four , but was interrupted by a loud clattering from the basement bar. Someone shouted. A door slammed. Immediately after, footsteps came up the stairs, the door flew open, and a large stocky man in a dirty tracksuit appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight.
    Her colleague stepped in front of him.
    â€œWell, looks like it’s the end of the road for you, buddy.”
    The officer raised his hand to place it on the man’s shoulder but the man misinterpreted the move and struck