Game of Revenge Read online

  All the while, the guest listens with a neutral expression. Impossible to know what he was thinking, the bellboy later recalled to the police. A face of stone that was.

  The room has the plushness of being newly refurbished, with satins and velvets in different nuances of beige with the occasional black. There is nothing to hurt the eyes. It is all calming, beige neutrality, and very Park Avenue.

  The bellboy pauses deliberately by the balcony door, his body in a feminine posture, hips out, head askance, with an inviting look in his eyes. But the guest seems not to notice. He appears to be lost in thought in the middle of the sitting room. The bellboy clears his throat, and the guest looks at him, understanding dawning in the guest’s eyes. Of course, tips. The bell boy closes the door behind him with just a hint of impatient disappointment.

  The guest places the Gladstone bag on the bed. He takes out fresh underwear, socks, a neatly folded shirt, and a new tie, still in its packet, and puts it all on the satin bedstead. Finally, he picks up a sponge bag, which he takes to the bathroom. Here, he brushes his teeth, cleans his ears, and trims his nose hairs. He defecates and returns to the bedroom, where he undresses and puts on fresh underwear and a shirt. For a moment, he stands by the bed, the new tie in his hand, as if he is assessing its quality. Then he seems to make a decision and returns the tie to the bag. In the closet, he finds a laundry bag and puts the washing into it. He carefully fills out the laundry list, places it outside the door to the suite, and hangs a Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle.

  When the reception clerk receives a call from suite 34, he makes a note that the guest wants a much-needed and very long rest and does not want to be disturbed. The clerk commiserated and offered that, “A good long rest is sometimes both needed and desired, and we will observe your privacy, Sir.”

  The guest puts down the phone and returns to the bed. From the Gladstone’s side pocket, he pulls out a plastic bag and sets out the contents on the black Louis XVI desk. One bottle of 200 mg Cordan for his heart, one bottle of his Diazepam sleeping tablets, and an over-the-counter packet of nausea pills. From his inner pocket, he takes out a printed page of instructions, found on the internet during his last long nights.

  He leans back and looks at the little display of medical aid. An observer would have noticed that his face is as impassive as earlier, as no emotion is visible. An observer would, like the bellboy, have been able to describe the guest as a man in his late fifties; around 1,85 meters; well-built with a slight paunch, “which is really to be expected of a gentleman at his age,” as the bellboy later recounted. Salt and pepper hair; gray eyes; a noble forehead; and an erect bearing. In short, a dignified guest at his best age.

  The dignified guest walks over to the bar and fills a tumbler one-third with ice, then tops it to the rim with the Johnnie Walker Black Label, his nostrils quivering in distaste. Returning to the desk, he pops five nausea pills and washes them down with water.

  From a drawer, he retrieves a sheet of thick cream-colored writing paper, with the hotel’s impressive logo indicating royalty and tradition pointing back to when the good manners of gentility were less scarce. The guest appears to know exactly what he has in mind, for he writes without hesitation.

  “My dear. What you have heard is not true. Everything is fabricated. That you chose not to believe me is unbearable.”

  He folds the paper neatly, inserts it into a lined envelope with the same, thick quality. Then he addresses his attention to the bottles of medicine, and in a deliberate and precise manner, he swallows handful after handful of pills and washes them down with the inferior whiskey.

  The guest changes his mind and pulls out the new tie. He puts it on, then lays himself deliberately down on the bed, without taking off his shoes.

  Then he waits.

  Ten hours later, the maid’s scream is heard in every room on the third floor.

  Berlingske Tidende

  Head of H’Allure dies suddenly

  17th March 20xx

  Jørgen Bang-Henriksen was found dead yesterday evening at fifty-seven years old. The family has issued the following press release: “We are all devastated by yesterday’s tragedy. Jørgen was loved by his family and friends and will be missed. We would ask that our privacy be respected as we grieve during this difficult time.”

  Mr. Bang-Henriksen was one of three sons of the late Marius Bang-Henriksen, founder of H’Allure, the global cosmetics company. Mr. Bang-Henriksen was head of the board, while his one surviving brother, Niels Bang-Henriksen, is general counsel of H’Allure. The company shares were divided by Marius Bang-Henriksen with a majority to the two brothers. The third son died young. The rest of the shares were distributed between his five grandchildren.

  “We have called an extraordinary board meeting,” the VP of Media Relations, Steffen Larsen of H’Allure, said on the phone when we spoke to her earlier today, “and we have an exceptionally strong management team, so the business will go on as usual.”

  Mr. Bang-Henriksen is survived by his wife, Henriette, and his two grown children.

  The accompanying picture shows Jørgen Bang-Henriksen at a press conference. He looks serious, competent, and incorruptible.

  Ekstrabladet, web-edition

  Was Business Tycoon a Cunning Bigamist?

  17th March 20xx

  Jørgen Bang-Henriksen was found dead by a cleaning maid at the ritzy Hotel d’Angleterre last night. He is believed to have committed suicide following the discovery of an extramarital affair, sources close to the family claim. He was alone in the hotel.

  Bang-Henriksen was born into wealth and privilege. He was the first-born son of Marius and Ingeborg Bang-Henriksen and believed to be worth 3,5 billion DKK, based on his shares in the hugely successful H’Allure.

  Jørgen Bang-Henriksen, 57 years old, has allegedly been conducting a longstanding affair with a younger woman in Århus. According to our sources, the couple met at a business event some years back and fell deeply in love. “It was a match made in heaven. It is so very sad,” one source states and goes on to tell us that the loved-up couple has two small children. This has been neither confirmed nor denied by the Bang-Henriksen family.

  The woman has asked to remain anonymous, but her name is known to the editor. “It has been a hard blow, and the kids are devastated. We were so much in love,” she says in a charming Århus dialect to our journalist. When asked why Jørgen had not divorced his wife, she answers, “He couldn’t; there was so much money to consider.”

  With his wife, Henriette, Mr. Bang-Henriksen has two legitimate children. Henriette Bang-Henriksen did not want to talk to us.

  Ekstrabladet has decided on a picture of Jørgen Bang-Henriksen where he steps out of the back seat of a car. His is crouching to avoid hitting his head, and his eyes are squeezed against the pouring rain. He looks shifty and furtive.

  Chapter 9

  “I am here to offer my services.” The words sound too formal, even to Francis’ own ears, but he trusts that this tone is exactly the right one to allow him in the door.

  The door of the villa opens, and Francis kisses the woman’s hand. Her rigid body twitches. “My condolences, Mrs. Bang-Henriksen. I cannot begin to comprehend your loss.”

  He follows her through the house. They pass an open door showing heavy leather furniture and walls decorated with mounted game and hunting pictures. A hint of tobacco reaches Francis as he passes the doorway.

  She brings him into a room with a vast expanse of terrazzo floor and massive greenery. A pale sun is casting shadows of palm trees and enormous leaves, giving the whole room the sense of a jungle. Yet the little furniture there is, is rococo, all spindly legs and golden upholstery…a strange mix of nature and culture. And a decorative backdrop for the widow.

  She indicates for him to sit down in a chair that would easily break under a heavier man. A man like her late husband. But then, Francis muses, this room was never meant for her husband. She allowed him his heavy furniture and dead anima
ls as long as he stayed out of her feminine domain.

  She primly smooths her skirt before perching on a narrow brocade sofa. Her back is erect like the patrician woman she is, ankles demurely crossed, hands folded in her lap. “Will you take tea, Mr. Scott-Wren?”

  “Thank you. Allow me, Mrs. Bang-Henriksen.” He deftly reaches the Sevres teapot before she does and serves them both. “I was never an intimate friend of your late husband, but he did me a great kindness once, which saved me a lot of trouble. I sincerely hope you will allow me to repay my debt.” He pauses and looks intently at her, leaning forward. “I know you are surrounded by people. Some sincere in their mourning, some sincere in their desire to support you. But there will be others—maybe quite a few in this case—whose interest is only to satisfy their morbid curiosity and self-interest. Allow me, as a neutral acquaintance, to help and support you through this horrible time.”

  “I am not aware that I am in need of any help, Mr. Scott-Wren. I am perfectly capable of handling the situation.”

  “Of course, you are. An admiral’s daughter like yourself would have been brought up to manage complex and demanding situations. However, there may be a time, maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but later, when you might require a helping hand. Please, for the sake of my conscience, Mrs. Bang-Henriksen, allow me to pledge my service to you.” He leans back, a teacup in one hand, the heirloom silver teapot in the other. He lets the silence work its magic. In the distance beats the slow, steady pulse of the ocean, the sound of time immemorial.

  She breaks the silence. It takes a long time, but she does it. Nobody can stand silence forever.

  “I never suspected…he was such a good man. Dependable, not like his father, not like Niels. He was a religious man, Jørgen. Not exactly devout, but he shared my faith.”

  Francis waits, lets her gather her thoughts, set her own pace. He is uncharacteristically gentle.

  “First came a letter. Nobody sends letters. It was typed or printed on ordinary printer paper. In an ordinary envelope.”

  She pauses.

  Francis prompts in a soft voice, “A letter addressed to you?”

  She nods. “To me. The envelope was printed as well. No return address.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  She breathes deeply. “Just this one sentence: Know that you are being deceived, Henriette.”

  “Did you show it to Jørgen?”

  She shakes her head, “No. And I am not even sure why not. Just some instinct.”

  Then about a week later, another letter, “Look in your husband’s pockets.” To her shame, she had done just that. For the first time in her life, she had deliberately searched another person’s pockets. She had found a set of keys she had never seen before. And so it went on for several weeks with a more intense frequency in letters. Always just one sentence. Always pointing her attention to the possibility of her husband’s unfaithfulness. At one time, an ambiguous photo showing Jørgen from the back and a shadowy woman coming out of a restaurant. But impossible to judge from the photo whether they exited together or whether it was a coincidence.

  “Are you absolutely sure Jørgen was unfaithful to you, Henriette?” Francis asked when she paused.

  A tear slid slowly down her cheek. “No,” she whispered, “now I am not certain. But for a while I was. And I must live with the guilt of his death for the rest of my life.”

  Francis was at her side in an instant, his arm around her bony shoulders, her discreet perfume in his nostrils. For a moment, she was his mother, his sister, his daughter. She was a woman he had to help. She was no longer just a source in his self-indulgent hunt for yet another corporate destroyer. Except this time, Francis was beginning to realize he was not hunting a corporate destroyer but a family killer. “Let me find out what is going on. You’re not to blame, Henriette. Somebody is out to harm you.” And they may not stop at the death of your husband either, he thinks to himself.

  Chapter 10

  “Will Mrs. Scott-Wren be joining me?” Camilla asks, but already knows the answer as the table is laid out for only one person.

  “Mrs. Scott-Wren always has a light lunch in the pavilion, where she spends most of her day.” Ms. Nielsen pours steaming hot tea in Camilla’s cup.

  “What does she do there?” Camilla knows she is impervious, but her curiosity is too strong.

  “Why, she answers her letters. Mrs. Scott-Wren receives many letters every day. And she answers them all, she does, and by hand too.”

  Letters from whom, Camilla longs to asks. Who in this day and age receives letters? And “many every day?” Her sense of having time traveled to a Danish version of Downton Abbey reoccurred. “Does anybody else live in the house? Apart from Mrs. Scott-Wren and yourself?” she asked instead.

  “No, no, Miss. Not for many a year. It’s only me and the mistress now. Only us.”

  “Does she really do nothing else?” Camilla persists.

  “Yes, of course, she also works on her books.” Ms. Nielsen states this as if it is common knowledge.

  Camilla gives up. There is no way Ms. Nielsen will tell her the full story of the lady of the house.

  After lunch, Camilla goes outside. She is feeling stronger and needs to remind herself that the world is bigger than this house. The wind is biting today, and she hugs herself. Camilla looks out onto the fjord, which is milky white and dense to the point of seeming solid. The changeable water reflects the sky, the two in a perpetual dance. Her own fjord, as she calls it in her mind, changes its palette from milk, over to baby blue, turquoise, and steel gray to almost black. How a body of water can have that versatility in appearance without losing its core, she finds inspirational. She is not given much time to dwell on the fjord.

  “Come inside, Miss. You’ll catch your death in this cold with only a T-shirt. Come now.” Ms. Nielsen’s tone of voice brooks no argument.

  Camilla allows herself to be led back into the house. She is tired again. It feels as if the tiredness has crept into her bones, only abating for a short while before reasserting itself again after her cup of tea. She needs to lay down. She wonders at the excessive exhaustion she feels. It seems unnatural.

  She ascends the hall staircase in her dazed condition but must have taken a wrong turn on the landing because she finds herself in a corridor that she hasn’t seen before. She follows it and comes to another staircase that seems to beckon her. The stairs are narrow and steep, leading to a third level of a house that she is certain looks like a two-story house from the outside. But perhaps the stairs just lead to an attic with old furniture and memories from a past life.

  She reaches a small landing with only one door. Of course, she opens it and stares, amazed at a sitting room that looks like a scene from a museum of the pre-war years. Nothing seems to have been changed for the past eighty years. A sense of melancholy and impending doom permeates the room. Heavy furniture in dark oak, leather chairs with brass nails, and an uncomfortable looking sofa upholstered in burgundy horsehair. They were certainly not big on comfort back then, she thinks. A massive corner cabinet contains books in leather bindings with gold lettering. Two small windows are covered in mustard-colored chintz, the only bright items in the room. A large brown and crimson rug covers most of the floor.

  A wide shelf is fitted high on the furthest wall. A few family photos and knick-knacks are displayed there. And fastened to the shelf hangs a large tapestry depicting a rural scene of a farming family gathered around the hearth. The tapestry has come undone at one end and reveals a door.

  As Camilla takes her first step toward the door, driven by her strong inborn curiosity, a voice and a smell of lavender reaches her senses at the same time. “You have found the hidden room, Camilla. Well done.” There is no irony in the comment, no anger or even coldness in the voice, and yet Camilla feels a shiver down her spine.

  “Let me show you.” Ms. Scott-Wren brushes past Camilla in a soft rustle of silk. “Now, if you hold the tapestry back, I can open the
door.” She pulls out a large, old-fashioned key from a pocket in her dress and turns it in the lock.

  “Please, step in, Camilla. Don’t be shy,” she adds as Camilla hangs back a little, torn between curiosity and shame of having trespassed on private ground. Camilla steps forward.

  The room is small. A narrow iron bed, small desk, and a rickety chair take up most of the room’s space. She notices black curtains covering a small window, a shelf under a spotted mirror, and a stool with a washstand.

  “Sit on the bed, Camilla.” The voice may be hoarse from old age, but it doesn’t lack authority.

  Camilla does as she is told.

  Mrs. Scott-Wren leans against the window frame, looking out, her back to Camilla and her voice coming from far away.

  “This room used to be an attic where we stored the household items and furniture we were not using. But during the war, my father made this room for a young man. I was a child full of curiosity, just like you, and that’s why I found out about things my parents tried to keep from me. I was, of course, forbidden to go upstairs from the moment the young man moved in. I was told he was a friend of the family but that nobody must know he was there. And contrary to what you may think, children can keep a secret when they sense it is important. And so much during the war was important, so I never disclosed or even hinted anything to anybody.

  “But I couldn’t help myself, and soon I took to visiting the young man. My parents found out and decided to make the best of it.

  “Somebody did say something to somebody, though. And one day, men in black uniforms with Nazi insignias and the longest, shiniest boots I had ever seen, came in an enormous, black car and took the young man away. I was devastated. I had come to consider him a friend. My father went to prison, but he came out almost unharmed soon after, as this was late in the war and everything was chaotic. The young man never went to prison, of course; they took him to the police headquarters in Vejle and shot him. He called himself Hans, and he distributed an illegal newspaper, called A Free Denmark. For that, he died.”