jeans, two very short dresses, three tops, a shirt, and a down vest. There were also a couple of books in some Eastern European language. Judging by the covers, they looked to be medical romance novels of some kind. She opened the purse: a lot of cheap, no-name makeup, probably bought in some backstreet shop, and a couple of curled-up banknotes. One kept rolling up every time she smoothed it out. Forensics would most likely find remnants of cocaine on it. Lip balm, condoms. And, in an inside pocket, a small folded-up packet containing white powder. Sanne stuck a finger inside, tasted it. The powder tasted metallic, hard. Speed or cocaine. The purse contained no phone numbers, no papers â in fact, not one of Miraâs few possessions indicated anything about her as a person.
Apart from the one folded-up piece of paper and the envelope it was in.
Sanne took the letter out of the envelope. The words were incomprehensible to her, but it was signed by someone named Zoe, and Miraâs full name was written on the envelope: âMira Vanin, P.O. Box 2840, Copenhaigen, Denimark.â
The least she could do was send an enquiry to the Slovakian police through Interpol.
Ten minutes later she was on the phone with Ulrik. She had to get his permission to get the letter translated.
âSanne,â Ulrik said in that preppy schoolboy Danish. âI can assure you that who Mira was as a person is not important. She was a prostitute who was killed by a customer or by her pimps. Weâre keeping our focus on her acquaintances in Copenhagen.â
Sanne seethed. The condescending man and the sentimental woman? Not with her.
âOn the other hand,â he continued, âall the bleeding hearts and feminists as well as the press are coming down on us for not doing enough for female trafficking victims. Maybe it would be good to get to know Mira a little better, so if they start complaining again, weâve covered that angle. You should know though, the letter wonât bring us any closer to her killer.â
Chapter 13
16 Skyttegade was a corner property, constructed in grey brick sometime around the dawn of the twentieth century. The entire ground floor was painted rust red, and the front door was covered in graffiti. But the property was lined with neat rows of plants and white hollyhocks, and the double-paned window appeared to be well maintained.
âIt looks like a housing co-op.â Toke tilted his head back to look up at the top floor. Lars followed his gaze. Of course this guy lived all the way up on the fifth floor.
Lisa had finally managed to get hold of the Penthouse doormanâs friend. He couldnât remember who the guy was that had been harassing Stine Bang, but he thought he worked in a music store downtown. Lisa went to a couple of record stores, but to no avail. Next she started visiting stores that sold musical instruments. Finally, in 4sound, on the corner of Ã
benrÃ¥ and Landemærket, she got lucky. The store manager identified the man standing behind Stine Bang in the photograph as one of his employees, Mikkel Rasmussen. Mikkel hadnât been to work for a few days, but he lived at 16 Skyttegade in Nørrebro.
Nobody answered the door phone, so Lars buzzed the neighbour.
âPolice,â he said when someone finally answered.
âWhat do you want?â The voice was scratchy, like the man had just woken up.
âWe need to have a word with your neighbour, Mikkel Rasmussen.â
âWhy donât you try buzzing him then?â
Lars took a deep breath. At least he hadnât hung up.
âCould you please let us in?â
The neighbour hung up. Ten seconds later, Lars heard a buzz. He pushed open the front door. These days, the police could not expect much help in the district. And he knew why. With the districtâs history of riots and fighting in the streets, Nørrebro held little love for the police.
Mikkel Rasmussenâs neighbour opened the
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