The Corpse Flower by Anne Mette Hancock

Author:Anne Mette Hancock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

CHAPTER

23

SCHÄFER STEPPED ON a dried-out crab claw that had been dropped by a sea gull on the farthest section of dock at Rungsted Marina. He proceeded down the floating dock, heading toward a beauty of a Bavaria Yacht—one of the higher-end sailboat makes—that was moored at the end.

He used to sail himself, years ago, and as the scent of the salt water and the sea air hit his nostrils, it almost made him miss his old, scratched-up Nordic Folkboat. But that boat had been so much work that he had finally had to adopt one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings: The only thing that feels better than acquiring new stuff is getting rid of the shit later.

Johannes Mossing was squatting on the yacht’s deck with his back to the dock and hadn’t seen Schäfer approaching. He was either loosening or tightening a mooring line. Schäfer took note of his preppy uniform: a yellow polo shirt, light khakis, and a pair of caramel-colored boat shoes. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Prejudices, he thought. They had a tendency to prove true.

“Are you heading out, or did you just come in?” Schäfer asked.

Johannes Mossing turned halfway around toward the voice and tilted his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

“I just came in,” he said, turning his back to Schäfer again.

“That’s a damn pretty yacht you’ve got there,” Schäfer said, standing fore of the boat with his legs slightly apart and his fists planted solidly at his sides.

“What brings you here, Inspector Schäfer?” Mossing asked, still without looking at him.

“Sergeant first class now. I’m not an inspector anymore.”

“Oh?” Mossing turned, giving Schäfer a sour smile. “Were you demoted?”

“No, not that. It’s the police reform and all that jazz. New departments, new titles, but the work is the same: assholes break the law, I throw them in jail.”

The two men regarded each other for a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” Mossing asked again, stepping out onto the dock in front of Schäfer.

“I have a problem you might be able to help me with. You see, a man was murdered the day before yesterday, a journalist.”

Mossing didn’t say anything.

“Ulrich Andersson. Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“He was strangled and then hung up in his bathroom, a murder that someone attempted to make look like suicide.”

“That certainly sounds like quite the mess.”

“Yes,” Schäfer said, scratching behind his ear. “But what’s interesting is that a couple of hours before that, he had complained that you had threatened his life.”

Johannes Mossing chuckled. “Nonsense.”

“He said he was threatened at gunpoint in his home when he was writing an article about Christoffer.”

The smile disappeared from Mossing’s mouth when his son was mentioned.

“Coincidentally, the journalist had heard the same stories about your activities at the racetrack as I have,” Schäfer continued, “and when he started investigating the rumors more closely, he was threatened with fire and brimstone.”

“Well, that all sounds very interesting,” Mossing said, and started making his way down the dock. “But I’m afraid you’ve watched too many movies.”

Schäfer followed him to the parking lot.

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