Don't Wake Me

by Martin Krüger

  ‘Yes. But I knew Paul wouldn’t come down here. Not with the door nailed up – though he wouldn’t even if I left it open. He was a good boy, he always did as he was told.’

  ‘Was?’ asked Henriksen sharply.

  ‘Is,’ Jasmin corrected herself. The thought that her subconscious was already strangely preparing itself for the possibility that she might have to talk about Paul in the past tense made her shudder. ‘Slip of the tongue. As for the gun cabinet,’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I was a little distracted when we got here.’

  Henriksen didn’t put the gun back. He pointed towards the door at the end of the cellar, which stood slightly ajar. ‘And what’s through there?’

  ‘An old storage room full of all kinds of junk. Jørgen wanted to renovate the whole cellar, but—’

  ‘Jørgen? Your husband?’

  Jasmin nodded. ‘That’s right. But something got in the way of our plans.’

  ‘Something bad?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s relevant, is it?’

  ‘Not yet, it isn’t,’ said Henriksen. ‘But I think we’ll need to talk in more detail over the next few hours, Ms Hansen.’

  ‘I can’t think what about. Besides, I don’t have time for anything like that right now.’

  ‘You will, though.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ve just told you that you can come with us and help. We can continue the conversation then.’

  Jasmin didn’t reply and watched as Henriksen reached for the handle of the door at the end of the dark, musty cellar. It creaked quietly as he pushed it open. He cast his eyes slowly across the room before turning back to her and shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Just an old storage room, like you said.’

  ‘A man died down there,’ Jasmin explained as they climbed the stairs back up to the house. Henriksen was still carrying the gun. ‘He hanged himself from one of the beams because he couldn’t go on.’

  ‘The previous owner?’

  ‘The one before that,’ Jasmin corrected him. ‘The seller told us the story, otherwise we’d never have heard about it. It’s creepy, but at the end of the day it’s only a memory. A tragic memory. An old man who killed himself after losing his wife and son at sea.’

  ‘A lasting memory.’ Henriksen closed the cellar door behind them. ‘That’s how it is with these old houses. Something always gets left behind. Always.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘He doesn’t have his coat with him,’ said Jasmin sadly. She and Henriksen had gone back into Paul’s room. ‘He’ll catch his death of cold. The temperatures last night – we have to find him.’

  ‘What do we have?’ Henriksen asked Boeckermann. The island constable was standing by the broken window and looking out into the sodden garden. The wind carried the sound of the breaking waves up to them and blew fine, salty mist into their faces. The glass that framed their view out into the cold, hostile world was sharp and jagged-edged, like a wound. Jasmin wrapped her arms around her body – she felt so cold, so horribly cold, as if the icy Norwegian Sea itself had soaked deep into her bones.

  Something had changed the moment Paul went missing.

  The people here, Sandvik’s voice echoed through her mind, are hard. You can’t survive in a place like this if you aren’t hard. If you don’t have the cold Norwegian Sea flowing through your veins.

  ‘Not much,’ Boeckermann replied. Before he turned to face Henriksen, Jasmin noticed him give her a thoughtful look, as if to say he didn’t think it was very wise to speak openly in front of the victim’s mother. Do they think you might be behind all this? Jasmin wasn’t sure if she found the idea ridiculous or if it made her furious instead.

  ‘Are there any footprints? Whoever did this, he must have climbed out of the window onto the veranda roof and jumped down from there into the garden with Paul in his arms. The extra weight would have driven his shoes deeper into the muddy ground.’ Jasmin looked from Boeckermann to Henriksen. ‘There must be footprints. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Henriksen nodded. ‘You have good instincts, Ms Hansen.’

  ‘We found two footprints,’ Boeckermann confirmed. ‘The rain has largely washed away the pattern of the treads, but the measurements and photos the forensic team managed to take are better than nothing, I think.’

  Better than nothing? Jasmin snorted.

  ‘It looks like it was a man to me, and based on the depth of the footprints . . .’ Boeckermann glanced across at her, but only for the briefest of moments, as if he was afraid of making eye contact with her for longer than a fraction of a second. ‘I reckon he weighed about two hundred pounds, factoring in the boy.’

  ‘Great. So pretty much every man on the island is a suspect, right?’ Jasmin shook her head. ‘That gets us nowhere.’

  Henriksen gave a brief laugh that instantly died away when he saw Boeckermann’s sharp look. The floorboards creaked behind them.

  ‘Hendrik?’ It was one of the policemen who had arrived with the detective inspector on the ferry. ‘We’ve found a few footprints with traces of sand in them leading from the beach up to the house. Smaller ones.’

  ‘Those are mine,’ said Jasmin instantly. ‘I was down on the beach.’

  You have to tell him, urged an inner voice, one that sounded considered and rational. You have to tell him you found the body. That you lied to him.

  ‘That’s not all,’ the officer continued, before leaning closer to Henriksen and whispering in his ear.

  Henriksen raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, that is a surprise.’ He looked at Jasmin with an astonished expression that she couldn’t quite place. What did the man just say?

  ‘So what do we do now?’ she asked. ‘And I don’t mean putting up posters or making an appeal on the radio, as it won’t be any use. Not if the islanders are working against us. If there are people out there with something to hide—’

  ‘We’re going to keep looking for evidence,’ Henriksen answered evasively. ‘But I’ve just learned of another incident last night. There’s been a break-in, and the body from the beach has been stolen.’

  Jasmin was thunderstruck – she couldn’t have been more surprised if Henriksen had announced to her that they were calling off the search for Paul right then and there.

  You saw him. And when you left the freezer, he was still lying exactly where you found him.

  Somebody was there after you.

  She felt hot and cold at the same time. Sweat beaded on her brow. Why is Henriksen telling you this? Does he know more than he’s letting on? Is he gauging how you react? And if he is, did you fail the test?

  ‘Is everything OK, Ms Hansen?’

  She swallowed to dispel the unpleasant sensation in her throat – a dryness, as though her vocal cords were wrapped in sandpaper. You were there, and now the body is gone. And after all that’s happened, there’s a pretty good chance they’re going to blame you for it.

  You’ve landed squarely in the trap.

  Jasmin cursed silently, furious with herself.

  ‘I’m just surprised something like that could happen.’

  ‘I think we all are,’ said Boeckermann, shooting her a penetrating look. She noticed his hand wandering towards his belt, where he kept his handcuffs, and she could almost see in his eyes what he was thinking.

  He doesn’t trust you.

  He knows something.

  Or maybe he knows everything.

  ‘I’ll go and take a look. Everyone else stay here.’ Henriksen went to the door and Jasmin followed him with trembling knees and a pounding heart, unsure what to do next.

  The historian who lives on the island. You should talk to him.

  ‘What are you planning?’ asked Henriksen. ‘Are you going to look for Paul on your own?’

  ‘With all this rain . . .’ Jasmin shook her head. ‘As much as I feel an urge to run outside and scream his name, to search the area, it would be pointless. If he was still near the house then you’d have found him by now
. He isn’t hiding – he’s been taken away from me, and the kidnapper won’t be keeping him anywhere nearby.’

  Henriksen took a step towards her. ‘And you’re positive you don’t know anything – anything at all – that might help us in our enquiries?’

  ‘No,’ Jasmin lied, surprised at how easy she found it by now. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Henriksen replied. ‘I hope you won’t disappoint me.’ With those words, he went out to his car and drove off without looking back.

  Chapter 5

  The rain grew more intense by the second as she drove along the country road. Vast quantities of water were pouring down onto the woods and the narrow grey strip of asphalt winding through them. The wipers were working at maximum speed but still failed to make any headway against the deluge. Jasmin was heading west, her satnav directing her towards Larsen’s house. She’d found the address online.

  ‘He never accepts any visitors.’ That was the warning she’d been given by Mattila, the odd little bookseller. We’ll see about that.

  The radio was playing a song by a local band. ‘And things are really going to liven up this weekend when the boys and girls come to play in Skårsteinen,’ said the presenter afterwards. Jasmin spotted a poster on the side of the road. The wind and the rain hadn’t been kind to it – the paper was badly frayed around the edges.

  Would the concert still go ahead once the news got out about her son’s disappearance? The man on the radio didn’t seem to have heard about it. What would happen when he did? Should she ask him to make an on-air announcement urging his listeners to look out for Paul?

  The car passed over a dip in the road where a deep puddle had formed and started to skid. Aquaplaning, thought Jasmin, gripping the wheel. The tyres on this rental car might not be in the best shape.

  Jasmin was so lost in thought, she’d hardly noticed the speedometer creeping over sixty.

  You’re driving far too fast. In this weather, that’s dangerous.

  Lethal.

  A bright flash in front of her eyes, like the headlights of a Jeep on a cold night. A smell of burning penetrated her nostrils, making her gag.

  For the tiniest fraction of a second she was there again, back on the rain-slicked road that night. The piercing eyes of the homeless man – his scream as she ran him down.

  Jasmin’s hands were shaking. She gripped the steering wheel so hard that the skin over her knuckles turned white.

  The screech made by her shock absorbers as her car rolled over the man’s body had branded itself into her soul forever. But that burning smell – she hadn’t noticed it last time. What did it mean?

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  The road grew narrower and after a few hundred yards, a side road appeared on her left – barely more than a muddy track, but her satnav told her to take it. The pine trees loomed up into the grey sky and swayed back and forth in the wind. Small branches on the road snapped and cracked under her wheels.

  ‘Well, this is just great.’

  Jasmin slowed down and turned onto the side road, holding the steering wheel steady as the trees surrounding her reared up ever higher towards the dark rainclouds. It felt as though the shadows cast by the dense forest were creeping into the car. Jasmin turned her headlights on. Rugged rock formations towered around her: mossy crags that had been weathered by the rough sea wind. Banks of fog hovered between the trees. Everything was drenched and dripping with water.

  A small house with a gabled roof came into view, along with a grey fence and a gate flanked by two massive pillars with fire bowls burning on top of them. Despite the heavy rain, they were giving off gouts of flame and casting thick clouds of smoke into the air. The sight of those blazing columns made Jasmin think of a beacon, but they also called to mind a certain aesthetic from a dark era in history when people marched in processions past fire bowls like these.

  ‘You stay here, OK?’ she said to Bonnie. Her dog had curled up on the passenger seat and was making it very clear she didn’t want to brave the rain. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Jasmin got out and pulled her hood up. The rain pattered sharply against her head and shoulders. The freshly mown grass strewn over the drive was now soaked with water and threatened to swallow her shoes up as she walked over it.

  She walked through the open gate, past the fire bowls, which popped and crackled. Whatever was burning in there, the rain seemed to have no effect on it. The grey granite gateposts resembled columns flanking the entrance to a pagan temple, while the fire bowls were made of dark stone which looked as smooth as marble.

  A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the rain or the chill ran down Jasmin’s back. This place seemed so strange, so unnatural, as if it belonged to another time.

  This is all so crazy.

  Are you sure you really want to talk to this man?

  You have to.

  There must be a connection with what happened back then.

  At the solid oak front door, Jasmin reached up and beat the bronze knocker, which was shaped like a hammer – Thor’s hammer. A dog started barking inside the house. It was loud, deep and threatening.

  Bonnie would have instantly barked back, had she been at Jasmin’s side. She heard footsteps, saw a silhouette moving around behind the frosted glass window next to the doorframe.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said a gruff, muffled voice through the door. ‘Make yourself scarce.’

  ‘Mr Larsen, my name is Jasmin Hansen. I’d like to—’

  ‘I couldn’t care less who you are. Get lost. I don’t talk to visitors, and especially not to nosy reporters.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Jasmin struggled to make her voice sound calm, yet resolute. ‘I’m here because my five-year-old son has been kidnapped. It happened a few hours ago. I know there’s been a cover-up on the island. I also know you have information about it, and that you’re afraid of something – whatever that might be. But I’m not one of them. The others, I mean. I’m new here.’

  For a few moments, everything in the house fell silent. Then a chain rattled and the door opened a crack. Jasmin found herself looking at a locked security chain, at a short man in a woollen jumper with thin blond hair and a pipe in his mouth from which a puff of smoke was drifting upwards – and also down the barrel of a shotgun.

  ‘What the—? You’re insane!’ Jasmin took a step back. ‘You can’t—!’

  ‘I can, if you choose to enter my property without permission.’ Now that she was face to face with him, the man’s voice sounded like the dry, smoky crackle of a log on a fireplace. ‘I can call the police any time I want.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’ Jasmin had curled her hands into fists. If you let him scare you then you might as well turn around and leave right now.

  ‘Because what you just said wasn’t altogether untrue,’ the man replied. ‘Who are you? Jasmin Hansen, what kind of name is that? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I read your book.’ Larsen was staring at her with such suspicion that Jasmin cursed herself for not having brought it with her. ‘I’m trying to find out what happened here. You wrote a book about the history of the island, and I stumbled across it and bought it, only to find that you have as little to say about the fire as everyone else I’ve asked so far.’

  Larsen didn’t move, though the curls of smoke continued to emerge from his pipe. ‘So you’ve read my book. You and several thousand others.’

  ‘I met Gabriela Yrsen. The marks left on her body by the fire were unmistakable. Somebody out there thinks I’m getting too close. They threatened me, and as if that wasn’t enough, they kidnapped my son.’

  ‘That sounds like a rather fanciful story.’

  ‘It’s true. All of it happened, I swear. Please, help me.’

  ‘The kidnapping isn’t necessarily connected to everything else.’ The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly and Jasmin was relieved to see his reaction. He trusts you a little more, she thought. You’re on the right track.


  ‘Not necessarily,’ she answered, ‘except for one clear link. The kidnapper left something behind. A reference to the thing I’m looking for.’

  ‘Shit,’ she heard Larsen mutter. He reached up and undid the security chain. ‘I hope you like dogs. They’re my only friends out here.’

  ‘Absolutely – I have a Labrador myself.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ A fleeting smile passed over his wrinkled face. ‘Animal lovers are very welcome with me. Come on in, if you like.’

  He moved to one side, clearing the way for her, and Jasmin stepped through the door. The interior was furnished in dark wood, with panelling on the walls and art nouveau cabinets from the nineteen thirties.

  ‘Do you like my ornaments?’ He gestured briskly at a space on the wall between two cupboards where a large number of medals were hanging.

  Military medals.

  But it wasn’t possible – he wasn’t old enough. He must be a collector.

  ‘They aren’t what I was expecting.’

  ‘A little hobby of mine,’ he said. His eyebrows contracted, almost meeting in the middle. ‘It’s not a crime, Ms Hansen.’

  He led her into a small, overheated room that evidently served as both an office and a lounge. At the back it led into a conservatory where several broad-leaved plants stood in large pots. Music was playing softly in the background, and in the back of her mind, Jasmin identified it as Wagner. Larsen’s desk was covered with folders, books and newspapers. It looked as though he was searching for something he hadn’t managed to find yet.

  ‘The islanders have always been experts at keeping secrets. They store them up, guard them carefully. That much is immediately obvious to us outsiders, but few people manage to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Did you manage?’

  ‘Maybe. What do you want to know?’

  Jasmin didn’t take her eyes off Larsen for a second. ‘What went on back then? What’s the deal with the fire and the sanatorium? What happened exactly? And why does nobody talk about it?’

  ‘A terrible crime was committed here,’ said Larsen, and as he spoke, puffs of smoke escaped from his lips and his pipe and drifted towards the ceiling. ‘A sin against human nature.’