Jasmin hung up. Her hand was shaking. Oh no you won’t, she thought.
You recognised that strange noise from his end of the line. You know where he is right now.
The noise had come from the wind blowing through a cleverly designed pipe, and it was a noise she’d heard before. It was the sculpture in Yrsen’s garden. The one of the sailor with the telescope.
Henriksen was there. He was at Yrsen’s house.
Chapter 15
Dusk was starting to fall by the time Jasmin parked her Volvo. She’d turned off her headlights a couple of hundred yards down the road to avoid anyone spotting her as she approached, and she pulled up some distance away from Gabriela Yrsen’s property in a spot where her car was screened by a cluster of bushes. The wind was rushing through the trees, making the branches and leaves that hadn’t yet fallen to the ground dance back and forth above her head. You’re acting like a criminal, she thought – and to her own mounting unease, she was finding it all so easy. Bonnie looked up at her attentively, with alert eyes, but Jasmin shook her head.
‘I can’t take you with me here. That’s not an option. You’re clever – probably clever enough not to give me away – but I still can’t risk it.’ She stroked the dog’s head and Bonnie licked her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’
Jasmin got out of the car, and as she crouched down and crept towards the house, she felt as though she’d lied to Bonnie. Maybe you’ll never see her again, it dawned on her painfully. Maybe that was the last time.
If they catch you . . .
But what if you manage to stop them first?
Uncover their plot?
Jasmin came to the garden gate set into the fence and hopped over it. The darkness that had now fallen formed a protective cloak that hid her movements from view.
Hopefully.
She peered at the ground-floor windows. They were dimly lit, while the ones upstairs were all dark. If anyone was looking out from up there, they’d be able to see her and she would have no way of knowing. It was like when the drifter had appeared at the bottom of her garden, though this time the roles were reversed.
She looked back to the road and saw Henriksen’s car. It was hidden among the trees at the top of a narrow path, but the paintwork gave a tell-tale gleam from the glow of a nearby streetlight. Had he deliberately parked there to avoid being immediately spotted by anyone approaching the house from the south?
Of course he has.
The air was filled with the salty odour of the nearby Norwegian Sea, along with the low moan produced by the wind blowing through the pipe on the strange metal sculpture beside the house.
The gale had gathered force. She’d listened to the radio on the way here to calm her nerves and the presenter of the local station had issued a warning: the storm was getting closer. All ferries to the mainland had been cancelled, so nobody would be able to leave the island for the next few hours.
That meant they were all stuck here together. Everything would come to a head tonight – and now they had her up against the wall, she didn’t have many options.
Now or never, Jasmin thought. You don’t have much time.
Jasmin pressed herself against the wall of the house. The howling grew much louder as she crept around the side of the building. She raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Despite the chill, she felt hot, and her hands were trembling. She swept her eyes over the building. There – a small window on the north end had been left open.
Coincidence?
Maybe not. But you’re here now.
There’s no turning back.
Jasmin hadn’t driven here directly from the sanatorium. She’d gone back to her house on the coast first, and although she was worried they’d be waiting there to arrest her, the house and garden had been empty when she arrived. She’d checked the cameras and the motion sensors. Henriksen had been telling the truth, at least. He’d left the house and hadn’t returned.
Everything had been silent and deserted, and as Jasmin looked at the pictures Paul had painted, which she’d hung up on the walls – as she stared at the green sofa in the living room and the long wooden boards of the veranda, which Jørgen had built himself – she’d been overwhelmed by such an intense sadness that she’d wanted nothing more than to sit down in a corner on the floor and bury her face in her hands.
Things will never go back to how they were.
However much you try, you can’t turn back the clock. Nobody can.
Jasmin had climbed the stairs to her bedroom, pulled out the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet and emptied it onto the floor. A few boxes of medication, a handful of hairbands, shards of a broken mirror and a lipstick all fell out, scattering noisily across the floor. It was so quiet inside the house; all she could hear was the quiet click of Bonnie’s claws on the floorboards as the Labrador trotted into Paul’s room, snuffling around in search of her little friend.
When her search proved fruitless, she gave a brief, mournful howl.
Jasmin dug her fingers into the corners of the drawer and levered out the base. Beneath it was a hidden compartment containing a silver snub-nosed revolver, like a foreign body that didn’t belong there.
It was her secret – one of the dark secrets she’d been keeping – and it had sprung up in her memory like a hidden plant that had blossomed as she’d lain awake over the last few nights, listening to the noises made by the old house, by these old walls.
It had dawned on her that the shotgun in the cellar wasn’t the only firearm she owned.
This special pistol didn’t belong to Jørgen. It was hers, and hers alone.
Jørgen didn’t know about it. She’d acquired it and hidden it here years ago, back when she’d had to spend nights on the island on her own. It had lain here ever since, forgotten by her until now. Jasmin had taken out the revolver and the small box of ammunition – the nine-millimetre rounds rattling around inside it like tiny silver coins in a treasure chest – and she’d loaded it and tucked it into her coat pocket.
Then she’d noticed the tiny scratches on the bottom of the drawer. The fingerprints on the gun. The patches of blood.
Someone has been here recently, she’d thought. Someone who knew about the weapon.
And now that she was standing outside Yrsen’s house, her back pressed against the wall, feeling every bump in the brickwork through the fabric of her raincoat, the weight of the gun in her pocket reassured her.
Just in case, she thought. Just in case.
Jasmin reached up to the window, opened the casement a little further, and put her hand into her coat pocket to grab a pair of gloves. Not because of the cold; she couldn’t care less about that right now. She was thinking about fingerprints. Once she’d put them on, she climbed inside.
Chapter 16
Entering the artist’s house felt like venturing into a cave – the lair of a big cat, or the last refuge of a wanted criminal. Jasmin almost thought the walls were breathing. The long oak floorboards creaked beneath her feet.
Be brave. You’ve made it this far.
She followed the corridor, feeling like all the paintings and drawings hanging on the walls were watching her. To her left was a row of doors, all closed. She could hear quiet voices from elsewhere in the house – two of them, if Jasmin wasn’t mistaken.
Henriksen and Yrsen, she was sure of it.
For a moment she stopped on a thick, cream-coloured rug, her heart pounding, and considered how insane this nocturnal escapade was. You’re trying to spy on people who’ve resolved to hurt you. Instead of running away, you’re letting yourself get drawn further and further in.
But deep down, Jasmin felt tired of always running away. She wanted to fight.
The first door on her right led into a small studio with a desk on which a number of letters and half-finished sketches had been arranged in a rough pile. They were enquiries from people asking Yrsen for an appointment.
People who knew what she’d done for other
s in the past.
Jasmin leafed through the letters. None of them were older than five months. That was strange, wasn’t it?
Beside the PC, which occupied most of the desk, Jasmin found a few opened envelopes that looked like bills. Underneath those was a stack of books. She picked one of them up. The Beginners’ Guide to Painting and Drawing, it said on the cover. An Introduction to the Art of Oil Painting was the next title.
Jasmin realised her hands were shaking.
Landscape Painting for Dummies.
The Big Book of Art History.
Jasmin couldn’t believe her eyes. It was hard to process.
So you were right. She lied. She’s a – well, what exactly? What on earth is going on here?
Jasmin pulled open the drawers of the desk, listening all the while for noises, for footsteps coming from the corridor, but everything was quiet. All she could hear were the subdued voices of Yrsen and Henriksen, who must be in the living room at the other end of the house.
If they catch you here, you’re done for. And yet she was finding clear evidence: an electricity bill dated four months ago that included a reconnection fee.
As if Yrsen had only just moved in.
Or – Jasmin realised with a shudder – as if the Yrsen she’d met wasn’t the woman she claimed to be. She’d been playing a role. Inhabiting a false identity. What had happened? What had become of the real artist?
In the bottom drawer, she stumbled across a small, barely used notebook and began to leaf through it, her fingers trembling. Inside Jasmin found a photo of herself that looked like it had been taken while she was in hospital. Underneath the photo, Yrsen – or whoever she was – had written the name Jasmin Hansen, along with an abbreviation of some kind: MPS. F44.81.
What did it mean?
How had this woman got hold of a photo of her? Jasmin felt an urge to pocket the notebook or to rip out the page, but she managed to resist the temptation.
She flicked on through the book and came across a second picture of a gaunt man smiling at the camera. It was a passport photo, of the kind you might tuck inside your wallet so you could carry your loved one with you wherever you went.
She didn’t recognise the man’s face, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d seen him before.
That’s strange, isn’t it? Like everything in this place.
She kept turning the pages and suddenly saw a third entry that made her gasp. Hanna Jansen, it said on the page. The woman Jørgen had had an affair with. Yrsen hadn’t included a photo, but she’d drawn a large question mark next to the name.
A horrible suspicion crept into Jasmin’s mind. Gabriela Yrsen isn’t real, she thought. Maybe it was only a name, a pretence, an attempt to deceive her. Maybe Gabriela Yrsen was none other than Hanna Jansen herself. They’re one and the same person. Her old enemy was here, right under her nose, and was mocking her.
Is that possible?
Of course it is.
Hanna Jansen has always been dangerous, cunning and malicious.
And then she saw it, looming in the darkness at the back of the room, still resting on its easel and hidden under a cloth that hung over the frame. The picture. Her picture – the one Yrsen had said she’d paint for her.
Jasmin reached for the cloth and cautiously tugged it onto the floor.
She saw herself – albeit blurred and not a particularly good likeness – holding a burning lighter in her hand. A building behind her was on fire – it looked like a modern version of the old sanatorium, one built in the twenty-first century.
‘You piece of shit,’ said Jasmin hoarsely. ‘You really are trying to frame me for things I never did.’
She spotted a pair of scissors on the desk. Snatching them up, she attacked the picture, stabbing it furiously until it lay in tatters. After that she left the office, closing the door behind her, and crept back down the corridor to the still-open window. The wind had blown colourful leaves inside that lay on the rug like splashes of paint.
Yrsen isn’t really Yrsen. You know that now, and that’s why you need to get out of here. MPS F44.81, she thought. You need to find out what it means.
She climbed up onto the windowsill, which wobbled alarmingly beneath her weight, before swinging a leg through the opening and hopping down on the other side.
Jasmin landed on the tall grass with a quiet thud.
She’d made it out.
Then she froze.
The voices from inside were suddenly clearly audible – so close that it made her jump, as if they were coming from right next to her. One of them was Yrsen’s, the other belonged to Henriksen.
Jasmin held her breath and cocked an ear. The two of them seemed to be arguing; Henriksen was speaking in a soothing tone, and Yrsen was upset – beside herself – in a way that Jasmin hadn’t heard before. A light went on and a dull, buttery-yellow glow fell through the window onto the lawn, painting a bright strip on the grass and the hedges. Jasmin could feel the hard brickwork digging into her back as she strained to listen.
‘It’s too dangerous, as you very well know,’ Yrsen was saying. ‘It has to end. We can’t wait any longer. Tonight is the finale – tonight we finish with all this, with her. I’m tired of watching this drag on. It’s too dangerous.’
‘I know it’s dangerous,’ she heard Henriksen reply. His sonorous voice still had its usual soothing, ingratiating tone, but Jasmin felt sure she could hear something else underneath: doubt, unease and worry.
‘It’s more than dangerous. Your head, Hendrik. You got hurt.’ By now, Yrsen sounded almost affectionate. Jasmin could hardly believe her ears. Yrsen’s voice was husky, almost honeyed, as if she and Henriksen were more than just acquaintances.
My God, what’s going on here? If these two know each other . . .
‘It was nothing,’ Henriksen answered calmly. ‘An accident. We’re dealing with an extremely unusual case. There’s no textbook we can follow; we don’t have any experience to draw on.’
‘She needs to come here.’
‘I’m meeting her tonight, as you already know. She called me and we arranged to meet at her house. I’ve spoken to her husband and he agreed. She gets one last chance, and after that—’
‘We end it. And I couldn’t care less if Jørgen agrees or not. The situation is getting out of hand. We never should have got ourselves into all this. There are easier ways – methods that are much less complicated and intrusive.’ Yrsen’s voice was now so cold and emotionless that it could have belonged to the sculpture in the garden.
They just mentioned Jørgen. Jasmin clenched her fists and her fingernails dug painfully into her palms. So I was right. They want to end it. And Jørgen really is involved. Dear God, I was right about everything.
Jasmin wanted to break down in tears – could have sat down right there and then and blocked out the world – but something deep inside her wouldn’t let her.
Something else had risen up within her.
Something more powerful.
A voice that didn’t sound quite like her own.
‘What about the picture?’
‘How should I know?’ Yrsen retorted sharply. ‘I’m playing a character. How am I supposed to suddenly become an artist?’
Jasmin felt her heart hammering against her ribs. It was all a lie. Yrsen, Henriksen, Jørgen and who knew who else was involved.
You need to run. You won’t be able to find Paul, not like this. They’ve lured you into a trap and you’ve figured it out far too late. ‘What if she’s still interested?’ Henriksen asked. ‘What if she wants to talk to you about it?’
‘I’ll avoid her. Nothing could be simpler.’ For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, in a quiet voice, Yrsen added, ‘It’d make things a lot easier if we could bring her here. Those cameras she’s installed at her house make it impossible to plan anything. We’re going in completely unprepared and you don’t know how she might react.’
‘That’s true. But it was her suggestion. She’ll ge
t suspicious if I ask her to meet anywhere else.’
I already am suspicious, you fucking bastards, Jasmin thought. If only you knew who was standing outside your window, listening to every word you say. If only you knew.
‘In that case, maybe we should take a different approach. You’ve given me an idea.’ Jasmin heard footsteps as Yrsen walked across the room. ‘I’ll call her and tell her the painting is ready. I’ll ask her to meet me here. And then we’ll end it.’
‘Hmm.’ Henriksen sounded unconvinced. ‘I suppose it might work.’
‘Hold on, I’ll do it right now.’
Jasmin gave a start and fumbled for the phone in the pocket of her jeans. If she calls you, it’ll ring. They’ll hear it. And if she finds what’s left of the painting . . .
Fuck – they’ll know you’re here, that you’re standing outside the window and listening in. They’ll know you heard everything. You’ll be done for.
The phone slipped out of her trembling hands and fell into the wet grass.
‘Now where did I note down her number?’ she heard Yrsen say from inside the house.
Shit. Fucking shit. Jasmin knelt down and groped in the dark for her phone. The tall grass was sharp and the frost felt chill beneath her fingers.
‘There it is,’ said Yrsen.
Just then, the screen of her phone lit up in the grass. Jasmin lunged forwards, grabbed hold of it and tapped the Decline button as the ringtone began to sound.
Shit, shit, shit.
‘She’s not picking up,’ she heard Yrsen say. ‘That’s less than ideal.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Henriksen asked.
‘What?’
‘A noise, from out back. Like there’s—’
She heard footsteps coming closer and closer. Jasmin shoved her phone back in her pocket and leapt to her feet, sprinting away from the house and diving into the hedge at the end of the garden. Sharp twigs poked through the fabric of her coat and jabbed into her back. The front door swung open and a broad shaft of light poured out. Yrsen and Henriksen appeared in the doorway, two dark silhouettes in the yellow light. When Yrsen turned to face Henriksen, Jasmin caught a glimpse of her face in profile. Her cheeks were smooth. Her burn scars had vanished.
Don't Wake Me Page 21
