Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  Kass’s then gives a wan smile. ‘I wanted to thank you and your team in person for identifying my husband’s killer so swiftly.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Kass can feel her cheeks growing warm under the woman’s unblinking gaze. ‘We’re all so sorry for your loss. This must be a difficult time for you and your family.’

  ‘Yes.’ Liljan drops her hand. Looking away, she says, ‘It’s been a terrible shock for us all.’

  Kass thinks about adding something but knows it would be disingenuous of her to describe the late governor in glowing terms. Behind Liljan, the DCI is standing there beaming – basking in a reflected glory he has no right to enjoy. Thinking more of Mrs Morenos and her fate, Kass settles on: ‘The way the governor was killed like that – well, it was tragic. An awful waste.’

  Liljan turns towards Laskaris, pins him with those blue eyes of hers. ‘And yet so many questions remain. I find it hard to understand how someone with that woman’s personal history was positively vetted to work in the mansion. Why wasn’t the connection with her late daughter immediately flagged up?’

  The DCI clears his throat. ‘Of course, this was all well before my time here. I understand two independent internal investigations have concluded that the fault lay in a most unfortunate technical error. The woman’s data had apparently been mixed up with that of another applicant.’ He shakes his head. ‘With such unforeseen and appalling consequences.’

  ‘And you genuinely accept their finding?’ Liljan’s tone makes it crystal clear she doesn’t.

  He holds out both hands like a man surrendering. ‘Sadly, it’s the only explanation.’

  Liljan turns her attention to Kass. ‘And you, Inspector Kassöndrudóttir – what do you think?’

  Laskaris begins to protest. ‘I really don’t think– ’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you allowed her to answer.’ Despite the note of authority in her voice, she can see the woman’s trembling from head to foot.

  They’re both waiting for her answer. ‘I’m afraid I’m not privy to the information put before either inquiry,’ Kass says, ‘so it’s impossible for me to reach an informed judgment.’

  ‘The diplomat’s answer.’ A cynical smile appears on Liljan’s lips. ‘Unlike Mr Laskaris here, I understand you’re a seasoned detective so what does your instinct tell you, Inspector?’

  Kass looks at Laskaris. ‘I’m not sure I– ’

  ‘I really think we’d better leave the matter there,’ he says. ‘Thank you but that will be all, Inspector.’

  Kass can feel Liljan’s eyes upon her as she leaves the room.

  Twenty-Eight

  The weak sun is half hidden below the mountains and with it the air temperature is dropping. Standing about like he is in the open, Bruno knows he must look like he’s waiting around for a date. He folds his arms across his chest, stamps his feet a few times to keep his circulation going. Worried when this attracts a few curious looks, he hunches down, stuffs his hands into his pockets. The strap of the hood cuts across his chin. He can’t see out of the sides without turning his head.

  The jacket he’s wearing isn’t his exactly – neither is the hat. He’s chosen generic colours, nothing that will stand out. He’d borrowed them from his block’s cloakroom and plans to put them back when this is over. People mix up their outerwear all the time – it’s no big deal.

  When he looks up from the frosted ground, Baltasar is heading toward him surrounded by his usual mates. Before they reach him, the group begins to break up; after a bit of backslapping they go their separate ways. A few more parting shouts and then, unaccompanied, Baltasar strolls over to him.

  ‘Hey,’ Baltasar says, as he gets nearer. ‘Hardly recognised you under all that. Sorry to keep you hanging around out here.’

  ‘’S fine.’ Bruno does his best to seem nonchalant. ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘So how’s it going?’

  ‘Good.’ The question appears to need no further response. Oddly, Baltasar begins to flex each of his shoulder muscles in turn and then rotates his neck like he’s about to take on an opponent in the ring. It’s a strange spectacle, unconsciously done. One last roll of the neck and then he peers at Bruno through narrowed eyes. ‘You want to come back to mine?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, why not?’ Bruno looks down as if studying his feet, gives a quick shrug of his shoulders to suggest the invitation is no big deal. He keeps wishing this wasn’t so easy.

  ‘I’m not in halls,’ Baltasar says, leading him towards the outer gate of the campus. ‘My house might shock you a bit.’

  Bruno snorts. ‘You should see the state of my room,’ he says, playing dumb.

  ‘Yeah, well, my place – I should say my parents’ place – it’s – how can I put it? It’s a little different from most people’s.’ His expression suggests he’s both proud and embarrassed by this.

  ‘I’m fairly unshockable,’ Bruno tells him.

  Through his jacket’s padding he feels the sharp end of the boy’s elbow in his ribs. ‘Okay, well don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Humming some tune under his breath, Baltasar marches off towards the expressway halt. The boy seems to take two long strides for every three of his and so the gap between them begins to widen. Bruno speeds up, careful not to look like he’s scurrying along behind. Nearing the halt, Baltasar slows down to join the waiting line of passengers.

  Bruno stands behind him taking care not to catch anyone’s eye. The boy’s humming grows louder as he examines a blemish on one of his gloves and, recognising the chorus of Zor Savage’s Crazy Dreams, Bruno decides to go along with it. Baltasar mimes the drumroll that follows and he starts to nod his head to the silent beat. Bruno picks up the melody line at the next verse and Baltasar adds a riff against it. On the last note, they break into smiles.

  The mood changes when they climb aboard the half-empty pod and sit down side by side. Bruno’s conscious of how much of the seat his companion is taking up; his bulging thigh muscles appear to prevent him from closing his legs.

  They fall into a companionable silence. Trussed up like this, Bruno begins to overheat. The mag-track starts a slow ascent and they’re finally afforded a panoramic view of the Fjord below, still shimmering in the dying light. Pressing his face close to the glass, he can see the slow-moving inlets are an ice puzzle split into a million pieces.

  Bruno keeps his attention on the floor. His modestly-priced footwear is out of step with the designer boots surrounding him on all sides. His gaze strictly below waist level, he recognises various brands of expensive outerwear, putting each and every one of them in a class above him. Such distinctions are never openly acknowledged; the good citizens of Eldísvík seem determined to uphold the pretense that class divisions are a thing of the past.

  The expressway track levels off as they approach a well-lit area. The houses have been growing in size; many are now sprouting high fences together with the necessary gatehouses. Ignoring the weather, this could be the Hollywood Hills of another era.

  ‘Our neighbourhood is what the real estate agents like to describe as quiet and traditional,’ Baltasar tells him as he stands ready to exit the pod.

  Stepping down, Bruno is momentarily blinded by the intensity of the lights. Everything around has been manicured to within an inch of its life. Living someplace like this, a person would feel totally secure – if they didn’t know any better. Under normal circumstances, nothing and no one would be able to pass this way unseen.

  They fall into step. His companion seems to be avoiding his eye, no doubt embarrassed by the wealth of his surroundings. ‘This whole place is utterly dead,’ he finally says. ‘I mean seriously, man, it’s terminally boring up here; nothing happens. A moggy fight would make headlines.’

  A line from Hamlet comes to Bruno: “the lady doth protest too much, methinks”. ‘That could be a good thing,’ he tells him.

  ‘Wait; I’m forgetting – you must have been here before.’

  ‘Must I?’
>
  ‘Yeah – I mean we live real close to the Sigurðardóttir sisters. I can see their place from my bedroom window.’

  ‘You’re right. Guess I’m a bit disorientated.’ That visit seems a whole other lifetime ago.

  ‘Sorry if that’s a sore point, man,’ Baltasar says, misinterpreting his silence.

  He makes no comment, keeps his eyes glued to the ground ahead.

  They’ve reached the top of the rise and now the roadway begins to meander between spread-out properties. None are visible from the street; these people probably still own personal vehicles.

  ‘My folks were delighted when Reyndis and I got it together,’ Baltasar tells him. ‘Our families have known each other for years. To an outsider that must sound rather incestuous; socially that is. Not literally.’

  He stops walking and gives Bruno a nudge in more or less the same spot as before – a habit that could quickly become annoying.

  They’re opposite one of the gatehouses. ‘We’re here,’ Baltasar says.

  He leans in. ‘It’s a bore but our security guy will need to take a few details. Hope you don’t mind.’

  Bruno’s insides tighten. Why the hell hadn’t he foreseen this? If Freyja and Quentin succeed in assassinating Commander Avraham, the first thing the investigators will do is comb through the list of visitors.

  Baltasar raises his hand to the uniformed man like he’s some princeling. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he says, ‘you just need to flash your ID at him.’

  The security guy turns his attention from the film he’s watching to open a glass hatch. He’s a big man with a well-trimmed black beard – the sort Bruno would grow if he could. ‘Evening, Delauney,’ Baltasar says.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ the man says. ‘You’re the first one home this evening.’

  ‘Great. Um, this is my friend, Bruno.’

  Bruno is shading his eyes from the light in his face. The man’s smile drops. ‘Need to see some ID, son.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Bruno tries to act like this is the most natural thing to happen when visiting a friend’s house. He takes off his backpack and, keeping his head well down, starts to rummage around inside it. The big man doesn’t hide his impatience; all the cold air is penetrating his shelter.

  Baltasar steps away a little, embarrassed by his awkward fumbling.

  Bruno raises his voice. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere. Just give me a moment.’

  Turning his back on his friend, he stares at the security man. For Baltasar’s benefit, he says, ‘Ah yes, here it is.’

  The lighting is strong enough to make full unblinking contact with those wide brown eyes. ‘Everything is in order,’ he says in a low calm, clear voice. ‘After you’ve waved me on, you will remember nothing about me. You won’t record this. You won’t even recall my name or that I came here. Smile. That’s it, good. Now close the window and carry on watching your film.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Glad to be alone with his thoughts, Nero rubs at his forehead while he studies the whiteboard. Neat lines and carefully labelled columns have replaced everything he and others had written. Laskaris has even tried to summarise the available evidence beside each unsolved murder.

  He stares at those unfilled spaces – the myriad unanswered questions they pose. It’s strange and profoundly unsettling that he’s able to fill in most of the blanks up there –in his head at least.

  When he joined Homicide, Nero could never have imagined covering up a murder, let alone so many. He stares at the first space he could so easily fill by recording Bruno’s role in the two deaths on the university campus.

  Further down, only two of the factory corpses have been identified – the others are listed as unknowns. Truth is, he might be able to supply their names but not much else. There’s one exception. Beside “unknown female” he wishes he could fill in the name Ása Sturludóttir. Given more space, he could supply the salient events of her whole short life. At the very least he could name her as the woman responsible for the Double Red murders and sign that case off. Unlike any of the other deceased, he could even add the name of Asa’s creator: Dr Arthur – the ultimate puppet-master.

  His heartrate increases as his fingers twitch with the desire to write the wretched man’s name up there in bold letters; expose his ill deeds to the full scrutiny of the law. It’s a forlorn hope – at every step, Dr Arthur’s covered his tracks. In any case, how could he hope to tell the world about him without Chan being dragged into it?

  His head turns towards a noise in the corridor; it’s only Rustler talking into his stud. Seeing Nero through the glass, he gives a mock salute as he passes. Returning the gesture, Nero feels a wave of envy, recalling with nostalgia a time when his life had been that straightforward. How their fortunes had changed. He’d failed to foresee Rustler becoming head of his department while, from heading up Homicide, he’d now been relegated to a lesser role.

  Nero’s attention drifts back to the whiteboard and the large red letters in which Laskaris has written the name of the victim they are to give priority to: COMMANDER THOMAS ROCKINGHAM. Equality might be mentioned in the constitution of Eldísvík but the principle didn’t operate out there on the streets of the city. Equal treatment wasn’t even afforded to the dead.

  He lets his eyes run down to the SUSPECTS column and the first name on it – Hank Williams: an old-time country singer. Unless the man’s mother was a fan, this is more than likely an alias and yet another cul-de-sac.

  There’s no mention up there of Freyja – the name used by the woman who made damned sure Rockingham had bled to death slowly. Amongst other things, Freyja was the Norse goddess of war. Though it’s a common enough name in the city – he guesses she herself might have adopted it as her nom de guerre.

  There’s no doubt in his mind those two decoys are bent on continuing what they started – why else would they have hung onto those suits? Knowing what Freyja and Quentin look like means he could identify them both in a line-up but, realistically, that’s never going to happen. Where does that leave him as a police officer sworn to uphold the law under all and every circumstance?

  He looks down at his hands, the way he’s curled them into fists, nails digging into the soft inner skin. What the hell can he do?

  After a moment he opens them to see the red horseshoe-shaped lines imprinted on both his palms.

  It’s time to shake the tree and see what falls out. Mind made up, Nero grabs his coat from the stand and heads out the door.

  As he’s approaching the Decoy Training department, he spots Dr Arthur leaving the building through a little-used side entrance. It’s no surprise the man’s leaving early, with nothing to do up there. Nero watches from a distance as Arthur steps out gingerly onto the frosty surface, obviously checking in case it might be slippery underfoot. Satisfied of his footing, he pulls his hood over his head and sets off at a pace.

  Nero’s more than a little curious to see where he’s heading in such a hurry. It’s been a while since he tailed a suspect but the main principle remains the same – make sure you hang well back.

  He turns his stud to one of the magnification settings and sets it to auto-record. With both eyes now seeing different images, it’s as if he’s in two places at once – where he is now and where he’ll be in a few second’s time. The effect, as always, is disconcerting.

  The pathway they’re on is pristinely white aside from the other man’s footsteps; following his trail is a walk in the park.

  At the next corner, with little hesitation, Dr Arthur turns right. Reaching it a few seconds later, Nero does the same.

  They’ve entered a complex of narrow streets flanked by high, featureless walls with few openings. Daylight is fading but he’s thankful the lighting is sparse. Further along a series of security beams flick on as Dr Arthur’s presence triggers them. Nero has to speed up to catch them before they go out.

  Reaching the end of the next block, Arthur pauses briefly before turning left and then almost immediately
right. Could this be a test to see if he’s being followed? Nero ducks into a doorway that’s protected by a metal grill. He waits until Dr Arthur is well out of sight then leaves it another thirty seconds before closing the gap. The man’s turned into a long straight road; Nero daren’t follow until he’s again out of sight.

  This road terminates in a square that could almost be described as a piazza; at its centre there’s even a derelict fountain. Nero gets a whiff of its putrid water as he passes.

  The only sign of life is on the far side of the square where a flashing bar sign shines like a beacon through the gloom. The Nordic Cross – all welcome. Nero’s reminded of the silly joke Rashid liked to taunt Lúter with: what makes a Nordic Cross? Just about everything. He pictures them both so easily it seems impossible to believe both men are dead.

  Nero shakes himself free of such memories – this is not the time. He switches his stud’s magnification off – right now he needs both his eyes working together.

  The trail of footsteps lead towards the main doorway of the Nordic Cross but Dr Arthur has disappeared. Outside the entrance, other footprints overlay one another melting the frost. Were these simply traces of other drinkers or had these people been waiting here for Arthur? He can see no trace of the man’s distinctive footsteps leading away from the bar.

  Pulling his collar up, he heads towards the doorway with only instinct guiding him. Closer, he hears music coming from inside – a driving beat that seems too loud for the time of day.

  Inside, the bar is one of those old-fashioned establishments where the seating has been sub-divided into booths – ideal if you’re looking for privacy. Who might Arthur be meeting in a place like this?

  “Take the weight off!” demands a sign with a cartoon illustration. “We serve you!” a larger sign announces. He expects to smell ale but can’t. He hears the sound of voices coming from somewhere. From where he’s standing he can’t make out what’s being said.