by Mark, David
Almquist walked around to the back of the Saab, opening the trunk. He removed a canvas holdall by two nylon handles, then turned to the police car and raised his hand, indicating for them to stay. The front door opened, revealing two men; one of balding red hair and average height and build, the other taller, slimmer with dark hair wearing a guarded expression. One held a flashlight, the other a candle. The way the taller man held himself suggested somebody who was used to physical exercise. The other could have been ten years younger; middle thirties, looking surprised and curious in a gray cotton sweatshirt with hood, eyes shrouded in momentary confusion, sweeping past faces to the police car and back again in the blink of an eye.
Almquist placed his holdall on the wet ground and removed his police ID, holding it out at arms length, long enough to be sure they had registered it. The younger stood closest, making guarded eye contact with first Almquist, then Vikland.
‘Are you living here?’ Elin Vikland said in English.
‘Renting,’ he replied.
The older, fitter one was looking at her with a guarded, reticent expression. Almquist studied them both, looking from one to the other, waiting, holding back. He turned to the pleasant looking younger man before him, the one holding the candle-holder with a handle. ‘Hasse Almquist. Swedish district police. And you are?’
‘Daniel, Daniel Hanson.’ He said, looking uncertainly at his companion.
‘Can I come in?’ Almquist said awkwardly, in passable English. He looked up and around at the cottage then at the girl.
She was above average in height; shoulder length, carefree blonde hair, wearing a red leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Another male followed; older: blonde hair, relatively good looking and clean-shaven, smelling of aftershave.
‘What’s going on?’ He said.
Almquist turned to look towards the men, eyes asking unspoken questions. It was the girl who approached him first, lifting her head a little to one side, smooth skin still showing traces of a healthy summer tan. She walked forward extending her hand. ‘Hey do. Ulrika.’
‘Almquist, Örrebrospolicen.’ He looked past the Swedish girl to the taller Englishman, standing to one side without introducing himself. He wondered what the connection was as he entered a tidy interior, and aromas of hearty cooking, following the hollow tramp of footsteps on wooden floorboards.
‘Justin,’ the blonde-haired man, early to mid-thirties said.
Almquist nodded and entered. Within, musty old wood, floor-to-ceiling boarded walls painted white. He stopped in front of dozens of photographs, all of them lost in shadow, all of them old and fading, torn in places even behind the protective layer of glass. He scanned faces, old faces, resting on one face he knew well. He leaned forwards, staring at that face. A face without expression with vague, dead eyes and blonde hair swept to the side, clinging to a sweaty forehead in greasy fingers. Behind him his father, old and gray, stooping forwards. Gotfrid, it was. He wore the same look of contempt as his son had done. He raised his head, his heart skipping a beat. In an instant, he turned to follow the taller man, holdall in hand, making eye contact. ‘And who are you?’
‘Conrad Baron,’ he replied without turning around.
He had a way of walking, erect, with long slow yet purposeful strides. Dark blue denims and thick hiking socks, crowned with thick dark hair through which fine strands of gray wove itself like thin wires of silver.
They walked in single file to the end of the corridor, towards candlelight, dark as it was. Ahead, an old pine stair ascending to bedrooms above, a panel door open, such that the upstairs rooms could be closed off to conserve heat. To the left they passed a simple living room, noting the glowing embers of a wood fire. The room was barely furnished smelling of stale tobacco – and cannabis: a few pieces of stripped pine furniture on yellow floorboards; a seventies-style three person sofa; a coffee table littered with books and papers, two lounge chairs facing the sofa, another on the end opposite the fireplace.
Almquist retreated and continued to where the man called Conrad Baron stood waiting for him. Almquist placed his holdall on the floor, then followed them into the kitchen. Inside a fourth male, younger than the last, older than the girl: mid twenties, heavily built. Long dark hair tied in a ponytail, dark eyes, darker face heavy with stubble fortified by an air of youthful arrogance. Almquist nodded receiving a nod in return, the girl and her companions arriving next, Vikland last.
There were candles on the table, an old-style cast iron kitchen stove, the smell of wood smoke.
‘How many people are staying here?’ Vikland asked.
The lack of any electrical appliances confirmed his first assumption regarding electricity.
Conrad stopped and turned to face her. ‘Five, six.’
At the back of the room, a rocking chair placed next to a large pine table littered with an overflowing ashtray, empty beer bottles and dirty plates. Above, a candelabra suspended on small chains from a hook, the stumps of three candles and three new ones, all of them lit, sending a dancing halo of light across an old grease-stained pine ceiling.
‘Five or six?’ Almquist said.
Conrad Baron paused, thinking, then looked from Vikland to the older, gray-bearded detective in his long gray overcoat. ‘Five. Look, do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
Almquist removed a worn, curled notebook with a familiarity that could have been practiced, but wasn’t.
‘Is this where Thomas Denisen is staying?’
Daniel looked across in wonder at the older Conrad Baron. ‘Yes – why? What’s going on?’
Too many stories, too many ghosts; the corpse of Thomas Denisen placed in the sordid line of now five, similar murders. Each murder displaying the same methods of mutilation. His ghosts. Except, Thomas Denisen was male, his body broken. Almquist glanced knowingly at Vikland, then turned to them, placing the tip of his pen against the faint blue-lined pad. ‘Names.’ He looked up.
Which one was it? And more importantly. Why?
There had been too much failure and too many dead. Too much injustice... finally, he smiled, ‘And some coffee would be nice.’
And so it begins.
He looked at her. She was sitting at the table across from the young man with the long dark hair in a ponytail called Ashley. As for the rest, three names were already listed one above the other:
Conrad Baron, English, 44
Daniel Hanson, American, 31.
Under his name the other one, blonde, relatively handsome and polite, writing, Justin Swift, English, 33.
Almquist added and ringed the name Ulrika. Ulrika Strömberg, Swedish, 24.
As for the surly one with the ponytail, he called himself Ash: Ash with an Indian surname. The two names Ashley Jayaraman didn’t seem to fit, somehow. On the other hand, England was more of a multi-cultural nation than Sweden was, or India for that matter. Neither did he look either English, or Indian for that matter, looking more Persian.
He wrote the name Ashley Jayaraman, English, 24 underneath Ulrika’s, underlining it.
Three British, one American and a Swede; minus one Dane, of course. All foreigners, male and one Swedish female: Ulrika. Almquist glanced briefly at his holdall, all but forgotten by the kitchen door, the progression of the investigation laid out before him like a familiar old companion. He placed his notebook back in his heavy jacket pocket, sliding it back into its familiar resting place and looked around at the five faces waiting. He searched for signs of nervousness, false courage; deceit.
When he was sure he hadn’t missed anything he made the announcement: ‘Thomas Denisen is dead.’
Chapter 3
CONFINEMENT
The knowing guest who goes to the feast,
In silent attention sits;
With his ears he hears, with his eyes he watches,
Thus wary are wise men all.
Stanza 7, Hávamál
Astonishment, surprise, shock, even i
ndifference: Almquist looked past the faces to the other side of the room, towards an old iron wood burner. Next to it a copper bin stood filled with cleaved birch wood.
‘Thomas, dead?’ Justin Swift repeated.
Almquist spoke without expression or sympathy. ‘No one is to leave here until we have taken statements.
‘What happened?’
‘My assistant will take care of the formalities.’ Almquist looked across towards Elin Vikland, who stood leaning against the wall by the door, then turned to memorize each face before proceeding.
‘Where did you find him?’
‘Are you certain it is Thomas?’
Always the same pattern.
‘We found Mr. Denisen’s body at the bottom of a rock, in the National Park. It looks like he fell.’
The questions stopped, replaced by the regular squeak of the pine rocking chair, Conrad Baron having taken permanent possession of it, befitting the leader as he most obviously was. He had the type of face that had seen people, done things. The type of person you could spend hours with and thought you knew, but who could still surprise you at the end of the day, challenging preconceptions.
Of the others sitting at the table, Ash the Anglo-Indian with the ponytail he had taken an instant dislike to. The handsome blonde Justin Swift seemed disturbed more than upset. Daniel Hanson, the American with the short receding hairline he would make his mind up about him later.
Then he looked over to Ulrika. She had the kind of eyes men couldn’t escape from. Didn’t want to escape from. When she looked at him she hung her head slightly to one side in a gesture that could have been unintentionally relaxed, but was also provocative in a delightful way, looking slightly upwards at him from underneath her fringe. She was returning his gaze. He realized he was staring and looked away. When he looked back again she was still looking at him. Almquist felt himself blush, snapping into focus. ‘What was Thomas Denisen doing in the park?’
Silence.
Two of them glanced in Justin Swift’s direction. Conrad Baron showed all the signs of being measured and in control.
‘Does anyone know why he was in park?’ Almquist asked again, more firmly this time.
All shook their heads.
‘He left early this morning,’ Justin Swift ventured. ‘At least, he was gone when I got up.’
‘But he was part of this group?’ Almquist said, looking around the table. He received one, two nods. Reluctant nods.
‘Did he have any reason to leave?’ Vikland asked from the wall by the door.
Justin Swift glanced in Conrad Baron’s direction. Neither said anything. Justin was sitting on the side of the table closest to a painted, vertically boarded white wall containing more old photographs. Ash sat next to Justin, seeming bored. Would the guilty act bored? Reason enough to look bored.
‘Did he have anything with him?’
Almquist enjoyed moments like this, moments when someone knew if they put a foot wrong they would draw attention to themselves, forcing themselves into a dilemma – whether they should tell the truth, or risk a lie.
Almquist stood up and walked towards the door, bending down and lifting his holdall. ‘Denisen had this in his car.’
He removed the canvas, holding it up with expectation, turning to look each one in the eye. The only person who genuinely seemed curious, as if she hadn’t seen it before was Ulrika. They knew this painting, all of them. What came next came as a complete surprise.
‘The Hangman of the Gallows.’ Ash said, looking bewildered as he looked towards the painting.
‘You know it?’
‘Where did you find it?’ Vikland added.
‘Inside Thomas Denisen’s car. A black BMW?’
Another nod. Daniel Hanson sat up and looked across at Ash, whose attention had attached itself firmly to the object displayed in Almquist’s hands. Justin looked at Conrad. Conrad raised his brow, taking a deep breath. The painting obviously meant something to them. He paused, wondering for a moment how it was best to handle this, then walked to the end of the table closest to the windows and placed the canvas on top of an old chest of drawers. He took a step backwards, then walked back to sit down in the dining chair at the top of the table. From here he could see both the painting and all the faces of the assembled.
The painting was abstract, but not abstract enough that it was unrecognizable. A figure, an old man in a landscape with a long gray beard hanging from a tree, two birds perched on branches above him, one looking one way, one looking the other. The motif was obvious, at least it was to him. Odin. The tree grew out of a rock, upon which a symbol was inscribed. In the background was the shimmer of a lake, or the seashore.
‘So this was Thomas Denisen’s painting?’
Justin shook his head. ‘No, it is, was my painting. Thomas stole it.’
‘Can you prove that?’
Justin hesitated. ‘Yes, I can.’
‘How?’
Justin glanced across the table at Conrad. ‘I have a letter, a lawyer’s letter.’
Almquist placed a hand inside his jacket pocket, removing his reporter’s pad again. He licked his finger and turned the pages. His attention turned to the quiet Ulrika. Her eyes looked like light bulbs, so bright and shining, soaking up the figure as if it was a masterpiece by Matisse.
‘Where did you find it?’ Justin asked.
‘It was in his car. Name?’
‘I’ve told you my name.’
‘Of the lawyer.’
‘Tobias Ivarsen.’
‘E-N?’
Justin nodded.
‘Do you have it, this letter?’
Justin looked away. ‘It’s upstairs.’
‘I need to see it, later.’
Justin nodded again.
Ulrika seemed to be waiting for something that never happened, it seemed. He made a mental note to talk with Elin about her. As for Daniel, he was the easiest to read. Or he was simply playing a masterful role. It wasn’t him. Or... Justin? He had a hard time placing him with a spoon in his hand, carving out someone’s living eyes. That left Conrad. He sat with his hands folded in front of him, rocking, seeming relaxed. He was definitely a contender, something under the surface speaking of tension.
‘Can anyone tell me about Thomas Denisen?’
Justin was staring at the painting. He switched his attention back to Almquist. ‘Thomas Denisen owns an art gallery in Copenhagen. I contacted him and asked him for help,’ he said, speaking in a quiet but controlled voice. ‘So we could find out more about it.’
‘You arrived here together?’
Justin nodded. ‘I met Thomas because I know his wife.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
Justin raised his hand and ran it through his hair. He glanced not a little nervously towards Vikland. ‘It was last night.’ He looked across to Ash. ‘I don’t know why he would go off on his own like that.’
‘Twenty-four hours,’ Vikland said sharply from her space by the door, meeting a nervous look from Justin with a hard stare.
Almquist returned to the painting and studied the figure. Something didn’t fit. Five murders and now a painting? He frowned, looking at it, the way it seemed as if it was melting into the branches of the tree – in a steep V-shape. The figure had his head bowed down, beard hanging to a rounded point, mustache long and curved, hanging downwards. What set it apart from anything he had seen before, were the flames. They swirled up his arms and into the tree, searing the boundaries of his memory, letting them free.
Justin had noticed Conrad’s displeasure as soon as they had entered the homestead. He hadn’t really known him that long, a few meetings at the British Embassy. It was long enough to know Conrad Baron wasn’t someone you messed around with. He also knew he didn’t really like him very much and had his back to the wall, so Justin thought fast, resorting to desperate measures.
He lied: ‘Ash wanted to pick her up. She was there in the rain, we nearly drove into her.’
>
‘Why did he pick her up?’ Conrad said in a flash.
Justin moved his head back as he sent him a look of surprise. It was obvious. ‘He thought she was cute.’
Conrad looked down the corridor to the store door under the stairs. Then taking hold of Justin by the scruff of his neck, he turned and pulled him forcefully to the door, opening it, closing it again behind him, locking it. ‘Now, tell me. What the hell is going on?’ He demanded, leaning in towards him.
‘Nothing more than I already told you.’ Justin replied, his voice betraying his fear.
‘You invited her, Ash already told me.’ Conrad took a step forwards, his face, half-in half-out of shadow.
Justin felt as if the floor fell away beneath his feet. ‘She was soaking. She’d been taking photographs on some assignment and was lost, so, we picked her up. Then it was running late, so we offered her something to eat before she hit the road.’
Conrad raised a hand in a silent gesture for Justin to stop talking. ‘This is a closed party. The Dane I can understand. But this...’ he glanced out of a small square window to where Vikland came into view, talking with a duty officer by the side of the lake. She was pointing to the hill above them. He turned to scowl at Justin. ‘A bit of skirt? What the hell were you thinking of?’ Conrad shook his head, taking a deep breath. He raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it, breathing out, closing his eyes. ‘Why?’ He shouted behind clenched teeth. He tapped the side of his head violently with a stiff middle finger, making Justin recoil in surprise.
He had seen that look before, the taught line of his neck, the stiffness in his head.
‘Did you go into the park?’
‘What?’ Justin looked offended.
‘Into Tiveden?’
‘We went to see the Pastor at the church. Then we hit the road. We met her only a couple of clicks down the road.’
‘You didn’t see Thomas this morning?’
Justin scowled at Conrad. ‘No, I did not. Did you? Look, I had nothing to do with it.’
