Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  ‘After he was released from prison he moved, not long before they departed. I hope to find out more when I speak with his parole officer.’

  Archaeology. If he had been unsure before, now he almost felt certain now. There was something going on linked to what had been going on in Denmark, he was sure of it. The question was, had someone at the Danish police spoken with officials from different organizations? As for why they came here, Anna and Gustav Kron was a connection he just couldn’t ignore. Could there be a link between Archaeology, Anna and Gustav, he wondered.

  ‘Hasse?’ Vikland said.

  ‘What?’ He looked across. She’d been speaking to him.

  ‘Shall we bring him in I said?’

  Almquist looked out of her doorway, through the ops room to Oskar and wondered. ‘No... not yet.’ He turned to her, ‘It could be unrelated. No point in chasing down trails not connected with ours.’ He felt a sense of disquiet, foreboding almost settle upon him, without really knowing why. Anna, Gustav, Archaeology... and a painting with Odin...

  ‘So what should we do?’

  What lead could he provide? ‘I’m going to keep breathing down their necks. See what happens...’ He noticed the familiar look in her eyes.

  She bit her lower lip. ‘We also checked this homestead out. Gotfridsgaarden. Except, we can’t find anything to substantiate that this place has ever been rented out before.

  He sat up.

  ‘You interviewed Baron.’

  He waited sensing she was going to say something he didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Wasn’t he the one who found the place? I get an uneasy feeling about him...’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded, ‘All this embassy immunity act. I don’t like him.’

  She nodded to her desk. ‘Watch the tape.’

  ‘He said the British Embassy had an interest; his credentials are in order funnily enough.’

  ‘Why would they be interested?’

  ‘He’s attached to the Ambassador’s office.’

  ‘I read the interview. Communications Officer. Passport Office.’ Vikland continued in English. ‘Diplomatic immunity.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t like, he kind of told me I ought to be minding my own business, as if, as if he was offering me cooperation, just letting me investigate my own god-damned investigation. If I knew I had any support at all I’d have brought him in, just to make a point...’

  ‘But you don’t have any support.’

  As if he needed telling. The Commissioner had been away on a course for two days now. Perfect timing. Now he thought about it, he had never seen the place seem so empty. He could try and go to the Board, but he knew he didn’t pull much weight. He would only make himself look like the fool he was. She must have read his mind.

  ‘What is it?’

  Deep down, he knew there was something he could do, if he really needed to. ‘Diplomatic immunity,’ he nodded, ‘in Denmark.’ He could see she caught his drift. ‘In his interview he mentions a colleague at the Embassy who had heard about the place, word of mouth, holiday rentals and all that, details that can be checked.’

  Vikland shook her head. ‘I don’t think he has anything to do with it.’

  Except... British Embassy meant some kind of Foreign Office interest. He didn’t like that... what possible interest could the British Copenhagen Embassy have with a painting and a dead neighbor? ‘He has diplomatic immunity.’

  ‘He’s a little lower down my hit list to be honest, for now. It bothers me more about Ashley Jayaraman,’ Vikland continued.

  He had practically waved it in his face. Almquist nodded, looking at the tape, picking it up as he got up. ‘All right.’ He stood up and looked across the open operations room to the photographs on the ops board. ‘We need to buy more time.’

  ‘Hasse, I’m sorry it’s blown up again, like this.’

  Almquist nodded, then smiled weakly as he walked to her door. ‘Never expect an easy retirement Elin.’ He made a dismissive gesture, looking away to a place she couldn’t see, thoughts fluttering like butterflies in a stiff wind, in the dark. Time was the most valuable resource of all. He thought about that. ’You know, in our line of business, we only ever have two choices.’

  ‘Solve the case or not?’

  ‘That’s not a choice, that’s us doing our job, no.’ Almquist shook his head. ‘When it’s solved, it’s solved. We’ve done the job. No, it’s when we don’t solve the case we can either carry on,’ he looked away, speaking in an absent voice, ‘or give up. I gave up too early, now I think about it.’

  Vikland frowned, the expression melting away into compassion, saying in a softer voice, ‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

  ‘You think so?’ He laughed with a trace of bitterness, looking over at the ordered piles of documents around the edge of her desk. Unlike himself, Elin had a systematic approach he could only marvel at.

  ‘If that’s the way you see it, then go and get a good book or newspaper to fill your day with.’ She turned to him with narrowed eyes. ‘I’ve never heard you speak like that before.’

  Twenty-five years of service and only two partners he had ever respected. Almquist looked at her apologetically, without it actually being an apology. ‘I have filled more boxes with useless case notes and interviews than even you can imagine. What about the hotel guest?’

  She leaned over and reached for the statement taken from the hotel receptionist, handing it to him.

  Almquist took it, reading it. He looked up with a frown. ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Long gone by now, so I wouldn’t worry about it.’ She said, eyes still fixed to the report.

  ‘Any guesses who cut the lead?’

  She shook her head.

  Instead of walking back to his office he sat down again, looking as troubled as a restless ocean before a storm. ‘What else have you got?’

  Next to the report was a photograph of the painting. Vikland frowned. ‘I keep thinking, Justin, he goes to the only person he knows who can help him – Thomas Denisen. Who then screws him, trying to sell the damned thing.’

  ‘Except the painting was in his car, so no exchange was made. The painting was in his car.’

  Vikland sighed, ‘then why go to Trollkyrka in the first place?’

  He scratched his head. ‘Why kill him, for that matter? It doesn’t make sense, taking his eyes.’

  ‘Unless the draugr killings had nothing to do with painting. We need more on that painting.’ Almquist removed his hands sitting up. He shook his head. ‘We’re getting nowhere. We need a break. Come on, I’ll buy you a klip-fisk lunch...’

  Vikland smirked at his joke. She hated dried fish and made for the door, ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ She snatched the unattended tape out of his hands, ‘we’ll watch the tape, together.’

  Almquist sat back, placing his hands back behind his head as he glanced across at the television monitor, a VHS player mounted underneath on a rolling trolley, Vikland standing to the side.

  ‘Ready?’

  Almquist nodded as she depressed the play button on the VHS player, two pairs of eyes turning to the screen.

  He watched Justin Swift’s face, large on the monitor. He was quiet, looking to one side of the camera. She pressed the fast forward button, watching his head move in rapid jerky movements as she fast-forwarded, pressing stop at a point where Justin had his face buried in the palm of his hand.

  ‘What happened at the house that day?’

  ‘I let myself in with the key, it was outback somewhere.’ He looked up. ‘Under a pot I think. Inside the housekeeper was there. She was tidying up. It was in a drawer of his desk. The letter told me to use the key in a glass jar, on the window sill.’

  Vikland pressed pause. She gathered the remote control and sat down again, looking at Almquist. ‘Let’s say the letter was bogus.’

  He frowned.

  ‘And, whoever sent it knew the layout of the place, the key, where the painting was.’

  He rubbed h
is beard as she pressed play on the remote.

  ‘What else did you find?’ She asked Justin.

  ‘In the desk, there were three, four drawers. I think it was in the same drawer as the painting, there was a little box, a cardboard box. It was full of old things.’

  ‘What kind of old things?’

  ‘I dunno... coins, photographs; a little clay pot, an old brass ring. Other stuff. A lamp, Arab design. They looked interesting, so I took them with the painting. The housekeeper, she said I could take whatever I wanted before the rest was going to be collected. The sharks, she called them. She talked about the sharks, that they shouldn’t take people’s art away from the world, and artifacts, antiques and art.’

  The last image was of Justin Swift, smiling for the first time. Mid-thirties with blonde hair and blue eyes, the sort of man any mother would have been happy to have as their son-in-law. She pressed stop. ‘That’s it.’

  Hasse sat forwards so they could see each other. ‘Antiques and art he says. Why do you think this is so important?’ She had that look in her eye...

  ‘I checked with the relatives. Concerning these so-called sharks – there was no clearing out company involved.’

  He didn’t get it. ‘So, the housekeeper led him to... a desk?’ He frowned.

  ‘And the painting... antiques and art... whoever it was, wanted to get him interested. Hasse, he was lead.’

  Now he understood why she was so interested in getting him to see the video. ‘So he took it all?’

  Her face breaking out into a huge smile, revealing her ace. ‘That’s not all. Hasse, Einar Pontoppidan didn’t have a housekeeper. It’s all a set-up!’

  ‘How...’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  He couldn’t help but admire her. ‘You called the family?’

  ‘He had a son, estranged son. He was kind to ask around and confirmed there was no Housekeeper.’

  ‘Then...’

  She nodded. ‘It also means the painting itself could be bogus.’

  Amsterdam.

  After dark, the figure lay the scope down, extricating herself so she could begin the process of building a shelter.

  They called her Fabian, though she wasn’t male or of German descent. She worked fast, moving with an economy of movement, using a foldable aluminum spade with a practiced rhythm, digging in the pointed tip through the light crust of frost, to cut through to the softer ground below. She moved it from side to side, then levering backwards, lifted a square piece of turf and deposited it to the side, exhaling her exertions as a fog in the cold, dark night air. She continued until she had cleared a square piece of ground big enough for one person to lie down, placing small squares of turf at the end closest to her direction of view, making a low rise that acted both as a pillow and a raised edge she could hide behind if she needed to.

  She extracted a nylon camouflage groundsheet and over-sheet quickly from her backpack, unfolding them silently. The groundsheet she spread wide and laid out across the bare earth. The over-sheet she pulled over the taught line of nylon cord secured to two stout branches used as posts already piercing the ground. She pulled each edge and using rubber loops threaded through the eyes, secured them to the ground with darkened tent pegs, using the sole of her boot to drive them into the ground.

  She repeated the process along each edge until the tarp was taut and free of wind-flutter. The turf was arranged around the bottom, disguising the edges, placing the gathered pieces of scrub randomly yet expertly over the whole, until the low tarp blended into the landscape. She added more turf and branches at each end, taking a step back, feeling that the whole looked as if it had always been a part of the natural landscape. She plugged the few remaining gaps with the last pieces of turf and loose scrub, until finally, she could look at her work, nodding to herself with satisfaction. No one could ever know she was here at all.

  The waiting game was about to begin.

  Chapter 8

  HIDDEN PASTS

  Admit, that a landscape

  can reflect a spiritual state...

  Religion is decisive for the sun

  in the landscape of my within.

  Ivan Aguélli

  Ash had disappeared without a word. Daniel had gone quiet. Ulrika sat down at the far end of the table avoiding Justin’s eye. Just when he thought he knew how to deal with their guest, Ash entered the kitchen and walked across to the chest of drawers. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ He blurted, removing his hand from behind his back to place the Hangman on top of the chest of drawers.

  Chivers stood up as Justin raced ahead, picking the painting up and turned it face down. ‘What the hell are you playing at Ash - first things first!’

  Justin noticed Ash was looking at him with a mildly amused look. That angered him even more. ‘First of all,’ he said gruffly, ‘I have no idea who the hell you are or what you are doing here. You say your name is Sebastian Chivers?’

  Ash looked at Chivers suspiciously as he sat down again, looking confused. ‘Answer the man, he said he spoke with you?’ There was a new aggression in his voice Justin didn’t like.

  He was obviously lost for words, ‘That’s my name. I spoke with you two weeks ago now.’

  Ash raised his voice. ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘But, but – this is ridiculous...’ Chivers spluttered. ‘I don’t deserve this.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Ash said.

  ‘I told you, I spoke with Mr. Swift,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Conrad stepped forwards, ‘How exactly, did you make contact?’

  The visitor seemed dumbfounded, looking from the painting and back again. ‘The painting was advertised a number of places, Actual Art World, Art Now – asking for interested parties to make contact.’ He spoke quickly, adding, ‘I called and spoke with Mr. Swift, and was asked to send a fax, which I duly complied with. Then I received a reply, saying that he would be in touch.’

  ‘We didn’t speak.’ Justin said firmly, staring at him.

  ‘Thomas was a lying git.’ Ash said. ‘He was the bloke you spoke with.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Conrad asked, leaning forwards from the rocking chair looking at Chivers. ‘The man who said he was Swift?’

  ‘Oh, I see... so it wasn’t...’

  Conrad raised his voice, ‘What the hell did he say to you?’

  ‘That he would meet you at the hotel with the painting?’ Justin answered on his behalf.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And this was two weeks ago you say?’ Ash asked accusingly, his mind clocking back through time. ‘How did you find us?’

  ‘I spoke with you, and told you it was unmistakably an Agard. Look, I really don’t understand...’

  ‘Agard?’ Justin left the painting with Thomas two weeks ago. Thomas was an art dealer. He turned to Ash. ‘Who is he, this Agard?’ There was a look of recognition on Ash’s face. ‘You know...’

  ‘Joachim Agard,’ Ash finished.

  ‘He changed his name to Ikim Agar. He was a Swedish mysticist.’ Daniel said, ‘he changed his name when he travelled in the Middle East, during the First World War.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Chivers spluttered. ‘My, quite a painter he was... and an archaeologist.’ He turned to Justin. ‘You didn’t know it was for sale then?’

  Ash exchanged looks with Daniel, and Conrad, Justin noted. ‘You all knew about who the painter was?’ He felt cheated. More than that, he felt deceived. ‘And you told me you had no idea who the painter was by.’

  ‘We didn’t know who had painted it.’ Conrad added. ‘But yes, we have heard of Joachim Agard.’ He sent Ash a meaningful look that belied more than they were telling.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated, I’m afraid,’ Daniel added. ‘No one lied to you, Justin.’

  That helped. He relaxed for a moment. ‘All right, perhaps we had better sit down,’ Justin said, coming to terms with the new situation. Chivers obliged, moving with an outward sense of
relief towards the table.

  ‘I think you’d better tell us what it is, exactly, you told Mr. Swift.’ Conrad said.

  ‘You spoke with someone who said they were me?’

  ‘Yes, oh,’ Chivers looked confused in Justin’s direction. ‘I think so. What is all this? You said you had never spoken with me?’

  It was a good question. Justin held back for a moment, making eye contact with Conrad who nodded. ‘I think he might have been impersonating me, the person you spoke with.’

  Chivers nodded enthusiastically. ‘I see, well – right!’ He looked up, his eyes gleaming. ‘May I at least see it?’ he said, looking across at the Hangman.

  Justin walked over and picked it up, placing it on the table in front of Chivers, whose face lit up like a schoolboy at Christmas.

  ‘Oh my!’ Chivers said. He reached out and tilted the painting, the gilt frame catching the candlelight. He regarded the script in the painting. ‘My, this is unusual...’ He ran his hand around the rim of the golden frame, almost as if caressing it. He looked up at Justin. ‘Have you had these inscriptions translated?’

  Justin stepped back, letting Chivers run his eyes over it. Daniel moved to stand next to Justin, pulling him farther way, then saying in a low whisper as he cocked his thumb, ‘Who the hell is this guy Justin?’

  Justin chewed the side of his cheek, mind working on overdrive. ‘I haven’t got a clue. But he seems to know a lot about it. More than we do, that’s for sure,’ he said quietly from behind his hand.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Justin leaned close to Daniel, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I want to know how much he knows. Something’s not right.’ Justin thought about it. There was no doubt Chivers was an art dealer. He thought about Thomas. He nodded to Daniel before walking back to the table. Justin looked over to Conrad and motioned with his head. ‘We want to find out what he knows.’ Conrad said. ‘You can stay on one condition.’