Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  ‘Message,’ Justin said.

  Daniel shook his head. ‘No, it’s gotta be something else.’

  Ash placed the rim of his tumbler to his lips taking a mouthful, sinking it. ‘Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? We just have to figure out what the hell Hel is, then find the fucking road.’

  Justin did the same, feeling the warm burning sensation work its way from his throat to his stomach, then back up again to his head. ‘Hel?’

  ‘Is that what it means?’ Almquist said, mesmerized.

  ‘Well,’ Daniel sent a look in Ash’s direction. ‘Helvegr could have something to do with the Völva.’

  ‘Vulva?’ Ash asked, looking up. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  Daniel smiled. ‘The Völva were the priestesses in Nordic mythology.’

  Ash looked disappointed.

  ‘Cut the crap Ash.’ Conrad said coldly. ‘I think the only person who can help us here is Chivers.’ He turned to look at Almquist. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘He’s in safe hands,’ Almquist said dismissively. ‘What did he say, this Pastor?’ he said, changing the subject.

  Justin had seen Officer Vikland take Chivers away as he had returned, no doubt to find out what he was doing here.

  Ash shrugged. ‘Hörgrlund was the old place, before the church. Perhaps there’s some,’ he gesticulated with his hand, ‘I don’t know... some connection with the inscriptions or something.’

  Daniel looked up. ‘The runes refer to the subject, not a place.’

  ‘That leaves Helvegr then,’ Justin said. Looking around the room he felt fear. It lay deep down, somewhere in the pit of his stomach; a worry that gnawed like little teeth, eating him, little bit by little bit.

  What the hell were you up to Thomas?

  ‘Thank you,’ Almquist said quietly, ‘for sharing this with me. Even though it seems we have two paintings.’

  Justin couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic, his only thought resting on Ulrika.

  ‘Now it’s your turn,’ Ash said with a sardonic smile curling his lip. ‘What can you tell us?’

  The painting was a riddle, that was the way Almquist saw it. It was a riddle that had to be solved, piece by piece. Anna was dead, long dead. Was the Anna story just one big lie sold to Baron? He looked around the floor, seeing a few pieces of glass under the window sill. He cleared his throat, thinking of blood again... glass and blood. Something for something; so what could he tell them?

  He had to stare it in the face.

  ‘I can tell you why I became a detective,’ he said, raising a hand to massage his beard. ‘I did not, do not like blood,’ he said quietly, eyeing the glass fragments.

  Ash began to snigger but stopped as Daniel elbowed him.

  ‘Believe it or not. I used to be a motorcycle officer. Traffic duty.’ He stood up and walked to the window as he smoked. He reached a hand out, picking up one of the small pieces.

  ‘Traffic cop?’ Justin repeated.

  Almquist took a drag as he stared at the piece, the way it caught the reflection of glimmering flames. He reached over to replace it.

  ‘And that made you want to be a detective?’ Conrad asked.

  Almquist turned with his hand still on the sill. As he did so he felt another, smaller piece cut him. He raised his hand to look at look at his thumb and a welling droplet of blood and placed it inside his mouth. ‘No,’ Almquist shook his head, blowing smoke out through his nostrils, studying the thumb as a new drop of blood appeared. ‘I became a detective because I would have made a bad doctor.’

  He looked down at the glass fragments, even on the floor. He imagined himself, walking slowly back past the lines of stationary cars in a shimmering haze. For a fleeting moment he saw an old woman picking daisies at the side of the road. A dog ran towards him, away from its master calling its name. He kept on walking, past the line of stationary cars towards open ground, the ground torn and littered with things dead and alive. Glass crunching under his feet, shards of glass, so many shards. Twisted metal and tortured asphalt, all ripped open as if surfacing a butchers table in the abattoir. No sound of a siren or sight of an ambulance. Not that day. And everywhere, the air full of it. The smell of blood.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ He looked up. ‘Police business is messy business. There is this beautiful motorway, going north to Oslo along the coast, the most beautiful in Europe. There was an accident. A truck was speeding, late for a delivery: a fuel truck.’ He shook his head. ‘We were the first ones on the scene. Myself, and Stefan, my colleague. We always rode in pairs, always tried to prepare ourselves for the worst. This went well beyond even that.’ For we think we know. But we do not. He lowered his voice. ‘I decided to become a detective after that.’ Almquist looked down at the cigarette butts in the ashtray. ‘Things have a way of never quite working out as you expect.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Justice, how do you think that works?’ Almquist glanced up as Ash searched for a suitable response. ‘That the guilty are tried, convicted and the victims go home satisfied? That they are the bad guys and the victims the good? Innocence, guilt; good, bad, each to its own, is that what you say? Like beads on a necklace, and you never know which one is going to be next to what.’

  ‘How do you deal with that?’ Justin said.

  Almquist rested his hands on top of his thighs, ‘You try not to.’ He said simply, quietly. He paused, taking his time, breathing in, out. ‘Or, risk getting disappointed.’ He stood up. ‘Thomas...’ Almquist paused, turning towards the window, suddenly aware of Elin Vikland standing silently in the open doorway.

  Their eyes met. ‘Are you done?’

  She nodded. ‘All secure.’ She looked across to the painting, then stepped forwards entering the room and exchanged a look, understanding planted firmly in those receptive eyes of hers.

  ‘This is the original. Elin, if you would be so good as to take it.’

  ‘What, no!’

  Vikland said nothing as she retrieved the painting from the table.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Justin demanded.

  ‘Since you have been, how shall I say,’ he motioned with his hand, ‘short, with the truth.’ He walked to the window as Vikland left the room painting in hand, tapping the sill as he looked out across dark gray waters still and silent. ‘We will be back in the morning. I have left instructions that you stay indoors. You must stay here. Tomorrow, you will be taken to the police station. We must go through everything from the beginning.’ He ignored the looks of disappointment. ‘Yes, it is the only way.’

  Vikland walked back into the room, joining him with Ulrika’s bag in one hand and the painting in the other. ‘Two police officers are being stationed outside close to the house with dogs. No one can come without them knowing. Until tomorrow then.’ Just as he was about to leave, Almquist turned and regarded Ash, rubbing his hand through his beard. ‘I knew you were in prison. And yes...’ he looked down at the painting in Vikland’s hand. ‘We will look after this. And we will keep the forgery.’

  Ash stared at Almquist. ‘That is what happened to Thomas. Like the draugen?’

  Almquist regarded him for a moment with a look that was neither confirmation or denial. ‘I just like to tell old stories. Good night.’ Almquist nodded and turned to the open door.

  ‘I’m sorry – but I can pay you.’

  Thomas sent her a look of anger and shook his head.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. You can keep the painting, and still get paid. Just listen to what I have to tell you.’

  ‘Not a thousand dollars!’ Thomas shouted. ‘Who are you?’

  Ulrika held her hand out. She wasn’t interested in the negotiation. Only what he knew. ‘Please, just hear me out. I’m a journalist.’

  Thomas stood up, looking at her disbelievingly.

  ‘Do you know anything about it? If you listen, I think you will be interested. Where is it?’

  He looked up suspiciously. ‘It’s in
my car, where it’s safe.’

  Ulrika took a step forwards. ‘You didn’t bring it?’

  Thomas didn’t reply, keeping his distance.

  Ulrika looked around, biting her bottom lip. ‘You don’t know anything about it, do you?’

  15th October 1987

  Ulrika had the first feeling she was going to die. It wasn’t the cold, or the hunger or the shivering, but the action of being stroked. Of having her hair stroked. By him. She cursed her luck; she cursed herself. Worst of all, she cursed him, jerking back involuntarily, flicking her head around to see what he was doing; the one with the bad hand. She refused to look at it and looked instead into expressionless gray eyes that stroked her hair even after he had stopped. He kept looking at her. He didn’t smile, he didn’t frown. He didn’t have any expression at all.

  The man with the bandaged arm walked over, saying something. The other one with the three-fingered hand looked back, replying in a way that sounded like a refusal, then turned to stroke her hair again, grimacing as he did so, the effort of it hurting him badly, the pain evident in his eyes as he held a thicket of hair between two of his three fingers.

  Ulrika averted her eyes, looking down at the ground, trembling.

  The time for his interview with Chivers was deferred until he had exhausted the new avenues of research. With no one to even go through background information, Oskar and Elin fully engaged, Almquist spent the middle of the day researching Joachim Agard. He compiled handwritten notes into his personal organizer, turning briefly to the pages with those two photographs that had some connection with each other. He looked at the faces, both Swedish, one man far older than the other, both faces belonging to people who had seen and done things, lots of thing. One of them was Eklund. Eklund had lived in Copenhagen.

  It had been routine, yet it still left a bad taste in his mouth. The murder victim came from Copenhagen. Eklund – Copenhagen. Thomas Denisen – Copenhagen. Conrad Baron and his crew – Copenhagen. He tried to relax, telling himself there was no reason to be anxious. He closed the organizer and stared at it, wondering at the security risk. It was one copy, no backups. No traces. He dismissed the thought and placed it back to the bottom of his desk drawer, covering it with an old case file, closing it.

  Joachim Agard was his birth name. It was the other name, the foreign sounding one he couldn’t quite get his head around. A little research and a couple of phone calls revealed his other name to be Ikim Aqar, the painter, just as he had been told. The painter of watercolors and later, oils, Joachim had been born the first and only son of Ingvald Agard, a local teacher who had worked for two years in the town of Askersund.

  Askersund was only twenty kilometers away.

  After that time, the young Joachim had studied archaeology at the University of Stockholm. This Swede with eclectic tastes was a bit of a mystery; that was the sum of it. What interested Almquist most of all, was that the young Joachim had been a pupil at the local school. Here, in Tived. According to the parish records, apart from those basic facts, the rest of his life remained a blank; an enigma. His father had owned a small farm holding where he had gained a reputation for producing meat and honey; his mother, Ingrid, lived the life of a typical farmer’s wife. They lived the independent life of many hardy country folk, neither demanding much out of life or receiving much in return, it seemed. After the death of his mother, the farm was sold and passed to new owners. Finally, he glanced at the clock above the door: Despite his efforts he was still none the wiser what Agard had to do with it at all.

  Chapter 11

  OLD STORIES

  Odin understood the art

  Home to the greatest power,

  and which he himself practiced;

  namely, that which is called magic.

  Ynglinga saga

  Snorri Sturluson

  Heimskringla: The Chronicle of the Kings of Norway

  A cold wind blew. Out of breath, Fabian climbed the rock, seeing her vantage point, settling herself with good camouflage, rifle in hand.

  They had taken Missy and she had watched it happen.

  So many lakes, the spire of a church in the distance. Where she came from they didn’t have lakes. She watched the men talking. One returned inside, leaving the other to chop wood. She waited until he had entered a rhythm, then reached for Ingwe. She lined up the rifle, looking through the scope, focussing on his head. He was dark, touches of gray, older, a little taller and trimmer than the others.

  The leader. She recognized a fellow hunter when she saw one: the way he carried himself, the way he swung the axe.

  Fabian settled herself, steadied her breathing and then, when she was ready, she lowered the barrel and aimed. She placed her finger on the trigger. She found the space, concentrating on the head. She took a deep breath, let it out, slowly, just as he paused, raising the axe, just at the point when it reached its zenith. She took up the pressure, finger tightening, holding, waiting.

  Then she took the shot.

  ‘Bang,’ she whispered, keeping her eye level, following the line of sight, judging. She smiled, removing her eye from the scope, breathing out and laying the rifle down next to her. She continued watching him until he was done, and only when he returned to the house did she look up, up at the sky. She imagined it was an ocean, a vast, gray ocean and she was looking up, up at the surface. Finally, she looked away, finding somewhere between day and night, making a mental checklist of everything she had to do. Satisfied, she closed her eyes. When she opened them she looked at her watch. Seeing how far away she was; the comfort of distance she called it.

  She took out a cigarette. She lit it with her brass Zippo, snapping it shut and inhaled the tobacco deeply into her lungs, heart quickening as the nicotine took effect. That was why she came up here, to smoke. She was free. She exhaled the smoke, enjoying the strong, smooth taste of it, and settled herself deeper within her own sense of comfort. She placed her feet up on the edge of rock, looking into a quiet, brooding landscape cloaked in threat.

  So who were the bogey men?

  She was annoyed. Stay out, the Voice had said. Keep watchin’ bitch. So she stayed put. She supposed to have been alone. And now there was waitin’ involved. She wasn’t a patient woman, never had been. Missy mattered not, at least not to her. She might even have been one of her contracts. She relaxed, smoking her cigarette, enjoying it, wrapped up in a camouflage jacket and a green army neckerchief that kept her warm.

  A view to live for.

  She enjoyed the view and smoked the rest of her cigarette, knowing deep down she still had respect for herself. Respect enough to know she could still walk away from anything that no longer served her interests. She had grown weary, she knew that. But here, at this moment, at this place she was actually happy...

  A view to die for.

  At peaceful, calm moments like this, Fabian thought she had the best job in the world.

  Almquist had altered his appearance, his chin newly shaved. He caught his own scent of cologne as he placed a heavy briefcase on the floor next to a simple white table in a simple white room. The table was devoid of anything except for a simple jug of water, and three simple glasses. He turned to look up at the camera. It was in the corner of the room, where the ceiling met two simple walls. Satisfied, he turned to study this man called Chivers, the way he leaned forwards as he reached for the glass, easing the weight off his legs as if it was part of a morning ritual. He had the basics of his story: He had been in touch with Denisen acting as Swift. It was important. He knew that, knew the painting was the key. It had something to do with what happened to Anna and Gustav Kron. And why they took Ulrika.

  How long had she been gone?

  Pushing troubled thoughts from his head, he turned to look up at the cam behind him and said: ‘Hasse Almquist; the time is,’ he glanced at the clock above Chivers’ head. ‘The time is 13:00, the fifteenth of October 1987.’

  Even if Sebastian Chivers had the kind of voice that erupted into grunts of in
dignation at the slightest provocation, or pink cheeks rotund and distinctly pig-like, Almquist was sure that Chivers was no killer. Almquist leaned to his side and opened the briefcase with a soft click. Inside was a cardboard file. He opened it, removing two papers placing them face upwards in front of Chivers.

  ‘Why more interviews?’

  Almquist ignored him. ‘I have two pieces of paper.’ He looked down to the first. ‘This one says here your real name is Charles Thorpe.’ He made a show of looking across to the next sheet. ‘And this one says you are a convicted black marketeer,’ he looked up, ‘dealing with stolen works of art. Do you deny that?’

  Chivers breathed in deeply as he read.

  ‘Yes or no?’

  The papers from Interpol stated he had been traced by a Federal German investigation team. Concerning the forgery of ancient bronze-age sun discs, Chivers had managed to escape the subsequent police operation in Basel, Switzerland. It had only been when he was offered similar discs to private collectors in a sting operation that he had been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

  Chivers nodded. ‘No, I don’t deny it.’

  ‘You were caught in Geneva and jailed for two years in Germany. In 1984, released three years ago.’ Almquist leaned forwards over his desk, tapping the two sheets of paper. ‘Never mind. What I want to know is, where were you four days ago on the morning of the twelfth of October?’

  This dubious subject massaged his lips, one on top of the other before speaking, taking his time. ‘I was staying with friends in Stockholm.’

  ‘Can you provide witnesses?’

  ‘I can provide more than that: Bills of receipt, phone calls to my office, a lunch at a restaurant if you want.’

  He looked nervous, trying to relax in a discomforting way, something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a theatre for the constipated over-fifties. ‘So you weren’t staying at The Regent Hotel in Karlsborg?’ A flicker of momentary panic, easily recognizable; Almquist turned to the page marked with a sticky note. ‘This is a copy of a record of a phone reservation to the Regent Hotel on the eleventh of October 1987, the day before Denisen’s death. We have a list of names and descriptions of guests: Your name doesn’t turn up. But one of the descriptions certainly does. Should we pay the Regent a little visit and see if anyone recognizes your face? How about when photo-journalist Ulrika Strömberg was abducted?’