The Woman in the Hotel

by Sara Blaedel

  Camilla raced down the last steps and peered into the kitchen. Two men stood with their backs against the door, explaining that they came from The Media House in Aarhus. She concluded it was the executive vice president and the financial manager of the group and withdrew to the living room. She just couldn’t deal with any more strangers stopping by to express their grief, so she flopped onto the couch with her laptop as her stepmother invited them in for coffee.

  “We’re talking millions…in the three digits,” one of the men said.

  Camilla was torn from her thoughts of moneyed Norwegians who apparently didn’t care at all that SkagensPosten was continuing its series of articles about the illegal property purchases.

  Now curious, she got up and headed into the kitchen, where the coffeepot was waiting. She introduced herself and listened attentively as they presented their offer.

  “We could make the takeover happen pretty quickly,” the executive vice president said, looking at them from one to the other.

  “But what would a possible takeover mean for the future of the paper?” Eva asked when he had finished. And Camilla began shaking her head as soon as the somewhat younger financial manager explained that SkagensPosten would become part of a chain along with seventeen other local papers, sharing common editorial guidelines as well as photo archives. They didn’t mention the printing works, but reading between the lines, she could clearly see that there was no future for exclusive art books.

  The two men left their cards on the kitchen table, and silence filled the room. Camilla grabbed the sugar bowl as Eva poured coffee in their cups.

  “It’s hard to think straight,” Eva exclaimed as she sat down. She fumbled for one of the little handkerchiefs in her apron pocket and dabbed at her watery eyes.

  Camilla reached across the table and put her hand on her stepmother’s arm.

  “Don’t even think about stuff like this right now,” she said, trying to sound soothing. “We’ve got more than enough on our plates. H.C. will see to it that everything is tidied up and squared away after the fire, and as far as I understand, Michael has arranged for some guys from the National Guard to cover up the places where the flames went through the roof. Luckily, nothing happened to the editorial office.”

  Eva nodded, acknowledging this as some minor comfort, at least. Someone knocked at the door and she looked toward it. For a moment, Camilla was afraid it was the two guys from the papers returning, so she was relieved to find Michael there, telling her that the cleanup at the newspaper offices had gone well.

  “A glazier will come around later today,” he said.

  “Coffee?” Eva asked mechanically, rising.

  “I’d love some, but I’m really here to tell you about a new development in our investigation. A new witness has come forward in connection with the assault.”

  “What about the fire? Has anybody seen anything?” Camilla asked.

  The detective shook his head.

  “Unfortunately, it seems that most of the neighbors near the offices sat glued to their televisions, engrossed by Tour de France,” he replied apologetically. “But right now, we’re looking for two young people who have been rumored to hang out at a nearby campsite. I just came back from there. Our dogs found a bloody baseball bat near the edge of the wood. We’re sure that’s what was used. On Monday it will be sent to the CSI techs.”

  “On Monday! Helloooo, it’s Saturday. How about today?” Camilla exclaimed, eyeing her old flame testily.

  “It’s the weekend, you know, and when it’s not a homicide, things don’t always move along so quickly,” Michael said, sounding defensive. But she had already turned away from him.

  A shadow crossed Eva’s face as she hushed her stepdaughter.

  “I assumed you’d like to be kept up to date when something new happened,” Michael added as an awkward silence descended.

  Camilla heaved a sigh and breathed in deeply.

  “And we do. But I don’t give a shit if it’s the weekend or if the moronic neighbors are watching a bicycle race, so the whole town can burn down around them without them even noticing. And you’d better come up with something better than wasting your time on two punks from the campsite.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “First, my dad is almost killed, but apparently ‘almost’ doesn’t count with you guys. Then, the paper nearly goes up in flames, and you make it sound like it’s just a couple of adolescent pranks. Come on. Please!”

  She smacked her hands onto the table with a bang that made Eva twitch.

  Michael’s face tightened as he watched her.

  “Fine, stay mad.”

  Suddenly, Camilla felt as if they were still lovers. She knew that he’d had a hard time getting over their breakup when she, at sixteen, had decided to move to the other end of the country to live with her mom in Roskilde. And if she forgot for a moment, the way he looked at her now was a sure reminder.

  “We don’t have reason to believe that there are more sinister motives behind this, even if your dad did publish the articles about the straw men. There is no indication that the perpetrators wanted something specific. That’s why we believe that the location was chosen arbitrarily. It looks like a burglary gone off the rails.”

  Gone off the rails, well, that was one way of looking at it.

  “Then what about the fire?” she demanded, bringing her hand down heavily on the table and causing the coffee to spill and run down the tablecloth. “This is not a coincidence. It’s got something to do with either the Danish straw men or the wealthy Norwegians. And you know what? This is not something I should need to be fucking telling you. The police should be able to figure this out for themselves.”

  On the way out, she turned and looked back at him standing on the steps.

  “I helped my dad find the names of a couple of the Norwegians involved. I’ve got them in Copenhagen, but I’ll get David to e-mail them. Spend your Sunday on that, then you’ll also get away from that nagging hag at home!”

  She shouldn’t have said the last part, she knew, but hadn’t caught herself in time. To be honest, she had never quite forgiven him for getting engaged to someone else from their old class. He could have chosen anybody else, and it wouldn’t have bothered her. But it still stung a bit because Camilla had never liked her.

  Either he’d not heard what she said, or he’d heard and was hurt, but he didn’t let on.

  “I’m going down to the paper to put the rest of the series of articles on a laptop, so they don’t all suddenly disappear.”

  “If there’s anything to your guesswork, then don’t even think about printing any more of those articles!”

  He had followed her down the stairs and stood quite close.

  “Of course I will,” she snapped. “I just can’t figure out how all this is connected to the fact that the people from The Media House in Aarhus showed up exactly as the last embers died out.”

  3

  “The fire has destroyed the storeroom, and everything is soaked through. It reeks to high heaven, just like a cold smoking oven. There’s a big hole in the roof.”

  Camilla emptied her glass and looked at the others before she continued.

  “The insurance guy brought along a carpenter. But, of course, he didn’t know when they’d have time to repair the fire damage. It’s the holidays!”

  Eva Lind had invited Camilla and her own children over for dinner and a family council to discuss the nine-digit sum of money that The Media House in Aarhus had offered for her dad’s life’s work: SkagensPosten and the printing house belonging to it.

  “Exactly how much did they offer?” Tina asked, taking the potatoes her mom had passed to her.

  Camilla contemplated her stepsister. Tina was a year-and-a-half older than her and owned a small hotel in town. It wasn’t exactly a secret that she had underestimated how draining a long period of winter could be, and the creditors had started pressing the doorbell relentlessly when they called on her. So Camilla
wasn’t surprised that her stepsister had seized upon the chance of a large monetary gain, which would make her life easier.

  She assumed that it wouldn’t be difficult to agree on selling SkagensPosten—especially after the fire.

  Neither Tina nor her brother Anders had any relationship to the paper. She herself had reached the conclusion that selling off had to be the best solution.

  That was why she was completely taken aback when the wind suddenly changed direction.

  “We shouldn’t make the deal, no matter how many Jutland dollars those vultures offer. Thank God, John is neither dead nor buried, and we’re not selling anything behind his back as long as he’s breathing!” Anders leaned over the table after having delivered his salvo and helped himself to another slice of meat.

  Her stepbrother was closing in on fifty. He had been a fisherman since he’d left school and was still making his money that way, although not as much as he used to.

  “Actually, I don’t think we should sell, either,” Tina said, surprising Camilla. Before she had time to gather her thoughts, everyone in the family turned to look at her. And from all three sides it came:

  “You have to take over. You’re the only one of us who is able to continue running the paper, until your dad can decide for himself what’s going to happen.”

  The table fell silent. Their eyes stayed on her for what seemed like an eternity, with the weight of their expectations resting so heavily on her that she almost started gasping for breath.

  “Not on your life!” she exclaimed impetuously, and a reflex made her reach for the pack of cigarettes, even though the others were still eating. “I won’t do it. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, including catching a plane back to Copenhagen, so just forget about it!”

  She damn well wasn’t going to put the job of her dreams and David on standby for the sake of a local paper in Skagen. And what about Markus, who was going on an outing with the other Boy Scouts in the first week of August?

  “Only you can do it,” Tina repeated a little louder when Camilla angrily got up from the table and stormed out of the dining room as they watched her leave.

  * * *

  They could kiss her ass, she thought as she made her way toward the harbor. Putting the responsibility of the future of the paper on her shoulders was the easiest thing in the world.

  The water reflected the evening sun as she walked along the wharf. Her blood was pumping as she stepped up the tempo.

  Bloody hell. She fumed and cursed as she continued on past the red-painted boathouses. Nevertheless, she knew herself well enough to realize that she wouldn’t be on the flight back home the following evening.

  And what to do about Cyprus and the EU Presidency, which obviously would be turned over anyway, even if she didn’t cover the ceremony? And the Boy Scout outing?

  At the very end of the pier, she slowed down and decided that she would give it a month. Then they would have to find another solution, and by that time, her dad would be able to take part in the decision, too. She sat down and lit a smoke, gazing out over the water and making peace with her decision.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon found Camilla at the editorial office putting the finishing touches to the latest weekly edition before sending it to the printer’s and closing up shop.

  Her boyfriend had sacrificed two of his days off to drive Markus up to her. They had arrived Monday afternoon. Tuesday, they slept late and ate breakfast before David drove back to Copenhagen. She ought to have asked him to stay for a couple of days more, but she couldn’t cope with it. Eva took care of Markus, while she herself spent every waking moment at the paper.

  There was a lot of stuff to get familiar with, after all. Both her family and Michael insisted that she shelve her dad’s series of articles about straw men and the much-coveted houses of Skagen, lest it trigger another brutal attack.

  There was nothing new concerning the investigation. Michael had told her that the Norwegian police had gotten hold of the sources whose names Camilla had given him. But obviously, everyone denied being implicated. There were no clues as to the whereabouts of the boys from the campsite either. After much brooding, Camilla had grudgingly accepted that it wouldn’t do to print any more of her dad’s revealing articles.

  “We’ve got two empty slots in the next edition. Have you got anything in the drawer?” she asked H.C., who had moved his computer to the open window, where the stench of smoke from the storeroom was less overpowering.

  Just then her phone rang.

  “There’s trouble down at the harbor.” One of the paper’s freelance photographers introduced himself briefly before going on. “A bunch of young people wearing black have started a demonstration and are pacing up and down, making a racket in front of the holiday crowd, who are packed like sardines down in front of The Fish Restaurant and The Warehouse.

  “They’re all worked up, brandishing homemade signs and making rude calls to the tourists,” the photographer went on. “The mood is actually quite nasty.”

  “What are they mad about?” Camilla asked.

  “Simply put, you could say that it’s about the young people wanting the rich Copenhageners to piss off.” He laughed a little as Camilla heaved a sigh. The gap between the local residents and the wealthier holiday crowd wasn’t exactly closing.

  “Well, I’d like to buy some pictures if you can string a few words together to accompany them. Ask them if they don’t realize that the richer the holiday crowd in Skagen is, the more money there is to keep the town afloat.”

  Camilla prepared to make space for the story and ordered two pictures. After hanging up, she told H.C. about the riot. He scratched his chin for a little while before muttering that this conflict was bound to happen.

  “Of course, it’s too bad that it’s a bunch of kids who raise the alarm,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, straightening up.

  “We’d probably get a little more out of it if the protest had come from a group of adults,” he explained. “The difference between rich and poor and locals and tourists keeps growing, and naturally that breeds both resentment and division.”

  Camilla raised an eyebrow.

  “Now listen here. The more expensive the champagne swirling in the glasses is, the more cause for the permanent residents to rejoice,” she repeated and thought of Tina and her hotel.

  “The envy can also grow too hard to suppress,” H.C. pointed out.

  Camilla didn’t buy it and said that it was precisely the demand that enabled all the businesses to jack up the prices. They were still arguing when the photographer came in and showed them his pictures.

  None of the youths had wanted to say a word, which didn’t surprise her. But what did surprise Camilla was that the girl with the black hair in the foreground of the picture, the one with the black makeup, nose ring, and tight T-shirt, was her niece, Sofie, Anders’s daughter. The sign, which she held up close to the camera, said: “Fuck Off Capitalist Pigs.”

  Camilla sat for a while before asking to see the other pictures. But the photographer maintained that he had picked out the best ones. Which didn’t sit well with her.

  The family had made her the boss, so they would have to put up with whatever she saw fit to put on the front page. Nonetheless, she decided to go visit Anders that evening, to prepare him for what was in store.

  * * *

  The air was still warm when she walked up the garden path to her stepbrother’s detached house. Anders’s wife, Susanne, had coffee in the pot and cookies on the table. She liked entertaining visitors.

  “Where’s Sofie?” Camilla asked, and looked around.

  “Out with some friends.”

  They sat for a while before Camilla recounted the episode in the harbor. She had expected the parents to react differently, but Susanne just shrugged her shoulders. On the other hand, she was certain that Anders wouldn’t be happy that the photo of his daughter was going to feature prominently on the front
page later that week.

  When, she asked curiously, had Sofie changed her long, blond hair to the current unruly black?

  “It’s no more than a couple of days ago. That’s also when she got her nose pierced,” Susanne replied, and added, “All the kids are doing it.”

  Her sister-in-law smiled.

  Yes, or else it’s a signal that you choose to ignore, Camilla thought, and her eyes followed the girl’s mother as she went into the utility room to finish her ironing.

  Camilla reached out her cup as Anders lifted the Thermos. She could sense that there was something he wanted to say, but apparently, he had a hard time getting started.

  “It seems they’ve changed their minds,” he said, fixing his gaze on the cup of coffee.

  “Tina called last night and dropped by this morning. She’s thought it over and thinks we should sell after all, now that the offer is there. Before they withdraw it, after the fire and everything that has happened.”

  The words felt like a punch to Camilla’s stomach. Not because Tina had changed her mind. In a way, it was what she had expected after Eva had told her, the night before, that she and John had cosigned for a large loan for Tina earlier that spring. What she got mad about was that her stepsiblings had obviously talked behind her back.

  “Then why don’t you speak up? I’m the one who just removed my son from his friends and everyday life. I’m the one who has just taken a month off. Who the hell do you think you are?” she raged, unable to control the anger overpowering her.

  Smoking was not allowed in Anders and Susanne’s living room, but Camilla only remembered that fact several minutes later, when she crushed the butt into the saucer.

  Anders claimed she was being too hard on Tina.

  “After all, it’s not just her, it’s Mom, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Camilla was out of cigarettes and angrily rolled up the empty packet in a tight ball.

  “Mom thinks it’s too much responsibility to put on you; she’s afraid you can’t manage. And maybe it’s best to sell while the newspaper is still of interest to buyers.”