“Time to cook,” she said, holding up the platter of salmon.
“I’ll fire up the barbecue,” said Thorsen. He strode out the back onto the small patio, and Begitte followed him carrying the fish.
Chapter Eleven
They ate grilled salmon with lemon, boiled potatoes with butter, and grilled asparagus. Begitte said nothing more about her sister and didn’t make eye contact with Flynn during the meal. Gorski gave them a rundown of the neighbor’s akvavit distillery and delighted in the fact that it wasn’t, strictly speaking, legal.
Begitte refused help to clean up the dishes, so Gorski and Flynn retired to the communal building. Each man used the bathroom and then headed for their quarters.
“Goodnight, Gorski,” Flynn said.
“Goodnight, Adjudant.”
Gorski closed his door, and Flynn smiled. Old habits died hard. He closed his own door and sat on the bed. An old familiar sensation crept across his body as much as it did his mind. He saw the burned house and he saw the flames on the cooktop, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep anytime soon, so he put on his slippers and wandered downstairs. He flicked the kitchen lights on and then sat for a moment in the dull glow at the farthest end of the dining room.
He heard the door of the communal building open and the soft shuffling of slippers on carpet. He was facing the window looking out toward the community garden, but he could see the reflection of the hallway door, where Begitte stood.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake,” she said to the back of his head.
“Sleep doesn’t always come easy.”
“Peder is the same. Except when he’s had akvavit.”
She walked through the dining room so she could see him, and then she held up a packet of cigarettes. “You mind if I smoke?”
“The community allows smoking in the dining room?”
“Outside, I mean.”
He nodded, and she unlocked the door and stepped out onto the patio. He figured she meant for him to follow, so he did. The kitchen lights sent a soft glimmer that allowed Flynn to see Begitte’s shape but not her face. He watched the end of the cigarette burn.
“You smoke,” he said.
“Only every now and then.”
“Stress relief?”
“Something like that.”
They stood in the cool night air for a time, Flynn listening to her breathing in the smoke and gently letting it go.
“Peder says you were the best,” she said.
“The best?”
“Yes. He said you found things, found people. Soldiers, terrorists. He said you were the best at it.”
“We did our part.”
“He didn’t mean the unit. He meant you.”
Flynn shrugged. “We were a team. I was nothing without them.”
“Peder says otherwise. He says you see things that others do not see.”
“He might be overstating things a little.”
She took a long suck on the cigarette, and the end burned orange. Flynn turned from it and looked at the night sky.
“Why did you visit the old house?”
“Because it was there. It’s an anomaly. A burned-down house around other still standing houses. It sticks out. Anyone would look at it.”
“Gorski hasn’t visited it.”
“What’s your point?”
“I know Peder has seen things, done things that he wants to forget. I suppose anyone who has served in a war zone is like that.”
“Some more than others, but, yes, I think so.”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“I don’t blame him for that.”
“Me either. I told you I met Peder at university.”
“Yes.”
“We were friends but nothing more. Then he went away, and I stayed and I didn’t think I would hear from him again. I got married. It didn’t last.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It happens. But when he came back, we actually ran into each other on the street, like serendipity. We had coffee, and then it went from there. We were both living in Copenhagen, but he really wanted to live in the countryside. In the nature. He wanted peace. I had no ties to the capital anymore, so I suggested we move back here. This house was owned by the original member, Fredrickson. We bought it and have been here ever since.”
“It’s nice.”
“I know. Peaceful, like Peder wanted, at least on the surface. And that’s my problem.”
“What’s your problem?”
“It’s not really peace. Peder wants so badly to have the quiet life that he ignores things. Lund, the developer. Berg, the politician. The people who want to take our home. Berg was the one who took it to the courts, and when we won, Peder wanted so badly to believe that would be the end of it.”
“But it’s not.”
“No, it’s not. And now he ignores the truth about Luna.”
“You said you thought it wasn’t suicide.”
“No, I don’t.”
“But you said she jumped from a cliff?”
“Yes, Møns Klint. Into the Baltic Sea.”
“And she had trouble with drugs and mental health.”
“Yes, but that was then.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she was better here. She had her demons, of course, but she was better here. Less temptation than the city, and now she was older and more comfortable with a slower pace of life. She had lived several lifetimes since she left, and I think she had found something like her own version of peace here.”
Flynn said nothing. He was thinking about Lars and how Luna had not slept in the house she had grown up in. It didn’t sound like peace.
“What is it you think happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t make sense.”
“You said she was here when the house burned?”
“Yes.”
“But she died elsewhere.”
“Yes, Møns Klint is a few hours from here, depending on how you travel.”
“When did she leave?”
“After the fire.”
“Straight after?”
“The next day. What are you saying?”
“Is it possible that seeing the house she grew up in—the house that she was supposed to be sleeping in—go up in flames was too much?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” he said. He could hear the denial in her voice.
“You don’t understand. I saw her the next day, before she left. She wasn’t frightened or sad. She wasn’t frail. She was angry. And she told me she was going to Copenhagen, not Møns Klint. I remember because I told her that worried me. Copenhagen was where she had found trouble before, and I was worried she would find it again. But she told me not to worry. She said she would be back soon. She had something to take care of and be back soon.”
Flynn said nothing. He knew that sometimes people said things they didn’t mean. He knew that sometimes people lied to others, and sometimes they lied to themselves. Sometimes people’s intuition was completely wrong. And sometimes it wasn’t, so he listened.
“And why would she go to Møns Klint, anyway?” asked Begitte. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
Flynn said nothing. He figured that being in the middle of nowhere might have been the whole point. People were statistically more likely to commit suicide in quiet places that didn’t remind them of what they might be losing. Off cliffs, in the woods, in the workshop or the garage. Most people who had jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge did it from the ocean-facing side, where they saw nothing but emptiness. Few jumped from the city side.
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Begitte.
“It never does, not really.”
“But she was better,” said Begitte once more, perhaps trying to convince herself.
“Why did she leave in the first place?” asked Flynn. “Did something happen?”
“I don’t know. I was younger so I didn’t understand
it all at the time. Before, she was a great sister, you know, happy and carefree. Then she got older. She got moody, and even out here, somehow she found access to drugs. I think just cannabis back then, but it was the start. Sometimes people get lost, you know? My parents didn’t know how to handle her, and I think they became somewhat distant, but then she left. She went to Copenhagen. I found her, through a friend, and I knew she was using—heroin, I think. I pleaded with her, and we fought. Then I tried again, but this time I couldn’t find her. She went down the rabbit hole for a few years. And then I heard she had a job at a café, and I went and saw her. She was okay but, you know, not great. Still drinking and using but trying. She was on and off, happy and sad, using and not using, up and down. I saw her when I could. And then when my parents moved away, I decided to try to get her to come home. And that’s the thing. She did. I didn’t force her, and she didn’t fight it. It was like she was ready to be better. And then she just kills herself? It doesn’t make sense.”
Flynn let her thoughts hang on the air for a while. “What do you think I can do?” he asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But Peder speaks so highly of you. He said there wasn’t a problem you couldn’t solve. And I’ve seen you in action. You’re capable. And I can’t ask him. He wants this peace so badly he won’t see it. So when you came, I thought, maybe there’s a reason you’re here. Maybe you could find out what happened to her.”
“Can I tell you that in my experience, these things are almost always exactly what they appear to be?”
“You have a lot of experience with so-called suicides?”
“Yes. There are a lot of people in the military who suffer from things like post-traumatic stress disorder and have ample means of taking their own lives. It happens.”
“So, if you find that it is what it is, then I will know. At least I will know. I can live my life with Peder and not wonder. Please, at least speak to the police.”
“You didn’t ask the police when they came about the fire?”
“No, because they didn’t come. There was no one at home at the time. The fire brigade came. That was all.”
“So who would I speak to?”
“What about the police in Stege?”
“Stege?”
“It’s the town near Møns Klint. Please. I can’t do it. I don’t know where to begin, and they will write me off as the hysterical sister. You know how to ask these questions.”
Begitte took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out into the night. She dropped the butt to the ground and crushed it with her foot. Then she picked it up and tossed it in a nearby trash can. She turned back to look at Flynn.
“Please?” she asked. “For me and for Peder.”
“I’ll ask some questions.”
Chapter Twelve
Flynn slept poorly. Mercifully, what haunted him wasn’t visions of flames and burned-out husks of buildings but of someone taking flight off a cliff. The mercy was in the fact that the person was faceless, and instead of falling, they flew.
He woke early and decided to run the cobwebs out. He hit the gravel in a T-shirt and shorts and was jogging back into the community an hour later when he saw a woman standing outside her house, watching him. It was the house next to the burned-down place. The Jensens. He slowed and caught his breath as he walked over to her. She was an older woman—a generation after Lars but a generation before Begitte. She had red hair with streaks of gray in it that gave her a regal air.
“Mrs. Jensen,” he said as he approached.
“God morgen,” she replied with a pinched smile.
“My name is John Flynn.”
“Ja, I know.”
“Would you mind if I asked you some questions about Luna Fisker?”
A wrinkle appeared above Mrs. Jensen’s nose. “Luna? Why would you want to ask about Luna?”
“For Begitte,” he said. “I’m sure you understand, it’s difficult for her. She lost her sister and she has questions about it that she can’t ask. She’s looking for closure.”
“You are a friend of Peder, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So why ask about Begitte’s sister? She killed herself. What more could anyone wish to know?”
“There may be no more than that to know, but Begitte is searching for some answers, and I offered to find out what I could. Even if there is nothing to learn.”
“I don’t see what I can tell you.”
“Plenty, I’m sure.”
Flynn waited, and Mrs. Jensen looked him over. Then she shifted her weight.
“You best come in for a cup of coffee.”
She led Flynn inside her house. It was a little more fairytale cottage than the Thorsens’ home, a touch more whimsical. The trim was moss green, and the boards were painted a muted burgundy that may have been as much the result of time and weather as it was paint choice.
The inside of the house wasn’t any smaller than the Thorsens’, but it felt cramped. There was a lot more clutter, the detritus of life in every nook and cranny. Flynn figured living in smaller quarters meant one had to be more vigilant about accruing possessions that added no utility and about keeping things that no longer served a purpose. It didn’t take much to fill the space in the Jensen home. Every shelf was crammed with photographs and books, macramé handiworks hung from walls, and piles of periodicals were stacked on side tables. There was no sofa, but two large wingback reading chairs sat opposite a small television that looked like something from the eighties.
A man was sitting in one of the chairs, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee, the smell of which permeated the room. He was long and thin from head to toe, as if he had been squeezed through a pipe and never recovered.
“Henrich, this is Mr. Flynn.”
The man looked up at Flynn over reading glasses perched low on his nose.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”
“Mr. Jensen.”
“Please take a seat,” said Mrs. Jensen. Flynn looked around the small space. Apart from the one vacant chair, there was nothing to sit on except a three-legged footstool. Flynn pulled it out from near the wall and eased down onto it.
“We drink our coffee black,” Mrs. Jensen said.
“Perfect, thank you.”
She poured a cup from a pot and brought it over to him, then she sat in the other chair. She didn’t pour herself a cup of anything.
“Mr. Flynn has some questions about Luna Fisker.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Jensen again.
“I understand that when she came back, Luna was staying in your tiny house,” said Flynn.
“Staying, no, I would not say that,” said Mr. Jensen. His voice was light and seemed to get caught in the air.
“I know she was supposed to be in her parents’ house; I know about the residency requirement. But that’s done now. She’s gone and so is the house.”
“She said she didn’t care for it,” said Mrs. Jensen, her hands clasped in her lap. She lifted her chin when she spoke. “She said she had trouble sleeping there. So we offered for her to stay in our holiday home—the tiny house, as you call it.”
“We planned on moving it to a property we have,” said Mr. Jensen. “But we kept it here when Luna needed a place to stay.”
“We of course offered for her to stay with us in our home, but, you understand, a young lady needs her privacy.”
Flynn nodded and sipped his coffee. It was strong and black. “Why did she stay with you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Jensen.
“Why you? Why not with her sister? Why not someone else? Why not in the common building? There are beds there.”
“The residency requirement, as you say,” she said.
“Are there really people here who would have kicked her out, or forced the sale of the house, just because she wasn’t sleeping there?”
“Probably not, but sometimes there are sticklers for rules. But we had the tiny house. And the Fiskers were gone
. We felt responsible. She was like a daughter to us.”
Flynn glanced at the shelves on the wall, at the photographs that were crammed into too small a space. Frames overlapped each other, making it difficult to see any one picture clearly. But he saw the Jensens repeated, younger versions of themselves mostly. And two girls—not women, definitely girls. One looked like a younger version of Begitte. The other wore the rust-red hair of the woman opposite.
“Was Luna friends with your daughter?” he asked.
“Of course. Freja and Luna grew up together. As little girls they were inseparable.”
“Where is Freja now?”
“She’s married, in Copenhagen.”
“Has she been there long?”
“She went for university and stayed. There isn’t much for young people out here, unless they want to get into farming.”
“Did Freja stay in touch with Luna?”
“No, not really. I don’t think so. Not after, you know . . .”
Flynn waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. “No, I don’t know.”
“After Luna’s troubles.”
Flynn sipped his coffee and thought about the width and breadth of the word troubles. He finished his coffee and still longed for a proper espresso. “Would you mind if I saw the tiny house?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Jensen looked at him as she had done outside and then turned to her husband. “Mr. Flynn would like to see the tiny house.”
“Huh?” said Mr. Jensen, looking up from his paper. “Oh, I see.” He folded his paper over once more and put it on the table beside his chair. Then he pushed himself up using the armrests and brushed the creases from his shirt. He walked between the chairs and Flynn’s stool and stepped outside.
Flynn took that as his cue. He put his coffee cup on the kitchen counter and followed. The back patio was brick layered with moss, and the space was lined with terracotta pots filled with dirt but no plants. Mr. Jensen led Flynn across a short expanse of grass to the rear fence that delineated their property from the barley field that rose slightly beyond to a crest maybe two hundred meters away.
The Rotten State: A John Flynn Thriller Page 7
