Dark September

by Inger Wolf

  She punched a number in on her phone and pointed toward Dalgas Avenue. "That way."

  The lieutenant answered, and she introduced herself and apologized for calling so early.

  "You sound young," he said.

  She heard the scraping of plates and silverware in the background. Breakfast? "Just my voice, I'm afraid." She smiled.

  "I'm retired, myself."

  "I thought you were. We're seeking information on one of your officers who disappeared seventeen years ago, Konrad Nielsen. Your name is in the case files."

  "I remember Nielsen well, yes. He served with us in Vordingborg for over ten years. We had a lot in common, he liked to fish."

  She could hear him smile.

  "We spent most of our off-duty time fishing, in fact. We became good friends over the years. He was a fanatic, even built his own jolly. Fiberglass. Painted blue. It may not have looked like much, but he was really proud of it. We took it out fishing a lot. We kept in contact after he was transferred to Jutland."

  "When was that?"

  "When was he transferred? That would've been in the late 70s. The year we had one of our worst winters. The sea froze. I remember because we celebrated New Year's together, right before he left. He and his wife and me and my deceased wife. They had an argument that evening, and we went home. I never understood why people discuss their relationship around other people. It's embarrassing."

  "What did they argue about?" Lisa said.

  "I don't recall."

  "What was he like?"

  "He was organized. And…very disciplined. Good qualities for a career in the military. A man of few words. He met his wife in London, he worked over there for a while when he was young. She was a maid for a British major, one of Konrad's friends. Later on, they visited them every summer."

  "What about their daughter?"

  "What about her?"

  "What was she like?"

  "We didn't see her much. Usually, she was in her room when we were there."

  "Did he talk about her?"

  "No, he didn't talk much about his family. Just vaguely now and then. But he adored her, I know that."

  Lisa laid her hand on Jacob's thigh. "Did you happen to notice any change in his behavior, the year he disappeared?"

  "No. But we didn't see each other much by then. The rumor was that he took his own life."

  "What about that? Do you think he did?"

  The lieutenant growled. "Absolutely not."

  "What do you think happened then?"

  "I think he took the jolly out that day, drank too much, lost his balance, fell out, and drowned. Which wasn't the worst way for him to go. He was in his element."

  "Did he fish alone?"

  "Normally, he'd take a friend out with him. Or his daughter. Apparently, not that day, though. That's all I know. I never talked to his family after that. And I don't think there's anything else I can tell you."

  She thanked him for his help just as Jacob parked at the curb in front of the rundown house.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  She hadn't been to work for a week now. In fact, she hadn't been outside her apartment for almost that long. It was more difficult for her to concentrate on trifling things when a more interesting and vital project ahead required her attention.

  Her time here was coming to an end. This filthy, disgraceful city she'd wanted out of for so long. She still dreamt about him. Christoffer. They had talked about London. She knew a place in the suburbs with broad streets, rows of beautiful houses, teeming with life every day of the week. She had remodeled one of the houses for them on paper, and he had admitted it might be the right place for them. With a beautiful garden. Maybe even children. And he could have made it all possible if he had wanted, if he hadn't met her. She had grieved for the both of them.

  But it wasn't too late for her. She would find her house and settle down there. It was still possible. She laughed to herself at the thought of the small, black attache case with the envelope.

  She missed the odor of her bedroom. Several times that day, she had deeply regretted displaying her trophy. It had been a spur-of-the-moment act that she hadn't been able to suppress. In some way or other, it had completed the circle, signified her break with the past. The absence of the trophy, however, had made it difficult for her to fall asleep, and she considered whether there was some way to get it back. Impossible. Finally, she stood up and wandered around among the many boxes in which she'd stuffed her possessions. The bare walls felt cold, and she shivered.

  Three couples had looked at the apartment that day, and she was almost convinced that the last couple, a very pregnant red-haired journalist and her slim, unremarkable husband, would buy what had been her home for the past five years. She'd already sold most of the furniture, at a quite favorable price. But that was nothing compared to what she would have. Soon. In a few short hours, she would be leaving this place forever. Only one task remained. She stared at the yellow fur slowly rising and falling in a corner of the living room.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Hanishka opened the door a crack and looked at her. "Come inside, and please take off your shoes."

  He seemed meek, yet uneasy. She had the impression everyone was tiptoeing around barefoot, trying not to make noise.

  "So, you hadn't found anything new concerning Palle?" he said.

  Jacob brought him up to date on the investigation and how Palle fit in. "We're assuming he took his own life."

  "I don't believe that's true. In fact, I'm sure he didn't. To begin with, as we told you, Palle came to us several months ago."

  "Did he ever tell you anything about himself?"

  "At first, he didn't say anything about why he felt so bad. It took him a long time, maybe because he was so weak. But it came out that a woman had broken his heart, so badly that it almost drove him insane. No matter what anyone thinks about your world, it was a strange story because he'd been an excellent student up to then. One of the best, he explained. Before he cracked. God helped him get back on his feet though."

  One psychosis replacing another, Lisa thought. But she fought back a smile; as it stood now, these people had done nothing wrong.

  "But why did you call?" She felt a bit queasy.

  Hanishka fingered the symbol hanging from his neck. "I was cleaning up in the basement today, and I stumbled onto a box that belongs to Palle. There are diaries about his ex-girlfriend. He was obviously frightened to death of her."

  He stared directly at Lisa. "He suspected her of having done something horrible. He's the one who called you. And I think that's why he's dead."

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  She sensed they were on her trail, and she had the nagging fear that someone would get in the way of her future. She began to sweat, which shifted her highly analytic brain into another gear. Everything had been proceeding smoothly until that crazy Palle had called and said he knew what had happened. How dare he do that. Once, she had liked him, his groveling admiration for her, and she had enjoyed having him follow her around, but it didn't take long for her to tire of his unintelligent comments and the constant stream of questions she had to answer. Not to mention that he brayed like a billy goat when he released his secretions inside her.

  All in all, though, he had been quite nice, and at times she actually had missed his constant worshiping presence. Until recently, it would have been unthinkable that he would turn against her, and with all his blather about God and the imminent kingdom, it hadn't been without a certain measure of amusement that she lured him into drinking the hemlock.

  In any case, she was glad it was over. Death had proven to be quite different from what she had imagined, and every time it had surprised her how much truth there was in "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," because the body swiftly becomes a waste product when life deserts it. She didn't care for all these unpleasant events, but they would soon be replaced by something else: her eudaimonia. She picked up her large suitcases and carried them out to her car.


  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Lisa returned Hanishka's intense stare. "But he must have invited her in."

  "Maybe he wanted to share God's light with her," he said.

  "I don't understand."

  He tilted his head. "Perhaps, someday, you'll also wish that someone showed you compassion. Maybe he wanted to find forgiveness for her."

  "We'd like to see those diaries," Jacob said, impatient now.

  "That's why I called." Hanishka stood up demonstrably. "Follow me."

  They walked toward the back of the house, and suddenly she shivered. The unheated rooms were obviously seldom used; cobwebs grazed her face. Hanishka opened a trap door in the floor and pointed. "They're down here. The box in the corner. His name is on the front of the diaries, there are two of them. I'll turn the lights on for you."

  They descended the ladder backward, and Lisa almost knocked her head against the naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The stench of mold surrounded them. A basket of rotten apples stood on the floor to her right. She found the box in the corner and plucked out one of the tattered books. The handwriting was neat and clear.

  Hanishka called down to them. "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah," Jacob said.

  Lisa nodded to herself. Only moments after opening the first book, a sense of horror began rising inside her. "My God. Let's take them into the office."

  It took them a little over an hour to skim the diaries. Jacob picked them up. "Let's bring her in. I'll leave a message on Trokic's answering service. He'll blow up when he hears about this."

  Chapter Sixty

  The front door of the apartment building stood open, and a cat hissed as it ran by Lisa and Jacob when they stepped inside. Lisa froze mid-step on the stairway. "I just remembered—the lieutenant said the jolly was blue. But the report described it as red."

  "What?"

  "According to the report, Isa's father took his boat out fishing, and they searched for it in the nearby sea and along the beach when he didn't come home. The report said his daughter had described it as a red jolly. But the lieutenant said he built the jolly himself. And that it was blue."

  "What does it mean?"

  They stared at each other. Lisa felt the coldness of the stairway. All sympathy vanished for the child who'd lost her father at sea. "I think Isa liked to tell stories even back then. She sent the police out to look for the wrong jolly. I'd say she didn't want her father's boat to be found. Or her father."

  "It sounds incredible, but I can see it, yeah. Maybe she can explain it. Can we arrest her?"

  "Let's try to get her to the station first, so she doesn't clam up on us. Maybe tell her we just want to talk about Palle."

  But there was no name on the fifth-floor door; the nameplate had been removed, leaving only two small screw holes. Lisa rang the doorbell, then she tried the door. Locked.

  "The pretty woman's gone."

  The thin voice startled Lisa. She turned to a boy about five years old, sitting on the steps behind them. "When?"

  "A few hours ago."

  "Do you know where she went?"

  He shook his head. "She had candy. She always gave me some. Them with the red and white paper."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Milton."

  "Okay, Milton. Can you show us where the trash is?"

  "Are you garbage men?"

  Lisa looked over; Jacob was biting his lip, holding back a laugh. "Something like that," she said. They followed the young boy down the stairs.

  She hoped that Isa Nielsen had cleaned up before moving and had thrown out a lot of interesting things. But the green dumpster was empty except for two black plastic sacks filled with what smelled like lark branches.

  "When do they pick up the trash?" Jacob said.

  "I don't know. I can ask my mom."

  "Forget it. Thanks for helping us."

  Something glittered in a corner of the dumpster behind one of the sacks. "Can you find a stick for us, Milton?" Jacob said.

  A moment later, he handed Jacob a long branch. They were disappointed when he fished up the object, a soft, brown leather strap with metal studs on the outside.

  "It's the yellow dog's collar," Milton said. He frowned deeply. "But she said it ran away."

  Chapter Sixty-One

  He was still a bit woozy as he drove out of town. An hour ago, he'd woken up wide awake on the sofa. He could still see the sneering rabbits, gray gaunt creatures from a village near Goriӑ. Rabbits someone had raised by the hundreds on a small secluded farm, rabbits the Serbian Army had starved to death by not letting them out when they killed their owners. He could still see them. He'd slept for nine hours. Almost ten. More a state of unconsciousness than sleep. He woke up burning with fever, and he'd found a few aspirin in the bathroom and thrown cold water on his face. He'd get by.

  He tried to turn on his phone, but it was dead. He found the charger to plug into the car's cigarette lighter and stuck it in his pocket. He'd answer any calls when the phone was alive again; anything important would just have to wait until later when he reached the office.

  "You should know, I don't have much experience with this type of thing. Primarily, I work with bodies several thousand years old. But there's no doubt it's been preserved without any common preparations, formalin for example. This is very unique."

  Trokic had taken Bach's suggestion to look up the archaeologist. He lived in a small, thatched-roof house not far from the prehistoric museum where he worked. A nerdy young man, late twenties, Trokic thought, and if Bach hadn't said that he'd written his thesis on the conservation of grave relics, he wouldn't have trusted him. His long ponytail and silver necklace of marijuana leaves didn't exactly inspire confidence.

  "Normally, it would have rotted away, but because it's mostly lean tissue, bone, and skin, it avoided that fate."

  He poured two cups of coffee and eyed the hand with interest.

  "Thanks," Trokic said, as he slid the coffee in front of him. The mug was enormous, no way he could drink that much. He looked around; posters covered the walls, some of them ads for films, others from the museum. He studied a woman with Indian features and a colorful sarong, leaning her head against a gray wall. "Best in Bombay," in orange letters. He had the impression that the archaeologist spent most of his time in this living room. The view was a dug-up yard with an old shed; fields of stubble lay behind the hedge.

  “Can you explain exactly why it hasn't rotted?”

  "Most likely it's been dried. Something like people do with meat, if you'll excuse the comparison. The most important thing here was to avoid bacteria and to hold the biochemical processes in check. The bodies found in our bogs were preserved that way, plant life produced so much acid that bacteria couldn't live."

  "But—"

  "So, a natural conservation takes place. But that's not the only factor. The body also has to be thrown into the bog while it's cold. Otherwise, the inner organs will rot before the acid penetrates the body, and it can—"

  "But how old would you guess the hand is?" Trokic wasn't there for a lecture on bog people. He was very well aware of what bacteria and heat did to bodies after two summers in a country at war. "Is it even from this millennium?"

  The archaeologist played with his ponytail in a personal way that bothered Trokic. "I can't say precisely…"

  "Oh, come on, just a guess. I have to have something to go on."

  "Between fifteen and twenty years. But don't quote me on that."

  Trokic shook his head. "How can an entire body dry up that way?"

  "Well, it wasn't cut off from the body recently, definitely not. It happened soon after the person died. Or even before. I'm absolutely sure of that. May I ask where you got it?"

  "Sorry, but no, you may not."

  On the way back to town, Trokic felt he'd learned very little. His phone was almost charged up. For now, anyway. He turned it on and noticed his phone message icon blinking. Before he could call in to hear them, the phone r
ang. The number wasn't familiar, but the voice was. The sociologist.

  "I'm calling about the hand you found. I've been thinking quite a bit about it."

  "It's interesting, yes. I want to clear everything up in this case, and I think that hand is important."

  "I see. In what way?"

  "We know how old it is now. That makes it easier to find out where it comes from."

  "How did you find out?"

  "I talked to an archaeologist who specializes in conservation," Trokic said.

  "Okay. Did you take the hand along?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you have it with you?"

  "Yes. I'm taking it back to Forensics now, in fact."

  "I was wondering if you had time for a chat? There's something I'd like to show you, down on the beach."

  "What?"

  "You'll see. You'll find a blue jolly just south of Eagle's Nest. It's white inside. An old one, it hasn't been used in years. I think you'll find it interesting."

  "Listen, I'm really busy tying up all the loose ends up, so this has to be relevant. I can't justify—"

  "Believe me, it is. Meet me there in a half hour and I'll tell you about the hand."

  Trokic remembered the sand under the hand's fingernails. Did she know something from before the hand's preservation? He wanted to ask, but there was something childish in her voice, like she had a surprise for him, a gift, and she wanted to keep him in suspense for a while.

  "Okay, I'll meet you there." He shut off his phone and turned around. He wasn't all that far from Eagle's Nest, just a few minutes away. He thought about calling Lisa or Jacob, but something stopped him. It was what Agersund referred to when he told him "no one-man show": his preference to dig deeper into a case alone. They could manage without him a little while longer. He sighed. If he hurried, he could grab a hot dog on the way and still be there in a half hour. Then he'd see what she had to show him.