The Fire Pit

by Chris Ould

  “Did you have to make a formal identification?” I asked.

  Peter nodded. “Ketty, not me. After that we were taken to see you. I think they were concerned because you wouldn’t speak. To be honest, I had the impression they just wanted to pass on the responsibility for you as quickly as possible. It took a few days to sort out the papers, but after that – because Ketty was a Danish-Faroese citizen and Lýdia’s next of kin – they let us take you away.”

  “Did they tell you anything else about how Lýdia died – I mean beyond the fact that she took an overdose?”

  A look of concern crossed Peter’s face and he’d started to shake his head before he thought better of it.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head, more clearly this time. “It wasn’t an overdose,” he said, then took a moment. “She cut her wrists.”

  It wasn’t what I’d expected – known. “No. Ketty told me… She definitely said it was pills.”

  “When?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Years ago, when I was a teenager, I suppose.”

  Peter nodded, as if that explained it. “She told me,” he said. “You’d never asked before and when you did she thought it would be better – less upsetting – if she said it was tablets. I’m sorry.”

  The shift in perspective – in reality – threw me off kilter. It felt like déjá vu in reverse: not the feeling that I’d seen it before, but instead that what I’d always taken for real was an illusion. I’d pictured it, of course, and in that sense maybe Ketty had been right. It had been easier – less upsetting – to simply imagine someone going to sleep and not waking up. The setting may have varied in my imagination over the years, but always at the centre of it were a bed and a bedroom and a still, peaceful figure. I’d managed to hold on to that illusion – to protect it, I suppose – even after I’d learned the truth: that deaths by overdose aren’t necessarily any more comfortable or clean than any others. But in my illusion there was no vomit or spasm, no voiding of bowels and bladder, only peace and repose. An easy death. Too easy. Too easy to do. Too easy to leave.

  To leave me.

  I knew that’s what the various child psychologists had thought: that I resented Lýdia for abandoning me, and that I blamed Signar for failing, as my father, to make it all right afterwards. That was why I’d been troubled, they thought. That was why I’d been disruptive, resentful and reckless and given Ketty and Peter a dozen years of various shit: some of it worse than the rest, but all shit just the same.

  Truth was, you didn’t need to be a psychologist to figure out any of that. I could have told them myself at any point between the ages of ten and eighteen – I just chose not to. Fuck them. I knew what I knew and it was my business, not theirs. They could all just fuck off and leave me alone.

  “Jan?”

  It came to me that Peter was speaking again and when I looked up I saw he was watching me with a frown of concern.

  “It’s getting chilly,” he said again. “Let’s go inside. Yes?”

  He stood up but I stayed where I was. “Do you have any documents?” I asked. “Her death certificate? Anything official?”

  “Yes, there were some things. I’d have to find them, though. I’m not sure where they’ll be.”

  I was pretty sure he wasn’t telling the truth. Peter was an organised man, and if I’d pressed him I think it might have taken him five minutes at most. But I knew what he was trying to do, and that it was well meant, so I didn’t press him. Besides, his instinct to hold back might have been better than my own at that moment. I stood up and followed him inside, to the kitchen.

  I was more tired from the day’s continual movement than I’d realised, and probably not at my best, all things considered. I ought to go home, take a shower, go to bed in good time. I ought to think about tomorrow.

  “I’ll get off and leave you in peace,” I told Peter, putting my not-quite-empty bottle down by the sink. “I’ve still got a few things to catch up on.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “You’ll look for that stuff, though? Anything you have. I’d like to see it.”

  He nodded. “I’ll look in the morning and give you a call. I can bring it over to you; I’m thinking of Ketty.”

  Which I already knew. Peter Sherland was a good, decent man. He had to be to have put up with me for all the years that he had.

  “Okay. Takk,” I said.

  He chuckled, a lighter note, and I realised what I’d said without thinking.

  “Takk fyri,” I said, and meant it this time.

  5

  IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE FLAT, CARRYING a pint of petrol-station milk and a bottle of tonic I’d picked up on the way. The mundane action of buying the things had finally reconnected me to being here, despite the foreign notes in my wallet. It had also served to refocus my head on the here and now – or, more precisely, on tomorrow. Like it or not it demanded attention – if only until the interview was over – and as if to reinforce that fact I heard a call when I was a few yards away from the entrance door to the flats.

  “Jan.”

  In the light from a street lamp I saw a woman in her early thirties, dressed in jeans and short jacket. Donna Scott moved briskly to be sure she’d reach me before I got to the door. Out of instinct I glanced round, checking the other cars I’d passed in the parking area, realising even as I did it that it was a waste of time.

  “Have you got a minute?” Donna asked as she stopped in front of me.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I said.

  “I need to talk to you. About tomorrow.”

  That went without saying, and for a moment I was tempted to tell her that I didn’t need to talk. Instead, though, I turned and moved towards the building again. Donna came alongside me and after a couple of steps I said, “How did you know I was back?”

  She gestured upward towards the flat. “Your window. It wasn’t open before. And your car wasn’t here.”

  That was the sort of copper she was.

  “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” she said.

  I wondered how she had heard about that, but not enough to let it lead to a further discussion that I didn’t want.

  “Thanks,” I said, unlocking the door. “You’d better come in.”

  We went up to the flat in silence and I opened the door, switched on the lights and took the milk and the tonic to the fridge while Donna went into the living room.

  “When did you get back?” she asked across the breakfast counter. My bag was still in the centre of the living-room floor.

  “A few hours ago.”

  “You cut it fine.”

  It was hard to tell from her tone whether she thought that showed confidence or that I’d made a mistake. “Did you hear about Paul Carney?” she asked, changing the subject.

  I left the kitchen and went into the living room. “I haven’t heard anything,” I said. “What about him?”

  “DNA’s matched him to another rape in Doncaster eight months ago. They got a positive match from our arrest sample: hair and fibre, the whole lot. The girl took a chunk out of his cheek with her nails so he beat her to a pulp. Fifteen,” she added. “He took her from a bus stop, just like Claire Tilman, so it’s a no-brainer: he obviously did both.”

  It was a simplistic interpretation, based more on hope than on logic. The Directorate of Professional Standards’ questions tomorrow wouldn’t be based on whether Carney had, in fact, raped Claire Tilman three times in the space of thirteen hours; or whether he’d kept her terrified and gagged in a garage during that time.

  Donna Scott and I both knew that Paul Carney had done all that, leaving Claire so traumatised that she wouldn’t leave the house unaccompanied even now, but it still wasn’t the point. What the DPS were interested in – all they were interested in – was the allegation that Claire had been coached in her identification of Carney; prepared to the extent that she’d been shown his photo as a possible suspect several hours before
she’d been asked to make a formal identification of her attacker. In The Job or out of it, coaching a witness was perverting the course of justice and it was a criminal offence; it was also what Donna and I would be facing if the DPS decided she’d done that and I’d let it go when I found out.

  I went to the desk by the window, turned the chair and sat down. “So what did you tell the DPS when they asked why you had Carney’s mugshot on your phone?” I said.

  She shrugged. “The same as before. I said I had it because Carney matched a description we’d been given and I’d been looking for him that afternoon.”

  “Before Claire made the ID of Carney from the video line-up?”

  “I had to,” she said. “They examined my phone, so they knew when the picture went on. But I told them I left the phone in the car while we were at Claire’s, so she couldn’t have seen his photo. I said you could verify that.”

  “So how did you account for Claire saying that she did see Carney’s picture on your phone?” I asked.

  Donna stiffened a little, the way some people do when they’re on the stand. Her voice became neutral, matter-of-fact. “I said I’d done several interviews with her and during some of them she was very upset, so she must have got the sequence of events mixed up. I told them I’d only shown her the photo the day after Carney was charged, to prove to her that he was in custody and couldn’t hurt her again.”

  “What about Matt Callaghan?” I said. “Will he back that up?” Callaghan had been partnered with Donna on the day she claimed to have shown the picture to Claire.

  Donna shook her head. “He bottled it,” she said with more than a touch of disdain. “He said he didn’t see it because he’d stepped out to talk to Claire’s parents.”

  So it came back to me, which was what Kirkland, my superintendent, had wanted. If the DPS believed that Donna had coached Claire to identify Carney, then at the very least I’d be seen as guilty of inadequate supervision for letting it happen. At worst I’d be deemed to have helped or encouraged her to pervert the course of justice.

  Like I said, it didn’t matter that Paul Carney was Claire Tilman’s attacker and that everyone knew it. That wasn’t the sort of justice DPS investigations were concerned with.

  “So, what do you think?” Donna asked.

  I knew what she wanted. She’d been in limbo for over three weeks, not knowing how to prepare herself, or for what. But I’d been out of it, too, and I still wasn’t fully back yet. I needed a drink and a shower and to unpack my bag and open the mail, and unless I was prepared to commit myself now there was nothing left to say. Donna had given her statement to the DPS and there was no changing that. Sum tú reiðir, skalt tú liggja.

  I stood up. “Let’s see how it goes in the morning,” I told her. “I need to unpack.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then nodded stiffly. “I’ve been told to make myself available after they’ve seen you.”

  “Yeah, well, they’ll want to make a decision without dragging it out.”

  “I suppose. Got your suit pressed?” She almost managed to make it offhand.

  “Nah, sod it,” I said, matching her tone. “I’ll turn up like this. What can they do?”

  6

  Tuesday/týsdagur

  ANNIKA HAD SET THE ALARM EARLY AND IN THE BATHROOM mirror she assessed the patches of pinkly blistered skin on her forehead, cheek and neck. She unfocused her eyes and tried to discern how obvious they were, then moved away from the mirror and tried again. At a distance of a couple of metres did they stand out?

  Annika wasn’t particularly vain about her appearance and she knew that she was only hypernaturally aware of it now because of the burns. It was impossible to be objective, though. She knew they were there, so her gaze sought them out.

  The question she was trying to answer was whether or not she should cover them up with dressings. Her hand needed protection, but apart from while she was in bed at night, the doctor had said the facial dressings weren’t necessary: it was up to her. She wasn’t to apply any form of make-up to the blisters, however: not for at least two weeks. So, which drew – or would draw – most attention: unnatural dressings or unnatural scarring?

  She looked at her watch and the time pressed her decision. She would go “naked”.

  * * *

  Naturally enough there was some surprise and concern from the people she encountered as she entered the police station and went to her locker. She did a lot of smiling and nodding and repeating that yes, she was fine thanks; no, she didn’t want to stay at home any longer, and yes it was true she was going to work in CID for a while.

  The interest was all well meant, of course, but Annika could see people surreptitiously evaluating her blisters and wondering whether they would scar. She consoled herself with the knowledge that people only notice changes for a short time until the different becomes normal. All the same, by the time she went to Ári Niclasen’s office to find Hentze she had the start of a headache.

  The office was empty and dark and a vaguely irascible note was taped to the door: “I am working from my own office, H.H.”

  “I thought you’d have moved into Ári’s room just for the espresso machine,” Annika said when she located Hentze in the small office Remi Syderbø referred to – not wholly inaccurately – as the broom cupboard. It was barely large enough to accommodate one other person besides Hentze himself.

  Hentze shook his head, as if Annika’s comment warranted serious consideration. “I know the way Remi’s mind works,” he said. “If he thinks I’m getting comfortable and settling in to the job he’ll try to lumber me with it for good. The more people complain about having to come here to see me the sooner he’ll find a permanent replacement for Ári.” He stood up from his chair. “Come on, I need coffee,” he said.

  The CID lunchroom was empty and Hentze boiled the kettle and made strong instant coffee. Annika saw how many teaspoons of the stuff he used and said she’d make her own, then they sat down at the nearest table.

  “You’ve looked at the files I gave you?” Hentze asked.

  “Yeh, of course.”

  “Good. So, tell me your thoughts.”

  Annika opened her spiral-bound notebook. The first page was filled with neat, well-spaced handwriting. “Actually, I have more questions than conclusions,” she said. “To start with, how certain can we be that Boas Justesen was the person who dug up Eve’s skeleton?”

  “Eve?” Hentze queried.

  Annika felt momentarily embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, yeh. I thought it was easier to give her a name than keep saying her or the victim. I just thought…”

  “No, it’s a good thought,” Hentze said. “And as to Justesen digging her up, I think it’s the most likely scenario. I found cigarette butts and a vodka bottle near the sheepfold and sent them to the lab for a DNA comparison but I haven’t heard back yet. You could chase it up.”

  “Okay.” Annika turned a couple of pages to make a note. “So, if he did uncover her, he must have had something to do with her death.”

  “Logically, yes,” Hentze acknowledged. “But it doesn’t have to mean that he killed her. It would be easy to lay it at his door, but we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that he was only a witness – possibly involved in the burial – and that someone else was responsible for her murder.”

  “And they could still be alive,” Annika said. “They could still be here.”

  “Yeh, well, I wouldn’t get too excited about that idea,” Hentze cautioned. “I still think Justesen’s the most likely suspect, all things considered, but I don’t want to take the easy conclusion until we’ve explored every possibility. The main thing is to find out who Eve was. If we know that, we may be able to establish a motive for her killing.”

  “And you’re sure she wasn’t from the islands?”

  “As sure as I can be. There are no outstanding reports from the 1970s of missing Faroese women matching her age and physical description.”

  “Well that’s the oth
er thing I was going to ask you,” Annika said. “How do you know that’s when she died?”

  “I don’t, not for certain,” Hentze said. “Until we get a full analysis of the bones it’s only a guess, but I think there are a couple of things that point us that way. For a start, that’s when the Colony commune occupied the buildings at Múli – between 1973 and 1974 – and by all accounts there were people of several nationalities there. You saw the photos of the beads from Eve’s bracelet?”

  “Yeh. They do look pretty hippy-ish.”

  “The other indicator is this,” Hentze said, opening his folder and taking out two large-scale maps, both folded back on themselves to show the same area. One was older and more visibly worn than the other. He turned them both so Annika could see.

  “Here’s Múli as it was in 1964,” he said, indicating on the older map. “Now, compare it to this one from 1984. See the difference?” He pointed to a black C-shaped mark on the later map. “That’s the sheepfold where the skeleton was found. It wasn’t there in 1964, so it must have been built in the twenty years between the two surveys being done.”

  “Only you would have two maps of the same place, Hjalti.”

  “I have a modern one, too,” he admitted. “But these were my father’s. He was a man who liked to know where he was. Anyway, that’s why I think Eve could have been killed at the time of the commune. The place was abandoned after they left and the peace symbol bracelet I found with her body could mean she was one of that group. If she was also a foreigner her disappearance might not have been noticed or reported.”

  “Well if she was there I suppose it’s possible she could have met Justesen, too,” Annika allowed. “Maybe he went out there to make sure they weren’t wrecking the place. So I guess I should talk to his friends, relatives and neighbours and find out what he was doing during the seventies.”