by Chris Ould
“I’m sorry to just come without any warning,” I said as a way of framing why I was there. “I had some free time from work so I decided to try and find out a bit more about Lýdia by visiting some of the people she knew.”
Thea nodded as if she understood that completely. “Yes, of course,” she said. “What is it you do now?”
“Until recently I was a police officer.”
If it surprised her she covered it so well that I didn’t see it. “Ah, I see,” she said. “Is that how you found me?”
I’d known it was a question that would inevitably come up. “Well, it did help a little,” I said. “You probably won’t remember, but you were with Lýdia when she met an old friend in Copenhagen in 1976. Her name’s Elna and when I went to see her the other day she mentioned your name and then I was able to find your address.”
It was an expedient half-truth, avoiding the questions a full explanation would raise before I’d got an idea of how this might go, but Thea appeared to spend only a short time hunting any memory of the event before shaking her head.
“No, I don’t recall it,” she said. “But that doesn’t matter. Lýdia was a great help to me – a good friend. I’ve always been grateful to her, so it’s good that you came. Do you remember anything from that time? You weren’t very old.”
“No, not really,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes, of course.” She sat back a little. “So, what can I tell you?”
“Well, I suppose first and foremost, I wanted to ask if you were the person who found Lýdia and called the ambulance on the day that she died,” I said. “In the police report it doesn’t say who that was.”
“Yes, it was me,” Thea said, then glanced away as if she knew it wasn’t enough and was deciding how better to frame it. “I’d been away from the flat for a few hours,” she said. “When I came back – in the evening – I opened the door and called out to say hi, but there was no answer. Everything was very quiet and I thought maybe Lýdia was with you in the bedroom you shared, so I went and looked in but you were asleep on your own.”
She paused briefly, then said, “That was when I first thought something was strange. I knew Lýdia wouldn’t have left you alone and because it wasn’t a large flat there was only one other place she could be. So I went to the bathroom and knocked on the door. There was still no answer so I went in and that was when I saw what had happened.”
For a moment she had that look people get when you know they’re seeing the picture again: not with distress, but clearly not as something she would particularly wish to dwell on either.
“I think I just stood still for some time,” Thea said then. “But I knew I should get someone, so I went out to find a telephone, and called the ambulance to come.” She smoothed an invisible crease in the leg of her trousers before looking up. “I’ve always wished I’d come back sooner, you know? Or maybe seen signs that she was thinking that way. But I didn’t. I’m sorry for that.”
I made a gesture, negating the need for apology. “I don’t think there was anything you could have done,” I told her. “She’d attempted the same thing a few years before while she was still on the Faroe Islands, and that time it was only by luck that she was found.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“There’s no reason you would have,” I said. “From some of the people who’ve told me about her and from some of the decisions she made, I think she was always impulsive; maybe even manic at times. I don’t know if it was some sort of mental illness – something like bipolar disorder – but it’s too late to find out now, so all I’m trying to do is put together what she was like and what she was doing before she died.”
“Yes, I understand.” Thea nodded. “Sometimes in my job I have to try to give comfort to the relatives of people who have done the same thing. It’s never easy, and when I do I often think of how I felt when I found Lýdia.”
“It must have been pretty hard on you,” I said. “What were you, sixteen?”
“Yes; sixteen and a few months.”
“And you’d known Lýdia since you were at Vesborggård House?”
For the first time I saw her react, just a little and only briefly, as if I’d jumped to something she hadn’t expected, or maybe not yet. “You know about that?” she asked.
“Not all the details,” I said. “When I found out that Lýdia had worked there I did some research into the place and found out that you were listed as absconding at about the same time that we left, so I wondered if the two things were connected.”
For a second Thea appeared to hold back from some instinctive reaction, but then she made a definite nod. “Yes. Yes, they were,” she said flatly. “We all left together.”
“Can I ask why – I mean, what the circumstances were?”
It was the obvious question, but I tried to leave it as open as I could, giving her room to step aside from the answer if that’s what she needed to do. Instead though, she seemed to consider it dispassionately for a moment, then gathered herself slightly and clasped her hands on her lap.
“It was because I had been raped,” she said then. “Lýdia found me and took us away to Christiania. I don’t remember what happened, only the results, but they are enough.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, which is always inadequate. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it…”
But Thea was already shaking her head. “No, it’s not a problem,” she said. “It isn’t the first time I’ve spoken about it. If you remain silent you let it win, and that’s what I did for a long time. But many years later, when I was in rehab, I learned that it’s important to talk: to be truthful and take back control. If you want to help others you have to be honest about yourself too.”
I nodded to show I understood. If she’d been through rehab and counselling, this emotionally literate reaction was natural. There’s a degree of protection in adopting the jargon, although I doubted she needed it as much as some. She was a strong woman – I’d seen that from the start – and now I had an idea where that resolve might have its roots.
“You say you don’t remember anything – not even who did it?” I asked. It was another obvious question, but one I thought I’d been given permission to ask now.
“No, I don’t know,” she said, lacing her fingers. “I don’t remember anything about the attack, so in that way I was lucky. I was at Vesborggård House and then there’s an empty space until I woke up in Christiania with Lýdia, and with you. I knew what had happened and it was easy to see. Every part of me hurt in some way, that’s how it felt. And on my throat there were red marks – scratching and bruises.”
She raised a hand to show me the place on her neck, but I already knew. I’d seen the photographs.
“For several days I couldn’t speak very well,” Thea went on. “It hurt to eat, to move around or go to the toilet. I also had a fever, I think, but Lýdia looked after me. She got me well.”
“Did she say how she found you or how you got to Christiania?”
Thea shook her head. “I asked her, of course, but she wouldn’t say. All she would tell me was that we were safe now. We would stay safe, she said, but we mustn’t talk about Vesborggård to anyone. ‘You must believe we haven’t been there,’ she said.”
I remembered Elna’s description of her hurt feelings when she’d met Lýdia, Thea and me in Copenhagen and Lýdia hadn’t wanted to talk. This explained it, at least in part.
“So how long were we at the flat before Lýdia died?” I asked, moving to more neutral ground. “Can you remember?”
“No, not exactly. Maybe two or three weeks. I’m not sure.”
“Did anyone else come there? Were there any visitors – anyone Lýdia knew?”
She thought back. “Only once: Mickey. I didn’t know his last name but he worked at Vesborggård House – in an office, I think. I didn’t see him very often but sometimes he would come to see Lýdia in the kitchen. He was from the Faroe Islands like her, but I don’t
know if she knew him from there or just from Vesborggård House.”
The fact that there had been another Faroe islander at Vesborggård House caught my attention, of course, but all the more so because he’d been in Christiania as well.
“So one day Mickey just turned up at the flat in Christiania?” I asked, hoping for clarification.
“Yes, I think so,” Thea said. “We hadn’t been there very long: maybe two or three days. I was in bed when I heard a man’s voice in the next room, so I opened the door to see who it was and when I saw Mickey I was frightened. I was afraid that if he knew where I was that others would come and I’d have to go back to the house. But Lýdia said no, it was okay. Mickey was here because he was a friend. He was going to help.”
“In what way?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Maybe with money, or to find somewhere better to live, but after I saw him he didn’t stay very long.”
“Did he come back?”
“To the flat? No, I didn’t see him again.”
I thought for a moment. “So what was Lýdia’s mood like at the time?” I asked. “Was she worried or frightened in case someone came looking for you, do you think?”
“Nej, not afraid,” Thea said, very sure. “She was… Her mind was made up. She was very determined and—”
She broke off at a knock on the door as it opened. A middle-aged man with a grey beard and neat collar and tie came part way into the room, already speaking before realising that Thea wasn’t alone. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand and even in Danish I heard the note of apology before he started to back out again.
Thea spoke up, though, asking a question, and slightly reluctantly the man stated his case with a gesture of the papers he was holding. It was something that required Thea’s input, it seemed, and after a moment she turned to me apologetically.
“Jan, I’m sorry,” she said. “There are electricians working in the church and there is a problem for the fire regulations. I think I must have a look or all the work stops.” She hesitated, but only briefly. “Can you wait? Perhaps half an hour, so I can see the problem.”
“Yeah, of course, if you’re sure that’s all right.”
“Yes. Please,” she said as if she wanted to be sure that we didn’t leave something unfinished.
“Okay,” I said and stood up as she did the same. “I’ll have a look round the church yard.”
“Good. I’ll come and find you,” she said. “It’s a nice place to walk.”
29
THE SITTING ROOM AT THE FRONT OF RASMUS MATZEN’S HOUSE was populated by worn furniture and bookshelves filled beyond capacity. There was no television and no electronics of any sort, save for a radio on the mantelpiece over a wood-burning stove.
The door to the room was slightly ajar and beyond it Hentze could hear the sounds of Matzen’s wife, Elna Eskildsen, moving around in the kitchen. She’d recently returned from the supermarket and immediately made coffee for their guest as soon as she discovered that her husband had neglected to do so. Hentze was grateful for the coffee and sipped it while he watched Matzen leaf through the thick pages of an album of photographs from the 1970s.
The pictures were set behind yellowed plastic film and once he found the first ones taken at the Colony commune, Matzen pored over them more carefully. From what Hentze could see, the photos of the early days had clearly been taken in a spirit of optimism, recording work at the commune as well as celebrations and significant moments.
Rasmus Matzen was able to identify five people with little trouble – all founders of the commune who had gone out to the Faroes with him in 1973 and stayed until the end. A couple he’d seen in the last few years and told Hentze where they lived, but after that the identification of faces became more of a struggle. It seemed that the people who’d been attracted to the idea of entering a new society at the Colony had often taken the opportunity to cast off any formality about who they were, so when Matzen remembered a face it was often only attached to a first name and sometimes an adjective: Tage the Swede; Nanna from Skagen; Jürgen the baker. Last names were often little more than a guess or something in a general phonetic area: was it Sørensen or Svendsen or Simonsen? Something like that.
It was a time-consuming business, but despite the uncertainty, Hentze wrote it all down. Short of a miracle he knew there would be little chance of tracing most of these people, but with little else to go on he’d take what he could get.
“Oh, okay, that was midsummer, the last one,” Matzen said, turning a page and tapping a group photograph of ten or twelve people clustered round a boulder. “That’s Boas, the landlord, I think. Tobias, Silje, August…”
Hentze adjusted his reading glasses and looked a little closer. A blond-haired, bearded young man seemed vaguely familiar to him. “What about this man?” he asked. “Do you know who he is?”
Matzen shook his head. “No, I can’t remember his name, although… Yeh, I think he may have come from the mainland. Some people did come as visitors over the summers. He could have been one of them.”
“He definitely didn’t live at the commune?”
“No… No, but I think he came several times. He had a friend he brought with him, I remember: a guy who wasn’t short of money. I thought maybe he might make a donation, you know: buy a rotovator or something? He didn’t, though.”
With the possibility of further identifications ruled out, Matzen turned the page again and this time Hentze didn’t have any doubt about who the woman was standing beside Rasmus Matzen outside one of the houses at Múli. She had clearly been a little older than Matzen at the time, but her fingers were entwined with his and her appearance wasn’t very different to the photo in the missing persons report.
“That’s Astrid, isn’t it?” Hentze said.
Matzen nodded. “I’d forgotten this picture,” he said.
“You seem pretty close,” Hentze observed neutrally. “Were you?”
“Of course. Everyone was,” Matzen said.
“It was a commune.” It wasn’t an answer, as they both knew, but when Matzen didn’t seem prepared to go further Hentze straightened up in his seat and at that moment Elna Eskildsen opened the door.
“Would you like more coffee?” she asked Hentze as Matzen closed the photograph album.
“No, thank you,” Hentze said. “Rasmus has given me a lot of names to look up, so I’d better get to it, I think.”
Matzen stood up. “I’ll show you out.”
* * *
Outside Matzen accompanied Hentze round to the front of the house where Hentze had left the CID pool car, a decent-sized Ford.
“You know, it will save me a lot of time if you tell me the truth now,” Hentze observed equably as he got out his keys. “I understand that there might be things you don’t want to dwell on in front of your wife, so if you wish to deny that you and Astrid had a relationship, that’s fine. But if someone from the commune tells me that you did, I’ll only have to come back.”
Matzen looked at the cigarette in his fingers. It had gone out. “It wasn’t a relationship, as you call it,” he said. “It was… It was nothing.”
“But it was sexual?”
A brief pause, then: “Yes. But it was… We slept together a few times but then she moved on. You know what I mean.”
“To somebody else.”
Matzen nodded. He took out a lighter and struck a flame to the cigarette.
“And who was that?” Hentze asked. “Do you remember?”
“I think his name was Evald, but there might have been others.”
“So she slept around?”
The phrase appeared distasteful to Matzen. “Yes, if you want to put it like that. Listen, it was different then. Or maybe it wasn’t, I don’t know.” He made a dismissive gesture. “All I’m saying is that it wasn’t unusual, okay? People slept around, as you say, if that’s what they wanted to do. Why not? Life’s short, right?”
“Were you jealous?” Hentze asked. “Of Astri
d’s other lovers?”
“No, of course not: we didn’t own each other. If it made you feel good, then you did it. If not…” He shrugged and drew on the roll-up, then shifted. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. If you believe I was jealous of Astrid’s other partners, you can say I must have killed her because I was jealous. Isn’t that right?”
“Did you kill Astrid or Else?” Hentze asked.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Okay, then.”
Matzen cast Hentze a suspicious look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that at the moment I’ve no reason to doubt you,” Hentze said. “If that changes I can come back, but for the time being – unless you can tell me anything else – I think we can leave it at that. Thank you, you’ve been a great help.”
“So what will you do now?” Matzen asked, as Hentze opened the car door. “Do you think you’ll be able to find him – the one who killed them, I mean?”
“That’s my job,” Hentze said. “So I hope so, yes.”
“It’s strange,” Matzen said. “I hadn’t thought about Astrid since the Colony came to an end, but when the other guy, Reyná, said she was dead, that she’d been murdered… I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It was more of a shock than I could have thought. After so long it’s not something you expect, is it?”
“No,” Hentze said. “No, I suppose not.”
* * *
The email had come in at 9:36 and Tove followed it up with a phone call, as requested, as soon as she’d read it. The woman on the other end of the line – Rakel Poulsen – seemed oddly surprised by the immediate response, but said that if Tove could be there by eleven they could talk then, although if she preferred it could also be sometime next week. Tove told her that eleven was good.
Before she went out, Tove went into Kjeld’s room, only remembering to knock when the door was half open. He was sitting at a table under the window working on a graphic tablet. The screen showed a brightly coloured advert for a discount store.
“Are these clothes good for a meeting?” Tove asked.
