The Fire Pit

by Chris Ould

  In the past I’d always refused to wonder what Lýdia’s suicide said about her feelings toward me. If I’d thought about it at all I’d always stuck to rigid objectivity, as if to prove that I had no “issues” with what she had done. In truth, though, I knew her feelings for me must have entered her thinking on some level, so maybe it was time to allow that into evidence now rather than ignore it.

  So, what did it say about the circumstances in which Lýdia had taken her own life? She’d shown no sign of depression, Thea had said: she had a plan for the future, and she had a vulnerable girl and her son dependent on her. Could that still be a description of someone who, without warning, would fill a bath and reach for a razor blade?

  If it was, then it seemed to me now that her path to that point must have started at Vesborggård House on the night Thea was raped. Everything else seemed to come from that place and that night, which meant that my only way forward was to retrace my steps there.

  * * *

  At Vesborggård House I drove down the rutted track this time, more confident than yesterday that I wouldn’t end up in a mire. I parked to one side of the building site and headed towards the Portakabin, but changed course when I saw a guy in his thirties give me an enquiring look as he tended a small cement mixer.

  “Hi,” I said, over the noise. “Is Henning around? Henning Skov?”

  The guy frowned briefly, then shook his head. “No, he’s not here again until Monday. Do you need to see him?”

  “No, not really. I was here yesterday and I just wanted to make sure it was okay to have another look around.”

  “Yeh, sure, it’s no problem,” the guy said with a shrug. “I saw you with Henning and Jeppe before so go ahead.”

  “Is Jeppe here?”

  “Yeh, he should be. I’m not sure where he is, though.”

  He cast around but rather than cause a distraction I said, “That’s okay, I’ll find him later. Thanks for your help.”

  I followed the tarmac track I’d taken yesterday, but before it reached the decaying staff quarters I went off down a path through the woods and towards the lake, going downhill between straight pine trees until I reached a fork at the lake shore. The overgrown path seemed slightly more defined to the left so I went that way, prepared to come back if I found I was going in the wrong direction.

  The wind was chilly off the water and the earth path roughly followed the shore line, a few yards away and divided from it by intermittent pines and occasional bushes reaching as far as the lake’s edge. Then, after three or four minutes’ walking, the path rose a little, following the contour of the land, and passed by a semicircular, bowl-like depression about fifteen yards across, facing a small beach and the lake. The hollow seemed too regular to be natural, but if it was man-made it had been there a long time and I thought it must be the place Thea had referred to when she said they had used it for parties and gatherings; it would lend itself to that sort of thing.

  And the Blue House Thea had described was there, too: on the rise above and behind the hollow. It had the look of a functional structure, perhaps built for some kind of forestry work. Its walls were rough stone with a single arched doorway at its centre and another on the level above, like a barn. Some of its grey slates were missing, exposing the wooden rafters beneath, but as I walked up to it I could see the faintest hint of blue paint on the greyed wooden door, just enough to know I’d found the right place.

  The door was secured by a corroded padlock, which wouldn’t yield when I tugged it. The frame was rotten, though, and when I dug around the screws in the hasp with the blade of my pocket knife the wood came away in fibres. I worked at it for a couple of minutes, then tried tugging on the padlock again. This time the hasp pulled away and, bending it back, I used it as a handle to drag the door open, its bottom edge catching on the overgrown grass.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as I stepped inside, and when they did there wasn’t much to see. The place was an empty shell: a couple of rusting oil cans, a few pieces of abandoned timber and a broken ladder leading up to a loft. But I was more interested in the stone floor under my feet, still regularly paved with flat, bevel-edged stones. Surprisingly there wasn’t much dirt to obscure them and when I scuffed away what there was I knew I’d seen them before. To confirm it I took out my phone and scrolled to the photograph of sixteen-year-old Thea, enlarging and dragging quickly away from the view of her body and looking instead at the floor beneath the table she’d been placed on.

  Forty years ago the camera had only captured a small section of the floor in focused detail but the shapes and the texture of the flagstones in the picture left me in no doubt now. It would take an expert and a proper examination to match them exactly but I was sure this was the place where the pictures of Thea’s abuse had been taken in 1976. And taken was right: taken or stolen.

  I took a couple of photographs of my own, for reference, then went outside. I pushed the door closed, but as I turned away I saw Jeppe and the younger workman from the cement mixer coming my way. I met them on the path overlooking the hollow.

  “Did you find anything?” the younger man asked.

  “No, nothing much,” I said. “It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been in there for years. I’m Jan, by the way.”

  “Steffen. And you know Jeppe, yeh?”

  “Yeh.”

  We all exchanged handshakes but by then Jeppe was speaking in Danish and when I heard the name Inge-Lise I guessed what would come next.

  “He asks if you’ve come back because you know more about Inge-Lise,” Steffen said. “Do you know who that is? He hasn’t told me.”

  “Yeah, we talked about her yesterday,” I said, then looked at Jeppe. “I don’t know, Jeg ved ikke. Can you tell me anything else about her, or about what happened when she went missing?”

  Steffen translated that, then listened as Jeppe spoke, gesturing around him at the woods and then more specifically at the Blue House and the hollow to his right.

  Finally Jeppe paused and Steffen turned to me. “He says the police searched all through this area – the wood. There were local people, also, like him. He says they didn’t find anything, but the police were interested in the place there, the pit.” He nodded to the hollow. “They looked because there had been a big fire: you know, when wood is piled up?”

  “A bonfire?”

  “Yeh, yeh, that’s it. It had been made for Sankthans, the middle of summer festival, and then burned.”

  I thought about that, remembering something else, then looked at Jeppe. “Can you show me where the fire was?”

  Steffen translated again and Jeppe nodded. “Ja, absolut. Come. Come.”

  He turned and went back down the path with brisk steps. Steffen and I followed singly until Jeppe strode over the bank surrounding the hollow and down on to the flat area below it. He cast around, then moved out a few yards towards the beach and gestured to his feet. “Here.”

  Whether or not that was the exact spot there was no way to know, but Jeppe seemed sure of his recollection as he spoke to Steffen again.

  “He says the police looked through the dirt – the ashes – but they didn’t find anything.”

  “Right,” I said, then scuffed thoughtfully at the grass with my boot. The soil was sandy and loose and against its light colour I spotted something darker. Squatting down I picked up a flake of charcoal, rubbing it between my fingers. When Jeppe saw this he spoke again.

  “He says people have used this place for years,” Steffen said. “Especially in summer, they have parties, make fires. Even now people do that. They aren’t supposed to because it’s private land, but if they live around here they don’t take any notice.”

  I nodded to Jeppe to show I’d understood, then straightened up and wiped my hand on my jeans. “I need to make a phone call,” I told them.

  I moved towards the shoreline, as far as the edge of the grass, while I waited for Hentze to answer his phone. By my feet there was a short drop
to a narrow, sandy beach, littered with twigs and leaves. The grey water was running small wavelets up to the shore, lapping against the sand in short arrhythmic beats.

  After the fifth or sixth ring Hentze came on the line and I cut to the chase. “I need to ask you a couple of things,” I told him. “First off, do you remember me mentioning a place called Vesborggård House last night?”

  “The place where your mother worked?” Hentze said.

  “Right. So you hadn’t heard of it before in any context – linked to the Colony commune maybe?”

  “No, not at all.” He sounded slightly puzzled. “I would have told you.”

  I turned to look back at the semicircular hollow behind me. “Okay, listen, this may be nothing,” I said. “But you told me that the second grave at Múli had been disguised by a bonfire, right?”

  “Ja, so Sophie Krogh thinks. Why?”

  “Because when a girl went missing from one of the villages near Vesborggård House in 1976 the police were interested in the site of a bonfire in the grounds of the house.”

  I could almost hear his frown. “Did they find anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but if they didn’t look underneath…” I let that speak for itself for a moment, then said, “That’s not the only thing I’ve come across, either. I don’t want to go into detail on the phone, but I’ve spoken to someone who was put through a similar experience to the girl you told me about – Sunnvør.”

  He understood immediately what I was talking about. “Where did this happen?” he said.

  “Also at Vesborggård House.”

  “And you’re sure the same thing was done in the same way?”

  “The person I spoke to was older than Sunnvør, but what happened to her sounds very similar, yes. She also mentioned a Faroese man called Mickey. Has that name come up at your end?”

  “No, no one has mentioned anyone called Mickey. It isn’t a Faroese name.”

  “What about as a nickname for Michael?”

  “Mikkjal? No, I don’t think we would use it, but maybe in Denmark…” He trailed off to think about that for a second. “Do you know any more about this man?”

  “Only that he was Faroese and worked at Vesborggård House in 1976.”

  Hentze was silent again, then he said, “I think I’d like to look at that place. Are you there now?”

  “Yeah. Where are you?”

  “On my way to a place called Horsens. Can you hold on for a minute? I want to stop and look at the map.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  While I waited I lit a cigarette. Near the centre of the hollow Jeppe and Steffen were standing together in conversation and I guessed Jeppe was probably telling the younger man the story he’d told me about Inge-Lise.

  “Okay, I can get there in less than two hours, I think,” Hentze said on the phone. “Will you wait for me there?”

  “Yeah, I can wait,” I said. “But Hjalti, listen, I want to bring the local police in on this, too. Like I said, there are some other things about this place – not just a possible link to the Faroes. I think they should be looked at, or at least talked about.” I waited to see what his response to that would be, but for a second there was none. “Hjalti?”

  “Yeh, I’m here. I was just thinking. Do you need me to find a contact for you in the local police?”

  “No, there’s someone I talked to last time I was here – a CID guy called Friis from Aarhus. He seemed okay, so I’ll see if I can get hold of him.”

  “It sounds as if you have what you need, then. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  I wasn’t sure if I’d heard a slight note of reservation in his voice after I’d mentioned Friis, but it was too late to worry about it now. “Okay, head for Skanderborg and Ry and I’ll text you the address.”

  I rang off, took a drag on my cigarette, then pulled up Thomas Friis’s number.

  “It’s Jan Reyna,” I said when he answered. “Have you got a minute to talk?”

  “Er, yes, I think so. Hold on for a moment. Okay. Go ahead.”

  “It’s about Inge-Lise Hoffmann,” I said. “When she went missing there was a police search in the grounds at Vesborggård House and according to someone who was there at the time, the police were interested in the site of a fire by the lake. I’m assuming they didn’t find any evidence of Inge-Lise, but if I’m right I think they might have missed something.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I’d rather show you in person. I’m at Vesborggård House now. Can you come out and meet me?”

  In the silence I knew he was probably weighing up how likely this was to be a waste of his time. If I’d still been a copper I would have done the same thing, although I wouldn’t necessarily have come to the same decision he did.

  “Okay, I can be there in about half an hour,” he said.

  “Tak. I’ll see you then.”

  I turned away from the lake and went back to Jeppe and Steffen.

  “You called the police?” Steffen asked as I approached.

  I wasn’t sure how much he’d heard or understood of what I’d said on the phone, but there didn’t seem much point in lying about it so I nodded. “An officer’s coming to look.”

  “Jeppe told me the story about the girl,” Steffen said before Jeppe cut him off with a question and a gesture at the ground. “He wants to know if you think Inge-Lise is here.”

  My interest in the location had obviously let Jeppe put two and two together but rather than confirm it I made an open gesture. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So someone will dig?” Steffen asked.

  I shrugged. “It’ll depend what they think when I’ve talked to them.”

  I knew it wouldn’t be an easy thing to sell, though, even to Hentze. Friis would probably be a lot harder to convince. All I could do was wait.

  * * *

  On the road verge Hentze’s car was occasionally rocked by the wake of passing trucks. He looked at his road atlas again, considering the diversion he’d have to make to meet Reyná instead of going to Horsens. It was one or the other, given the distances and the directions. He called Annika.

  “Hey, Hjalti.”

  “Hey. Tell me something: has anyone you’ve spoken to about Mikkjal Tausen ever referred to him as Mickey?”

  “Mickey? Like the mouse? No.”

  Hentze took a second, then made up his mind. “Okay, listen,” he said. “I want you to call Mikkjal Tausen and arrange to go and see him as soon as you can. Tell him I’m on holiday and that you’re looking after the Boas Justesen case until I get back. You haven’t met him, have you?”

  “Tausen? No.”

  “Good, so play up the fact that I’ve left you holding the baby and make lots of apologies for having to bother him again. Tell him you need to check some details about Boas Justesen: it doesn’t matter if we already know the answers, just think of something that means you need to see Tausen in person.”

  “Okay,” Annika said. “So what do you really want to know?”

  “I want to know where he lived and worked before he went to the States. The last time I saw him he told me he worked in Denmark after he left the islands, but I want more detail than that. In particular, was he ever living or working in the Skanderborg area. He’s been pretty chatty with me, so if you can get him talking about living in Denmark he may open up.”

  “Got it,” Annika said. “Do you want me to call you back when I’ve seen him?”

  “Yes, as soon as you can. And Annika, don’t go alone. Take Oddur or Dánjal.”

  “Won’t that make it look like my visit’s a bit more than just checking a few facts?”

  “Maybe, but even so, not alone.”

  “Are you thinking that Mikkjal Tausen could be the one who killed Boas?” Annika asked.

  “That depends on what you find out, but yes, I think there’s a chance of that now.”

  “What about his alibi – his girlfriend – and the fact that his car didn’t use the
Leirvík tunnel that night?”

  “I don’t know yet. She could have been lying about when she was with him.”

  “Or maybe he used her car,” Annika said. “I’ll check.”

  “Yeh, good. And let me know when you’ve spoken to Tausen.”

  He rang off and put the phone to one side, assessing the road up ahead for a moment. Finally he made up his mind, put the car into gear and signalled that he was pulling away.

  33

  THOMAS FRIIS ARRIVED ABOUT FORTY MINUTES AFTER I’D called him. He was dressed in the same, immaculate suit he’d been wearing yesterday.

  “You didn’t go back to Copenhagen,” he said, closing his car door and looking around.

  “I went but then I came back again,” I told him.

  “Oh, I see.” Whatever that told him he considered it for a moment, then shifted. “You said you had something to show me regarding Inge-Lise Hoffmann?”

  He cast a slightly dubious look around at the building site. The proximity of mud and concrete may have been making him think about his suit.

  “It’s down there, through the woods,” I told him. “If you’ve got boots…”

  He went round to the back of his car and put on a pair of wellingtons, tucking his trousers into them. Somehow it wasn’t an incongruous look on him and we set off along the path towards the lake. I expected him to start asking questions to prepare for whatever I was going to show him, but having made the decision to come this far on faith, he seemed content to wait.

  Instead he examined his surroundings with interest until we turned off the tarmac track. Then he said, “After we spoke yesterday I looked in more depth at Inge-Lise’s file. Because I was curious,” he added, as if he expected me to ask. “Even so, there isn’t much more information. She was last seen by her brother, here on 23 June 1976. He worked at the house as a gardener and she spent a few minutes with him, then left on her bicycle. When she didn’t come home by that evening her parents reported her missing and there was a search. Her bicycle was found beside a road, and also her purse, but nothing more was discovered – there was no body – so the case was left open as a missing person.”