* * *
An hour and a half after the sun had set behind the heavy, grey, overcast sky, Assad and Carl had remedied what Carl had neglected. And when they turned the light on in the living room, it was possible to see clearly what effect the review of the Alberte Goldschmid case had had on their disabled friend. As always, his body was like a pillar of salt in the wheelchair, but his eyes were present and more than ready to overlook all his limitations.
“So this June Habersaat, now Kofoed, is perhaps your key to getting a name and a description of your prime suspect, or maybe even more than that?”
“Maybe, yes. Rose thinks so anyway.”
“Yes, and me, too,” Assad said, nodding.
“But she wouldn’t talk with you, so she isn’t likely to next time either.”
“Rose thinks we can threaten her but I don’t think so.”
“And now you’ve more or less reached a stumbling block in the story.” He smiled. “What is it they say when a story’s reached a deadlock? You just need to introduce a unicorn, and then things take off again. Or a flying elephant, for want of something better.”
Assad nodded. “Where I come from, we say that if you can’t do anything else, then you have to ride your camel in the fifth way.”
At that, Carl lost the thread for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear an explanation of either the first four or the fifth.
“Something to do with at the front, in the middle, at the back, or on the humps,” said Hardy. “I’ve heard it.”
Assad nodded. “And the fifth is with your foot firmly in its backside. Makes the animal run like crazy.”
Carl was somewhere else altogether. “Say again what it was June Habersaat reeled off out on the road in Aakirkeby, Assad.”
He flicked through his notebook. “I didn’t manage to get it written down straightaway, but something along these lines: Wish I had a river that I could skate away on. But it don’t snow here, it stays pretty and green.” He looked up at Hardy with a puzzled expression. “Does that sound right?”
Hardy’s face twitched. “Just about,” he said. “It’s Joni Mitchell.”
Carl gaped. “You know it?”
“Can you come and help me, Mika?” said Hardy.
Morten reluctantly let go of his muscular partner. Everyone was together, so the large ex-mama of the house was happy again.
“What was the title, Hardy?” asked Mika.
“The song’s called ‘River.’ You can find it on the playlist on the iPod. Put it in the docking station so everyone can hear.”
Carl googled it while Mika scrolled through the playlists with thousands of songs.
“I’ve got it,” said Mika after scrolling for a moment. “Joni Mitchell, ‘River,’ 1970.”
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Hardy. “It starts a bit strange.”
A few seconds passed and then came the first few bars of “Jingle Bells,” a bit jazzy, a bit discordant, but “Jingle Bells” all the same.
Carl and Assad listened intensely. When they came to the right part of the lyrics, Assad thrust his thumb in the air.
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on . . .
It was sung by a crisp voice to a melancholy piano accompaniment. A whole four minutes on longing and loss.
Carl nodded to himself. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that Hardy knew that song.
“Try and find one of those websites that analyzes songs, Carl. There are loads of forums that do,” said Hardy.
Carl typed in the title and looked down over the page of links. The fifth one was a hit.
He read out what was written.
“Joni Mitchell is Canadian but moved to California to be a hippie and follow her musical career. The song ‘River’ is about spending Christmas far from home in a strange place with strange traditions—without snow or ice-skating. To put it briefly, the song is about a desire to put the present behind you and return to more simple and innocent days.”
They looked at each other, until Hardy broke the silence.
“She sings beautifully, and it expresses a lot. It hits me right in the heart when I hear it, you’ll understand. I just don’t know what it means in this situation. I don’t know this June Habersaat. What had you just spoken about when she quoted it?”
Carl pushed his lip forward. How on earth should he be able to remember that?
“She’d just said to me that I didn’t know her dreams or how much she’d fought to fulfill them,” said Assad. “When she said that, it was easy to understand why she’d recite something like this.”
It went silent again. None of them knew what they should make of it. It would’ve been a different story if Rose had been there.
“Would anyone like some soup?” Morten sang from somewhere in the region of the kitchen. It brought Carl to.
“If you think carefully about it, June Habersaat probably hasn’t seen so many of her dreams fulfilled in life.”
“Not many, no. But, then, who has?” asked Hardy. “But the affair with that young man, don’t you think that was one of them?”
“Probably, yes. But it just doesn’t add up for me that she’d suddenly blurt out those lyrics. I don’t think June Habersaat is the Joni Mitchell–listening type.”
“There was nothing but easy-listening music on her shelves,” added Assad. “Absolute Hits one to a thousand, stuff like that.”
“‘River’ is a very poetical, ethereal, and ambiguous song,” said Hardy. “If she isn’t the sort who normally listens to that type of music, then no doubt there’s someone else who put it in her head. Is it possible she learned the song from that man? He was also in search of bygone days, wasn’t he? Occult sites from the Bronze Age, sunstones, round churches and Knights Templar, long hair and hippie dancing years too late.”
“And if that’s the case, what would you use it for?”
“I’d try to ride the camel with the foot in number five,” said Hardy.
Assad gave him a thumbs-up. If it was something to do with camels, he was with you all the way.
* * *
Five minutes later three men were sitting around Hardy’s wheelchair in anticipation. Morten’s soup would have to wait.
“Dial June Habersaat’s number, Mika,” said Hardy. No sooner said than done. “Are you ready with the iPod?”
He nodded.
Mika pressed the call button and held the cell five centimeters from Hardy’s ear.
“June Kofoed,” answered a voice. Then Mika pressed PLAY on the iPod and Joni Mitchell’s voice filled the room again.
Ever so slowly, Mika moved the cell toward Hardy’s mouth.
For a moment, the paralyzed man sat there without blinking, eyes unfocused. Now he was a policeman on the job, deep in concentration; a man who knew when the timing was right, the tone just so, and the voice suitably anonymous.
“June” was all he said, while the music played in the background.
There was a pause that might’ve caused others to give up, but Hardy still didn’t blink.
There came a sound from the other end, and Hardy’s eyes jumped up.
“Yes,” he said, nothing else.
And again, sounds from the other end.
“Okay, I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. How are you?” he asked.
A few further sentences were exchanged, and then he cricked his neck slightly. “She interrupted,” he said. “She was on to me in the end, that or she just didn’t want to talk to the guy.”
“Out with it,” said Carl impatiently. “Let’s hear everything that was said, and as precisely as possible. Take notes, Assad.”
“I just said her name: June. And she replied: Is that you, Frank? And I replied Yes. Then she began to breathe deeply. It was very odd because I thought she was moved to be talking to him but what she
said next was strangely harsh: A strange way to contact me after seventeen years. I never imagined I’d be hearing from you again. Maybe you’ve heard that Bjarke’s dead? He took his own life, is that why you’re calling? I replied that I was sorry to hear that and said I didn’t know about her son. Then I asked how she was but she replied with a question about where I was. I asked where she thought I was, and then she replied: You’re playing the miracle man, aren’t you? Then I think I messed up, but you heard that, when I asked her what she thought I was called these days. It was very clumsy.”
“She just hung up?”
“Yes. But now we know that the person called himself Frank, that he was Danish, and that he hasn’t had contact with her for years.”
“But the question remains whether it’s the same man we’re looking for,” Carl said thoughtfully. “Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that she mixed them up when I called to question her about the man with the VW Kombi.”
“It’s him, Carl, I’m sure,” said Assad. “He bolted from the island after what happened to Alberte. It’s the same person that Habersaat was looking for, and who went to bed with both his wife and Alberte, and probably lots more besides. Kristoffer hit the nail on the head when he called him a Don Juan.”
“And June just called him a miracle man, which also fits in with our man. Good, let’s go a little further with this assumption.”
Carl googled once more.
“He was called Frank. How many people do you think there are called Frank in the kingdom of Denmark who are also around forty-five years old?”
“I don’t know very many,” answered Assad. Not an especially relevant observation in statistical terms.
“No, me neither. But right now there’s a total of eleven thousand three hundred and nineteen registered with that name in Denmark. According to the Statistics Denmark database, there are approximately five hundred who’ve been given the name since 1987, so it isn’t very popular anymore. We don’t know the exact age of the person we’re looking for, but if we say, for example, that back then he was somewhere between midtwenties and early thirties, we wouldn’t be totally off. And then comes the next question: How popular was that name in the period 1968 to 1973? We can’t just guess our way to the answer, so you’ll have to get in touch with Statistics Denmark, Assad. But I think it must be in the thousands. So what do we do if that’s the case? We can’t seek them all out and cross-examine them, can we?”
It was a rhetorical question but Hardy apparently didn’t agree.
“We’ll just have to roll up our sleeves. Well, I mean you’ll all have to. I assume that I can be spared the cross-examinations,” he said, smiling.
Carl returned a surly smile, but despite everything this was quite positive. They had a name. And Hardy was back on track.
26
Monday, March 17th, 2014
Nothing happened for a long time. Pirjo kept to herself, regularly changing the frequency of her conscious energy with the help of the nature absorption methods, all the while keeping her body healthy to ensure optimal conditions for the new little person growing inside her. She took part in their communal assemblies inside and sun assemblies down on the beach, just as she normally did. She kept herself busy with her work and other administrative tasks. Made sure the upkeep of the building was taken care of, and that new guests settled in quickly. She wanted to be pregnant again later, and Atu shouldn’t have any grounds for thinking that it affected her daily activities.
New Year’s Eve had started as it usually did, under the open sky with Atu’s praise of the year’s cycle. They assembled in a ring around the fire on the beach, each person expressing in their own way a great sense of community in a common knowledge that life constantly offered new chapters. The coming year should be the one from which all their future deeds should emanate.
Pirjo nodded gently to herself with the realization that nothing in her situation could be truer, and that from now on she didn’t need to be alone in that knowledge. So when the round dance was finished, and each person was heading to their room for the first quiet meditation of the New Year, Pirjo grabbed Atu’s hand and thanked him for the person he was, and the person he’d soon be.
Then she led his hand down toward her abdomen and explained the situation to him straight out.
From that moment when his face began to glow, Pirjo felt that nothing in the world could threaten her newly won harmony and happiness.
The situation continued for her in this way for two and a half months, and then this inner balance was destroyed.
It was a Monday and Pirjo had had many calls on the Light of the Oracle telephone line. Yet another few thousand kroner had made its way into the account.
She’d looked at the clock and was talking with the last client of the day.
“I can sense by the color of your voice and what you’re telling me that you are an important force for change in the world,” she had said for at least the tenth time today. “It seems as if there are extraordinary development perspectives for your personality. I’m actually feeling right now that a uniquely special personality like yours would obtain lifelong benefits from me referring you to the Holistic Chain. From here it will be possible to establish all your options and also show you the path to achieve the mental strength and stability required to ensure you get the full benefit of your obvious talents.”
They were the sort of declarations people wanted to hear. And when you first reached that point, they were insatiable, and that meant time, which in turn meant money rolling in.
Pirjo had enjoyed it. On an average day, her oratory skills were limited mostly to practical information and a bit of haggling with the local suppliers, but she was in her element here.
“You ask which of your future perspectives I would accentuate, but it isn’t such a straightforward question. If you look . . .”
At that moment a recognizable silhouette appeared over Pirjo’s desk. Shirley’s outline was absolutely unique among all the ascetic disciples, so Pirjo turned around to face her with one of her usual subdued smiles, despite the fact that Shirley had once again chosen to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign. This was the tone she’d chosen to adopt with this woman for the past few months now. The less contact there was between them, the less chance there was of questions being asked.
But this time, Pirjo’s smile wasn’t reciprocated.
“There’s something I don’t understand, Pirjo,” Shirley said in a more subdued manner than usual.
Pirjo raised her hand to signal that she’d have to wait a moment, and finished her conversation with an apology and a promise that she’d like to present all the wonderful things they had spoken about to the person in charge at the Holistic Chain. That way, they would be able to pick things up from there when she called on Wednesday. She then wished the woman good luck and turned toward Shirley.
“What don’t you understand, Shirley?”
“This.” She held out something dark in one hand, passing it to Pirjo.
It was a belt with diagonal stripes in red and grey.
“A belt, okay?” said Pirjo, taking it as if it were a rattlesnake ready to strike. “What about it?” she heard herself ask while all her senses revolved around trying to maintain her mental balance while also trying to work out what could’ve happened.
She’d emptied the box of all Wanda Phinn’s belongings only a week after the murder, and then burned them. Could she have overlooked the belt? Could she have?
“What is it with this belt, Shirley? Is it yours? Maybe you think you’ve grown fatter or thinner than you anticipated?” she said, her own voice sounding somewhere far off.
Was it the same belt? She couldn’t remember it. Maybe she hadn’t even really noticed it.
“No, it isn’t mine, but I know this belt,” said Shirley.
Could the belt have fallen down to the bottom of the removal box? But wha
t business did Shirley have up in the highest loft space in the Stable of Senses? It didn’t make any sense.
She was thinking so much that it hurt. She had burned a belt. Hadn’t there been a buckle in the ash when she threw it out in the sea? Or had there?
“You say you know the belt? Is it a special brand, perhaps?” Pirjo turned it over a few times, shaking her head at the same time. “It doesn’t ring a bell with me. Not other than that it’s a pretty belt.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Shirley. She seemed genuinely shaken. “I bought that belt, but not for myself. It was a birthday present for my best friend, just before she left London. The one you all say has never been here. Wanda Phinn, don’t you remember, I asked about her when I arrived?”
Pirjo nodded. “Not quite the name, but yes, you mentioned a friend that you thought was over here. But belts look alike, Shirley, don’t they?” She smiled as best she could. “Well, I don’t know so much about clothes, I mean it’s not so often we wear . . . you know.” She let a hand slide down over her modest robe.
Shirley pulled the belt back. “It was very expensive, not something I can normally afford. I’d never buy it for myself, but I really wanted to give it to Wanda, and I managed to get it a bit cheaper because of this.” She pointed to a long and very superficial scratch on the belt.
Pirjo shook her head. “I don’t understand how it got here. Where did you get it?”
“From Jeanette.”
“Jeanette?” Pirjo could sense now that desperation was setting in. She had to pull herself together. Not one evasive glance, not one unintentional look must give her away. “But, Shirley, she isn’t here. Jeanette left this morning. Her sister is very sick, you know. That’s why she’s left us, to look after her. I don’t actually think Jeanette will be coming back.”
“She told me that, I know. And she collected her old clothes from a removal box up in the loft, just where she’d left them three years ago. But she noticed that her belt was missing and that this was in the box instead. So she took it. I helped her to pack and noticed the colors, the buckle, and the scratch when she bent over her case.”
The Hanging Girl Page 25
