The Lost Woman

by Sara Blaedel

  Camilla signaled and parked over by the curb.

  * * *

  The bicycle mechanic, a small man with tousled gray hair and a mustache, stood for a moment in the doorway of the repair shop, drying his hands on an oily rag. He flung the rag down before walking over to the counter. He didn’t seem thrilled at the sight of a customer, Camilla thought, before introducing herself.

  “I’m from Morgenavisen, and I’m very interested in speaking to someone who knew Sofie Bygmann.” She let that hang in the air for a moment, hoping for a reaction, but he didn’t respond. “The preacher’s wife who disappeared,” she added.

  Finally, he reacted, but it was difficult for her to interpret. Maybe he was rebuffing her, maybe he was acknowledging that he knew the wife. They stood for a moment without speaking.

  “Did you know her?” Camilla said.

  The bicycle mechanic pushed his glasses above his forehead and laid his palms on the counter. He nodded as he leaned forward. “Her folks bought her first bicycle here.”

  Camilla smiled and nodded to encourage him.

  “She rode up and down the street here, singing, ‘The light works, the light works!’ But that’s thirty or forty years ago.” He shook his head ever so slightly.

  “What do you remember from back then?” Camilla said.

  “I’m thinking she went to high school in Vejle, or maybe it was business school. My son was in vo tech, sometimes they rode together in the mornings. He had a driver’s license; he drove her in.”

  He paused, as if biting back the memory.

  “I’d like to speak with him if I could,” she said.

  The man’s expression changed. Finally he said, “That won’t be easy. He died a month short of twenty-one.”

  Camilla’s hands fell to her side. “I’m so sorry.”

  He just looked at her. Then it seemed as if he decided to accept her condolences. “The grocery man’s daughter was Sofie’s best friend. Henriette was some years younger, but they hung out a lot together.”

  He pointed toward town and said she lived in an apartment above the grocery store.

  Camilla smiled and thanked him for his time. Then she asked if it was okay to use his name in her article. He nodded. He didn’t care.

  The bell above the door jingled as she left the shop. The grocery manager’s daughter wasn’t home, so Camilla went into the store and asked for her. At first the store looked deserted, but to the left, beside the bottle recycler, sat a woman in a tiny open room, a mini post office. She shook her head when Camilla asked if she knew where the manager’s daughter was.

  Camilla was about to leave when a storage room door opened. A stocky older woman pushed a cart full of wares into the store, mumbling to herself as she wrestled the cart over a small step without spilling anything.

  “Excuse me,” Camilla said, clearing her throat. The woman in front of her didn’t look up, but her lips moved.

  “Excuse me,” Camilla repeated a bit louder, finally catching the woman’s attention.

  “Yes?” The woman’s voice sounded just service-minded enough not to be clearly dismissive, but it was absolutely not cordial.

  “I’m a journalist,” Camilla said. Presenting herself as an editor was irrelevant, she’d decided. “I’m writing a story about the preacher’s wife, who disappeared several years ago. Did you know her?”

  The woman nodded slowly, as if she was thinking that the smart thing might be to keep her mouth shut. “I went to church. Well, I still do, but things changed without a preacher’s wife.”

  “Changed how?”

  “When she left him, all the joy in the church disappeared. Everything was different.”

  “What happened back then?”

  The woman shook her head slightly. “Hard to say. There was all that business with her mother. So yeah, it’s hard for us to say what happened exactly.”

  “With her mother? What happened to her?”

  The woman peered at Camilla as if she’d just remembered this journalist was an out-of-towner who didn’t know all the local stories. “She took seriously ill. She didn’t want to keep on living, but the pills she got her hands on didn’t work. They did more harm than good, if you get my drift.”

  Camilla didn’t, not exactly, but the woman explained before she could ask. “She died soon after anyway, at the hospital, and then Sofie disappeared. These days you’d probably say she was depressed. Back then, no one really supported her, or we just didn’t know how bad a shape she was in. I don’t think her husband understood just how hard she was grieving, either, though he must’ve been used to that sort of thing.”

  She cleared her throat noisily. “But now I see in the paper she didn’t kill herself. That’s likely what most people thought happened.”

  “No,” Camilla said, “she’d been living in England. And she was murdered.”

  The woman nodded and straightened out her blouse. “I feel sorry for the preacher. He doesn’t deserve all that business coming out again.”

  * * *

  The cold wind bit into Camilla’s cheeks out on the sidewalk. The shutters on a beat-up old hotdog wagon across the street rattled, and a bus headed for Vejle drove by, splashing water on her boots before she could step back. She stood for a moment; should she visit the preacher now, or wait until she’d spoken with more people?

  Her cell phone rang. Terkel Høyer, she thought instinctively, calling to hear how things are going…or no, he probably doesn’t think he has the resources to even make a call anymore.

  It was Frederik. She said hi, but the second she heard his voice, she knew her husband wasn’t calling just to see if she had arrived safely in Jutland.

  “I just got an email. I have to go to Los Angeles this week. They want me to meet the other writers and the series producer.”

  “That’s great,” Camilla said. “Everything’s getting started.”

  “It’s not great at all. I told them I wanted to work from Denmark. That all the meetings had to be on Skype.”

  “But it’s obvious that the other writers need to meet you in person.”

  “Sure,” he said, “and I’ve got nothing against going over and meeting them. But apparently they expect me to stay.”

  “I’d think it would be better for all of you to start out together. Also for you. So you’re sure they know your thoughts about the story and character development.”

  He sighed and admitted she was right. “But the least they could have done was give us more time to plan. Now we’re going to have to stay at a hotel first, then we’ll have to start looking for a nice apartment, or maybe a house out on the coast.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, and you’ll have to look around for a place for us to live; I’m going to be working a whole lot for a while. But, of course, it’s important to find a place that suits you.”

  “Honey, hey! I’m not going to Los Angeles, and anyway, what about Markus? We can’t just leave him here in boarding school. And what about my job?”

  She laughed. Then she realized he was serious. That they should move. But that hadn’t been part of the deal. Certainly not now, just when she was beginning to enjoy her job at Morgenavisen. Besides, it felt surreal talking to Frederik about L.A. while she was in a small, wind-blown village on the edge of the Jutland Bible Belt.

  Farther down the sidewalk, a woman around Camilla’s age approached pushing a stroller. She stopped at the front door of the apartment above the grocery store. She dug into her pocket for her keys, then she lifted the travel sleeper out and secured the rain cover before pushing the stroller snuggly against the wall.

  “I’ve got to run, we’ll have to talk when I get home,” Camilla blurted out. She hung up with the sense that this sudden situation would be difficult to handle. She didn’t want to be away from Frederik. She really didn’t want to. But her time as a rich man’s housewife was over.

  She put her phone on mute and walked over behind the woman, who was opening the front door with a
shopping bag under her arm while holding on to her baby’s sleeper.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Camilla said. She held the door as she introduced herself and asked if she was Henriette, and could she speak with her for a moment?

  “You’ll have to come up with me,” the woman said.

  The scent of cinnamon rolls and wet coats filled the stairway. Sofie’s old friend led the way up the stairs, struggling with the travel sleeper while Camilla carried the shopping bag. Inside the apartment, Camilla had the impression that the woman lived there alone. No large coats hung in the entryway, and only women’s shoes and boots stood on the shoe rack. Also, her name was the only one on the front door’s nameplate.

  “Go on into the living room,” Henriette said, as she unwrapped the homemade woolen scarf from around her neck. Long blond hair fell down her back. Her cheeks were rosy red, and Camilla saw no anger or rejection in her blue eyes.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Sofie Bygmann, if that’s okay? I’m writing an article about her.”

  Henriette seemed a bit puzzled about the last name. “She took back her maiden name,” Camilla explained. “Did you see her after she left Stig Tåsing?”

  The baby slept quietly in the sleeper. Henriette laid it on the double bed in her bedroom, then she walked into the kitchen, tore off a paper towel, and blew her nose. “Left him?”

  She returned to the living room and gazed at Camilla for a moment. A hint of a smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “Sofie never left her husband. Stig threw her out because she and the doctor helped her mother die.” She gestured for Camilla to sit down on the sofa. “When Sofie disappeared, everybody focused on finding her. Nobody cared about how that asshole treated her.”

  “What do you mean, helped her mother die?”

  “Her mother tried to commit suicide, but she screwed it up. She ended up laying there like a vegetable. We don’t know exactly what happened, but the talk was that the doctor and Sofie agreed to help her mother end her life, since that’s what she’d wanted. They probably turned up the morphine drip, and the pastor didn’t think they had the right to do that.”

  This surprised Camilla. She straightened up. “The impression I had was that they were the perfect couple; everyone liked her and got along well with the pastor. I’ve heard nothing about him treating her badly. Was he violent?”

  “Violent.” Henriette smiled, as if the thought was absurd. “Not really, he just refused to bury her mother because she decided to end her own life. Or tried to, anyway. And because the doctor and Sofie helped her take the last step.”

  “Can pastors really refuse?” That also surprised Camilla. She knew of several cases where pastors refused to bury suicides, but the clergymen were from free churches, those not funded by taxpayers like the mainstream houses of worship, if she remembered right.

  Henriette shrugged. “The whole town knows he’s sort of a maverick in the church. He won’t marry people who were married before, and he won’t have anything to do with gays. But he’s also just a really nice guy, very well liked. And he was a big shot in the local sports organization.”

  “Did it end up in court?” Camilla had her notebook out and was taking notes.

  Henriette shook her head. “It never got that far, it was only a big deal here in town. He threw her out before anything more happened.”

  “And what about the doctor?”

  “He couldn’t prove anything, but he made life hell for her, she had to move away.”

  A small grunt came over the baby alarm, but Henriette didn’t move. The sound disappeared.

  “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

  Henriette thought for a moment, but then she shook her head. “It was so long ago.”

  Camilla nodded slowly.

  “I think what Sofie couldn’t really accept was that her mother couldn’t be buried in the churchyard when her own daughter was the pastor’s wife. When her husband didn’t mind burying the bike mechanic’s son, a drunk driver who killed himself and the baker’s son in an accident.”

  She shook her head again. “But I didn’t even get a chance to talk to her. All of a sudden she was gone.” She stared straight ahead, a sad look on her face. “And the next thing we heard was that she disappeared, down in the Mediterranean.”

  * * *

  Stig Tåsing didn’t seem particularly surprised when Camilla showed up at the manse. She understood why as they walked into the kitchen.

  “Tove down at the grocery called and warned me that a journalist from the capital had shown up, digging into the old story about my wife’s disappearance. But it’s no shock,” he added with a smile, “considering that Sofie has apparently been found.”

  The pastor’s hair was chestnut brown; Camilla suspected that he dyed it. He was tall and stocky, somewhat southern European in appearance due to his brown eyes and full eyelashes.

  “I admit I was surprised when the police all of a sudden stood out here in the hall and told me she was the Danish woman shot in England.”

  “And you haven’t been in touch with her since she disappeared?” Camilla said. It had been eighteen years since his wife left him—or he threw her out. What would be the natural reaction after so long a time? she wondered.

  He shook his head. “Let’s sit down in the living room.” He opened a double door into three high-ceilinged rooms.

  Though his expression was dark, he seemed more curious than annoyed at Camilla showing up out of the blue. He invited her to sit down, adding that he had just brewed a pot of tea. “Would you like a cup?”

  Camilla thanked him. She tried to capture the atmosphere of the room. The furniture was a bit heavy, like heirlooms, and paintings hung from every wall. She guessed that much of it came from the previous pastor, but of course he might have picked it out himself, because it fit the large rooms well.

  “Milk?”

  She shook her head, and he handed her a large, flowered porcelain cup that looked like it came from an English tea service.

  “I don’t mind talking to you, but I’d like to read the article before it appears in your newspaper.” He waited for her to answer.

  Camilla nodded. “Of course.” He seemed very straightforward and easy to talk to. She had no trouble seeing him on a soccer field with the town’s young boys; it was more difficult envisioning him standing above the congregation in the pulpit. She didn’t doubt, however, that his dark, resonant voice was effective inside the church.

  She studied him as he slowly stirred his tea. How had Sofie’s abandoned husband felt, living in uncertainty all these years, only to be told that his missing wife had been killed in England? Stig and his wife had never been divorced, yet she had married another man. So many questions remained. Camilla tried to prioritize them for her interview, but the one that dominated all others was the first one out of her mouth.

  “Why did you refuse to perform the funeral service for your mother-in-law?” She saw at once that the question startled him, so much that he couldn’t hide it.

  He folded his hands and sat rubbing his thumbs together a moment before looking up. He sent her a thoughtful, appraising look, as if he were considering whether or not to talk about this. Then he nodded slowly.

  “I won’t deny that I condemn suicide. Or perhaps I should say,” he added, as if he were only now checking his feelings on the matter, “that I refuse to accept it as an option. It’s a selfish act, one I cannot support here in my church.” His voice was deep, as if he wanted to emphasize his point.

  He took a sip of tea and looked at Camilla. “It’s not an acceptable solution. I strongly believe that God decides when we should die. God alone.”

  Camilla concentrated on writing his words down verbatim.

  “As I understand it, your mother-in-law was very ill. Her pain had become too much for her to stand. Shouldn’t we have the right to decide when to die in such cases?”

  “How do we know when the decision is well considered? When are people able to judge
they’re ready to die? Those who commit suicide are only handing down their own unhappiness to their survivors.”

  His questions weren’t posed in anger or with any desire to further discuss them. Camilla had the impression that he was very interested in the subject. “I suggested a memorial ceremony for my wife’s mother, but she rejected that idea completely. She wanted the services performed under the auspices of the Church, and I couldn’t go along with that. Just as I can’t treat individuals in my church differently.”

  His teacup empty, he glanced at his watch. “I assume the people you’ve talked to here have told you the services took place in our neighboring town’s church?”

  Camilla shook her head. A heavy silence fell between them, then he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands for a moment, as if he needed a break. He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened up, his head shaking ever so slightly. “Everyone spoke up. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone thought they knew what happened, because after all, they knew us.”

  “What did happen?” Camilla asked quietly.

  Another silence followed. She had the feeling he might stand up and end the interview, but he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, folded his hands over his stomach, and took a deep breath.

  “What happened was, after we argued, my wife decided, as I said, to have her mother’s funeral service in another church. She made several accusations against me and my theology, and it ended up becoming very personal. As conflicts caused by deep sorrow often are.”

  Camilla nodded. Her parents were still alive, but even though she was a married adult with her own son, Markus, she still feared the day she would lose them. She had almost lost her father several years earlier, after an assault disabled him.

  “Sofie was very close to her mother. They spoke together several times a day. The loss was very difficult for her, and she didn’t act rationally.”

  He paused a moment. “I don’t know what it was, but in any case she wasn’t herself. And two days after the funeral, that morning, she packed her bags and waited in the kitchen for me to come downstairs. She said she was leaving me. She needed to get away. And I admit thinking that she was right. She needed to put her mother’s death behind her, but I had absolutely no idea I’d never see her again. I thought she might have plans to borrow somebody’s summerhouse, or visit a friend on Zealand.”