by Sara Blaedel
“Good. Set up a meeting with the clinic in Switzerland as soon as possible, and this time the paper is covering your expenses.”
“I’m meeting with the director at five o’clock today. My flight leaves a few minutes past noon.”
Just before the door closed, she heard Høyer say, “I should’ve known.”
19
Something in Davies’s voice set off alarm bells in Louise’s head.
She had just turned on her computer and put water on for tea. Charlie was in Eik’s office; he could take over caring for the dog when he found time to show up for work. His office looked exactly the way it had Friday afternoon, so she had filled the German shepherd’s water bowl and given him a dog biscuit to chew on.
She rolled her chair over to her desk and sat down. Davies’s voice was distant and aloof in a way that disturbed her. “I’m calling to inform you that we have arrested Eik Nordstrøm this morning for the murder of Sofie Parker.”
She couldn’t hold back a short burst of laughter. “What in the world are you talking about?” She nodded distractedly at Olle, who had just walked in and was unpacking himself out of his enormous down coat.
“Yesterday evening Nordstrøm broke into the Parker family home and demanded to see the daughter’s room. That led to a nasty confrontation with Nigel Parker, and we were called in.”
Louise was too stunned to speak. The idiot had gone back to England without saying a word? The pain was so bad that her skin crawled. They had lived together for six months, but apparently he didn’t trust her enough to share his thoughts with her. And she had no way of knowing what the hell was going on in his head.
“What’s more, Mrs. Parker’s office has been searched again, though at present we don’t know what, if anything, has been taken.”
She felt Olle’s eyes on her from the other side of the desk. She tried to concentrate and push her own frustrations away for a moment. “But his being over there is hardly a reason for a murder charge. I admit I wasn’t aware he’d returned to England, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again in your investigation.”
“From what you’ve said, I have to believe you haven’t received the latest information from Europol. Late yesterday we learned that Eik Nordstrøm was in Zurich at the time that Sofie Parker opened her Swiss bank account. According to information supplied by a Danish bank, he made withdrawals from the Danish bank on that date. Therefore it’s quite probable that he knew about the account.”
Olle was at her desk now. He mouthed, What the hell is going on? She pressed her lips together and held her breath while her brain raced to process what Davies had said. She felt helpless, blind to what else the English officer knew. She steadied herself and said, “It’s very probable that Eik was in Switzerland at the same time as Sofie Parker. They were traveling together before boarding the boat she disappeared from. But that doesn’t connect my colleague with the account she opened, and I know for a fact that nothing in his own bank account points to money being deposited from a foreign country.”
At once she regretted what she had said. Stupid, telling him she had knowledge of Eik’s bank account! The English police didn’t need to know they’d had reason to check his bank account. It would be too complicated to explain that they’d been searching for Eik before he showed up in the Nailsea jail. And it certainly wouldn’t put him in a better light.
“What’s more interesting,” Davies continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “is that our techs have finished searching the hard drive of the deceased’s computer. I’m looking right now at a printout of several emails.”
He paused long enough for Louise to feel the stiffness in her body. She forced her shoulders down and straightened up. Olle’s cell phone hummed on his desk; it sounded muffled, as if it were packed in cotton. Louise felt trapped in a bubble where time stood still and sound couldn’t really get through to her.
“It seems that Nordstrøm sent several threatening emails to her.”
The bubble around her burst. “Now you listen! He hasn’t been in contact with Sofie Bygmann since she disappeared in Italy!”
Finally she sensed a crack she could squeeze through. In her mind she was already tearing down his accusations, though she was also enraged at Eik and felt like letting him sail his ship alone.
“That doesn’t seem to be the case.” It took a moment for that to sink in for Louise. “The two of them have been in touch by email regularly.”
“You’re wrong.” She sat up straighter, something flickering inside her. “Someone must have hacked his email.”
After a moment, Davies asked, “Is this a personal thing for you?”
She stared down at her desk, trying to run through various scenarios for what might have happened.
“We verified both accounts,” he continued. “One of them is his work email at National Police Headquarters, the other is his private email. It’s certain that he sent the emails the deceased received.”
He was holding something back; Louise could hear it. He wasn’t going to let her in on all the details. “And when did this email correspondence take place?” She concentrated on controlling her breathing. She needed to calm herself and think clearly. Most of all she wanted to redirect the conversation to Rønholt and wash her hands of the whole case.
“The last email was sent a little over a week before Sofie Parker died. Up to now we only have a temporary summary of what was written, but when it’s all been translated and we’ve read through it, I will forward the emails to you.”
After they hung up, Louise stared straight ahead. She tried to recall what she and Eik had been doing a week before Sofie Parker was shot, but nothing came to her. The days were a blur, and she had no idea when he had emailed the woman she hadn’t even known was still alive.
She couldn’t look at Olle when she stood up and left the office.
“Louise…,” he said, but she was already out the door.
* * *
Hanne was on the phone when Louise marched through the secretary’s office without so much as a glance and barged into Rønholt’s office. He was in a meeting with two gray-haired men she recognized, officers from the National Police.
She ignored the two men. “I have to talk to you.”
She and Rønholt stepped out of the office, then she towed him into the lounge. “What the hell is going on?” For a moment she feared she would start talking and never be able to stop, but suddenly her thoughts cleared. “Eik has been arrested. Again.”
Rønholt raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak she said, “I’ve just spoken with the English police. They suspect him of murdering Sofie Parker, and it looks like they have a very good case against him.”
“Eik didn’t kill anyone,” he said, with a certainty that caused Louise to regret not redirecting Davies’s phone call to his office.
“That may be, or it could also be that we’re the ones in the dark. Like I had no idea he’s been emailing Sofie Parker for some time now. I didn’t know they’d been in touch. And I didn’t know he had some reason to send her threatening emails. Not that I know what he threatened her with. Or why. I didn’t even know he knew she was alive.”
She felt dizzy, thoughts swirling in her head.
Rønholt was standing close to the window in the kitchenette. He leaned back and rested his hands on the countertop. “But they’ll have to release him when they hear he has an alibi for the weekend she was shot. You were together, weren’t you?”
Louise slowly shook her head as she pieced together her memories of those days. “No. I was visiting my parents in Hvalsø, and he wasn’t home when I got back Sunday evening, after driving Jonas to boarding school. It was late. I was asleep when he got in.”
Rønholt stared at the floor.
“They’re charging him with assault against the husband and breaking and entering,” Louise said. “He might even have taken something from Sofie’s office; they haven’t determined that yet. What the hell is going on? Is ther
e anything else besides that fucking basement room you haven’t told me about?”
He shook his head. He still looked calm, but his expression was serious now. “I would be very surprised if Eik actually were in touch with his missing girlfriend. This doesn’t sound at all right to me.”
“Apparently he sent the last email to her no more than two weeks ago.” She had been racking her brain. Some evenings Eik had been sitting in the living room with his computer on his lap when she went to bed. Could he have written the emails then? Or was it late at night after opening a bottle of red wine, even though she was tired and was in bed with a book. Maybe she hadn’t noticed if he had occasionally seemed quiet. She didn’t know, and she couldn’t make sense of it, either, considering all the kissing and sex, and how close they had been during the six months they’d lived together. That he had been writing threatening emails, that something so significant had been happening in his life without her noticing it, made absolutely no sense to her.
“He didn’t do it,” Rønholt said. He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You know Eik. Of course he didn’t kill anyone. But it definitely sounds like he’s gotten himself into serious trouble.”
“You take over from here,” she said, unable to control her emotions now. “Charlie’s in Eik’s office. You’ll have to take care of him. And if there’s anyone you feel should be informed about his arrest, do it. His parents, Ulla out in South Harbor. I’m signing out. I’m all done with this.” Her throat tightened.
He nodded. A deep furrow cleaved his forehead, and he ran his hand through his thick gray beard. “I’d better call the English police. Did they send us the emails he supposedly wrote?”
Louise shook her head and said Davies would send them immediately after they were translated and read. She didn’t want to see them anyway, not at the moment.
Her phone rang; it was her son. Thankful for the interruption, she put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Jonas. Are you on break?”
She almost couldn’t understand him. He was crying and speaking so fast that his words flowed together. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, I need you to come up here.”
20
Damn thing! Camilla pounded the wheel when the GPS for the second time led her onto the wrong entrance ramp. The flight to Zurich had gone quickly, and picking up her rental car had been relatively painless, but the GPS was confused by the various levels of the city and the bridges crossing each other. Right now she was headed in the wrong direction.
The suicide clinic was outside the city. It had moved several times, most recently because several people opposed to assisted suicide had vandalized it after the address had been made public.
When she slowed down to get her bearings, a blaring semi tailgated her. She had to get back to the airport. The semi honked feverishly before pulling up beside her. Camilla ducked and turned off onto the next exit ramp.
Ten minutes later, she was finally headed in the right direction. The clinic was just under an hour away. The roads were cleared of snow even outside the city, and the black asphalt of the road grid spread out before her like a giant web spun onto the white landscape. A thick layer of snow covered roofs of houses and church spires; the city looked like an oversize toy Christmas scene, the surrounding mountains rising up like enormous dikes protecting the city. She savored the view of the snow-covered mountainsides as the roads became narrower. Zurich was visible to one side of the road, and the other side was flanked by occasional warehouses and small industrial buildings.
It had been a lousy Monday morning. Frederik had been busy packing, and he’d planned on surprising her with lunch at Nimb before leaving for the airport and Los Angeles. But her flight was already booked and her appointment at the clinic scheduled, and she’d had to hurry.
Camilla checked the clock on the Punto’s dashboard. Frederik was probably checking in now. She slowed after passing a city limits sign, but three hundred meters farther she was already out of the town. He had asked if she could delay her flight to Switzerland until he left, but she’d explained that she couldn’t change her appointment with Dr. Sigmundt, who had time to speak with her only today.
“Turn left in two hundred meters,” the GPS jabbered.
Dreary buildings with large, empty parking lots appeared when she entered an industrial park. Everyone had gone home. She’d been told she might have to wait until someone had time to talk to her. They had a client that afternoon, and it was impossible to say how long it might take. And another client would be arriving that evening, so she would likely have to settle for an hour’s interview at most.
They had explained that people were given however much time they needed. That went for the person dying as well as the person’s family. They’d also had a client that morning, and if the process dragged out, the next one would be delayed. Therefore it wasn’t easy to schedule an exact time, she’d learned. When a client was dead and after the family said their farewells, the police and a doctor were called in to provide proof that it had been a “free death,” the term they apparently used instead of assisted suicide.
Camilla neared a residential area, and she spotted the hotel where she was to wait. They’d mentioned an Italian restaurant close by if she got hungry while waiting. Food was the last thing she had on her mind, though.
Frederik hadn’t been angry when she left. If only he had been, she thought, as she pulled into the hotel parking lot. He tried to hide his disappointment after realizing they wouldn’t have time together before he left; that made her feel worse than anger would have. He wouldn’t be home for at least two weeks.
Maybe she should have waited, but her opportunity was here and now. Sofie Bygmann had aroused her curiosity, and she wanted to understand her. Or no, not actually understand, Camilla mumbled as she parked. She already understood her. Of course Sofie had wanted to help her mother; it was her wish. But Camilla wanted to learn about the clinic’s procedure when someone had decided to die.
She was fired up, and it had been a hell of a long time since she’d felt that way about an article. The freelance work she’d done in Roskilde the past year focused mostly on subjects of local interest—pony shows, anniversaries, business portraits, events in the town. Usually she handed in only a few short articles a week, and when she took a good long look in the mirror, she knew very well she was doing it only to maintain a portion of self-respect. She hadn’t wanted to be only a rich man’s full-time housewife.
But now she was back, and unfortunately the price she had to pay was saying good-bye to her husband in a decent manner. They could survive that. She was certain that Frederik also had stood in front of the mirror and stared into his own eyes, and he’d decided that being a rich man’s son and running his father’s business, a job he’d never wanted, wasn’t enough for him. He was back in the film business, and the joy his work gave him stood out on him like a halo. Of course he felt she also should grab her chance when it came along.
She shut off the engine and sat for a moment, staring into the blue. It was strangely deserted there. Farther down the road stood the large house where someone had just chosen to leave this world. The family might still be inside. Camilla imagined them walking around, packing their things. Or maybe they had already left; the house looked empty. She could see the front door and a window half-hidden by a hedge. Someone would call when Dr. Sigmundt had time for her, she’d been informed.
It was snowing now, and Camilla trotted up to the hotel’s main entrance. Inside the foyer, the snowflakes in her hair melted quickly, and a few drops of water crawled under her collar. The lobby was empty, and the restaurant appeared to be closed. A bit bewildered now, she looked around for a moment until a young girl walked up to the reception desk and asked if she could help her.
“Could I get a cup of coffee?”
The girl nodded. “Latte, cappuccino, espresso?”
“Just plain black.” She pulled out her credit card after the receptionist opened a door and disappeared. C
amilla’s phone rang, and a woman said they could see her now at the suicide clinic, if she had arrived.
“I’ll be right there,” she said. She waited by the door the girl had opened. Five minutes later she still hadn’t shown up, and Camilla took a few Swiss francs out of her purse and laid them on the desk. In case she ever came back, Camilla thought.
* * *
Camilla stood under an overhang for a moment before ringing the doorbell of the two-story house. Quickly she checked to see if her phone was charged—it might be needed to record—and she also made sure she had a pen and notebook. She’d already checked all of this back in the airport. Nerves, she thought.
Throughout her many years as a journalist, she had done tons of interviews all over the world, had spoken with people in all sorts of situations and positions. She had interviewed people who had just lost loved ones, she’d even spoken with a voluntary minesweeper in Kosovo who had lost a leg. It wasn’t because she suddenly felt unqualified to interview the leader of the suicide clinic. But she was nervous about doing it properly, writing about it so readers would understand those who supported Sofie Bygmann’s position. Also, knowing someone had chosen to die inside the house within the last hour or two probably added to her unease. Sort of a weird situation, she thought. But beautiful in a way, too, that someone who wanted to end their suffering had been allowed to do so.
She stepped outside. Snowflakes landed on her shoulders and coat as she turned and strode back up to the door. Before she could press the doorbell, the door opened to a tall, broad-shouldered man with neat salt-and-pepper hair, a pair of stylish eyeglasses pushed up above his forehead.
“Camilla Lind, I presume? I hope you’ve had a comfortable flight from Copenhagen?”
They had spoken on the phone the day before, and the conversation had been odd. When she’d finally gotten through to Dr. Sigmundt, he had been dismissive at first. He told her to contact the clinic’s representatives in Denmark. He couldn’t speak with journalists on such short notice. His calendar was full, and besides, he would soon be leaving the country on a long trip. In other words, he would be unavailable until late spring.
