‘Now?’
‘I think it might be a good idea.’
It wouldn’t be the first time he had asked her to leave the house when he thought someone was getting too close. It helped him to know that they were out of harm’s way.
‘For how long?’
‘A week, I think.’
‘I’m so tired of this, Michael. Really. I’d love to be upbeat, ironic and brave and all that, but quite frankly I’m starting to –’
‘Not now, Sara.’
‘Are you alone?’ she asked.
‘No, for once I’m not. There’s a police officer here. She’s trying … We’re trying to help each other.’
‘Great,’ she said in a flat voice, and Michael sighed.
‘Cute?’ she wanted to know.
‘Super-cute. Stop it, Sara.’
She sniffed, and Michael looked down towards the hut. Smoke was rising from the chimney. The superintendent had found something with which she could start a fire. Why hadn’t he thought of that last night?
‘I’ll ask him. About the cottage,’ she mumbled.
‘Thank you. That would be good, Sara.’
‘Take care,’ she said.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Bye …’
*
Michael looked at the phone and stuck it in his pocket. He walked down the path and into the hut. Lene had hammered the cork down the neck of the bottle and was pouring wine into paper cups while holding the cork back with a pen. The wine sloshed into the cup and ran down her hand. She finished pouring and washed her hands in the sink.
‘It should be scientifically impossible,’ she muttered.
‘What?’
‘For liquid to run upwards.’
She handed him a cup and raised her own. ‘Cheers. Was that your wife?’
‘Correct.’
She smiled faintly. ‘I bet you’re not easy to be married to. Given your line of work, I mean.’
‘Probably not. I don’t suppose you are, either.’
‘We’re divorced. Do you have any children?’
‘Eighteen months, and four years.’
Michael took the cup and wandered over to an old oil barrel that acted as a stove in the common room and whose bottom had started to glow red. He positioned himself with his back to it, closed his eyes and savoured the heat. He was still chilled to the bone, but knew it wasn’t purely because of his night in the sleeping loft and the gaps between the roof panels.
Lene sat down on a bench by the wall and ran a fingertip along one of the inscriptions which generations of scouts had carved into the table top. She drank wine and her finger found another inscription.
‘Was there any firewood?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘I used some of their banners and animal hides and a chair that was starting to fall apart. It was for the scrap heap.’
Michael looked at the empty walls.
‘I bet the scouts will be thrilled,’ he said. ‘Your daughter … Josefine. What’s going to happen to her? Will she recover?’
An ominous look flared up in her eyes and she eyeballed him as if he were a cardboard cut-out criminal on a shooting range.
‘She’ll recover, they say. As far as her soul, mind, psyche, whatever … because that’s what you’re really asking, isn’t it?’
‘Not just hers.’
‘No. I know. Thank you. What’s done is done, isn’t it. You can’t turn back time. I don’t think either of us can pretend that it didn’t happen. Ever. We’re not like that.’
She rose quickly, walked out into the kitchen and returned with the wine bottle. She waved it. And he held out his cup.
‘Thank you. Is she strong? Mentally?’
‘I think so. But her confidence … whether she’ll ever trust a man again, that’s another matter.’
She wiped a tear brusquely from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said. ‘I’m shattered.’
Michael nodded, and pressed his tongue against the loose molar. He started unpacking the bags on the table while she watched him. He handed her one of the sleeping bags. She opened the packaging, got up and shook it out. She held it up to her nose.
‘It smells good,’ she said.
‘Goose down. The best that money can buy. I bought inflatable camper mats too,’ Michael said, draping his own sleeping bag over a chair near the stove. ‘Food. A torch. I also bought a couple of T-shirts, which I think we’ll both fit. Underwear …’
‘For me?’
He held up a pair of white men’s underpants. ‘Large.’
‘You’re saying I have a big arse?’
He looked at her and put the underpants back in the bag. Women. They get everything out of proportion.
*
Later she yawned and stretched out while he sat on the chair next to the oil barrel, wrapped in his sleeping bag. They had emptied the wine bottle without him really knowing how that had happened.
‘What if you’re wrong and there’s nothing in Kim’s house?’ he mumbled with closed eyes.
‘I’m not wrong,’ she said. ‘What about the man with the scorpion tattoo? Do you think we’ll bump into him?’
‘I hope not. At least, not yet. He’s dangerous. They all are.’
‘We’re armed to the teeth,’ she said.
‘Are we?’
She unzipped the black sports bag and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out the pistol holster and putting it on the table. Michael looked at the weapon.
‘For me?’ he asked.
‘If you like. It’s a service pistol with eighteen shots. It’s fine, I’ll take responsibility.’
Michael got up and took the pistol out of the holster, clicked the magazine out into his hand, went through the unloading drill, and looked through the barrel. Heckler & Koch. Same make as the machine pistol. Good, heavy and ugly. He replaced the clip, stuck the pistol in the holster on the table and looked at it.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t like guns.’
She returned the pistol to the black sports bag.
‘It’s there if you change your mind. How about a siesta? I’m bushed.’
‘Will you be able to sleep?’ he asked.
‘Probably not. But I’m willing to give it a try.’
He took her sleeping bag and hurled it up onto the sleeping loft.
‘How about you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll stay down here and keep watch.’
She nodded and disappeared.
Michael stretched out on the bench, still wrapped in the sleeping bag. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He turned on his side and watched the red glow behind the stove’s damper. He heard the planks squeak under Lene’s feet, a sigh – and then he fell asleep, like a trapdoor shutting.
Chapter 42
She had driven for a long time in silence. Michael knew that the superintendent was still angry with him.
‘You fell asleep,’ she reproached him when she woke him up later that afternoon. ‘You promised you’d keep a lookout.’
He had mumbled an apology, but she was frosty and monosyllabic as she boiled water for their Nescafé and Michael carried their equipment out to the car. They had drunk the coffee in silence and she walked in front of him down the path and drove off before he had time to shut the door.
On one occasion Michael had tried to strike up a conversation, but he hadn’t been very successful. While they drove west through the afternoon rush-hour traffic, he had made a half-turn in the seat and sent her stony profile his most infallible wry smile.
‘What do you do when you want to go to sleep?’ he had asked.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When you want to go to sleep. I think of images, scenes from my childhood. An attic filled with old junk, my grandmother’s sitting room. She had a grandfather clock that always ticked even though time stoo
d still in her house and I never saw anyone wind it up. What do you do?’
She glanced at him sideways while she made sure to concentrate on her driving.
‘I imagine I’m lying on my back on a guillotine looking up at the blade. It falls … and just when it hits me, I fall asleep.’
‘Okay … That’s … very interesting, Lene.’
‘I’m taking the piss, Michael. It’s none of your business what I think about when I go to sleep. I’ve enough strangers in my head right now. Got it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
*
One hour later she stopped in a lay-by with a view of Holbæk Fjord. She turned off the ignition and put her hands on the steering wheel. The lay-by was a few hundred metres from the dead-end road that led to Kim and Louise Andersen’s small cottage.
‘Do we walk the rest of the way?’ Michael asked.
‘Yes.’
Michael looked at her.
‘I could go there first to see if it’s safe,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘It’s okay. I just need a …’
A drop of sweat trickled from her hairline and down her temple.
They put their bags in the back. Michael took the torch and slammed the boot shut.
‘There’s a police car outside,’ he said as they came nearer to the cottage.
‘I asked them to keep an eye on it.’
She pressed down the front door handle and frowned.
‘They must be in the garden,’ he said.
They walked in the direction of the voices. The young, bearded officer who had first drawn Lene’s attention to the missing jib sheet on the dinghy was sitting at a garden table. The dog handler she had met in the kitchen of Holbæk Police Station sat opposite him. The Alsatian was standing in the middle of the lawn, watching them with pricked ears. A yellow tennis ball was lying on the grass in front of the dog. The two police officers looked up, but failed to recognize her.
‘It’s me,’ she said, showing them her warrant card.
The bearded officer smiled cautiously. ‘I see that. Now.’
Michael cleared his throat impatiently.
‘Has anything happened?’ she asked, ignoring him.
‘Nothing,’ the officer said. ‘Louise Andersen dropped by a couple of times to pick up some stuff. Clothes for the children, that kind of thing.’
‘How did she look?’
‘Sad.’
‘You can go now. We’ll guard the house. In fact, there’s no need for you to return. Please would you tell them back at the station?’
‘Of course. But are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
The policeman nodded, and collected the Thermos flask and the coffee cups from the garden table; the dog handler picked up the puppy’s water and food bowls from the grass. It had pricked up its ears again and turned its attention to the forest that started behind the meadow. The dog handler watched it. The dog took a couple of paces forwards and emitted a low growl.
‘What is it, Tommy?’
Michael looked in the same direction and spotted a roebuck slowly and cautiously making its way to the meadow. Its ears were turned backwards towards the forest.
‘I know that roebuck,’ Lene said.
‘You do?’
‘It so tame you can touch it. I almost shot it the other night. It was standing right behind me, sniffing me. Nearly gave me a heart attack.’
*
They waited until they heard the patrol car reverse out of the drive. The branches of the trees were darkening against the deep blue evening sky and the sun hung low. It was a lovely scene, Michael thought. Peaceful. It reminded him very much of his own home. Further down the meadow the roebuck was foraging.
‘Nice place,’ he said, while Lene shivered in the cold. ‘But perhaps you’re more of a city girl?’
‘You could say that,’ she said, and walked up to the cottage.
They stopped in front of the impeccable log pile, which reached right up to the roof of a well-constructed lean-to, covered with roofing felt, at the back of the cottage.
Michael opened a shed next to the lean-to and saw a couple of large yellow gas canisters. One of them supplied the cottage through a rubber tube connected to a safety valve, while the other was still sealed. He looked through the window to the small, but neat kitchen: gas cooker, round table, two chairs and two Tripp Trapp children’s chairs. Everything ready for the family.
Lene tugged at a beam and ran her fingers along the inside of the lean-to. The sun was sinking fast, and Michael lit the torch and inspected the underside of the roof. As far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with it.
‘Try removing the log pile,’ he suggested.
‘All of it? There are several cubic metres. There has to be an easier way.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Perhaps it really was just a log pile, he thought, and tapped his foot on the concrete floor in front of the lean-to. It made a hollow noise. He went into the garage, edged his way past the dinghy and found a rusty iron bar lying next to a jack. Michael weighed the bar in his hand. It should be strong enough. He went back to Lene, who was pulling logs off the pile, tossing them over her shoulder.
He bashed the end of the iron bar against the concrete floor, which stretched a couple of metres out into the lawn, and was rewarded with a thudding echo. Lene stopped and looked at him.
‘It sounds like a well,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he’s hiding a whole family down there,’ Michael said.
He ran his fingers along where the lean-to met the half-timbered cottage. There was a gap one finger wide between the roofing felt and the wall; odd, really, because rain and other forms of precipitation would seep down behind the log pile and make it rot. He stuck the iron bar in between a beam in the wall and the roof of the lean-to, placed his foot against the wall, and pulled until his head started spinning and he could feel the cut to his temple opening up. The construction moved a little, but something near the ground was blocking it. He wiped the sweat off his brow and looked at the roof of the lean-to.
‘I think our approach is wrong,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to move the log pile; we need to shift the whole damned lean-to. There’s some kind of locking mechanism at the bottom. All we have to do is find it.’
He kneeled down on the grass and started scraping away the soil where the lawn met the concrete. Lene squatted down next to him to help. She smelled faintly of shampoo and something more bitter. Hair dye, possibly. Michael used the end of the iron bar to dig, and, after a couple of minutes, hit something metallic. He put down the bar and uncovered a black steel ring in the soil under the turf with his fingertips. A flat piece of iron had been welded to the ring and it disappeared into a crack in the concrete.
Michael leaned back on his heels and studied the device.
Lene looked at him.
‘What are you waiting for? Pull it, for God’s sake! It’s got to be some kind of lock.’
He nodded and pulled. The ring, and the well-oiled steel mechanism beneath, slipped a smooth twenty centimetres out from the foundation, and she nodded to encourage him.
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Do you want to have a go?’
He got up and held out the iron bar to her, but she shook her head.
‘Just get on with it.’
Michael wedged the bar behind an upright post and employed all his strength.
The entire lean-to swung across the concrete with surprising ease and speed, and he fell backwards and banged his head against the concrete edge.
Lene turned away while Chinese fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. He had bitten his own tongue and felt the taste of blood in his mouth.
Michael rose up on his elbow and rubbed the back of his head with his other hand, looked at his palm and groaned. If he carried on like this, he would end up in a home for people with brain injuries. Perhaps that wouldn’t
be so bad after all: peace and quiet, regular meals and stimulating conversation.
He realized that she was bent double, crying with laughter, and he sat up, rested his forehead on his arms and looked down between his feet.
Lene eventually regained some measure of self-control, straightened up and turned to him.
‘I’m sorry, Michael. You just looked so … so incredibly surprised.’
She dried the tears from the corners of her eyes.
‘That’s all right,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s natural to become hysterical and mean when you’ve been through what you’ve been through. I’m really glad you found it funny. That you take pleasure from my pain. Really I am.’
She stuck out her hand to help him back on his feet, but he shook his head.
‘No, thanks, I’ll manage … go away …’
‘Michael … I’m sorry …’
He ended up accepting her hand, and was pulled to his feet. He nearly blacked out and had to rest his hands on his knees while she pushed the construction the last stretch across the concrete.
The lean-to proved to be hinged on one side and fitted with wheels or casters under the bottom planks. A galvanized steel sheet appeared where the lean-to had been. The sheet was hinged on its longer side, which faced the cottage, and a heavy padlock was attached to the side that faced the garden. A channel had been moulded along the sheet to divert rainwater away from the cavity underneath it.
Lene looked at him. Her face had regained its colour and her eyes sparkled in triumph.
‘Yes, you told me so,’ Michael muttered to beat her to it.
‘Yes, I told you so,’ she said contentedly.
He stuck his faithful iron bar through the loop of the padlock and wrenched it open with a bang. Lene bent down, slipped her fingertips under the sheet and tried to pull it upright.
‘It weighs a bloody ton,’ she said.
‘Just get on with it.’
She glowered at him and lifted with all her might. The sheet crashed against the cottage wall, and they stepped closer and stared into the hole.
Kim Andersen didn’t have a family living down there. At most a couple of woodlice that curled up when the torchlight hit them. The concrete-lined cavity was roughly a metre and a half deep, well-drained, and some kind of metal grille had been cemented into the house wall, which presumably led to a crawlspace or cellar under the kitchen.
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