*
I do, he thinks, gazing out at the sea. I love her. Anne-Marie can never find out; I’d lose her. I’d lose Tomas, too. At that thought, unreasonable fury flares up inside him. Why is he being judged so harshly? Brandon, the horny bastard, certainly ogles Ingela too when Janet’s not looking. And who knows what he got up to with Theo’s sister when she came to visit a couple of weeks ago.
And hadn’t Tomas himself been the most eager advocate of free love, of not owning other people, of love having no limits? Hadn’t he taken Ingela back after they’d been apart for almost three years, when she’d come crawling home, looking for security? Loved her again, even though she’d had children with someone else? Said that all children are everyone’s children? Cared for Ingela’s kids as though they were his own, feeding them, carrying them, changing their nappies and whatever else?
That’s what they’d agreed: we’re going to share everything, possessions, food, drink, work, joy and sorrow. Community, freedom and honesty were supposed to be the guiding principles of life on the farm. And love. The rest would work itself out.
The problem was none of them was being particularly honest. Not Brandon, cheating on Janet, not Theo hiding the best weed in his mattress. Not even Anne-Marie, who’d said she believed him when her eyes revealed she didn’t.
And least of all he himself. Like a coward, a thief in the night, he’d seized the opportunity when Tomas had to go back to Sweden.
My best friend leaves his family on my farm to bury his mother, and I go and fuck his wife, Per thinks, wallowing in shame. Not just once, either; they’d continued after Tomas got back, gigglingly, furtively, relishing their secret, exchanging looks over the dinner table when no one was looking.
Surely no one had been looking?
Never again, he promises himself. Never again, he says out loud.
No one needs to know the child Ingela’s expecting isn’t Tomas’. This time either.
It’s your child, Per, she’d told him. I know it is.
He’s certainly not going to confess to Anne-Marie or Tomas. Why should he be honest when no one else is? And Ingela mustn’t tell them either. It would break Anne-Marie and she knows it.
And Tomas. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be so quick to forgive, Per had told her. If they tell them, everything’s going to fall apart, he’d said. The farm, their friendships, his and Anne-Marie’s relationship. Everything would be wrecked, everything they were trying to build would be ruined if they told the truth.
In the end, Ingela had promised to keep shtum. She’d actually promised.
The problem is that she’s so bloody . . . unpredictable.
Per turns around and starts walking back toward the farm. I have to talk to her again, he thinks to himself. Now, before it’s too late.
40
‘Who the fuck goes hiking in Spain? Is this some kind of Swedish idiocy?’
Karen leans back in her chair with such force it rolls backward and crashes into Johannisen’s empty desk.
No one’s picking up at Disa Brinckmann’s address in Malmö, but Astrid Nielsen has discovered that a Mette Brinckmann-Grahn, daughter of Disa Brinckmann, lives in Lomma outside Malmö with her twenty-three-year-old son Jesper. And when Karen calls, the son actually picked up.
The southern Swedish dialect had been difficult to interpret, but she’d managed to gather that Jesper Grahn knew nothing about his grandmother’s attempts to contact a woman called Susanne Smeed in Doggerland. In fact, Jesper Grahn seemed largely uninterested in his grandmother’s affairs. Possibly, he offered, she might be in Spain.
‘Some fucking Jesus hike or whatever it is they get up to,’ he’d said with heavy diphthongs. ‘But you’d have to ask my mum; she’ll be home in an hour.’
And when Karen was in fact able to reach Mette Brinckmann-Grahn just over an hour later, she had confirmed her son’s information. Disa Brinckmann had gone to Santiago de Compostela and would probably be back in about ten or twelve days.
‘Mum’s big on the spiritual stuff. I think it’s her third time doing that trail now, so it’s not an organised trip. She’s usually gone for a couple or at most three weeks. But I think she said she has tickets to a concert here in Malmö next weekend, so she should be home by then.’
‘OK, does your mother have a mobile phone? We haven’t been able to find a number.’
‘She does, but it’s registered to me because I pay for it. I gave it to her for Christmas. It’s right here, in the kitchen. I gave her a ride to the airport and she asked me to look after it.’
‘How come?’
‘She didn’t want to bring it on her hike, given as how the point of it is silence and reflection. She was afraid of losing it, too. I asked her how I was supposed to get hold of her if something happened if she didn’t bring it, but she said the phone ringing would ruin the experience. There’s just no point nagging her. Do you want the number anyway? Like I said, she should be home soon.’
Karen had sighed inwardly, written the number down and changed the subject.
‘Is it true you and your mother lived in a commune in the early seventies?’
There had been a long pause and when Mette Brinckmann-Grahn finally replied, there was a cold edge to her voice.
Her guard’s up now, Karen had thought to herself.
‘Yes, that’s correct, but that’s over forty years ago. We moved back home again before I started school. What is this about?’
Karen had briefly told her that one Susanne Smeed had been found dead and that the Doggerland police had certain indications pointing to Disa trying to get in touch with her a few months earlier. As part of the investigation, they were simply asking anyone who had been in contact with Susanne in recent months a couple of routine questions.
‘Do you have any idea why your mother wanted to get hold of Susanne?’
This time, the answer had been immediate.
‘No idea.’
Karen waited silently on the other end, and Mette Brinckmann-Grahn had at length expanded on her answer.
‘I assume she wanted to get in touch with someone from back then and figured Susanne might be able to help. Mum’s a bit . . . how to put it? She’s still very stuck in the seventies, in a way. But you’re going to have to ask her when she gets back.’
They’d ended the call after Mette had promised to make sure her mother contacted Karen as soon as she was back, or sooner, if Disa happened to call her from Spain.
*
Karen closes her eyes and thinks about Jesper Grahn’s words. ‘Jesus hike.’
She chuckles. Well, that’s one way of putting it. She’s read about the pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela and seen amazing pictures from the various trails, but has never felt tempted. What little faith she had as a child – her father’s family had made a few half-hearted attempts to bring her into the fold during the summer weeks she’d spend with her cousins on Noorö – had withered and died a Tuesday in December eleven years ago.
Pilgrimages and sore feet are not high on Karen Eiken Hornby’s list. And how on earth does a woman who must be over seventy find the energy to traipse around dusty Spanish byways for weeks on end?
‘And how on earth can a person be back on their feet just days after a heart attack,’ she mutters in exasperation, scowling at Johannisen’s desk before rolling back to her own.
Evald Johannisen has made it known through his wife that he’s being discharged tomorrow and that if all goes well, he’ll be back at work in just a couple of weeks.
‘Angina,’ Karl corrects her. ‘It wasn’t a heart attack. My dad’s on nitroglycerine and calcium suppressants, too . . .’
‘Fine, but he’s a bloody dentist, not a detective,’ she cuts in testily. ‘Johannisen should take this as his cue to retire. He was hardly in top shape before he collapsed; how does he imagine he’s going to hold up now?’
‘The question is how you’re going to hold up. You seem under pressure, and that’s putting i
t mildly,’ Karl says calmly. ‘Have you had lunch?’
‘Not hungry,’ she dismisses his question. ‘And it’s hardly a big shock I’m under pressure; we’re not getting anywhere.’
‘It’s been five days,’ Karl says and gets to his feet. ‘A lot could still happen, as you said yourself in the team meeting yesterday.’
‘I lied,’ she said grimly.
‘Yes, it’s been made clear to me you do that sometimes.’
‘I thought we were done with that,’ she snaps.
Karl’s probably right. A slight light-headedness suggests her blood sugar has dropped to her ankles.
‘Dial it down a notch, Eiken.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just so sick of not getting anywhere. Every lead’s a dead end. Someone killed Susanne Smeed and we have no idea who or why.’
‘Well, she wasn’t exactly Miss Popular, so it’s hardly impossible to imagine someone having a motive.’
‘I’m not Miss Popular either, but you don’t see anyone bashing my head in.’
‘Not yet . . .’ Karl retorts with a grin. ‘I bet Johannisen would like to. I would, too, sometimes.’
‘I just know Haugen’s going to put someone else in charge of the investigation unless we come up with something that at least resembles a theory soon. Besides, I feel like the team’s fading.’
‘Well, either way, I’m hungry and was going to head down to Magasinet. Do you want to come? They have properly nice sprat on the menu at the moment . . .’
She gets to her feet with a sigh and takes her jacket off the back of her chair.
*
It’s almost half one and the worst of the lunch rush is over. Karen takes a sip of her beer and gazes out at the harbour.
The big fishing vessels are docked in Ravenby these days, but stern trawlers and chubby gillnetters are still moored in long lines alongside the oyster fishermen’s light aluminium craft. A group of divers are standing in a huddle on the edge of the pier; seemingly deep in discussion, gesticulating wildly. Probably complaining about the competition from the oyster banks down on Frisel, as usual. Further away, a hunched man is pushing a shopping trolley, looking for empty drink cans. Karen recognises him from the morning after Oistra, when she was standing up by the promenade wall and saw him snoozing on the beach.
So much has happened since she woke up in a hotel bed next to her boss that she’s not really had time to wallow in her regret and abject shame. Now, recalling it, she shudders in dismay and quickly turns to Karl.
‘Oh yes, that’s the ticket,’ he says, sounding pleased, when the waitress brings their food and a breadbasket.
Her stomach pinches when the smells reach her; crispy fried sprats, garlic butter, lemon and parsley. And steaming-hot sourdough bread. The garlic is a recent addition; older people still eat their sprat with melted lard, a dash of vinegar and chopped ramsoms, when that’s in season. She relishes the gentle crunch when her fork sinks into the first fish; she smiles at Karl.
‘You were right,’ she says. ‘I am hungry.’
They eat in silence until Karl mops up the last remnants of his melted butter with a piece of bread. He takes a few sips of his beer, then leans back and studies Karen, belching discreetly behind his hand.
‘Do you really think it might be Jounas?’ he says. ‘I think everyone’s dying to know if you think he did it, or if you’re just yanking his chain.’
‘Yanking his chain? It wasn’t my bloody decision to put him on leave; even Haugen could see it had to be done.’
‘I know,’ Karl replies calmly. ‘But you’ve been interviewing Smeed without anyone else present; you’re the only one who can really assess whether his account of his whereabouts last Sunday holds water. And you don’t really think it does, if I’ve understood things right.’
‘I wish I did. Believe me, I didn’t ask to be in this position.’
‘So you’re not angling to be head of the CID? Admit part of you likes the idea, Eiken.’
She meets his gaze without returning his smile.
‘I don’t want it like this,’ she replies. ‘Either Jounas comes back and makes my life hell, or he doesn’t and I don’t get the permanent promotion anyway.’
‘Why wouldn’t you? Because you waste money on outrageously expensive coffee machines?’
‘Because if Jounas Smeed doesn’t come back, it’s because I helped nail him for murder. The Smeeds have a lot of pull among the top brass. You realise Jounas’s uncle is married to Haugen’s sister, right?’
‘Are you saying that’s why he got the job?’
‘Not the only reason. Jounas is a good detective. Arrogant and unpleasant, but bloody clever, you know that. And the boys like him. Johannisen would lick his boots if he asked him to.’
‘OK, then what doesn’t add up? Go over the timings again.’
‘I’ve checked with the hotel where Jounas was staying and they confirm he left the room no earlier than five past nine. That’s when the cleaner noted the do-not-disturb sign was still on the door.’
She sips her beer and continues.
‘His car was parked by city hall; walking there would have taken him no more than six to seven minutes. That would give him forty-five minutes to drive to Langevik and kill Susanne. According to Brodal, she might have been murdered as late as 10 a.m., though it was probably earlier. As you know, he can’t be more specific than that. I’ve personally driven from Dunker to Langevik in just under thirty minutes. Normally, it takes forty.’
‘So ten minutes. That’s the window.’
‘Yep.’
‘What does Haugen say?’
‘He’s annoyed, but luckily, Prosecutor Vegen’s an astute woman. She realises we can’t rule Smeed out so long as that window remains.’
‘And what does Jounas have to say about it?’
‘That he left the hotel at half past nine and walked straight home. No one at the hotel saw him leave, which may very well be true. The bloke at the front desk isn’t exactly the type to be glued to his post.’
‘What about before nine, have you considered that? According to Brodal, the murder could have taken place as early as eight. Jounas could’ve left the hotel early and gone to Langevik and back. If it was as easy as you say to sneak past the bloke at reception, that would’ve been possible. Have you talked to the woman who was with him?’
Karen, who has just raised her drink to her lips, freezes mid-movement, so abruptly the beer sloshes against the side of the glass, splashing the back of her hand. She makes a desperate attempt to mask her reaction with a cough. Karl studies her, eyebrows raised. A moment passes, she can see the penny drop.
‘No way,’ he says. ‘No fucking way.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks and puts her glass back down, avoiding his eyes.
Her voice is steady, but her cheeks are flushed and she knows he can tell. It took Karl a fraction of a second to see through her. He’s a clever detective, too.
Now he’s watching her without speaking; she steels herself in anticipation of the inevitable deluge of sarcasm. He’s not going to tell on her, the whole department won’t find out, but Karl knowing is enough. Karen Eiken Hornby slept with the boss.
He doesn’t push her to confess, knowing full well he’s right.
‘And when did you leave the Strand?’ is all he says.
‘Twenty past seven,’ she replies quietly.
‘So that kills that theory,’ Karl says sourly. ‘Want another? I certainly need one.’
He waves the waitress over and orders two more pints after noting Karen’s nod in response to his question.
‘All right then,’ he says and turns back to Karen. ‘Regrets?’
‘What do you think.’
‘Well, I’m not going to ask what it was like. I assume your memories are somewhat foggy.’
‘Well, you know, Oistra,’ she says, and tries to smile, but fails. ‘Just please promise you won’t . . .’
‘Oh, it goes without sa
ying, I’m going straight to Haugen to tell on you. Then I’m going to call Jounas and ask if you’re any good in bed. Who do you think I am?’
‘Thanks. Sorry.’
Another attempt at a smile; it turns into a twitch in one of her cheek. She gratefully focuses on the fresh pint the waitress puts down on the table in front of her. They drink in silence until Karl speaks again.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘if I had five marks for every bad shag I’ve had, I’d be a rich man. But seriously, Eiken, you and Smeed . . . I wouldn’t have believed it. You must have had a magnificent hangover last Sunday.’
As he says it, he seems to have another epiphany.
‘And then Haugen calls and tells you Smeed’s wife’s been beaten to death.’
‘Ex-wife,’ Karen corrects him.
Karl Björken leans forward with a hint of schadenfreude in his wry smile.
‘Well, well, well. So that’s why you were so set on interviewing him by yourself. I’m so bloody gullible: She’s being considerate, I told Johannisen.’
Karen looks down at the table and says nothing.
‘It must have been hell, Eiken. Serves you right.’
*
It’s almost three by the time they get back to the station. Karen is focusing all her strength on keeping her intense feelings of shame at bay by reviewing the written reports sent to her over the course of the day. Replies have come in from all relevant countries regarding the cruise ship passengers’ potential criminal records. Only one person has been added to the list of people with a prison sentence in their past. An Italian man guilty of repeatedly flashing children at schools and playgrounds. After his most recent arrest, he served eight months in open prison before being allowed to return to his wife and children in their house outside Palermo. These days, however, he suffers from severe rheumatism and is more or less confined to a wheelchair, according to Cornelis Loots’ notes.
A couple of hours later, Karen glances at her watch and realises the afternoon meeting is starting in six minutes. Despondent, she gets up and walks over to the coffee machine. Something gnaws at her while she watches the black coffee spout into the mug. Something that’s right there, but slinks away when she tries to grasp it. A vague feeling she’s seen or heard something but failed to follow up on it. Something potentially pivotal.
Fatal Isles Page 22
