Fatal Isles

by Maria Adolfsson

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says as Leo Friis approaches. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a light?’

  He stops and looks around, befuddled, as if to make sure she’s talking to him.

  ‘Oh, wait, here it is,’ she says, embarrassed at her poor acting skills. ‘Want one?’

  She holds the packet out; Leo Friis seems to hesitate. He’s bloody well not the kind of man who gets stopped by random women offering cigarettes, unless there’s some devilry afoot.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says curtly.

  ‘Leo Friis?’

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Karen Eiken,’ she says, extending her hand.

  He doesn’t take it. Torn between the sound impulse to walk away and the urge to smoke that’s afflicted him since last night, he keeps his eyes fixed on the packet of cigarettes in Karen’s hand. She tries again.

  ‘I’m a police detective and – no, come on, calm down, you haven’t done anything wrong, I just want to ask you something.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  Leo Friis moves to get the heavy trolley rolling; she quickly takes in its contents: carrier bags full of empty cans and bottles, something that looks like a rolled-up sleeping bag, a pair of winter boots and a handful of unidentifiable bundles. Without blocking him outright, Karen steps to one side so he has to at least walk around her.

  ‘Not even if you could help prove someone’s innocence?’ she says.

  Leo Friis doesn’t reply.

  ‘Do you want breakfast? That café over there’s open,’ she says quickly like a telemarketer. ‘My treat, coffee and a couple of sandwiches. And cigarettes after. I’ll give you the whole pack.’

  She nods toward the café across the street and notes that Leo Friis follows her gaze.

  ‘You seriously think they’d let me in? Forget it.’

  ‘They’ll let you in if I tell them to.’

  *

  He eats with gusto and frequent quick glances at his trolley outside. Thankfully, he left the blanket outside, too, and Karen noticed he ran his fingers through his hair as if to neaten himself up before entering. The confident way in which she placed her guest at a window table and then ordered a large pot of coffee, a glass of milk, two cheese sandwiches and one with sliced lamb had persuaded the girl at the till to refrain from commenting. Karen can’t do anything about her suspicious glances, but Leo Friis seems oblivious, or maybe he simply doesn’t care. Luckily, the place is half empty and the few customers who come in choose tables as far away from the odd couple by the window as possible.

  She lets Leo eat in silence, studying him from behind her coffee cup. From afar, she’d figured him for about sixty, maybe older. Now, seeing him close up, she realises he can’t be much more than forty. His hands are calloused and have assumed a reddish-purple colour, probably the result of too many nights sleeping rough. Half his face is hidden behind a beard, but around the eyes, his skin is relatively unwrinkled. A faint smell of sweat and mould wafts her way every time he turns his head to make sure his precious belongings are still safely parked outside the window.

  ‘The morning after Oistra,’ she says at length, after he’s washed down the last mouthful of the lamb sandwich with a big gulp of milk. ‘You slept on the beach that night, didn’t you?’

  ‘Is that against the law now?’

  ‘Not that I know. I think you were the person I saw when I was standing across from Hotel Strand just after seven, looking down at the beach. Is that correct?’

  Leo Friis meets her eyes above the rim of his coffee cup for a second. He takes a sip and nods briefly.

  ‘Not impossible. I’ve been sleeping there all summer. This bloody cold only blew in a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it was a warm morning and I thought to myself that the man on the beach wouldn’t be feeling great when he woke up. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly feeling great myself,’ she adds.

  Leo Friis makes no comment on the relative balminess of the morning or the fact that the woman across the table is revealing personal facts about how she was feeling for some unknown reason.

  ‘Anyway, I believe you’d woken up after a couple of hours and climbed the slope to the promenade. I’d like to know if that’s correct and if so, whether you remember running into anyone there? Someone you tried to bum a cigarette off.’

  He looks utterly unmoved. Stares into space vacantly, as though he didn’t hear the question. This is a long shot, obviously, she thinks to herself, or more like a shot off the post. How could she even for a moment have imagined that a man who lives his life like Leo Friis would be able to remember where he was or who he talked to five days ago? He’s probably lucky if he remembers what he did an hour ago.

  ‘And if I do . . .’ he says slowly.

  ‘What, do you or don’t you?’

  ‘Look, I’m not completely out of it. Not yet. Yeah, I remember chatting to a bloke.’

  ‘Are you sure. What did he look like, do you recall?’

  ‘No, just a regular bloke. Some suit guy wandering about at the wrong time of day. But aside from the get-up, he looked worse for wear, I can tell you that. Didn’t look in much of a better state than me.’

  ‘Suit, you say?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t tell you what brand. Armaaani, maybe, or Hugo-Nazi-Boss.’

  Leo Friis pronounces the names in a nasal voice and Karen’s surprised he knows the names of any fashion designers. On the other hand, why not? Something tells her it wasn’t too long ago Leo fell off the face of the Earth. His addiction hasn’t left enough scars yet.

  ‘All right,’ she says with a smile. ‘Why don’t we skip that detail, then. What I’d like to know is whether you have any idea what time it might have been. I mean, I realise you might not know exactly, but . . .’

  ‘Twenty to ten,’ he cuts her off.

  Karen stares at him cautiously.

  ‘Twenty to ten? And you’re sure, just like that?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Just like that. Think about it, officer.’

  Something in his voice makes her swallow her next question and instead do as she’s told. She thinks about it. What could make a man who has slept his buzz off on the beach and woken up, probably sweaty and hungover, remember exactly what time it was? A split second later, the answer presents itself.

  ‘The corner shop,’ she says. ‘They open at ten on Sundays.’

  ‘Bingo! Four cans of lager and a small packet of cigarettes. A packet of sausages as well, actually. I was unusually rich that morning; the beach was covered in empties, all I had to do was pick them up. The problem was that when I woke up, nothing was open yet.’

  Leo reaches for the coffee pot and pours himself another cup before continuing.

  ‘I kept a close eye on the church tower clock the whole time while I filled my trolley. And when that bloke turned up, I remember I’d just thought to myself I had another twenty minutes to go before I could buy cigarettes, but I wanted one so bloody badly I might have clocked him if he hadn’t let me bum one.’

  45

  ‘Brilliant! I’m calling Jounas right now to tell him the good news. Well done, Eiken, really well done!’

  Viggo Haugen beams at her and makes as if to get up from his visitor’s chair in Prosecutor Dineke Vegen’s office. Then he stops himself and sinks back onto the plush seat. He turns to Karen again, tilts his head a little and gives her a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I suppose this means Jounas Smeed will be able resume his duties immediately. You have done well filling in for him, Eiken, but there’s really nothing to stop Smeed from taking over the investigation now. You did realise your promotion was temporary, right?’

  Karen looks at him in surprise. Clearly, she will no longer have to fill in as interim head of department, but she could never have imagined Smeed would be taking over the investigation.

  Dineke Vegen clears her throat.

  ‘Hold on a second, Viggo,’ she says. ‘This is good news, t
hat we can rule Jounas out, I mean, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for him to head up the investigation.’

  Viggo Haugen leans forward, poised to object, but a wave of her hand makes him close his mouth.

  ‘Even though Jounas is no longer under suspicion, he has a very close personal connection to the victim. If I’ve understood things right, you still don’t have a suspect or even a theory about possible motives?’

  Karen nods reluctantly. Unfortunately, Dineke Vegen has understood things right, as she is all too aware. Viggo Haugen seizes the moment.

  ‘But that’s exactly why we need Smeed,’ he says, sounding annoyed. ‘Well, no offence, Eiken, but it’s been five days without any progress.’

  ‘No, Viggo, that’s exactly why Jounas shouldn’t have anything to do with the case,’ Dineke Vegen explains patiently. ‘We have to conduct more interviews, widen the circle. He can hardly be expected to interview his own relatives: his daughter, for instance.’

  ‘His daughter,’ Viggo Haugen sneers. ‘You’ve already talked to her, haven’t you? And her boyfriend too, unless I misread this morning’s report.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct; Karl Björken managed to track down Samuel Nesbö late last night; his statement corroborates Sigrid’s account of the late gig and the fight the two of them had. Which doesn’t in itself mean either one of them has an alibi for Sunday morning, only that she didn’t lie about what happened Saturday night. Or they’re both lying,’ Karen adds and notes out of the corner of her eye that Viggo Haugen is scowling at her.

  ‘Either way, we can’t write off the daughter or the boyfriend,’ Dineke Vegen concludes.

  Viggo Haugen refuses to give up.

  ‘And what motive could they possibly have had? Susanne didn’t leave any money to speak of. And that house . . .’

  ‘That’s hardly relevant to the issue at hand,’ the prosecutor interrupts, now with a hard edge to her voice. ‘Let me put this very clearly: It is out of the question for Jounas to come anywhere near this case. You know I prefer not to meddle with police investigations, even though as a prosecutor I have every right to step in and take over. I won’t hesitate to do so this time, if it becomes necessary.’

  ‘Well, now, hopefully things won’t get to that point. We usually see eye to eye, don’t we?’

  Karen studiously avoids looking at the chief of police. A man in his position shouldn’t have to be admonished by a superior in front of an employee. Haugen has, in a remarkably unprofessional manner, created a situation that’s embarrassing for all three of them. He’s going to take it out on me, she reasons. Sooner or later.

  ‘I suggest Karen keeps going with the team she’s assembled and continues to report to the two of us. Jounas will resume his work as head of the CID, but will stay very far away from this particular case. Are we clear?’

  *

  Haugen is at least partly right, Karen accepts, as she collapses into her office chair. Someone else should probably take over the investigation. Not Smeed, obviously, but someone else, someone who has the necessary drive. She for her part feels utterly spent. There was a time when she would have approached a case like this like a terrier that’s discovered a meaty bone. A time when her professional ambitions had included notions of rising to become management, of being able to shape the long-term work of the police. She knows better by now.

  The mere thought of Jounas Smeed coming back to work is paralysing. The fact that she’s going to retain ultimate responsibility for the investigation and bypass him entirely by reporting directly his bosses – the chief of police and prosecutor – is hardly going to make things between her and Jounas less tense. His absence has provided temporary respite, a small bubble of air in which she could breathe and even feel a bit of enthusiasm come creeping back into her work. Now that bubble has burst. What happened between them at the Strand is always going to hang over her. Any respect Jounas might have had for her before will certainly have been erased, but her worst fear is that he will let it slip, that the others will find out. Can she really stay here with that kind of sword of Damocles hanging over her?

  No, I’m definitely not the right person to lead this investigation, she sighs inwardly. The prosecutor might be able to inspire the team and find new angles. Or Karl, at least he’s still hungry. As she thinks that, Karl appears next to her.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Jounas is coming back but he won’t take part in the investigation. Haugen was going to call him straight away.’

  Karl nods.

  ‘As expected then. Though I’ll admit I thought Haugen would go to bat for Jounas taking over the case, now that he’s officially ruled out.’

  Karen hesitates. Should she tell him what happened or let Karl believe Viggo Haugen made a sound decision of his own volition?

  ‘No, we’re going to keep going like we have been,’ she says. ‘Same team.’

  ‘Good. Besides, now you can forget all about’ – he looks around the open-plan office before continuing more softly – ‘that night in the hotel since someone else is vouching for Jounas, right? So why do you look so damn defeated?’

  She slowly swivels around in her chair and looks Karl Björken in the eye.

  ‘Because I have no earthly idea where to go next.’

  Just then, the phone rings.

  It’s Kneought Brodal, who informs her the DNA results are in and that they confirm the deceased is, indeed, Susanne Smeed.

  ‘Since the victim’s identity has now been verified and there’s no doubt whatsoever about the cause of death, I’m going to release the body to the relatives for burial,’ he says in a matter-of-fact tone that doesn’t reveal that he knew Susanne personally.

  The relatives. Karen pictures Sigrid; Susanne had no other relatives. How is Sigrid supposed to arrange a funeral? There’s hardly going to be a wake; Karen doubts Sigrid’s going to care about tradition. But the funeral itself is probably difficult enough to organise. Hopefully, she’s smart enough to let her father help. Jounas may be a prick and clearly has nothing but contempt for his ex-wife, but he would be there for his daughter if she would just ask, wouldn’t he? Either way, it’s urgent, if they want to follow the seven-day rule: in Doggerland, a dead person is supposed to be in the ground within a week. Down on Frisel, it’s still five days, though the younger generation is adopting more Scandinavian customs. Or Norwegian and Danish ones, to be precise. To eliminate the risk of having things degenerate to a Swedish level – where dead people can stay in the freezer for up to two months – new legislation has recently been introduced. If a person’s loved ones are unable to sort out burial within five working days and two weekends, the authorities are now required to step in and the burial will take place in their absence.

  Susanne’s funeral will likely be on Saturday. Karen knows she’ll have to ask Karl to attend, if she can’t make it herself. Even though of course it’s nothing like on telly, where the murderer furtively lurks in the bushes at the cemetery, it could be important to go. Someone of interest could turn up; some old friend of Susanne’s they’ve missed.

  46

  Twenty to four that Friday afternoon, the investigation team is revitalised.

  They’ve been pawing the ground like greyhounds at the starting line for a whole working week, while time has relentlessly kept passing. And gradually, the yapping in the starting box has subsided. One by one, the critical points have come and gone: the first twenty-four hours during which 90 per cent of clumsy, desperate perpetrators are, as a rule, identified; the three days during which slightly wilier perpetrators are usually able to stay one step ahead of the police. Now, on the sixth day of the investigation, the hope of DNA or other technical evidence shedding crucial light on the case has been extinguished, as well. Everything they have is spread out on the table. No one’s hoping for a new, vital witness statement, for a gift from the gods anymore. Nothing of what little their investigation has uncovered looks like it might lead anywhere. Except possibly D
isa Brinckmann. They have made initial contact with the Spanish police, but judging from the lukewarm reception, she is likely to have gone back home by the time one of their continental colleagues can be bothered to locate her. The question is how a seventy-year-old woman could possibly be connected to the murder. That she didn’t commit it herself is beyond doubt; the hope is she might have something to tell them about Susanne. Something they don’t already know.

  That’s where they are when Cornelis Loots waves Karen over.

  *

  A reported burglary of a summer cottage outside Thorsvik on northern Heimö has escaped everyone’s notice. Cornelis alights on it through sheer happenstance when he searches the internal database for all crimes reported in the past three weeks. The house, located just east of the ferry port, was burgled on Saturday 21 September, a week before the murder of Susanne Smeed; the Ravenby Police subsequently reclassified the incident as burglary and attempted arson. It’s the reclassification that makes him take notice.

  The perpetrator’s attempt to set the house on fire had been interrupted by a neighbour who had smelled smoke and made his way to the property boundary to see which of his idiot summer cottage neighbours was lighting fires in this weather. But instead of a cottage owner burning debris in their garden, he’d seen a young man exit his neighbour’s house with a backpack slung over one shoulder, glancing back over the other, as if to make sure the fire he’d just started was catching.

  The neighbour, a man by the name of Hadar Forrs, had, though reluctantly, done the right thing. Instead of following the pyrotechnically inclined young man, who according to Forrs disappeared on a yellow motorcycle, he’d called emergency services and then managed to put out the fire, by resourcefully breaking a window and inserting the garden hose, before the fire fighters arrived.