Too tired to come this evening. Had a sleepless night and have a lot to deal with. But thank you for inviting me and happy birthday!
Her spontaneous decision to invite her colleague had been driven in equal parts by surprise and sympathy. Little Miss Goody-Goody and her neat and tidy IT husband are getting divorced and the reason is infidelity. Astrid had found out by chance, she’d told her. A classic trope, the accidentally opened letter addressed to her husband, a glance at the bank statement it contained and the sudden realisation that made the world stop and her body to turn to ice. Two restaurant meals and a hotel night. In Paris.
Astrid had been presented with incontrovertible proof Ingemar hadn’t gone to London with his friends for a Premier League game that weekend.
He’d confessed immediately. The previous football trip had been a lie, too, but the ones before that had all been genuine. He’d emphasised that last point with grave sincerity, as though that would absolve him somehow.
‘But is it serious between him and this other woman?’ Karen had asked, wishing instantly that she hadn’t.
‘You think it matters? Am I supposed to wait until he’s done sowing his wild oats and comes crawling back to home and hearth?’
No, Karen hadn’t thought so, though over the years the concept of eternal fidelity has come to seem increasingly untenable to her. Is it really so impossible to forgive and forget? One little slip is hardly the worst thing that can happen to a family. A lorry that suddenly veers out of its lane, on the other hand, certainly can be.
Out loud, she’d said:
‘No, of course not. How long have you known?’
‘Since Tuesday night. The plan was to have Ingemar’s mother take the children this weekend so we could talk, but I don’t want to. I just booked a room at Rival. I just wish I had a bottle of booze with me so I could stay in my room, but I guess I’m going to have to go down to the hotel bar. Actually, I think I’m going to pull someone to get even.’
For a moment, Karen had considered fetching the whiskey bottle from Jounas’s office and giving it to Astrid, but then she’d decided against it. Sitting alone in a hotel room was probably the last thing she needed. Not that the hotel bar at Rival was much better, but at least it was less lonely; picking someone up there certainly wouldn’t be much of a challenge.
And then it had just slipped out:
‘You know, if you can bear to put off the pulling, I’d love to have you over to mine instead.’
Astrid hadn’t said yes or no to the invitation. She might be going up to her sister’s in Ravenby, even though she was a pain; Karen had told her to feel free to come over if she felt like it.
She’s probably right not to come, Karen muses, carefully tapping an open mussel with the knife. She probably has more important things to deal with today; thinking about how to tell the children, for instance. And Ingemar’s parents on Noorö, who according to Astrid are very sternly religious. Apparently, I wasn’t completely wide of the mark there, Karen had thought, though their orthodox views of the sanctity of marriage had clearly skipped a generation in the Nielsen family.
She straightens up and looks out the kitchen window. The morning’s drizzle has stopped; an earful of waxwings has seized the chance to invade the rowan tree. In about an hour, every last red berry will be gone, but the sight is worth a winter without rowanberry jelly. Motionless, she studies their silky backs. Then the stillness is shattered by a predatory chatter coming from Rufus, who has jumped up on the kitchen counter and is now longingly eyeing the birds.
‘Oh no, sweetheart. Have a mussel instead.’
Together, they watch the waxwings feast for a while, then Rufus gets bored and jumps down and Karen resumes cleaning mussels. Lulled by the rhythmic sounds of tapping and scraping, her mind wanders once more. They’re going to have to eat in the kitchen, even though fitting nine people around the table will be a challenge. Granted, the veranda is roofed and the temperature has inched up a few degrees, but it’s still too cold to eat outside. This is why I should have converted the boathouse, like everyone else, Karen tells herself. Maybe I should bite the bullet, after all. Get to it next spring so it’s done by the summer.
Her reverie is interrupted by three sharp honks of a car horn.
Then the waxwings take flight and Marike’s car bounces in through the gate and pulls up next to her own in the driveway. Karen opens the front door without taking off her latex gloves and studies Marike’s ample behind as she reaches into the back seat to pull out carrier bags and a flower bouquet. Then she turns around with a big smile and starts belting out the Danish birthday song.
Karen listens patiently to the rather tone-deaf performance, then accepts the yellow roses and a hug.
‘Thank you, that’s lovely. Just one verse today? No, no, that’s plenty!’ she adds quickly.
‘Ungrateful wretch. Hi, love!’
The last part is addressed to the cat, who has followed Karen onto the porch and is now rubbing himself against Marike’s wellies. Then she picks up the heavy bags she’s brought and pushes past Karen into the kitchen.
‘Straight from the oven,’ she announces and pulls out three large sourdough loaves. ‘Or at least baked this morning, according to the guy at Bakker. And check this out, also straight from the oven.’
Marike has carefully placed the other bag on the table and now extracts from it a large ceramic plate in shades of blue and green. The colours blend into each other, seemingly in multiple layers; the thick glaze creates a three-dimensional depth that gives the illusion of peering down into a shallow sea cove.
Karen is speechless. Without a word, she puts her arms around Marike and hugs her for a long time.
‘All right, that’s enough now. Do you have any wine?’
50
An hour and a half later, Karen Eiken Hornby’s standing in her boathouse, taking in the transformation. A word in passing about boathouses converted into extra living space had been enough to spur Marike into action. A phone call to Kore and Eirik, who were just about to get in the car, but who didn’t mind going by the studio. A quick search through the house and the storage shed, while Karen fried onions, garlic and carrots, poured in wine and cream and finally let a large chunk of sheep’s cheese melt into the mixture. And while she was busy cutting up apples and sautéing them in butter and sugar, taking the puff pastry out of the fridge and covering an oven tray with baking paper, Marike had, with the assistance of Kore and Eirik who had now joined them, dragged down two old doors, four trestles and two sheets to the shore. By means of a box heater plugged into an extension cord snaking all the way from the grounded outlet in the guesthouse, across the gravel road and into the boathouse, they’ve managed to push the temperature up at least ten degrees.
The long table they’ve set up along one wall probably isn’t stable enough to dance on, and the people sitting with their backs against the giant rowboat are going to have to watch out so they don’t fall in the water. But the warm glow of every candle and lantern they could find hides the fishing spears, shovels, pitchforks, broken nets, yellow oilskins and even the rusty old iron bed in two parts her father once dragged home, but which his wife refused to allow into the main house.
Blankets have been placed on garden chairs, a few of Karen’s kitchen chairs and a bench they unearthed in the shed. Two white sheets cover the table and someone – Karen assumes Eirik – has crafted a centrepiece out of chicken wire, juniper and whatever rowanberries the waxwings hadn’t managed to gobble down, which runs the length of the table between plates and glasses.
‘Happy birthday,’ Kore says with a smile when he sees her surprise. ‘Being friends with a couple of resourceful gays and a manic Danish lady doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?’
*
A mood of contentment permeates the boathouse. This is a night I should make sure to remember, Karen resolves, studying each person around the table in turn. Kore’s slumped next to her, talking to Marike; they look like they’ve b
een gossiping about something that has made them both burst out laughing. Maybe Kore let slip some salacious detail from yesterday’s recording session at KGB Productions, which he co-owns together with two Swedish blokes, and to which artists from all over Europe make pilgrimage to record their music, for reasons that have always been obscure to Karen. At least there’s no immediate danger of Marike picking a fight with Bo while she’s talking to Kore.
Bo and Torbjörn have, has predicted, sought out each other’s unchallenging company; her cousin is studying something Bo seems to be drawing with his fork on the tablecloth. Torbjörn nods attentively and reaches for one of the wine bottles to top up their glasses. At the other end of the table, Eirik is looking serious, deep in discussion with Aylin, who looks troubled and is absentmindedly picking apart a piece of bread. Maybe the solemn look on her face is caused by the fact that she’s the only one who’s sober – of course Aylin’s the designated driver. Or maybe it’s because she’s married to a prick. At least Bo seems to have left his fiery temper at home tonight, and so far he’s refrained from making demeaning comments about his wife.
In a little bit, she’s going to make coffee and reheat the apple pie.
‘Forget it, you’re not lifting a finger,’ Kore says and pulls her back down onto her chair.
Instead, Karen turns to Veronica, who has been watching the others in silence. She too has clearly been assigned driving duty and is sipping her wines slowly. They’re unlikely to get caught; the fastest way home for Torbjörn and Veronica is the narrow road across the Langevik Ridge, on which no one has seen a police car in the past thirty years, but Veronica is on the parliamentary committee for public health and can ill afford to risk it. Now she meets Karen’s eyes and raises her glass.
‘Cheers, Karen, just one year until the big day! Time really does fly. I’m dreading it already, and I have a few years to go yet.’
‘Well, this time next year, all that’ll be left for me to do is to drag myself down to the watering hole to die,’ Karen says with a wry smile and takes two gulps of wine. ‘How are things in parliament, any progress on the new care guarantee?’
She immediately regrets asking. The Progress Party’s election promise to provide care for everyone over eighty, free dental care for everyone under eighteen and rehab and guaranteed accommodation for anyone willing to sign a so-called drug-free contract, did give them the votes they need to enter a power-sharing agreement with the Liberals, but making good on them has proven difficult. Two years after the election, the papers are still full of stories of old people being refused a place in a nursing home and the number of addicts willing to submit to the conditions stipulated for rehab has been embarrassingly low. To make matters worse, the morning news claims things are getting worse rather than better.
Veronica Brenner replies like the politician she is.
‘Thank you for asking, I think parents in this country appreciate being protected from extortionate dentist bills for their teenagers,’ she says with a smile.
Probably, Karen concludes. The newspapers have reported that dentists have become increasingly likely to recommend braces since the law changed. Soon, every last snaggle tooth will have been eradicated in Doggerland. It’s a shame, though, that neither of the two more worthwhile reforms has yielded much in the way of results.
Out loud, Karen says:
‘Of course, and I suppose these things always take time.’
‘Speaking of time,’ Veronica replies, ‘how’s the murder investigation coming? Are you making any progress at all?’
Without waiting for a reply, she continues.
‘I heard Jounas Smeed’s going back to work on Monday. That must be a relief for you?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
For a second, Veronica Brenner looks puzzled.
‘Well . . .’ she says slowly, as though considering whether any part of her answer might be damaging.
‘I think Annika Haugen must’ve mentioned it,’ she says, ‘Viggo’s wife. She and I have been friends since we were in the party’s youth organisation, as you know. Yes, I must’ve heard from her that Jounas was going to be back in charge, so to speak.’
‘Yes, Jounas is coming back on Monday,’ Karen tells her. ‘But naturally he won’t be involved in the investigation of the murder of his ex-wife. The team and I will carry on like before.’
Veronica chuckles.
‘Well, maybe not like before, I hope. Isn’t it high time you found out who killed poor Susanne?’
‘Did you know her?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, but we’d run into each other in various situations while she was married to Jounas.’
‘How about in recent years, did you see her at all after they got divorced?’
Veronica looks surprised.
‘No . . .’ she replies, as though it were a strange question to ask. ‘No, I don’t think I ever did. I saw her out and about, of course, and maybe we exchanged a few words, at least at first, right after the divorce, but not in recent years. Though I always said hi,’ she adds.
How gracious of you, Karen simmers. She’s never been close with her only cousin on her mother’s side, even though she and Torbjörn have always lived relatively near one another. Growing up, they’d see each other at family get-togethers, wedding and funerals and such, but no more than that.
As an adult, she’s made a few sporadic attempts at bridging the divide; popped by for a cuppa and invited him and Veronica over a couple of times. And she has really done her best to ignore his arrogant view of the world and his apparently insatiable desire to make even more money. Because there’s something about her bluntly straightforward cousin she likes, despite it all. Maybe it’s that he never tries to act like something he’s not. Torbjörn admits to his prejudices and his greed. And unlike his wife, he’s not particularly interested in social climbing. Nor does he hold a grudge; six months had followed after Karen helped the newly arrived Marike to buy her clay plot at a decent price, but since then, he’s never brought it up or acted surly.
Veronica is a different sort. Unlike her husband, Veronica Brenner makes an effort to veil her insults and always delivers them with a small smile. She’s never said a word about the fact that they could have made twice as much off the sale of the clay plot if it hadn’t been for Karen, but even though they’ve lived next door to Marike Estrup for almost seven years now, she still calls the five feet eleven, internationally renowned artist Marita Estrup, Marike Ernstrup or, simply – when talking to Karen – ‘your Danish friend’.
Maybe there’s something about Karen’s facial expression that makes Veronica continue.
‘I obviously would have said hello to Susanne last Saturday, too, but I don’t think she saw me. And then . . . well . . .’
‘Pardon?’ Karen says and puts her wineglass down. ‘You saw Susanne?’
‘Yes, I actually saw her the day before she was murdered,’ Veronica replies. ‘I thought about that when I heard what happened, that it was the last time, I mean. Frightening, actually, that you never know when you’re going to be seeing someone for the last time.’
‘Exactly when and where was this?’
A disapproving wrinkle pulls Veronica’s eyebrows into a frown at Karen’s demanding tone, but she replies without objection.
‘In the car park by the ferry terminal, on Saturday morning. Alice had come over on the early morning ferry from Esbjerg and wanted to be picked up. She’s studying in Copenhagen, as you know, but she wanted to come home for Oistra. And Mum obliged, of course, even though it was seven in the morning and a lie-in would have been a treat for someone who works sixty-hour weeks.’
Veronica says that last part loudly and shoots a significant look at her husband, who keeps talking to Bo, seemingly oblivious.
‘Do you know if she was meeting someone or if she’d come back on the same ferry?’
She asks, even though she’s fairly sure she knows the answer. True, Susanne had calle
d in sick to work and could very well have used that as cover to travel somewhere, but her name hadn’t been on any of the passenger lists they’d checked.
‘No, I didn’t give it any thought,’ Veronica replies. ‘I only glimpsed her head above the car and realised she must’ve been parked just a few bays over. But she wouldn’t have used the unattended car park if she’d been over to Denmark. As a police officer, you must know people who make that mistake can expect to be missing some hubcaps when they get back.’
Karen decides he’s probably right. Since the parking garage by the terminal was built, the free car park on the eastern side of the pier is mostly used for pick-ups and drop-offs and by harbour workers. But if Susanne hadn’t arrived on the ferry, she must have been there to meet someone. Likely the same person who called her at 7.15 a.m., to let her know they’d arrived.
‘And you didn’t see if there was anyone with her?’
Veronica hesitates.
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I didn’t see anyone else, but I remember thinking it sounded like she was talking to someone.’
51
The sound of the empty bottles landing in the recycling station’s green igloo hurts her ears; Karen winces when the last wine bottle crashes into the pile of glass. She went easy on the drink last night, but the party did go on till morning. In fact, they weren’t in bed until half past three, and Eirik, an unbearable morning person, had by means of breakfast and the smell of fresh coffee managed to get everyone up by half nine.
She’d rejected the others’ offers to help clean up; Marike, Eirik and Kore’s had done more than enough last night, and none of them looked in a shape to tidy. Besides, Karen was looking forward to having her house to herself and catching another few hours of sleep.
‘Go home,’ she’d told her hungover friends, studying them across the breakfast table. ‘Order pizza and spend the day on the sofa; I’ll do the dishes tonight.’
But when the last car door had slammed shut, she’d returned to the kitchen instead and set to work, feeling surprisingly energetic. She’d finished the washing-up in half an hour flat and tidying up the boathouse had taken about as long again. She’d left the tables and garden chairs, but dragged the kitchen chairs back up to the house. After collecting Kore and Eirik’s sheets from the guesthouse and throwing them in the washing machine, she’d gathered up all the empty bottles and a couple of weeks’ worth of old newspapers, shoved it all into her car and driven up to the recycling point at the end of the road. That’s what they still called it in the village: the end of the road. To everyone else, it was the start of Langevik Road.
Fatal Isles Page 26
